i sometimes find myself listening
into the zeitgeist narrative...
the sort of talk that
is spoken by people who...
have a hard time figuring a hammer...
heidegger's:
can two labourers have
a discussion about philosophy
when solidifying themselves
in perfecting the: repeat labour?
my answer is... not really...
              crack a joke, sure...
but wouldn't a subject matter of
metaphysics counter them
     ineffective in the physical
endeavor?
           the question is still intact...
but the supermarket cashier
is more suspect...
                my question is:
       the jobs that are so pointless
they require sitcoms,
humour,
                        cubicles...
   and not one will you hear
talk of philosophy,
because... narcissus has taken
over...
           as as his brain-child birth
of the sister - solipsi - (σoλιψ:

now i'll ask...
the rubric break-down...

why is it σoλιψ...
  and not σoλιψι...
or for that matter,
not σoλιπσι?

      the Greek fathomed
to give noun-status
to some of their letters...
so...
             alphabet...
prefix-
                and -suffix point of
attachment...

ah...
but no one would read
σoλιψ as σoλι'ψ...
and no one would
read σoλιψι as...
             anything worth
adding the added iota...
unless...
   and the dot above ι
is of what distinctive
                             posit?

but σoλιπσι = σoλιψ...

me? i like trivial observations,
pedantic, yes...
  but my letters are not bound
to having a noun category...

alpha-               -male...
means something...
but in my castrato-sing-along
i have AH...
                      beta-        
  becomes be(e)-             -h...

       punk-*** orthography
of the english language...
intimidating & supposing it
has any orthographical markers...
j & i do not count...

        begin afresh:
and i would know something
about leaving a ȷustιfιed
aesthetιc comment...
  ȷust so!

the Greeks are riddled with
an excess of diacritical
mark application...
they have to look pedantic
before the Latin inheritors...

this is the point where you say:
being overly literatre
isn't helping,
when the English,
the prime inheritors of
Rome look... slumbering...

   i share their burden,
whatever happened to
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
and whatever i am
of a concern for birth...
listen...
they had their chance to breed
a blank slate man...
but as long as they left
the bricks & mortar of grammar
intact...
   they started attacking
grammar...
             what am i not to do?
cook you a ******* k'eh'b'āb...)

     - who was born out of
  solipsism...
                     it's such an airy subject
matter,
         at best: all of it requires
a status of noumenon...
   and someone who has access
to a very frictive vocabulary of
technical terms...
    spotted once in a while...
              crux-verbum constructs...

abortion at 9 months,
state of the union address speech
of the president:
   i'm not walt whitman
and there's no: o captain my captain
from me...

  but what i see...
       the old gods that were conquered
by the hebrew god
of its people resurging...
like Milton's fallen angels...
resurging...
   being reborn...
                with that speech
about abortion: i see, Moloch...
i too see Beelzebub...
mastering the craft of lying
tongues...
     the old gods are back, baby!
there's no need to congest
oneself with h. p. lovecraft
inventions...
      once the old, conquered
gods lose their fallen angel status,
once they are
   liberated from
the thesaurus of confusing
nouns of the lost time...

to me Moloch stands
the most proud...
and yes, i can listen to ricky gervais
talk about:
   the pinnacle
of darwinistic realism,
cultural darwinism,
how there is nothing ever
too suspicious about the natural
world,
and how i have to accept
the ****-manner of
"appreciating" the natural
world...
                   the octopus,
and the platypus...
            and... like...
                between a rock and a god...
the absolute death-row
narrative...
  there are only cul de sac
avenues for thought to exist...
and... given...
i am the deluded one...
then... where's the ******* asylum
and jimmy savile?

              but no one tells you
about anything: enlightening when
they have experienced
auditory hallucinations...
oh... everyone's almost
unanimous about visual hallucinations
esp. if they have ingested
fungus or Hofmann teabag...

as a person who has
experienced auditory hallucinations...
believe me...
   esp. when "thinking" is also
deemd "auditory"...
    in that casual: i can't hear myself
think...
                  auditory hallucinations
are no... pleasant...
    however much visual hallucinations
are championed...
because the fear of the unseen:
yet heard...
contributes to a more potent
fear of what is... seen: but on mute...
because by being auditory:
you can relate to it having
a... ******* mind...
a consciousness of some-sort...
auditory hallucinations are
that much more scary because...
you experience no fatigue,
when the sort of fatigue
you would experience...
from thirst... in the desert...
           "seeing" a fata morgana...

me? i hate it how...
biology and physics have reached
the status of mainstream...
while whatever chemistry
was allowed, of nibbling on
the mainstream
is left rotten in the arms of a zombie
attempting to read some
alchemy text from the middle-ages...

no... i am not mezmerized...
****... mesmerised...
****...
    mez... z'oh: **** it... might as well
employ the german diacritic
marker:                meßmerißed -
because the, "softness" of the S
in that word, is never really: SOFT...
is it?!

      auditory hallucinations...
i can't explain them...
          it's not like you can actually
ingest a fungus...
that would allow you to hear...
say... the philharmonic crescendo
of Pandemonium...
   find me a drug like that:
then we'll talk...
              
   and, if ever, on the side:
poetry would be dead in a day
if everyone started to have a darwinian
hard-on for nature or
the Aristotelian genesis bound
to awe...
                       fear...
                       and it's not like
fear is a pathological complex
that man needs to be rid of...
     sure, i'll make it more subtle:
being... apprehensive...
           and you know what fear
doesn't allow...
          stagnation...
dulling of the senses...
                                     apathy...

mind you:
that half a liter of whiskey,
and listening
to the corvus corax song
                    la i mbealtaine
could never do much wrong in me...
coming to this bud of a blank
space,
and letting it exfoliate into...
this, bargain, of extracted words.

I wish my tactile hallucinations would give me a massage,
A warm hug from my non-existent mother,
A kiss from my long distance boyfriend.

A twisted fairytale

My hallucinations
They know what I fear most
And they want me to be afraid
They feed off my terror
They get off on my sick brain
They know what torments me.
Arachnophobia’s favorite game to play
The spiders
Come out of
My skin
They’ve been waiting patiently
When I’m most vulnerable
When I’m isolated
When I’m helpless

I wish my tactile hallucinations would
**** me

They say I have hallucinations,
"They aren't real",
But how can something I've seen or heard be fake?
They say "hallucinations",
I say "superpower".
I've seen things before they happen, and I stopped a child stepping on a piece of sharp plastic seconds before it happened.  

How are these "hallucinations" when I've clearly heard someone call my name or I've had a conversation with someone?
"It never happened."
How are these "hallucinations" when I've seen, felt, and heard someone do something?
"It never happened."
How are these "hallucinations" when they're my reality?

The good days are my light.  They make you feel like you're walking on air.
They call it "manic",
I call it bliss.
They say I need to watch my "highs",
I say, let them roam free, swoop me up in their wing and fly away.
They say I need medicine, but, why cage a beautiful thing?

The bad days are my darkness.
They make up for the good days.
"The low",
the low comes and you feel like you're a zombie.
You won't eat because food won't cure the hunger you have.
You want to die, but the sadness is like an old friend.
The sadness is too beautiful to let go, so you welcome it with open, bleeding arms.
My sadness is disaster.
It's my "reality check",
It's my way of realizing I'll never be "sane" without the medicine they shove down my throat.

There's a name for this, for these highs and lows, for this craving for taboo things, the hallucinations.

This is bipolar.

But,
I am me,
I am bipolar,
I am beautiful,
I am a disaster.
And my bipolar and I,
We're the beautiful disaster.