i don't think i wrote something incoherent... i mean, i could be accussed of having written something incoherent... but the way i look at it, i didn't exactly write a discourse... platonism - theatrical notation of philosophy, theatre as such... became abhorred way-back before platonistic abhorrence of poetry became established in the koranic text... so no... i don't think i wrote something incoherent, i might be guilty of writing it in a berserk-like frenzy... but it's not incoherent... it's simply said in a language, that's says θ = φ, ε = η, o = ω, ξ = χ, so you see... all the aesthetics dwindles... because i wrote this without it being reminiscent of a beautiful conversation under the moon in some exotic place... or a conversation you might have in a supermarket when buying a pint of milk... that's why the above stated greek letters are actually the same... and they exist as "chiral" if you decide to take into consideration aesthetic orthodoxy with origins in making literacy a monopoly... nothing contained in here is incoherent... the only "incoherency" of this piece is that: you wouldn't really talk to someone about it, when buying groceries, or having a nostalgic conversation with a friend... it's ad abstractum... that thing that's also not bound to any parliament or church.

some people really do aspire to be quenched
by the phenomenon status...
   to be the slang first said,
   to be the last, doctrine fed,
          i admire these people, well, admire,
like i'd admire king Solomon -
who prayed to be bewstowed by wisdom,
and what came of his prayer?
              a weak heart, and a walrus status
with a harem...
        i hold my **** like king David holds the lyre...
call it what you want...
              but you see a shagged out beauty like
Dakota Skye, and you just have to bash out
the tennis *****...
                   it comes naturally:
will i get a crown for celibacy, or should i wait
for prostate cancer...
          is there anyone in the vicinity to help me out?
not really...
i can't fanticise about either of my neighbours...
   ****-wits attest to the tried path of protestantism's
freedom-libido...
            but what i'm curious about more perverse
than that... perosnal hygiene isn't really the question
being asked...
                  yes, take a ****, partake in the double-quickie...
it almost feels like ******* and taking a ****
is a *******'s worth of v.i.p. pass when
they say shalom, you ease out the **** and
*******... hence the ******* perfume to boot...
   why do it in the shower?
       why get comfy and do it in an armchair?
   lucky me... i need no *****...
and doubly-lucky me: i read enough marquis de sade...
   oh no, he's not repetitive in his book *******,
he's lost the ability to lullaby you to sleep
strapped to a chair in a sadist's disneyland by now...
       but hell: i see no need to glorify these assertions,
i'm just gagging for the moment my
peers will find it boring doing what they do,
when they reach middle-age and have forgotten
******* per se, as a driving factor for
imagination, or how one thrives on keeping
imagination alive by jerking off...
            it becomes a story of: not really looking
for my dream girl... just give me anything that moves
and i'll be content...
                 when was the last time you
picked up a bisexual thai girl in a park off a bench,
took her home, played her some jazz, and later
****** her in the garden by the moonlight?
       what finally convinced her?
in her own words: i've never seen so many books...
   well yeah, that's modesty creeping up on me.
    and unless you're not using the medicine:
what?! you gonna start imagining ******* your mother?
    the point is that Kant can never become a
populist philosopher... he made his life so: that
he never encountered the weitgheist of Napoleon
at Juna... Kant wasn't the antithesis of Marxism...
      you can't take Kant to a movie premier in Leicester Sq....
   you can take Kant to the pulpit...
   sure thing, you can take Hegel, as you do,
to get people mobilised...
       that's why i prefer Kant in that he gave me something
to work on... as much as i admire
                  the people subjected to creating phenomenons of
themselves... so that people can be cloned and bleached
and be told the marching orders: these days musicians
are the kings... poets are the paupers...
   i identify with neither...
                       i mean, just the one word he invented,
if you want to ask me about a priori and a posteriori
atypical things people regurgitate about Kant,
i'm not your man...
                      if i can salute to the pig through of everything
and nothing,
                       i'll make a statue from oyster shells instead...
it's enough that i told you what Kant wrote
that 0 = negation...
                               but given what i'm trying to
really say is the people who give us individuality...
it doesn't matter whether you live in a democracy or
an autocracy...
   the matter is simpler, because only one word has
any meaning right now: to congregate at the altar of
the noumenon...
                               res per se... that the latin translation...
   i don't know how best to poeticise the blurry line
between psychiatry and philosophy, given that most
    psychiatrists would put philosophers in bird cages
and asked them to howl like wolves rather than
tweet like budgies...
                            all i can say about a priori
and a posteriori though?
                                              outside of time and space,
a bit like: beyond good and evil...
    a priori i denote by the right-wing word pure...
   and a posteriori by the      ditto           word impure...
    ethnical alliance of words, you know how the 20th century
story goes...
                      a priori: a blank canvas...
          a posteriori: the painting...
                          i'm not going to stutter on the word
knowledge any time soon...
                                        i see no fascination with knowledge,
i know the world is more transit and fleeting
if i sentence my emotional whole to doubt,
than if i sentence it to denial...
                      to a rigidness... that i sentence it to a permanence,
an illusion, of growing old and having all the lovelies
at my biding, in a political cartwheel...
                           either knowledge diminishes doubt,
or it embraces denial... but the wavering of thought can't
be detached from thinking...
                     with thought being ascribed denial rather than
doubt... it soon morphs into delusion...
                 can you really sport that sort of blonde quiff and
speak about red buttons?
    it's not even Friday and i'm sorta waiting for a mob
boxing match in Washington... easy kicks...
     it's Klitschko vs. Tyson on the cards,
   if i'm not feeling it... then all the past electorate weeks
have been a waste... all the protests signifying a jack-in-a-box...
who escaped it as nothing but purple puff...
and rarely, rarely... do you see people asking
for riches in terms of the words they use...
     vocab materialism is a bit like actual materialism...
a gold-plated toilet seat is about as sought-after as a word
    without being systematically used to banish synonyms...
the horrid affair of english intellectualism...
   the presupposed moral authority...
                            i mean, they moralise *******,
you go to a brothel... they strap a pair of dove wings to prostitutes
and call you a ****...
                          and there's you doing the opposite
of what should attract *******...
       i mean: you pay an extra ten quid to ****** mollest her
oyster of a *******...
                   that has to be some sort of Gethsemane *******...
oh please lord: when will it end?! (enter herr cackle,
the self-righteous faun, dressed as a magpie)...
        never knew that a kiss meant so much
when you didn't put 1 with 2 to make it a *******
and asked the devil to debate: what did i wrong here?
ah, that bit... jumped in the bath and soaked myself
in cold water while she remained, bed bound and *******...
    god: those tickling *****!
                    i could do it 20 times a day and i'd still feel
goosebumps all over them...
                     it's like that talk of the ghost-limb
when people get gangrene / frostbite amputations...
    well, that's what i call a case of "castrato" -
             i'm getting the impressions i lost them to
serve the Catholic church... shame the pharaohs of egypt
never asked the eunuchs how to sing...
   real shame that... a right ol' spot of bother...
   they were the harem toys when the pharaoh couldn't keep up,
i say: there's a limit... the ***** count sometimes
doesn't compete with the libido...
after a while it dilutes and you're shooting blanks...
   but you have a harem of 3000 ladies, king Solomon...
how will you keep them harem bound?
   king Solomon also said: i need 300 pristine virgins
to be castrated... that's 3 to 10 ratio... but since i'm the king
i need my lineage...
and remember that crazy cat lady?
                          she kept 30 cats and those 30 cats just said:
the lady's o.k.... all these 29 cuddly ***** are bothering my
beauty sleep! dogs can sniff each other up... cats?
primo solipsists... they need their personal space...
            the "crazy" cat lady wasn't crazy, the 30 cats became
demented... last time i heard tigers weren't responsible for
wilderbeast stampedes...
                 solipsists... well: "solipsists"... bound to the strict
natural dictum of their species...
              don't you think tigers would love to
roam like hyenas or wolves, or laze like lions?
                        i was really talking about Kant through
this Dionysian frenzy, wasn't i?
                     how when not to look toward
imitating a noumenon or forging out a route toward
such a circumstance?
                            even Heidegger move away from
this ultimate pinpoint...
                                Heidegger claimed that his dasein
made very little of a constancy of the Cartesian thing,
meaning that he couldn't stand-still...
         that somehow being was greather than stasis...
which already create
            the Kantian parallel predating Heidegger himself...
   the suffix of dasein (sein) is what's considered thought...
         it's a prophetic circumstance of seeing a there,
necessarily a future time... and hence him being branded
**** eternal... when in fact that can't be the case...
            nonetheless Kant moved away from Descartes
and said: res per se...
                          and not res cogitans...
he did so, as is apparent in his critique by isolating
                       the precursor: "i think" as an ambiguous fact...
  ambiguous in a sense of: providng the encapsulating
  mechanics for what is best attested as the populist vocab
calls it: eccentricity of "i am" - that which attracts
         the reversal of "i think" being an ambiguous fact,
and more of a chance to demand a circus, of not being
quiet adept at making "i think" an amiguous fact...
and beside the circus of the "madman", having qualms
   as to why adrenaline took over the argument for
and purpose of there being thought involved.
        -  oh honey... i'll mind-******* and eat your
refrigerator out, and by the end we'll be singing sweet ol'
Alabama wishing for a single summer by a lake
frolicking like two butterflies... if this **** can ever come to
an end   -
             Kant didn't, in the cursor that's i am, posit as
a necessary ambiguity... (the res and res per se
were already established) -
                   hence Heidegger had to come...
and make thinking the ambiguity... and that ambiguity did
come, in the form of the ad abstracto there;
                         thinking fizzled out (as Heidegger himself
concluded: we're still not thinking) -
            it's not that we're not thinking, it's that not being "there"
      dictates to us the subsequently not being -
         i.e. that's the borderline distinction -
          by actually being "there" we wouldn't be thinking anyway...
no one thought in Auschwitz...
                            there was no thought encompassed in that hell...
it was dogmatism on one side, versus natural intuition on
the other...  the one side being nurtured by political dogma:
the latter half being bound to an unforgiving nature
                  of man's testmanet outside of all fears of the natural,
and elemental torture...
   as man is prone: with the fewer number of natural
tragedies... he's bound to reach for the godhead and speak
with a tongue, like the sound of Xerxes ordering the Hellespont
to be whipped still..
                  and i know this will have very or only little
appeal in the anglophone world...
                       i'm not at all bothered by it...
what's obstructing the anglophone sphere is this basic need
to pray at the altar of pragmatism...
    you can't make language complicated enough these days...
   philosophy isn't recognised as something beyond
the simple arithmetic of: i can make my speech coherent...
   or... i can write a, b, c, d, e... like Kant says of mathematical
language: 1 + 1 = 2... but then you come to university
level mathematics... and it's no longer 1 + 1 = 2 to be concerned
with... that's what philosophy testifies... a complexity beyond
learning a foreign language, so you can live in Paris,
          and buy groceries, or raise a family... so:
   even language these days can't be deemed worthy of
complication... which, mind you, on my behalf
would make me throw a punch in your face... and your attempt
at complication language a mere ugh... and me then
applauding you toward the current simplicity of the world
affairs... or at least to the psychiatric parlour...
    because... last time i heard... only anti-psychiatrists
bothered to read philosophy books... actual psychiatirsts
either read pharmacology booktlets for the poor...
    and those sofa-session monologues stemming from Freud
of rich under-****** or over-zelous in dreaming rich kids.

prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v

look at me... i'm bewildered!
i don't understand
why the plagiarist hegel
over-arches kant...
wasn't kant, in his critique
able to show the thesis / anti-thesis
dynamic?
    am i dreaming?!
wait, wait a minute...
    antinomy of pure reason,
page 123...
antinomy? conflict,
of transcendental ideas...
    and there are three conflicts
(antinomies)...
   what the hell has hegel
got to do with kant?!
   kant invented the thesis-antithesis
dichotomy that's
a noun on par, second,
in the framework of synthesis...
you know...
  i sometimes wish karl marx
read ol' boring kant
than opportunist hegel...
the latter who plagiarised
the former...
              ******... i like that word,
****** reading,
         yep, he's a hard reading,
but marx should have begun
with kant rather than hegel...
to me hegel is a saboteur
of kantian "idealism"...
   and marx his sucessor...
    careful though,
   be careful with regards to how
you orientate yourself
in the german labyrinth,
so that you fear you paving the way
toward the march / german
unity...
              i warn you...
      i think of history,
should marx have read kant
rather than hegel...
   for the notion of the thesis
and the antithesis begins with kant...
and it ends there,
i despise nietzsche for calling
kant an idiot...
             i'm assured
by the idea that: nietzsche wasn't
too quick in the arithmetic of words
styled to kamikaze-style sentences
of quickened approach... and
they cite this saboteur-charlatan
that's hegel according to marx,
that they forgot the genesis in kant...
read! read the text!
              but beware agitating
the wasps' nest in the german labyrinth
of thought...
     these people are really midgets
in terms of thought translated into
a question of the moral ought, i.e.:
making a choice without forgetting
having a thought.