It all moves out of view
This spacial slideshow of curious imagery
If you know the place, the images cast nostalgia, a padded sense of familiarity and recollections
dragged out of dusty boxes
If you don't know the place, the images leave an odd awkward sense of speculation,
the stories taken for granted behind other irises that leave you pondering
If the driver doesn't want music, the mind types itself out, fingers picking through the paperwork
The hum gains its repetitive dulling thud, and you have two friends
Sleep or boredom
They both ****

If the driver wants music, boredom still looms in the air, hanging from
the rafters from coils made of dust
But the potential for the pretty little day dream to drop across your lap is something to be admired

Here's where you learn whether you respect your driver's taste
And whether your man enough to say anything about it

And so you are polite, whether you like the music or not
The world outside still takes your eye between the small talk
Billions upon billions of cells joining in sweet matramony so many times over its a wonder so brilliant
that it would break the mind
Joining to form that house. Oh it's gone.

Your mind fills with your life
Two parts goals, work,  study, ambitions
One part relationships, lovers, friends, fueds
A dash of media intermission, those things you saw that were cool
All stirred for 3 hours with a touch of day dream sauce
Wait until the journey ends and you can forget all about it

.one of those low... low oh my god how low... hanging fruits... i.e. check... check... *****! akimbo in a "critical" pose of... Skiba's take on the current polish-"lithuanian" government via: pchła szachrajka... everything is just all oh too all too ****** obvious! without that blonde quiff... without graffiti sport of the politicians... the words are as cheap as the most ******* *****-*****... when all one desires... is an unveiling from the territory of: the virgins under the niqab curtain of the house of Saud! yes yes shouts the ****** without the requisite body parts... one side lost to the dolls... the other to the guillotined ******! sport a longer beard than Muhammad... and a mullet longer than the... well... longer than the hassidy-yoddle of a curly-furly payot... or less.. strapped-on than those anglican... victorian sideburns... moi? moi? je suis... encore de... l'efforts... "kazik" de kulte... nous respiré... nous toussé... nous étouffé... nous seulement oublié que à rire... i think that debate was sort-of-settled when i found that... the french... share my etymological-root of mother grammar? the french also forgot, "forgot" to trill their R... instead... hark it they did... and... well... que à rire... i was "sort of" expecting a(n) - the N needs to see this...  forgo no god: to see the french "rear"... riré! god forbid the exclamation mark was the denoting: just enough padre... that western slavic shares the same grammatical structure as fwench... and what english is german and is also backwards... that the english hid their R-trill in the science of numbing... comfort... anesthetic and the tarantula kiss... well... fueds of neighbours... at least one of the ten commandments should suffice them... me? well... a ménage à trois includes me and at least two ******?! no? then i will not be labouring myself over the women publiushing print in the Style magazine of a Sunday edition of a newspaper... with some mr. candy not being on social media... ergo the internet is HER playground... otherwise my amazon.com and the disappearing highstreet... and internet banking... and none of the sort of things teenage boys were getting to test with come the late 1990s... now that social media... run a peacock's full Monet and symphony before her eyes... she... "she" has the reins?! how does a horse turn left? is it... left at the reins tugged with the jaw... and the right heel pressing into the torso? i should have learned some french... i've been to Paris twice... lucky for me... there's not a third's luck of chance to replicate the summers of: 2004... and... whatever the year was... the hostel? oh sure... it might have been: the fleeing three ducks... the three drunken ducks... yep... or just... the 3 ducks hostel... we drank ourselves silly and started running toward the Eiffel tower... because... that was November... and it was Paris... and don't let them tell you any ******* about Paris... Paris come the last efforts of autumn... when it doesn't rain... that's Paris for me... or at least: that's what Paris was... i would be beyond being tired: the youth is gone... there's a beard instead of long hair... and there are those puffy cheeks from drinking rather than from gluttony... n'ah... more likely i'll be the one sending a postcard from Sobibor... or some... god-forsaken place... if not... dreaming of Istambul... and soke rat-infested ****-house of a scribbling me: the noon with tide... to sketch a shadow of my own... very purposively built... architecture of demise... i'll leave as i lace this life with: destitute... well... god forbid i should be leaving this world with a Solomon's harem... or Muhammad's ambition harem... or... a panic in babylon... or... i should hope... to be leaving this world... attired... with... that sober note... Belshazzar was left with... i'd want to left with fear... exactly: a fear that i should be made as an offering upon the altar of sacrifice of reincarnation for the hindu deities! here's my: "my" tetragrammaton.

also called: rifles without bullets...
or... how the red army battled
against **** germany...

one poor **** was sent running
with a rifle...
another poor **** was
sent running with bullets...

no need for bullets i guess....
just... hitchhikers... so (idle thumbs)...
        Prato Rifles &... Burdock Bullets...

unless one of the two poor russian buggers
met the other one...
and either had the bullets:
to subsequently get the rifle...
or had the rifle... and got the bullets...

reverse all logic... when it comes
to the spezial Prato Rifles & Burdock Bullets.

Not time to hate got work to do
Not taking on criticism
They aren't doing my work
Done proving myself
Just trying to better myself
Working harder working
Being smarter prefer to be alone
Working behind the scenes
Able to get it done have fun
They don't have your heart
Different mindsets brewing fueds
Trying to find a common goal
Done complaing do the work

what's the "real'' difference between pedagogy and ideology? don't know, but it's probably equivalent to: a bunch of dwarfs among a bunch of children... spot the ******* rottweiler.

the "problem" with individuation
     on a level of pedagogy -
it's all fun & games to be attired
in a catholic school uniform -
rebelling against the "suggested"
attire by wearing a black
shirt, when otherwise expected
to attire yourself with either
a white, or blue shirt...
          and so you can breed a sort
of people that don't really have
a high school narrative
               akin to the h'americans...
who cling to high school fueds
without engrossing themselves
in the years as if: they ought to be prized...
yet there is a problem...
   at school a mantra hovered over me...
the mantra was ushered in like
a ghost, and it clinged to me like
a spectral mushroom...
          you are different,
   just like everyone else!*
it's hard to craft an individuation process
with this mantra hovering over you...
simply because there's a question:
different to / from what?
     where's the that that i'm supposed
to align myself to,
while simultaneously
            not aligning myself to that?
i honestly can't be bothered
to play a second game of pedagogy...
because ideology is just that...
    i have to be ******* myself silly
in thinking that this requires an
oversimplification...
        you are different...
just like everyone else...
               which is a quirky paradox
that hovers over you
  when you're supposed to wear
a school uniform...
          because: how can i?
          well, at least i can escape the hell
of having to cite high school
"dramas" in my later life...
            is there anything memorable
about it, prior to infusing myself
with delusions?
   not really...
                  the ontological basis for
the existence of memory is
bewildering: no wonder it needs
   the surrealism of an "education"...
        seems more pardonable to watch
rust form on a shipwreck...
       because what can i actually "keep"?
it would be a natural answer to
amass a large number of things
  to counter the fact that:
           i'm trying to hold a handful of water
in cusped hands, when it
comes to remembering something;
but i do retain my list of riches
  in terms of a: past experience...
      and i cling to these artefacts like a tyrant...
         but i am not fortunate in
that i have been given a debilitating mantra -
i guess:
   the point when you stop blaming
yourself is when you curl out of the egg
that the "guiltless" people like to shove the jack
back into a box of solipsism...
oh yeah: they're also real...
        i hate the gimmick:
   the only person you can blame is yourself...
tell that to the Auschwitz survivors:
           'cos i'm also not buying;
not having to blame yourself
is the most liberating act of punk;
ah, but to mind: the misnomerism
         of narcissism -
            and the general ambivalence
regarding "immaturity"...
    trust really is,
  far harder to fathom than truth...
because there's no abstract to hide it in...
back to:
   what the ideologue doesn't understand
is that: there's no second (attempt at)
                                        pedagogy.
why on earth would i rob a person of
   their moral duty merely question?
   a person without a moral sensibility is
               also a person without a question:
morality - a guideline worth
  the abstinence with respect to
                                    having a choice;
versus the regret of not having it in the first
place.