i will bypass you: fellow man:
for the moons
for the elements for the gods
for all the: abstractions of
my...               self.

what is a cat is a cat is a foot in a sock
is a sock on a foot is a foot and sock
in a shoe
and there's walking involved:
or simply standing:
don't get me wrong:
but i "got" Knausgaard all wrong
when i tried to read him in English...
maybe it's just the same with Jon Fosse:
maybe English is an ungly language of translation
maybe English is something momentarily perfect
in an abstract:
i think of Septology like i think of
Doctor Faustus and Herr! mein mann!
my future bridge of bride to be
is weeping into the telephone and
i have no avenues of consoling her:
with all that Omine Patrii Catholic ******* litany:
i'm a lion sleeping on sheeps' cloth
and the sunlight is spectcular
like
like
it's almost orange: like the fruit...
but without the tecture o
full texture of the full:
ORBITAL...
       define orange... Frank O'Here.
O'There: Oh **** everywhere
defined orange as a bad... a "bad" colour...
once i needed a serprent and a garden
and i've watched so much *******:
i'm reduced to old father dragon:
a recluse salvation
of solo: a worm weaving its way around
a bookshelf...
i am that...
evil, i find, has become a subpar IQ testimony...
these rigid half **** wits
and
if i were to think of woman and the foetus
which
enlargers the prospects of the ******
birth
and if my mind was a womb:
my foetus: my my my.. not my foetus
would be the ego...
and well isn't that a welcome sunshine
for a sunrise to a parody like
all Norwegian writing is exemplar:
you strangulate the Poles from the POLANA...
you make them desecrate
the **** the grass...
like: who was that ***** that catapulted Samson's
ponytail along with the Mongol tribe who
only found out: figured out counting
by barraging Baghdad by sling
of dead head cope...
        i'm painting: with sounds: but i'm painting
without sounds being sounds...
it's not like i'm writing: ******* music...
i'm writing that what i think i think
might be: red...
         or orange.... or brown...
when my partner starts crying because her
samurai would be... was poisoned...
aparently cats have short memories...
but it breaks my heart in order to give me
two hearts: two lingos...
and two minds to match:
maybe Reyla... hmm.. impossible:
that sly ***** couldn't poach a ******* egg
but what if... suppositional dysfuynction...

but if i am the nothing womb of the birth of
ego... id aside...
i feel uneasy hearing what pain
is true and like... alike...
it makes me beg: to differ...
i hark i send snow and i even send the night
with all the frost, nail, bitterness of
the biting...
i juggle:

there was a concept of writing poetry and of music:
but that died with Nietzsche:
i think then i don't think:
then replace the medium of writing
like some journalistic cul de sac
and some ****** lackey
you ******* kidding me
i will burn this continent with thoughts
alone!
i will drive that ****-******* crucifix into
your **** whale-bone
you Kentucky fried IQ lost puck-puck-puck-ah!
you Jew herder!

enloghten the spirits they said:
so much for circumcision...
can't ******* **** into the toilet bowl:
can ye?!
oh but it's alright when males are circumcised
and leave bad hygiene habits in the toilets
for all else to see:
scrutiny of the *******:
or maybe... maybe that's like:
fried onion rings... more or less:
foreskins...
so fry: those... *******... foreskins!
make 'em TH chewy...
like porky pie ears and all
that deep fried gelatin unlike
the Scotch deep fried Mars bar
you ******* spandex in gravy lateral
navy oosh! you Scotach better
beg for my pardon!

    the sun          and her sons...
the moon: and her daughters...
no one preparers you make digestion of this
subterranean *******...
Norwegians tied to try:
if i couldn't stomach Knausgaard
in English:
i can't stomach Fosse in English:
sorry: not sorry: but boo hoo anyways
ghost Angevin...
           i'll ******* get that smirk of self-assurance
readied
for the torture chamber
and there will be not laughter there:
i'll just perfectly employ the *****
to the ******* device
and i'll itch with each
available scrutiny of pleasure:
to allow yourself to suffer...

        because that is my judgement
and all else:
a repetition of consequence(s).

Sorry... your sribbles
are worth: ****!
**** your gynocetric
Communist red and
Feminist pink ink
Idol
You gi e languag     e
Blah blah
Mt
Vlad: flute a fluff of
Reboot

As anyone
So... ... ...
Sugar is acid
Like acid
While salt is
Alkaline
Like the care
Stops at the bb
Busg
Al Pinocchio you *****
TISMAN talisman
Ate revise
So it must be

There are headphones
Invoked
Involed
Invoked
And and I'm
Typo on the altar
Of the almighty
For those not
To be
******* involved!
Pristine sheen
Almost glitter of sun-script
God is:  a forlorn
"Friend'

n.b.: as a man, if I feel good? I implode... a pseudo-solipsism emerges... only i, want to feel what I feel and feel that good... but women? Feminist pink is Communist red...they feel good they immediately projection that sense of goodness without realising the natural injustices and whimsical nurtures of this world... Dear Karen original +++ projection becomes a parasitical lethargy that can't be sentenced to a correct metabolism of exhaustion.

Masculine good vibes: implosion...
Feminine goo feelz: projection...
pseudo-Platonic sadism reindeer
Duffus the Rude Adolph
said so;
since an implosion is a tactic
constructed vis-a-vis: self-reliance
and is not... a dependency
of sycophantic probation approval.

because how and else, would I orientate myself (reflexive) to my self (reflective): pronoun in the immediate sense of category... immediate as immediately mediating a known-self: myself... contra the mediation of categorising senses to spawn ego and diffusing, numbing the sense for thinking and the thinker to emerge: my (pronoun) self (noun) to emerge: the noun giver of nouns: Adam-noumenon... how can I love a 14 year old woman and her mother without rubbing shoulders by the alchemy of doing what the feminists did with: Platonic feminism, German idealism -ism-ism-is-femme... Annia Cornificia Faustina Minor, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius is the only reason his medications exist to this day... just as much assumption goes to benefit the scribbler of the Quran: Khadijah **** Khuwaylid... from what I heard the ****** was illiterate and she was a business woman and no one writes down: O Muhammad without dissonance of pairing up first person to second and third and given the story how he had no o e persuaded in Mecca he travelled to Medina... the author of the Quran was a woman... given the practices of the Arabs of killing daughters  or so I heard the mythos of the Kentucky fried mouse in the cinema of Bangkok... but isn't it like that so: an idea system emerges... then beliefs seep and contaminate and make rigid what ought to remain like plasticine / play-dough... zombies of faith and their ******* ignoble mantras... well it's can compliment the advent of feminism with feminists universalism of woman terror-impression and revision of each solipsism of (individual) man... I'll just tinge every single... ******* philosophy with a dash of Marquis de Sade... happy?! But I don't like sadism: if people are to suffer: let their suffering be educational and self-exploratory... let them suffer to learn... there is no better way to revel in people not being solipsistic (autistic retardo Romeo) by way of themselves the known in relation to a known... but how does one love a 14 year old female surrogate and not play the quirky lingo baron of one's own known: selb? as i asked my coworker when changing shifts: you think it might be considered necrophilia, jerking off to pictures of dead cornstarch (**** stars)... like Ava Lauren... is it so bad to be with someone you ******* over... think of kissing her like it might be slurping oysters... the sunrise of the **** eclipsed by the **** **** of buttons of the **** chequers... but then the daughter and me pretend father... I'm still to explore a recurrence I found in literature, of the archetypical father... closer than the sacrificial lamb... namely? Duke Leto Arteides... and Eddard Stark... the archetype of the father figure having to submit to a higher authority, become sacrificed out of noble yet blind idiosyncratic and idiocy: just so the ritual aspect of sacrifice can be replaced with the prodigal son inversion and heroism to be born... still... that 14 year old surrogate daughter of mine... I will give up drinking once I have access to all her mother's ****-milk juicing...

well... if I am going
to give up alcohol...
as a relexant
and a funnier than any
bite off big white pharma
tonic bitter of pillz...
Seltzer herr, jawohl!
because when I drink
I doubly think
And I'm honest
and I'm like a R.A.F. pilot
vs.... the Luftwaffe on
Night Neon watch bombs of
Insomnia...
if I am to give up alcohol...
I will need a steady stream
of **** juices to slurp...
enough onomatopoeias
of the syllabus and syllablery
of moans
like hands be vowels
Like tongues me vowels
and consonants be the drowning
man's invisible saving cruxes...
And I will need to have
Surrogacy explained...
how can I possibly love
a 14 year old girl so she respects
me without inviting me
to demand of her that natural:
temporal genetic authority...
or perhaps the archetype
of all sci-fi horror being
born from the blindspot
of ego meeting genitals...
After watching Dogma (1999):
I fear we share too much intellect
with angles and demons...
since genitals seem to confuse us...
alien **** eater ******
with teeth... empty head ego
with a Jungian schematic
of tongues...
oh... I'll stop drinking...
Only for a regular slurp of ****
and doggy waggle of tongue in ****.