it’s been foggy for the past two days,
i blamed fireworks on halloween
rather than guy fawkes’ celebration to
burn the magna carta... i still prefer the beltane
festival of burning rubber skin tires of pensioners
extending for a plastic surgeon’s career;
it was foggy these two past years,
i can almost start an art movement or set-up an art school
ensuring all paintings are painted with fog-overtones,
as i blow cigarette smoke into the air...
but this is the zenith of autumn,
the earth has started to breathe, the muddy field soil
has started to turn into mush, to mush,
it’s begging the plughole sepias of a hectare into easing into
moisture so the boots land a footprint into flemish tired in the trenches
for the toilet plop...i’ll dismember onomatopoeia spelling
and retrace the origins of dyslexia... i will!
insert this anti-intellectualism of england laughing at the words
sartre and *****... piston... etc.,
then become content with en masse surveillance.. everyone’s happy!
win win situation!
he he he... giggles for rounds of ***** shots and double-glazing...
keep the van gogh canvases... we need pristine voyeurism sights
across the street and never bothering to chip in to the gallery funds.
it’s autumn at its zenith with two foggy nests of the moon exposed
and i’m forcing cigarette smoke into the air to match up...
i’ve heard news that a lady psychologist and a professor are interested
in my works... back home in poland,
they are announcing a secret reading of my work
in the underground chambers of a church in szewna, akin me to a gombrowicz,
i’m about to become a merchant of poetry.... here’s cinnamon for words,
here’s chilli for specified terms that tingle the tongue.
back home i can reclaim this misunderstanding of all necessary jokes
in england...
so this article comes along... stresses the difference between england and france...
the difference?
in england: a. i’m trying to write a book... b. how much money did you get upfront?
typical of bank of england signatures being given with a safe investment...
in france? a. i’m writing a book... b. what’s it about?
that’s europe, cross-continental, with the isolationism of england
like the isolationism of england if f.d.r. was the prime minister
and everyone spoke gaelic, so there...
frogs are princes... with such cares the article mentioned...
it mentioned rousseau as the joker card of blames
for the french revolution...
well i know that scientist is a misnomer of intellectual,
after all, the scientist is the man with a ruler and centimetre
and the intellectual doesn’t bother to count up the centimetres
of welsh words... but a scientist is hardly a cobbler...
so i give darwin... the english intellectual exploit surfacing as
the modus operandi of the holocaust...
‘it’s almost like a darwinian pact,’ said faust,
'i peered into the monkey and knew of the trouble it would translate,
this collective categorical translation that didn’t say:
orangutan is chinese and chimpanzee is greek, the gorilla is italian...
how the hell could we have evolved from the monkey
if there is no single species of monkey, we’re already as diverse
as the ****** monkeys! so a chimpanzee ****** a gorilla
and the first humanoid was spawned?' ******* you english colonial
******* and your limb-for-limb relativity, oh wait...
i’m writing in english... now isn’t that paradoxical...
but the f.d.r. akin isolationism craves for artists that not only perform
with their backup cognitive singers, i.e. song writers...
(like the song by vanessa paradis - joe le taxi -
being almost like ellie goulding's on my mind)...
how did it all become defaced with karaoke and a prenuptial of fame...
i just want the original rolling stones... i don’t want people turned
into adverts... i don’t want artists turned into slogan pushers...
i rather keep the kites of drugs.... i can’t do this... my heart’s broken,
but that's because the audience that's being sold
the art is too young to respect the go-along practice of drug use with the arts.

what's the biggest difference
between 20th century's
french and german
existentialism,
    and the 21st century's
primarily, anglo-sphere,
realisation of an existential
   "crisis"...
           anti-jew meme...
         the globalist octopus...
imagine...
     some people have
recovered from an existential
crisis, having established
vast constructs of thought
way back in the 20th century,
namely
the french, and the germans..
but...
my oh my oh my my...
the anglo-sphere of linguistics
has only, "just now"
awoken to this...
   quiet a predicament,
wouldn't you say?
                         fertile ground...
oh sure, there was existential
angst in the anglo-
sphere among irish
pillars...
                beckett, joyce...
but concrete architectures
of thought, regarding existentialism,
seem to be absent...
  so... counter-argument:
so how come i can
freely buy a copy of some
german philosopher,
a french novelist turned
philosopher...
           but...
  i'm skint... when it comes
to english thinkers more
or less associated with
my status, rather than stance,
on contemporary "translation"?
   elitism...
no... it's not that...
      i could have just well
have procured
a life helping out my father
in industrial roofing...
             i didn't mind roofing...
it's not an exactly pristine
labour of love sort
of environment...
the scottish widows' h.q.
roof near st. paul's?
        me.
   i was part of that
monstrosity...
       but... come again?
but there are some many attachment
cursors when it comes
to an anglican take
on "revising" continental
existentialism...
        whatever crisis
the continental people
felt, and consolidated
the 20th century people...
is only just starting to bud
in the anglo-phonic world...
start-up, island,
end result,
    h'america and australia...
there was never a question
as to why, or if,
the english-speaking
people would ever entertain
existentialism,
but, suddenly they are,
at least starting to look
into the pit,
from their ivory towers...
immediate escape
impetus?
      reach for the fictive
narrative,
                disavow journalism...
make journalism bedfellows
with political rhetoric...
there's no debate...
circus, however you look
at it...
             you can't fathom
an abstract variant
of the german or the french
mind, gripped by
an existential critique,
a piquancy,
    a pedantry...
in the english speaking world...
there are,
just simply...
   too many attachments
to deal with...
       - growing a beard:
meant exactly that -
eat ****.    
         i don't see where
there a "me" to be found
in a (0, 0) starting space,
of net-worth-"work"...
     coumpters-freeze
network...
for a language...
that ridiculed,
or became succinct
in succumbing
to its anglo-preferences
of objectifying counter-standards
for its own...
shortcomings...

  what has 20th century
existential philosophy have
to do with "anything",
esp. if arrived from
the either french
of german, cultures?

we have Joe Slave over 'ere...
oh right... sorry...
paweł nowak....
just took joe stephen slave's
role was
the person, the hands,
in a recycling factory...
do you mind?
  rather:
do you mind...
teaching your natives...
   to...
   and you know how that
cindarella story ends...

introducing existentialism
to the brits and,
generally,
  the anglican variety of
the tongue, being
used...
   will end up as, failure...
the 20th century
taught me this,
the irish failed,
the french
and the germans...
basically a "foreign" idea
is more than just...
******..
the people are ******,
with paradoxes
of their women...

                sure... a bit like
Iceland...
oh, ****, a bit too close
to the continent...
like madagascar
  is to africa...
and sri lanka is to india?
i'm not 'ere to care to
the idiosyncratic
concerns of island people...
contra the, "collective"...

island people will forever
remain island people,
"solipsistic", idiosyncratic,
idioms...
            i can't change that...
always prone to export...
but never to import...
    island people,
       the **** is there to say?
ever bewilder yourself
over chanel 4 news...
and how...
  john snow is slipping
into dementia?
      you listen to the cue?
no?
                  sorry... john...
dementia on the horizon...

attempting to adapt
existentialism into england
will fail,
given their moral high-ground
of the "migrant crisis"...
it's an island...
  the borders are clarifying,
distinct,
        sure, the people can be *****
when their language
is bored in being
a "lingua franca"...
         but other people have
other, in-debt defences...

western slavs?
ever hear a spaniard speak
pollack, just because
he hiked with a polish girl?
yeah... mahler...
                       violins and ****...
you only listen:
                  for an idea...
it comes, it comes,
it doesn't come...
well... you move onto
some khachaturian...
        so,                 no biggie...

you can't import continetal
thinking to an island people,
they have no concept
of borders...
their naive presupposing
barrier, centered-ground is
unshakeable...

   existential philosophy
"meme" rate of survival is... ?
0.1,
binary, negation, an affirmative
statement,
and then the fiasco...

       it doesn't help
that there's an alternative
outlet via h'america or australia...
i'm not looking
at the "bigger picture",
when there isn't one...

     20th century existentialism
will not work in 21st century england,
or any english-speaking world
to begin with...
there are just, too many,
attachment points,
         as many nurtured
nostalgia avenues
as there are amnesia riddled
currencies of attention
exhaustion...
        it's just a pristine model
to revive the serf...

there's no point reading existentialism
to a people,
so far lodged in their
isolationism that they
can claim, both an island-stature...
and two continents,
by extension
       of stating: "being aware"...      

i guess you have to be born
on the continent
to read anything by 20th century
writers,
but... trying to implement
the word...
into the idiosyncrasy
of island-dwelling people,
akin to the English?

                    i'm not even going
to bother trying...
they're island-folk...
   they "think" of borders akin
to coastlines...
and not migration
fake bordering of a contradiction
of peoples occupying
a quicksand pit
of looking at a geography map...
island-folk...
  they know border...
because they know... island...

you can't translate
something that's already
paradoxical to them
  (hypocritical, is not a milder
term of usage for the desired
execution)...
     no...
                not going to happen...
two islands,
some set of continental enclaves...
culture...
whatever you want...

             i've lived with them,
even though i've lived pretty much
among either the irish migrants,
or the scots...
    you're not going to translate
an island, into a continent's
auxiliary...
  right now...
you'd think that
   Estonia would become
characteristic of an island-people
auxiliary mentality...

       i can't blame these people
though...
   an island environment
provides an island people
mentality...
    if you have never been
part of a congregation,
geographically...
   yes...
      but they're borrowing
continental idiosyncracy...
****** *****...

   Iceland?
            yeah... oh yeah...
they're hot on the topic of what
island life is like...
being so...
   conservative that they even
have developed apps
for people to check their
genetic proximity
and any immediacy to live,
+ baggage...

      the Brits were always 'ere...
the Icelandisch?
were always there...
          and...
  sorry... for the already given
postcard: wish you were
here analogy of...
            curiosity killed
the cat...

           but island dwelling people
will always be,
an island dwelling people...
right now,
you do what i do...
you play chamaleon...
  "sociopath"...
                you...
begin with: a-pathy...
          without pathology
looking for... what requires
you to mingle with the most
pathological examples of
a hushed sanity of society...

          and...
          your luck, as well as mine...
nothing really happens...
like butter smeared
over a gently toasted
piece of toast.

hello tomorrow.

well... feminism has had its three waves
of revisionism -

    and there i'm sitting on
the windowsill,
   smoking out of my window -

watching the moon sloth the sky like
an demonic snail -

in the misty haze of a large patch
of cumulonimbus -
    right up there at around 50,000 feet...

thinking to myself?
   why are there two orbs of varying
light concentration
penetrating the sky
   and embedding the moon
in an eerie aura?

never mind -
   i still don't know what the chemical
formula for timber is,
or what sort of material is on
the moon that allows it to reflect
light from the other side
of the Greenwich Mean Time...

last time i heard: can a rock surface
reflect light?

          well then... ah... never mind...

but feminism has had its three waves
of instigation and two subsequent
waves of revisionism -

so it made me think:
   why not a second wave of fascism?
a revisionist wave...
    well... as far as i am concerned
the Italians were much paler -
   in their intentions than the Germans...

fascism 2.0 -
and the sort of fascism that would allow
me to be men...
    drunks, foul mouthed, you name it...
athletic, not-giving-a-**** losers of
sorts, among the glam of whatever else
it is that a man is...

working on the idea,
i had to think of a list -

   hmm...

          who then?
ah!

      Stanley Kowalski
   (from a streetcar named desire)...
John Wayne
  (notably from true grit)
    Charlton Heston
(from the planet of the apes)
   Tony Curtis...
              Hemingway,
Bukowski,
               Ezra Pound...
     Clark Gable
    Gregory Peck
                   the list is seemingly
endless -
   at least in the portrayal of
said characters...
ah... ****!
   Kevin Spacey as
Lester Burnham to boot!
            ah... double ****:
Denzel Washington as
Troy Maxson...
    because apparently "being"
a "poet" is little more than
the lesser stature
of a garbage man...
             unless of course:
you fiddle into a cosmopolitan
fixture.

    oh... and certainly an appreciation
for a traditional Turkish barber
shop...

something very much akin / borrowed
from America circa 1950s...
   and an unabashed sensibility
concerning good tailoring -
   but then also the prophetic
vagabond look from time to time...

just a vague idea -
    but something along these lines -
but then again, what a silly idea -
what is racial purity in
21st century England?
   some sort of vague notion
       of an even vaguer dream?

but i guess the notion of
individualistic purity:
   the purity of the individual is related
more to: who can and who won't
be swayed by alien opinions -
2nd or 3rd party -

        which includes this opinion...

i'd subscribe to put the idea on
the following zenith:

              grammatical cleanliness -
linguistic order -
            a literary tact -
   something along these lines -

after all: the 20th century is not the end
of a theory -
given 20th century communism this,
while 21st century socialism that...
ideas prevail...
   evolve - or devolve - regress
or make alternative progress -

               also given:
    there already is a fascist movement
elsewhere, other than in England -
where: it would be completely
impractical -
                  
                       prime tenet would also
be, what it already shows:
   non-expansionism of a culture
or a people -
                           more akin to
American isolationism under
                                                  F.D.R.:
i­ have a strange sentiment
for that president.

If I could go back there,
to that day in first grade when I yanked my project (on bridges, yellow cover decorated in crayon) too fast from Allison's hands and her fingers blistered on the staples,
I would be standing there,
next to Miss A as she lined up the class,
ready with a band aid and a hug and I would say, "Be more careful next time, alright?" and Allison and I would get yelled at for skipping in the hallway to art class,
the moment of shock dissipating from my mind like so many accidents of the year.

If I could go back there,
to that night in April of eighth grade where I learned what true poetry was,
I would be there at ten twenty-four,
and I would wake the dead to keep myself from typing those fateful lines if I had to,
and I would save myself from skewing the feather-light foundation of our group of five
that later was heaped with bricks at odd angles
which came tumbling down.

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade began (whether it was Monday morning or Monday night I forget),
I would give myself a Mountain Dew and say, "He's fine, but go for her,"
and then as I ran down the b
to the day in fifth grade when I realized no one was laughing with me,
the day that I realized I was an outcast, and that "being different" wasn't good,
I would be waiting with my pink-haired baby sitter as I stepped off the school bus,
a Lilly Quench book in hand and a mug of hot chocolate (even though it was March) in the other,
and I would pull from my pocket the same necklace I was wearing,
a wire-wrapped amethyst on a crumby silvery chain
that was the first of many,
and there would be acceptance in the house that night.

If I could go back there,
to the moment I learned about eating disorders in health class from an over weight gym teacher who couldn't care less about the students,
I would bump the kid next to me from his seat (let him whine, he's a ****) and sit down,
a plate of chocolate cake and a spoon to eat it with making a mess of the plastic desk,
and maybe I would realize that I was already skinny enough.

If I could go back there,
to those nights when I learned the true power of words,
to the moment I skewed the foundations of a solid friendship of five,
I'd shout and scream and wake the dead to stop myself typing those fateful lines,
heaping bricks upon bricks to collapse my only bonds,
and I would give myself a mug of Theraflu to knock me out,
and whisper in my ear as I nodded off, "Stop being so **** impulsive."

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade started (whether it was the Monday morning or Monday night I never recall),
to the night where I should have closed my laptop for good when Joanne signed off but instead I reopened it at 12:17,
I would give myself a bottle of water and tell myself, "He's fine, but go anyway"
because it meant the world to Allison that I do so,
and as I ran out of the house in the opposite direction of our suicidal friend to meet up with her,
I would head toward's his house and tell him we were coming so he could be awake and his dad asleep when we showed up at the door at 2:23.

If I could go back there,
to March 19, 2012,
when I learned about life from Death himself,
when I learned that some things are worth living for and that isolationism doesn't work but it will have to work for me,
I would stand there at the foot of my bed,
freezing cold because I refused to turn on the heat,
I would hold my hand and be supportive because now I know that no one else will be,
that no one can be there for everyone always,
and I would stay with me for the months to come and relive the hellish months to come because no one should have to hold the world up alone,
knowing that they can't even maintain a grip on themselves.

If I could go back there,
I would save myself.

well d'uh, of course thinking can become more toxic
than the toxins "ruining" my kidneys liver and breath,
i'm not prone to automated cognition,
automated cognition is applicable to rudimentary tasks,
perfected in the lineage of manual labour,
and to be hanky panky frank, i sometimes wish my lived
revolved around a perfected manual labour,
than this scrap / dung-heap of writing.*

when i was making paella today
(kashmiri chilli powder is milder
than the usual ****!
paprika, turmeric, main ingredients:
mussels, prawns, chouriço -
match the c with the upper part of an s,
and the diacritic mark with the
lower part of the s, i.e. ɔ - chicken)
i had a thought, democracy, or current
democracy ought to be fed the f. d. Roosevelt
spirit of isolationism... this warring democratic
Zeitgeist can't go on forever...
there are no real city-state alliances
these days, e.g. manchester (osbourne's
northern powerhouse is competing
with the blond mop-head london of booritz)...
the countries being attacked are cities
in rubble... they can't couple city- and -state
together... they're given the option of
puppet nationalism... and cities can't function
under that... i think it's necessary to make
democracy less war-like, less warring,
it's exposing its weaknesses by warring
with its scientific strengths but its inherent
organic weaknesses, just today a heterosexual
couple couldn't tie the knot in a civil partnership...
because it appeared the church was pushing
subverters into secular ranks...
the secular ranks dismissed secularists for ****'s sake!
now they'll have to go back to the church
and tie the knot... it also appears secularism
is only reserved for homosexuals and confused
homosexuals (transgender peeps)...
i still think a warring democracy will not provide
an argument, a democracy practising f. d. Roosevelt's
isolationism would do itself justice,
after all we never hear of new york's grandfather:
york, england... do we? what's in york?
ah... no broadway... just a ****** cathedral and
an archbishop at war with the the archbishop of
****-and-berry.... nothing much... everyone
turns off their lights at 9pm for the early doze-off /
early rise... farmer folk... you know: baa'h baa'h
ol' mc'donald 'ad a farm.
i know that the grand city-states of our times
want Baghdad to join them...
i know... it's not really working out.

I am in cold. I watch that garish ward brimming with false light. Bleached air from his lips touching hers. He hides in her mane, sterile and alone. Why is it so hard, such an insurmountable task for you to see how I lather my face with paint each day just to smile at you?

My face, my heart, my mind not a blank canvas that I hide with these diluted pastels but a deep, rich chorus of colors and oils that were never meant to be hidden. But the ward will never know.

There are thoughts and opinions rolling like a torrent behind this mask I call a face. This world was against me from day one, don’t you dare say I’ve given way to cynicism. Nor optimism, pessimism, or God-forsaken realism. Can't I think the earth is beautiful, God is good, I am right, and people are wrong without someone putting an -ism behind me? Of course not. That's narcissism. Egoism. Egalitarianism.

It is what I unknowingly wrote across my mask. But I never chose to attend this outdated ball, masquerades are cliched. Pure romanticism...surrealism, the kin of commercialism whose visage is a polychromatic wheel of logotypes that you just have to know en masse.

What if I stop believing that compassion Himself can hate me? No, no that's atheism. Agnosticism. And if I'm better than someone because He said so then that is monotheism in all it's delicate flavors.

Can't I breathe alone in a quiet corner? Isolationism. Can't I want to simply be a follower, and think about life, literature, and art? Incomprehensible, that would be totalitarianism, absolutism, authoritarianism. What if I want to give God all the power He gave us, and watch the world change? Fascism. Revolutionism. Extremism, because releasing the wheel is extremism. Existentialism.

And what if I choose to remove the mask, break the levees, release the floodgates,    my thoughts and opinions, never watch my tongue, and speak the world as it is: A capital M-madman's schism of logic and faith. As it has always been, and always will be. I will always be in love with the counterfeit ward. And yes, there's a label for that: Catastrophism.

So I watch Beauty and his Beast touching in fluorescence. Bleached breath, save for the smoke of his lungs in hers. Sterile and alone; I am in cold, and cold hurts me.

Here I am again,
watching the scenery loop
on the carousel's third lap. 

I'd rather not have paid the fair
but to have observed the hellish chaos 
from outside this whirlwind of horses. 

The eye of the storm doesn't exist here
when the stationary cavalry doesn't stop,
but I chose to enlist in your war. 

My last tour ended with a bang,
body intact, but inside was torn,
and I said I'd "never fight the good fight again."

But here I am
caught in the searing winds,
scars refreshed, sobering and familiar. 

How did I let this happen?
The Siren's song was so alluring,
with promises strewn on shores' crags. 

Oh Helen, you made me face a thousand ships,
but when my eyes returned 
you were merely a new mare on the merry-go-round.

I knew what to expect 
when I chose to turn on the fleets,
but my childish dreams convinced me you were different. 

Advisors had warned,
and instinct agreed,
but my trust has become my enemy. 

So here I am again,
surrounded, not yet able to retreat,
but the battle is almost over. 

This time I swear I'll never fight again.
You don't recognize peace until it returns,
and isolationism is the key to keeping it. 

I promise I won't,
but first I must wait
for the looped music to cease.

because i reduced my language to encode onomatopoeia, and because i didn't allow stresses to be pronounced on letters for the appropriate expressions of deviating local accents (instead concentrating on the snail slogans of organic produce, local, ******): to contrast the inherited Latin encoding system - i used aesthetic encoding to such an extent that i gave birth to dyslexia, or to put simply: over-spelling... i deviated from the other inheritors of the Latin alphabet without stressing certain sounds, hence i conquered the world, and subsequently giving up Hong Kong, became the ****-hole of the world, with 5 year old children being accused of ****** exploitation in the newspapers... i didn't follow the continental drift toward evolving Latin, yet i immersed myself in Darwinism, to preach the doctrine of the evolution of forms, the square remained a square, the circle a circle... the monkey suddenly became a man... and since i preached the universality of man, i was wedged in too many particulars in how i said things to be... which is why i believed in America and decided to exit Project Europe... which is why i became the F. D. Roosevelt island of hopes, isolationism being the cure, sure, everyone is employed, but on 0 hour contracts... which is why someone with enough oil in their head came among and said: Sa-id! we need a hyphen over a letter rather than keep it as a wavering compound awaiting the Oxford nod of approval... it's a shame when you care for the aesthetics, but never provide a system of directness, as in always providing a system of indirectness - meaning there's no mathematics involved in lettering - no stress - all the stress gets turned into exploiting forms that don't nudge into coerced trapeziums of disintegration, means you work more than the 9 to 5 prescription... all because you exploited children during the Victorian age, and left the young of our present age to premature ailments that only old people should succumb to... you can't be Romans just like that! too may oceans, not enough seas... you need to add stresses to the letter you are sorta borrowing rather than plundering, be like the Germans, the French, the Poles, invite the aesthetic scientists to desecrate the temples of Runes... but at the same time plunder the encoding with accents, to simply say: we're above, no matter the success of trade your empire provides... we say it chisel, you say it chive... we build, you cook, the end. but keeping it in naked diacritic lack will expose weaknesses in the physical realm of use when silenced... English needs to stress itself with this phonetic encoding if it's to survive at all... but it's too late for that, i fear... there are too many particular instances of its eccentricity that come as pride a minute from now, and as a landfill site the minute after... they are paying for keeping with the Latin alphabet unabashed to continue without mathematical stresses of saying things... but the times of George V and the empire are long gone... it's just that, or the fact that they don't know what their weakness is... since they battle stresses of phonetic encoding with political egoism on a populist scaling.*

i congest myself on the feline onomatopoeia, between a roar
and a meow - between the matured tree
and the bonsai replica i tend to do my quasi-cartesian thinking -
i don't really have an ego to verb together
things with a pristine causality akin to exercise equalling
perspiration - thought has no verb attachment -
no motivational speech to boot -
being is the same -
i simply concentrated on the exponential
existence of nouns -
like anyone with too much information
i find keeping a respectable investment in
nouns to be the source of my misery -
with such a high number of nouns and a pauper's
share of verbs i will obviously become a slacker
in the former category, as in the latter -
instinctively like a cat, speaking the universal
sound that i silence and then rewrite in
the onomatopoeia form i hardly think and hardly
am, a cat... i just have too many nouns to
take care of, most of which i'd only use
slouched with a book before going to sleep,
and never actually using in my everyday speech,
it's back to the garden of Eden and the fruit of
temptation: aiming for a high propane vocabulary
is like Adam given the fruit, gets a vocabulary
of a chemist, but ends up being a plumber...
no one checks this ****, ever!
i get the part of "we're in this together",
but mediating all our specialisations in a democratic way
will only create more tangents and the trigonometric
tan(gens) graphs of solipsism - offshoots and
somehow always "dark graphs" (σκότογραφυ) -
oddly enough, making the acute omicron into a u
never allowed the upsilon an endeavour into Y (macron
i) with any diacritic, other than the hint in capital
of the mentioned lower-case encoding.
what the **** was i saying? i'm astounded at the
fact that i lost the fluidity, not what i was saying per se,
it seem the per se fluidity got blocked and i had
to reopen the Pandora box yet again... let me have
a while to guess where the narrative should realign
without the reverse of fictional characters as extensions
of the narrator - i.e. poetry's synonym of characters
is personae, meaning that poetry has personae
and fictional prose has characters... the fictional
prose narrator tries to piece a space together with many
characters he's conscious of as inventing...
the poet narrator tries to piece a person together with many
personae he's not conscious of, atypically a schizoid
symptom... or not... ... ... ... ... ... oh right...
the balance of nouns and verbs in the Cartesian sense
of exercise and perspiration, or the fact that Serena Williams
never breaks a sweat... love those thighs...
she never asks for a towel to rub her hands or face dry...
she must be doping with the Russians...
too many nouns surrounding us,
i feel like a proton surrounded by what i thought
was the limit (electrons), but no! oh no! there are
quarks, neutrinos, and ******* violins!
whirling whirlwind strings and chopsticks -
which translated into Chinese just means Chopping Suede Sue;
hey! i got a bell ding-**** knocking on wood just now...
funny how poetry can do that... knock on wood
you end up hearing a seashell tide break open
the coral restrictions with a tsunami gnash on earthly goods.

i guess in england i am marx... i spotted one victorian asset that leaves me gobsmacked... so if pedophiles are the lowest of the low in the crime pyramidal scheme... i can almost see it as those with melancholia and schizophrenia being like pedophiles... instead of proper treatment these people get the syringe filled with ridicule... the lowest of the low in the crime theatre are pedophiles while in medicine they’re the mentally ill. do you know how many marriages i’ve seen fail because of overcooked pasta?!*

it’s odd, the moment you realise the hebrew femininity
in stefan zweig’s biography of hölderlin,
it appears when scardanelli (pseudonym)
makes his gesture at the passing of napoleon,
schiller, beethoven, novalis, schubert and waiblinger...
its picturesque depiction of the ivory tower,
the piano the solace of solitude that eclipses
the solstice of congregational sanity so so animalistic
in the morse code platonism of s.o.s.
(what form is it? usually a sinking ship):
frequent flier requires company!
retired divorcee requires ping-pong partner!
oh the horror of such scenarios... never content
with one’s own company, are we?
too bad... i was about to write some satire...
i guess sarcasm will do...
zen buddhism is a perfect antidote for this:
stefan zweig laments the “loneliness” of the poet,
zen buddhism says: **** the world, let the lack of the world
fulfil you... isolationism tactic, purely pronoun related...
no dates to remember, no third party antics... no politics...
the voluntary beggar had more brains than the voluntary sacrifice,
it’s like: i can always go back to my honey abode
with the lineage of princes... or i can try and avoid crucifixion...
hmm... unbaked dough... what a lost will for choice!
no you see... zen buddhism makes this whole shunning the world
and interaction in it a positive...
on the no. 86 bus going to school i learned my first lesson
in non-constipated writing with a relative the sole eyes
of wounded pride avoided...
forget the world and let the world forget you.
works miracles... i live in a jamaican shanty town
and the whole ghetto is filled with me...
it’s the only world i desired and it desires me...
it’s not exactly tübingen...
the chance of an essex lad entering university
is quickly sentenced with the birmingham folk
at u.c.l. stating: we’ll crucify you for the accent!
the essex lad retorts: 'but that’s 200 miles from derbyshire -
what’s your point?!'
thank god i studied in edinburgh... i can keep an eye
on saxon politics from a stoic scot perspective without betting
on the winning horse...
if i went to london as “originally planned” i’d have dropped out
because the ******* are so pompous they hide their pomp
with protests: oh look... they brought the drums out with them too,
if i was serious about protesting about something i’d
look for knives and hammers... you know... the french reign of terror
democracy... forceful... i think they just read the memo
with a typo: bring ye conniving slogans and your cameras to lineage plot details
for social media outbursts!
you could never have proper statistics with television
programs... no we see them all the time...
the internet folk are really party-party orientated...
i can spot about 9 statisticians in a group of 10:
i.e. there's gucci trendy and there's pixxel trendy...
although in the latter sense you're cognitively naked...
and in the former sense you have to ask
someone for a deciphering specialisation
without flinging out the badge of honour that
reads: AUTHENTIC GUCCI TAILORED IN
SOMALIA BUT DESIGNED IN ITALY.

Remember how
the United States
tried to go back to
isolationism after
the great war, but ended
up caught in a more
deadly and
catastrophic war?
That's exactly how
I feel right now.
I just want to build
Ford automobiles and
washing machines, but instead
I'm shooting Atomic
bombs across
the Pacific.

the universality of relativity has already
already occurred, far beyond the scope
of the physically simplified
  time = space via the epsilon =
             μ and "kappa" squared...
what's the equation with "kappa"
                                  cubed?
but it's beyond speaking relative
language,
            when the study of time,
i.e. history, is only left with an absolutist
"morality"...
                     the grand theory of
relativity killed off all considerations
of a moral relativism...
                         and what's hard to grasp
is not the theory of relativity,
but the enacting of moral absolutism...
   at this point relative languge
is otherwise the focus on nuance...
what is required is absolute language:
there's only one book worth burning,
and it's the thesaurus...
              red is relative to crimson,
blue is relative to azure...
      the otherwise reprimands of shades...
red = crimson = red, at the end of it...
         but how can we live
in a time or space where time = space
without having a historical
stalemate, a status quo, a congestion?
the only answer comes with how
space is effected,
  this current isolationism...
this quasi solipsism...
                    at the precise point
were time & space coincide comes
the time of the great unravelling...
           time becomes a constipation,
while space becomes a claustrophobia...
  no more history is written with
authenticity in mind, merely a parody of
a repeated narrative...
space? space become a single man,
occupying a ******* universe!
              even the god Atlas fell
to his knees trying to balance act
a supra-geometrical "shape"...
      the convergence of space and time
surmounts any deliberation of the "ultimate"
evil...
the evil is inconsequential when
the apparent good serves an ultimatum...
you either obey my laws,
or shut up, completely!
         the re-convergence of time from
space, a divorce, a disparity can only
be achieved when the speed of light
is conceptualised as cubic, stationary...
           via the notion of anti-matter
i.e. anti-mass...
       E is reserved as the equilibrium mediator,
a buffer zone... the pH 7...
what concerns equals (=)...
            but when time and space
collided there were too many
sycophants that didn't understand the science!
for god's sake you've create a vacuous medium
whereby history is a congestion,
and space a zoological realm of study
beginning with chimps and ending
with man!
               the reason why most people
perceive history as not actually
occurring,
        is that Einstein reversed the
Copernican discovery...
   the earth has once more,
began tp stand still..
                                  24h news reels
have ensured that the earth is
standing still, i am aware of the facts,
but perceptively it's not actually moving...
it's waiting for a dawn, akin
to the burning down of the library of
Alexandria...
                        however i put it already,
time is congesting,
      space is isolating...
                         upon a convergence,
there comes a divergence...
  what we're experiencing is the divergence
of what came to be a space-time
convergence...
    it will take more than a few decades
to unravel the pivot...
    that balanced time with equal
satiety of space...
             at this point we're heavily
inclined to fathom space,
science fiction, space travel -
if not fathom, then become satiated by it
being explored, hence our historical neurosis
and ease at having un-lived past experiences...
our historical: kindergarten "reminiscence"
or therefore: lack of respect / seriousness...
to match but one requisite of a respect
for time, there must come a death of being
fascinated by the fiction surrounding space...
and come the reality of:
the non-fiction encompassed by time;
for time is but a contracting force,
given the mortal frame,
with space expanding, time contracts.

why do I even bother
when i wrote my poetry in a book it didnt matter
how many likes i had
how many views i grabbed
all that mattered was that i set my feelings free
but you see,
i am my own worst critic
writing my own scathing reviews until my wrists are arthritic
then what am i left with?
two *** wrists and an ache the size of Madrid
i dont know why i bother to publish my mind
another sick twisted jab at my soul aligned
with my heart
well my heart cant take it anymore
my mind is sore
time to give up the criticism
time to give up isolationism