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Hmmmm... I guess if you read my poetry you'll know more about me than I would have told you myself. One hint though, I am …
F
Omaha
i push things out through my mouth i get refilled through my ears
Poems
Paul Verlaine Jun 2017
L'impénitence finale
À Catulle Mendès
La petite marquise Osine est toute belle,
Elle pourrait aller grossir la ribambelle
Des folles de Watteau sous leur chapeau de fleurs
Et de soleil, mais comme on dit, elle aime ailleurs
Parisienne en tout, spirituelle et bonne
Et mauvaise à ne rien redouter de personne,
Avec cet air mi-faux qui fait que l'on vous croit,
C'est un ange fait pour le monde qu'elle voit,
Un ange blond, et même on dit qu'il a des ailes.
Vingt soupirants, brûlés du feu des meilleurs zèles
Avaient en vain quêté leur main à ses seize ans,
Quand le pauvre marquis, quittant ses paysans
Comme il avait quitté son escadron, vint faire
Escale au Jockey ; vous connaissez son affaire
Avec la grosse Emma de qui - l'eussions-nous cru ?
Le bon garçon était absolument féru,
Son désespoir après le départ de la grue,
Le duel avec Gontran, c'est vieux comme la rue ;
Bref il vit la petite un jour dans un salon,
S'en éprit tout d'un coup comme un fou ; même l'on
Dit qu'il en oublia si bien son infidèle
Qu'on le voyait le jour d'ensuite avec Adèle.
Temps et mœurs ! La petite (on sait tout aux Oiseaux)
Connaissait le roman du cher, et jusques aux
Moindres chapitres : elle en conçut de l'estime.
Aussi quand le marquis offrit sa légitime
Et sa main contre sa menotte, elle dit : Oui,
Avec un franc parler d'allégresse inouï.
Les parents, voyant sans horreur ce mariage
(Le marquis était riche et pouvait passer sage)
Signèrent au contrat avec laisser-aller.
Elle qui voyait là quelqu'un à consoler
Ouït la messe dans une ferveur profonde.
Elle le consola deux ans. Deux ans du monde !
Mais tout passe !
Si bien qu'un jour qu'elle attendait
Un autre et que cet autre atrocement tardait,
De dépit la voilà soudain qui s'agenouille
Devant l'image d'une Vierge à la quenouille
Qui se trouvait là, dans cette chambre en garni,
Demandant à Marie, en un trouble infini,
Pardon de son péché si grand, - si cher encore
Bien qu'elle croie au fond du cœur qu'elle l'abhorre.
Comme elle relevait son front d'entre ses mains
Elle vit Jésus-Christ avec les traits humains
Et les habits qu'il a dans les tableaux d'église.
Sévère, il regardait tristement la marquise.
La vision flottait blanche dans un jour bleu
Dont les ondes voilant l'apparence du lieu,
Semblaient envelopper d'une atmosphère élue
Osine qui tremblait d'extase irrésolue
Et qui balbutiait des exclamations.
Des accords assoupis de harpes de Sions
Célestes descendaient et montaient par la chambre
Et des parfums d'encens, de cinnamome et d'ambre
Fluaient, et le parquet retentissait des pas
Mystérieux de pieds que l'on ne voyait pas,
Tandis qu'autour c'était, en cadences soyeuses,
Un grand frémissement d'ailes mystérieuses
La marquise restait à genoux, attendant,
Toute admiration peureuse, cependant.
Et le Sauveur parla :
« Ma fille, le temps passe,
Et ce n'est pas toujours le moment de la grâce.
Profitez de cette heure, ou c'en est fait de vous. »
La vision cessa.
Oui certes, il est doux
Le roman d'un premier amant. L'âme s'essaie,
C'est un jeune coureur à la première haie.
C'est si mignard qu'on croit à peine que c'est mal.
Quelque chose d'étonnamment matutinal.
On sort du mariage habitueux. C'est comme
Qui dirait la lueur aurorale de l'homme
Et les baisers parmi cette fraîche clarté
Sonnent comme des cris d'alouette en été,
Ô le premier amant ! Souvenez-vous, mesdames !
Vagissant et timide élancement des âmes
Vers le fruit défendu qu'un soupir révéla...
Mais le second amant d'une femme, voilà !
On a tout su. La faute est bien délibérée
Et c'est bien un nouvel état que l'on se crée,
Un autre mariage à soi-même avoué.
Plus de retour possible au foyer bafoué.
Le mari, débonnaire ou non, fait bonne garde
Et dissimule mal. Déjà rit et bavarde
Le monde hostile et qui sévirait au besoin.
Ah, que l'aise de l'autre intrigue se fait **** !
Mais aussi cette fois comme on vit ; comme on aime,
Tout le cœur est éclos en une fleur suprême.
Ah, c'est bon ! Et l'on jette à ce feu tout remords,
On ne vit que pour lui, tous autres soins sont morts.
On est à lui, on n'est qu'à lui, c'est pour la vie,
Ce sera pour après la vie, et l'on défie
Les lois humaines et divines, car on est
Folle de corps et d'âme, et l'on ne reconnaît
Plus rien, et l'on ne sait plus rien, sinon qu'on l'aime !
Or cet amant était justement le deuxième
De la marquise, ce qui fait qu'un jour après,
- Ô sans malice et presque avec quelques regrets -
Elle le revoyait pour le revoir encore.
Quant au miracle, comme une odeur s'évapore,
Elle n'y pensa plus bientôt que vaguement.
Un matin, elle était dans son jardin charmant,
Un matin de printemps, un jardin de plaisance.
Les fleurs vraiment semblaient saluer sa présence,
Et frémissaient au vent léger, et s'inclinaient
Et les feuillages, verts tendrement, lui donnaient
L'aubade d'un timide et délicat ramage
Et les petits oiseaux, volant à son passage,
Pépiaient à plaisir dans l'air tout embaumé
Des feuilles, des bourgeons et des gommes de mai.
Elle pensait à lui ; sa vue errait, distraite,
À travers l'ombre jeune et la pompe discrète
D'un grand rosier bercé d'un mouvement câlin,
Quand elle vit Jésus en vêtements de lin
Qui marchait, écartant les branches de l'arbuste
Et la couvait d'un long regard triste. Et le Juste
Pleurait. Et tout en un instant s'évanouit.
Elle se recueillait.
Soudain un petit bruit
Se fit. On lui portait en secret une lettre,
Une lettre de lui, qui lui marquait peut-être
Un rendez-vous.
Elle ne put la déchirer.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Marquis, pauvre marquis, qu'avez-vous à pleurer
Au chevet de ce lit de blanche mousseline ?
Elle est malade, bien malade.
« Sœur Aline,
A-t-elle un peu dormi ? »
- « Mal, monsieur le marquis. »
Et le marquis pleurait.
« Elle est ainsi depuis
Deux heures, somnolente et calme. Mais que dire
De la nuit ? Ah, monsieur le marquis, quel délire !
Elle vous appelait, vous demandait pardon
Sans cesse, encor, toujours, et tirait le cordon
De sa sonnette. »
Et le marquis frappait sa tête
De ses deux poings et, fou dans sa douleur muette
Marchait à grands pas sourds sur les tapis épais
(Dès qu'elle fut malade, elle n'eut pas de paix
Qu'elle n'eût avoué ses fautes au pauvre homme
Qui pardonna.) La sœur reprit pâle : « Elle eut comme
Un rêve, un rêve affreux. Elle voyait Jésus,
Terrible sur la nue et qui marchait dessus,
Un glaive dans la main droite, et de la main gauche
Qui ramait lentement comme une faux qui fauche,
Écartant sa prière, et passait furieux. »
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Un prêtre, saluant les assistants des yeux,
Entre.
Elle dort.
Ô ses paupières violettes !
Ô ses petites mains qui tremblent maigrelettes !
Ô tout son corps perdu dans les draps étouffants !
Regardez, elle meurt de la mort des enfants.
Et le prêtre anxieux, se penche à son oreille.
Elle s'agite un peu, la voilà qui s'éveille,
Elle voudrait parler, la voilà qui s'endort
Plus pâle.
Et le marquis : « Est-ce déjà la mort ? »
Et le docteur lui prend les deux mains, et sort vite.
On l'enterrait hier matin. Pauvre petite !
La petite marquise Osine est toute belle,
Elle pourrait aller grossir la ribambelle
Des folles de Watteau sous leur chapeau de fleurs
Et de soleil, mais comme on dit, elle aime ailleurs
Parisienne en tout, spirituelle et bonne
Et mauvaise à ne rien redouter de personne,
Avec cet air mi-faux qui fait que l'on vous croit,
C'est un ange fait pour le monde qu'elle voit,
Un ange blond, et même on dit qu'il a des ailes.
Vingt soupirants, brûlés du feu des meilleurs zèles
Avaient en vain quêté leur main à ses seize ans,
Quand le pauvre marquis, quittant ses paysans
Comme il avait quitté son escadron, vint faire
Escale au Jockey ; vous connaissez son affaire
Avec la grosse Emma de qui - l'eussions-nous cru ?
Le bon garçon était absolument féru,
Son désespoir après le départ de la grue,
Le duel avec Gontran, c'est vieux comme la rue ;
Bref il vit la petite un jour dans un salon,
S'en éprit tout d'un coup comme un fou ; même l'on
Dit qu'il en oublia si bien son infidèle
Qu'on le voyait le jour d'ensuite avec Adèle.
Temps et mœurs ! La petite (on sait tout aux Oiseaux)
Connaissait le roman du cher, et jusques aux
Moindres chapitres : elle en conçut de l'estime.
Aussi quand le marquis offrit sa légitime
Et sa main contre sa menotte, elle dit : Oui,
Avec un franc parler d'allégresse inouï.
Les parents, voyant sans horreur ce mariage
(Le marquis était riche et pouvait passer sage)
Signèrent au contrat avec laisser-aller.
Elle qui voyait là quelqu'un à consoler
Ouït la messe dans une ferveur profonde.
Elle le consola deux ans. Deux ans du monde !
Mais tout passe !
Si bien qu'un jour qu'elle attendait
Un autre et que cet autre atrocement tardait,
De dépit la voilà soudain qui s'agenouille
Devant l'image d'une Vierge à la quenouille
Qui se trouvait là, dans cette chambre en garni,
Demandant à Marie, en un trouble infini,
Pardon de son péché si grand, - si cher encore
Bien qu'elle croie au fond du cœur qu'elle l'abhorre.
Comme elle relevait son front d'entre ses mains
Elle vit Jésus-Christ avec les traits humains
Et les habits qu'il a dans les tableaux d'église.
Sévère, il regardait tristement la marquise.
La vision flottait blanche dans un jour bleu
Dont les ondes voilant l'apparence du lieu,
Semblaient envelopper d'une atmosphère élue
Osine qui tremblait d'extase irrésolue
Et qui balbutiait des exclamations.
Des accords assoupis de harpes de Sions
Célestes descendaient et montaient par la chambre
Et des parfums d'encens, de cinnamome et d'ambre
Fluaient, et le parquet retentissait des pas
Mystérieux de pieds que l'on ne voyait pas,
Tandis qu'autour c'était, en cadences soyeuses,
Un grand frémissement d'ailes mystérieuses
La marquise restait à genoux, attendant,
Toute admiration peureuse, cependant.
Et le Sauveur parla :
« Ma fille, le temps passe,
Et ce n'est pas toujours le moment de la grâce.
Profitez de cette heure, ou c'en est fait de vous. »
La vision cessa.
Oui certes, il est doux
Le roman d'un premier amant. L'âme s'essaie,
C'est un jeune coureur à la première haie.
C'est si mignard qu'on croit à peine que c'est mal.
Quelque chose d'étonnamment matutinal.
On sort du mariage habitueux. C'est comme
Qui dirait la lueur aurorale de l'homme
Et les baisers parmi cette fraîche clarté
Sonnent comme des cris d'alouette en été,
Ô le premier amant ! Souvenez-vous, mesdames !
Vagissant et timide élancement des âmes
Vers le fruit défendu qu'un soupir révéla...
Mais le second amant d'une femme, voilà !
On a tout su. La faute est bien délibérée
Et c'est bien un nouvel état que l'on se crée,
Un autre mariage à soi-même avoué.
Plus de retour possible au foyer bafoué.
Le mari, débonnaire ou non, fait bonne garde
Et dissimule mal. Déjà rit et bavarde
Le monde hostile et qui sévirait au besoin.
Ah, que l'aise de l'autre intrigue se fait **** !
Mais aussi cette fois comme on vit ; comme on aime,
Tout le cœur est éclos en une fleur suprême.
Ah, c'est bon ! Et l'on jette à ce feu tout remords,
On ne vit que pour lui, tous autres soins sont morts.
On est à lui, on n'est qu'à lui, c'est pour la vie,
Ce sera pour après la vie, et l'on défie
Les lois humaines et divines, car on est
Folle de corps et d'âme, et l'on ne reconnaît
Plus rien, et l'on ne sait plus rien, sinon qu'on l'aime !
Or cet amant était justement le deuxième
De la marquise, ce qui fait qu'un jour après,
- Ô sans malice et presque avec quelques regrets -
Elle le revoyait pour le revoir encore.
Quant au miracle, comme une odeur s'évapore,
Elle n'y pensa plus bientôt que vaguement.
Un matin, elle était dans son jardin charmant,
Un matin de printemps, un jardin de plaisance.
Les fleurs vraiment semblaient saluer sa présence,
Et frémissaient au vent léger, et s'inclinaient
Et les feuillages, verts tendrement, lui donnaient
L'aubade d'un timide et délicat ramage
Et les petits oiseaux, volant à son passage,
Pépiaient à plaisir dans l'air tout embaumé
Des feuilles, des bourgeons et des gommes de mai.
Elle pensait à lui ; sa vue errait, distraite,
À travers l'ombre jeune et la pompe discrète
D'un grand rosier bercé d'un mouvement câlin,
Quand elle vit Jésus en vêtements de lin
Qui marchait, écartant les branches de l'arbuste
Et la couvait d'un long regard triste. Et le Juste
Pleurait. Et tout en un instant s'évanouit.
Elle se recueillait.
Soudain un petit bruit
Se fit. On lui portait en secret une lettre,
Une lettre de lui, qui lui marquait peut-être
Un rendez-vous.
Elle ne put la déchirer.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Marquis, pauvre marquis, qu'avez-vous à pleurer
Au chevet de ce lit de blanche mousseline ?
Elle est malade, bien malade.
« Sœur Aline,
A-t-elle un peu dormi ? »
- « Mal, monsieur le marquis. »
Et le marquis pleurait.
« Elle est ainsi depuis
Deux heures, somnolente et calme. Mais que dire
De la nuit ? Ah, monsieur le marquis, quel délire !
Elle vous appelait, vous demandait pardon
Sans cesse, encor, toujours, et tirait le cordon
De sa sonnette. »
Et le marquis frappait sa tête
De ses deux poings et, fou dans sa douleur muette
Marchait à grands pas sourds sur les tapis épais
(Dès qu'elle fut malade, elle n'eut pas de paix
Qu'elle n'eût avoué ses fautes au pauvre homme
Qui pardonna.) La sœur reprit pâle : « Elle eut comme
Un rêve, un rêve affreux. Elle voyait Jésus,
Terrible sur la nue et qui marchait dessus,
Un glaive dans la main droite, et de la main gauche
Qui ramait lentement comme une faux qui fauche,
Écartant sa prière, et passait furieux. »
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Un prêtre, saluant les assistants des yeux,
Entre.
Elle dort.
Ô ses paupières violettes !
Ô ses petites mains qui tremblent maigrelettes !
Ô tout son corps perdu dans les draps étouffants !
Regardez, elle meurt de la mort des enfants.
Et le prêtre anxieux, se penche à son oreille.
Elle s'agite un peu, la voilà qui s'éveille,
Elle voudrait parler, la voilà qui s'endort
Plus pâle.
Et le marquis : « Est-ce déjà la mort ? »
Et le docteur lui prend les deux mains, et sort vite.
On l'enterrait hier matin. Pauvre petite !
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
in the news today
Mateuš Conrad
Apr 2019
pre-scriptum:
no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:
(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
"as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...
i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...
och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
a za to z sercem jelenia...
oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
nonetheless, with a stag's heart...
again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
i start to lose the plot...
my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
i'm still a music *****...
women don't like music junkies...
and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
bob dylan saved me...
but not for long...
women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
fuckoffski!
and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
but the petty arguments...
the attention to detail...
god... anniversaries?
i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
voluntary celibacy...
a **** here and there...
but no... it's not for me...
i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
the "expected" life...
the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
a list of expectations...
social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
i'm practially a monk...
why?
you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?
.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******... never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!
well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
because?
two year ago,
a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
so the government will come
in and regulate,
come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
while the parents do not
implement internet safety
for their children,
no block filters...
like blocking pornographic
sites,
so the infiltration came
from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
what about the *******
who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
well of course:
better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
i don't know why...
but it just is...
surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
em...
is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
**** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
none of them saved on a personal
drive...
why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
"branching out"...
i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
it was either this,
or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
because... it will all become
"too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
and there's a u.k.
(probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
a sly variation of hope...
it's also a certainty imbued
with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /
a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
the bride and groom
decided they were sick,
weak...
they did look weak...
death stared back at me,
what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
do i believe in god?
well... tell me...
what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
the heartbeat / 1,
the liver's function(s) / 1...
the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
i sometimes wonder:
i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
wattpad... what is it?
teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
(mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
since i never saw them again...
unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
artwork by aubrey beardsley:
'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
(the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today? wattpad.com,
2015... the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
hallopoesia.com
sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
and just my luck...
leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
i still have my account!
and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
eh?
as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
pretend to be dead...
i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
i can finally spread the "love"!
i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
marquis de sade...
i knew herr zensor was
coming... but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
well...
but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
if they really want to ban me a third
time...
i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.
p.s.
you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...
hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?
mind you... eh...
you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
you sure you're not
a necromancer?
it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
"compensations" with the living...
when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
like that other quote beside
hegel: the terrible...
has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
that has already happened...
awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
blood-thirty,
like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
(the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
soaked in beaten eggs)...
you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
i'm a necromancer...
you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
**** above a kiss...
well... "yeah"... in reality?
i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
and a pagoda...
don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.
p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
"conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
to be so... concerned with lineage...
you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
etc.
no polyglot would experience this sort of "paradox", it's not even a paradox of a "paradox" off a 'paradox', bilingualism has its methodology, as Kant could explain, extracting his methodology off the page into a meticulous day-to-day activity... the sage / if not the clock of Königsberg... i can imagine this obsessive-compulsive mini-rituals that would always escape the throng on a Sunday... the Sunday eucharist wasn't enough for the man, there were so many rituals to take care of, having famously not married, while Kierkegaard having: infamlusly not married... i appreciate their strategy... reading them while also reading Nietzsche, these two gentlemen, by comparison, if not in work, certainly in life gravitate above the popularity of Nietzsche... why? Nietzsche appears as an incel... fan boy, are you? *******... but you need some sort of structure if you're not going to marry... Kant found his daily routine an eternal mass... so many routine daily tasks seemingly mundane to some, can enlarge themselves to become out of proportion pillars of preserving sanity in face of standing before god and a post-life scenario... hell is not so much a place of suffering... i can tell you of the most "mild" form of suffering... an extrovert becoming drunk... constant talking, lack of purpose as in: lack of direction culminating in: lack of concentration, pandemonium is the heaven of a flickering light for a moth... again... this always bewilders me... why did Sisyphus have to drag the stone up the hill? was there some overlooking demon with a whip looking over him? couldn't he just... sit, and concentrate on the stone, create pleasure, from thinking? is that really so odd... i suppose so... given the grand h'american export of the freedom of speech... few people will find pleasure in thinking... Kierkegaard, which Nietzsche didn't read... said: why do people concern themselves with the freedom to speak, when they already possess a freedom to think? is this, me speaking, because it's the internet and it's a public space... surely i don't have an eloquent speech, i speak too quickly, i sometimes mumble, this is an extension of thinking, it's not an invitation to speak... rhetoric is an art designated for people who joked about philosophy and took sophistry seriously... i don't like Nietzsche... i still think of the man as the esteemed bachelor... apparently being freed from women allowed him to write his Critique with the sort of clarity that comes, in a cascading form, at the end, in the methodology of transcendence... which reads, like a page-turner tabloid narrative... once the formalities / difficulties are established... i'm no polyglot though, but i do succumb to some eccentricities... as any entrenched bilingual might... notably linguistics... how there are no diacritical markers in english, but there are: in other latin script based languages of continent europe... how i've never heard of dyslexia outside of the realm of spoken english... how orthography does not exist in the english language, which creates all these silly english questions of: what is reality, what is perception... with no orthography: metaphysics runs rampant... and "another" thing... i really can't read a philosophy book in english, i always have to revert back to my mother tongue, to Polish... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i looked at Plato once in english... the aesthetic is lost on me... but the Irish know of the Slavic aesthetic when it comes to dialogue, i.e.:
(a) the english standard for dialogue weaved into a narrative -
"i want this," she said,
"as i want that," he said...
(b) the slavic standard for dialogue weaved into
a narrative...
- so?
- what?
- will we try to speak without
the reiteration of who said what?
- we could.
- no, we should.
smoother... James Joyce noted this,
casual - no point adding descrptions of
how the puppet-master lost power
over his puppets with " " ditto markers of
dialouge of a: he, he really did say...
no, not he, the narrator...
i simply cannot read the genre of philosophy in english, too much easy access points of pop culture with that umbrella overreach... matrix, memes, darwinism, blah blah... too much focus on images and very little focus on words, esp. etymology, that other component of history that focuses on: a universal application of words, beside status king, or status pauper... both the word bread can succumb to the king's tongue, as to the pauper's... but with an origin story? anything beside **** similis, the monkey, will do me just fine... then again... there's no one strand of monkey to begin with... a bit like looking up your own *** for too long, you decide that there's a coherent, "bigger picture" and it begins with chimp- and ends with -rilla... doesn't anyone else just tire of looking up a monkey *** to peddlestool the importance of darwinism for so long? i mean... at least chemistry is a playground among the science... there's no worry for a beginning... there's only play... no... i can't read a philosophy book in english... i have to read it in Polish... which is also a... january, february, march, april, may, june, july, august, september, october, novermber, december... you'd think i'd be able to recite you the months in my mother tongue... styczeń, luty, marzec, kwiecień, maj, czerwiec, listopad, grudzień... english alphabet? a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, m, n, l, o, p, q, r, s, t, u, v... **** gets scrambled... pointless rubrics... give me the practical! - i've just picked up a copy of Plato's republic... straight away i know that i'm finding my gensus in Plato rather than Aristotle...
och ty, pijaku z psim pyskiem,
a za to z sercem jelenia...
oh you, drunkard with a dog's snout,
nonetheless, with a stag's heart...
again, Nietzsche: Kant is an idiot, Plato is boring...
perhaps in German, for a German,
looking for Germany while roaming parts of Italy...
well... Plato, really seems appealing in
high slavic (western), the conversations breed
a sense of clarity, about fog, about darkness,
or any akin metaphor to boot...
between Nietzsche's maxims,
i'll take la Rochefoucauld succinct observations
before i succumb to pop-nietzsche modern
cult meme fucklords...
Roger Moore... prime example
of a bachelor, Kant, the same, Kierkegaard...
as for myself? if i married?
would i still have the same sort of access to new
music, that i currently enjoy?
for god's sake... i have to fall asleep while
listening to music, if i spend a day without
at least 5 hours of music on the headphones
i start to lose the plot...
my drinking is merely a side-note...
a p.s., given that now i'm a reformed drinker?
having cut my dosage in half...
i'm still a music *****...
women don't like music junkies...
and when my ex- started reading me
a qustionnaire from a russian cosmopolitan
magazine on the train to moscow from
st. petersburg... i thought i was going to shoot
myself in the head...
perfect girlfriend this,
perfect girlfriend that...
bob dylan saved me...
but not for long...
women aren't feline...
at least with a cat you can ignore it...
he's pretending to be a solipsist and
you pretend to be: caring...
food on the table,
a clean litter tray... besides that?
fuckoffski!
and i write this from a perspective of endearment,
nothing beats the zenith moments in a hetrosexual
relationship... the odd date...
talking impromptu... making food...
***, ***... ***... *** *** ***... ***... ***...
but the petty arguments...
the attention to detail...
god... anniversaries?
i don't even celebrate my own birthday!
i fake celebrating christian holidays...
today is today, tomorrow:
that's tomorrow's concern...
o.k. england winning the cricket world cup...
but that's a celebration with a calendar!
it's not regulated by hormones and
the impossibility for nostalgia...
i tried the relationship,
i tried the ***...
i had to visit a brothel for
the anaesthetic with regards to the past...
i needed to visit the brothel to also visit
the butchers...
i needed to become meat,
to **** meat... and stop concerning myself over looks:
they only brought me trouble...
like i was walking with a "telepathic"
c.c.t.v. crow on my shoulder...
so i put on the weight i lost...
and... at that point? it was liberating...
mind you... if you want to lose weight?
bicycle and swimming... no gym...
fruit for your last meal during the day...
eat anything you want...
but losing weight? and all that bulimia,
classical roman bulimia:
training the oesophagus with first *******
into the mouth... then with no fingers
down the mouth?
beauty... is not worth the trouble
when you really tempt yourself with the expansive
temporal canvas...
21 was my peak... after that...
voluntary celibacy...
a **** here and there...
but no... it's not for me...
i guess i looked up to the right sort
of men... with regards to staying a bachelor...
to be highly invested in something,
like Kant in a transcendent methodology...
like Kierkegaard invested in the arts...
like Nietzsche invested in waiting for
the fruition of his prophesies...
you have to be born to want to live
the simple happy life...
the "expected" life...
the whole Hiob motto of: once taken,
can be regained blah blah...
it needs to have trans-generational
breeding involved...
a list of expectations...
social-pressures and for that matter:
intrinsic socially-cohesive-stratification...
i'm a ****** in England...
and... that puts as much social pressure
on me as... a chihuaha barking does
to an Alsatian's yawn... that's the stereotype...
the smalls dogs bark... the big dogs bite...
oh sure, when i visit my grandparents
back "home"... the older generation put
the pressure questions to the test:
even women from Warsaw...
so where's your girlfriend?
to the old folk i reply: well i can't exactly force
a woman to be with me...
to the women of Warsaw?
i'm practially a monk...
why?
you don't really want to be aged 21...
forced with a scenario of:
happily dating, presumably reciprocrating trust
with regards to contraception,
being forced to reply to the scenario:
i think i'm pregnant... my my...
and we were only 6 months apart after
the break-up, living in two different cities...
em...
on a lighter note...
what's the most fun you can have in Kenya?
sitting on the balcony, in the shade...
feeding rascal macaques anything from nuts...
to bags of sugar... you, two macaque monkeys,
one balcony... the indian ocean frothing beyond...
it doesn't require a genius to figure out
what's worth cherishing without having
to feel obliged to the whole of humanity for...
offspring - many already figured this out before me:
you learn to give birth to your self (reflective,
and yes, not yourself - the reflexive)...
which brings death to having to stand on its head...
... isn't Sisyphus the son of Atlas?
couldn't Sisyphus just sit beside the stone
and... well yeah: think up the philosopher?
.em... looking back at the british empire, and the loud-mouth former colonial people... by god, i've never seen such leeches, i've never seen a people, so proud of being colonialißed! what's there to be proud of?! looks like in a post-colonial world, these former colonial busy-bodies had to, had to: step up and move their markers for Aladdin being performed in the West End... *******... never in the history of the world, were post-colonial people endowed with so much pride, the whole m'ah bwee'dish *******... to counter herr zeppelinmann with the pakistani in the p.s. framework of the british empire... rotherham... ring a pakistani blue?! have a guitar on y'ah?! see... i don't like these former colonial states, with their people migrating to england, having their overlord say it now, say it clear bollocking... i don't mind a top hat, tux donning ******* giving me directions... but when a ****- does it?! sorry... i'm so sorry... will you please excuse me?! i just don't like *******, i don't like the sort of people who celebrate being colonial subjects, esp. after the whole post-colonial celebration of "libertion"... i don't like ****** / pakis who have to find their "past" by playing the cricket ball of, "the former" colony! i hate copper skinned ******* of ****- origins! former colonial raj-vizier... how can you breed these sort of people, who find pride in being under colonial power?! the **** didn't understand freedom, only understood it when being subject to its lack?! well... so much for english women... i guess they were only going to go for pakistani grooming gangs... drowning in the ganges... i have as much of jesus christ on the cross in me, as i have plenty and enough of pontius pilate's worth of soap to mind the next few years; never in my life would i have to witness the former colonißed to bribe their way, into an acceptance "speech" methodology... the ****- to fable the englishman for his, "tea"... no conquered people, no colonißed people should ever glorify their conquerers or colonißers... i guess the british achieved a double subversion... why do the ****- (stanis) still play cricket... i don't want to know... i'm new here... but... but... when a ****- attempts to displace a european from europe? that's my breaking point... i don't like being displaced from europe... the next ****- that will? well... the obvious target, a northern english teenager girl readied for grooming. i said! next ****- that tries to displace an european from europe... well... i guess.. given the power of the current politicians... nothing! ha ha!
well, with the e.u. article x, y and z...
herr zensor just flew over
London and dropped a bomb
from his zeppelin,
because?
two year ago,
a teenager, girl, aged 13,
downloaded some materials
regarding self-harm...
now the english government
is implicating regulations,
it will regulate social media usage,
mind you: ***** 'arry was pushing
the agenda all along...
never mind the competent users...
just tackle the problem
with the addicts...
oh look: no ******, no alcohol...
ms. amber: i'm sorry, we've failed,
we punched "the agenda"
of a blank canvas too far,
we're going to have to double down,
for a while, so we can just
survive and have this sort
of a punching-bag of a blank
canvas readied for us...
so the government will come
in and regulate,
come on, 13 years old,
but the rising queer epidemic of
premature depression in the youth?
while the parents do not
implement internet safety
for their children,
no block filters...
like blocking pornographic
sites,
so the infiltration came
from within the supposed
safety-net sites?
****... i was exposed to
rotten.com by word of mouth at
school...
just when the internet
launched with that whole
dial-up modem,
chris rock in lethal weapon
moment talking about old telephones...
and people bemoaned e.u.
articles...
there have to be consequences...
people should / companies
should be taken into account...
what about the *******
who sold me chemically enhanced
marijuana?
well of course:
better a guilty man walk free,
than an innocent man become imprisoned...
that logic is still kinda flimsy
for me...
i don't know why...
but it just is...
surely there are parental filters
for what a child can and cannot see
on the internet...
when i was first exposed
to horse on woman *******?
em...
is there anything honest to think
about, at this point?
maybe that's why i decided
to "ghost" around 200 fwends on fb.,
i figured...
**** this pseudo-voyeurism
of what people want me to see...
i've invested a decent amount of years
and settled for the 13K poem / doodle count...
and some pictures...
none of them saved on a personal
drive...
why would i stash the content,
hide it, when i want people to peruse...
'it's always dark before the dawn',
sorry, i don't know how much
of a ****-******* optimist i have to be...
before a stoic cynicism grinds me
to a halt of:
"branching out"...
i came here for the punching bag
of a blank canvas...
i never came for the fake
sycophancy or some count of numbers...
i came here, for an outlet...
it was either this,
or a punching bag...
and you almost sense that this whole
farce of "national sovereignty"
is about to be dropped into the *******
and flushed...
because... it will all become
"too inconvenient"...
oh they'll stall... until the european elections
take place...
and there's a u.k.
(probably the only time
where an N does't come between
vowels)...
they're wriggling themselves
out... public: 1 vote...
parliament: i've lost count...
it's not even akin to rats jumping ****,
more like a maggot **** in a pit...
that's what a cynic is:
a realist...
if i'm wrong, i'm wrong...
but...
on several occassions
i haven't been wrong...
and you just have to watch for
that glee in the eyes of channel 4 journalist
anchors...
i know that glee in the eyes...
it's a glee of hope...
a sly variation of hope...
it's also a certainty imbued
with a certainity-expectation;
thank god i didn't use the video medium...
no passive watchers,
at least with writing...
certain sacrifices have to be made. / / / / / / / / / /
/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / /
a "p.s.": well of course i'm not happy
with the news coming from today,
mind you: ever spot a woodland pigeon?
god, aren't they plump?
bloated *******,
they always seem well fed by the forest...
a pair nested in a tree in my garden,
only yesterday, i picked up two
almost translucent offspring of theirs,
thrown out of the nest,
the bride and groom
decided they were sick,
weak...
they did look weak...
death stared back at me,
what once was animate,
lying there, among the stones, inanimate...
what a strange sight...
do i believe in god?
well... tell me...
what is the driving force that coordinates
hearbeats, the functions of the stomach,
intestines, liver, kidney and lungs?
the categorical imperative split of the brain:
thinking, memory, imagination?
the bank of pathologies?
tell me, what is the universal
1: nth term functions of the brain / 1 (divided
by 1),
the heartbeat / 1,
the liver's function(s) / 1...
the stomach's function / 1...
the pancreatic function / 1...
i sometimes wonder:
i own bones only in light of the thin
skinned extentsions associated with
fingers and tooes...
sometimes this sort of thinking helps...
to "fake ignorance",
in order to rediscover awe...
as if a genesis story...
to be the first...
you never actually know what you will find...
sometimes there's no point being caged
in all the advancements of knowledge,
of certainity we are presented with
on the secular altar,
****! i can't even begin to comprehend
how i managed to clamour out from
beneath the eisenvorhang...
a brief interlude... and straight back under
the siliziumvorhang...
i guess i need to sleep the better dues
to pass this day...
it was expected though,
i was, after all... sending out an S.O.S.,
wattpad... what is it?
teens wet silly with poetry
associated with no messy love,
mostly girls...
YA novelties and novellas...
side projects...
again: vampires, warewolves,
zombies, blah blah: yawn a year later...
teen girls: sensitive as
daffodils, but as soon as a presence
comes along: little scheming modliszkas
(mantises) - since daddy would not
approve...
i discovered marquis de sade
in my teens: thank **** that i did...
i wished for an exoskeleton,
i moved past it, into lizard skin,
until my skin started resembling
an oyster shell hardness...
you snooze, you loße...
i only saw the trilogy once,
in the waterstones of Greenwich Village
in London, when i was doing some roofing
for a housing project...
i only saw the trilogy once...
i only bought Joris-Karl Huysmans's
Là-Bas once... i should have bought
the two other books...
since i never saw them again...
unlucky me... having succumbed to the sterotype
of the magpie stealing silver spoons...
the cover...
artwork by aubrey beardsley:
'of neophyte and how the black art
was revealed to him by the fiend Asomuel'
(the pall mall magazine, june 1893)...
on amazon.com you either get a chance
to purchase this book, or:
Against Nature (a rabours)...
but there's a trilogy behind Là-Bas...
zee fwench: sorry, and not sorry,
the english can be grand poets,
but when it comes to prose?
they're not even sniffing
the toes of the french...
what happened to woodland pigeon
coos today? wattpad.com,
2015... the same for me...
an outright ban... because some girl
decided to be offended by me cutting off
a conversation with her: wish her a good life...
and i really out so much effort into that page...
zip it shrimpy: cut off, little richard
on the guillotine... cut!
well... i was clued into
the world of 'olapoesía.com,
hallopoesia.com
sveikidzeja.com (lithuanian...
dzieje? happenings, events, in ******)...
and just my luck...
leave a harmless comment in an in-group,
in a hive?
how the nazis were not exactly
mongols, or the first christians who
burned down the library of alexandria,
when notre dame burned...
when the blitz of london...
and how st. paul's "miraculously" survived...
and i said: i'm pretty sure the people
in command said to the luftwaffe squadron
about to bomb london:
you drop a single bomb on st. paul's:
firing squad...
they were nazis: but sure as ****
they weren't the people of the siberian steppe!
so hellopoetry.com,
2019, suspension from may until december 2019...
but unlike wattpad...
i still have my account!
and guess who's digging trenches, right now?
poetfreak.com and minds.com are
step-overs...
why did i delete my 200+ fwends off of
facebook.com and reduced it to
3 random strangers?
eh?
as much as i abhor darwinism
poking its head through to give
every single existential explanation...
i have to side with darwinism on this point:
a defensive modus operandi...
lie low...
pretend to be dead...
i knew the censorship storm
was coming back in 2015...
and this current banning of woodland pigeon
coos banning?
i'm sort of happy...
but not for the sort of reasons stemming
from the ban...
i can finally spread the "love"!
i finally know what it feels like,
for someone who liked my work...
being cut off from my content...
frankly... it feels great!
i can finally entertain my perspective
with a pinch of empathy...
sympathy is already here:
since it happened to me back in 2015,
and in early 2019...
now for the 3rd time lucky
on the platforms i already mentioned...
but like this hindu woman said to me...
1st time is an honest mistake,
2nd time is a lesson in learning...
3rd time? there's nothing for you to learn...
and that's of course in reverse:
of me being banned.
after all...
if marquis de sade is still with us?!
marquis de sade...
i knew herr zensor was
coming... but i didn't exactly
expect to climb from under the iron curtain,
to be draped over with the silicon curtain...
and these people know they're taking away
our former playground,
our youth center,
well...
but at least i didn't make
passive content akin to a video...
if they really want to ban me a third
time...
i'm glad someone took the effort
to read my work...
saves them the time ageing toward granny
age, resorting to binging on harlequin
romance novels.
p.s.
you've actually caught me in my berserker
drinking mode... i'll just spew...
and spew as i must, i never expected
the "useful idiots" to comply to what my thinking
didn't prescribe them to do...
even hegel once pointed out:
something about 3D chess,
a thinking man, with pawns of willing
actors... i never liked hegel...
hegel has become too much
of a crucifix, a bookmark,
of what and where, "things" went wrong...
i hate bookmarked people...
kant isn't bookmarked...
all the slander that nietzsche offered him,
as some repetitive jargon booster,
with the sort of a bachelor lifestyle
he greatly admired: rooted in Königsberg...
****** worked like clockwork...
his predictability was the great deception...
forget shuffling ideas and whatever
like a northern semite...
weren't the vikings the semites
of the north? restless creatures,
constantly displaced? weren't they?
mind you... eh...
you know how many necromancers
actually exist?
you ever read a book by jean-paul sartre?
james joyce? stendhal? dumas?
sienkiewicz?
you sure you're not
a necromancer?
it's not an exactly
illustrious title to hold...
when reading the books
of the departed, aren't you invoking
their living presence, into the current storm
of affairs?
sure as **** it's not a spectacular "title"
to hold, is it?
to think: one is more likely
to cite the dead, having "risen" from
their grave, that one is to make
"compensations" with the living...
when journalism ****** politics...
and the sort of admired journalism,
akin to all the president's men...
died...
a slower death than the traversing
speed of a snail...
like that other quote beside
hegel: the terrible...
has already happened.
the holocaust, chernobyl...
that has already happened...
awaiting what could ever be
worse: is but akin to the sword of Democles...
it's hanging in the air,
blood-thirty,
like the talking heads of
the french aristocracy, once the guillotine
chop happens... gagging for "free speech"
in a basket...
what is mary antoinette just said:
let them have croissants?!
fat fake cake binges would...
with a snap of the fingers... be over...
still... the english crumpet...
tyson fury vs. manny pacquiao
(the obvious choice of crumpet,
and the croissant getting battered...
akin to a french toast,
soaked in beaten eggs)...
you read any book by a dead person,
you're a necromancer...
i'm a necromancer...
you're a necromancer...
the dead arrive at your head,
have a ******* with your thinking,
then leave,
you continue,
in your own right,
and in their right: of mutating their
original thought...
that lost ambition of narrative,
transcending any and all
moral 'oughts...
try me after an hour
spent with a ******* doing nothing
but kissing her:
just, because, "on a whim",
i forgot to trim my ***** hair...
stealing kisses from prostitutes
isn't exactly easy...
all that pretty woman dogma...
**** above a kiss...
well... "yeah"... in reality?
i'm thinking about three things
right now... growing a heard long enough
to reach my heart...
bonsai: in both the tree botanical form
and a feline form of a shrunken tiger
akin to a maine **** cat...
and a pagoda...
don't ask me why...
i'm good at su doku puzzles... mahjong...
really **** on the crossword puzzle scale...
hence? random words just enter my mind
and i need an ars poetica impromptu
to lodge them into.
p.p.s.
i already know what the inquiring man would
or could ever do with a child,
to inquire about his own development as
a child, to find the: dot dot dot the missing
answers, to see for himself as he developed
into an adult, or, worse, to project his own failings
onto the child, child genius tiger mums team
alpha-bravo... child prodigy gehennah...
it's almost a psychological fetish for some,
to bind oneself to the canvas of a child,
better off with a cat, or a dog if that's your
"thing"... at least you won't be hurting anyone...
worse still: the marquis de sade ******
scenario... i still have memories from when
i was 4 years old... Ganesha must be looking
over me: the stereotype? elephants' memory,
which is as long as its trunk...
"conundrum": if an adult male can fathom
his child: himself at the age of 4...
if he can fathom a metaphorical foetus,
why would he have to procreate,
to produce a d.n.a. mongrel to satiate his
curiosity further?
besides that... if society was once overtly
religious, moralistic...
today's society is overly-psychologised...
i hate psychological stereotypes,
everyone is this part-time hobby-psychologist...
i don't exactly require a biological
part-replica of myself to preserve at least
one thought with origin and end within
the confines of my self...
i'm not exactly prone to utter patriachal
proverbs that encompass whole ethnic groups...
maxims or categorical imperatives
cater for individuals...
not the masses...
i'd have to be a patriarch to utter proverbs as
a way to gather the brood of my own
sow and subsequent harvest...
to be so obscure,
to be so... concerned with lineage...
you have to be born with the facets
of necessarily ensuring that future generations
are to make the same mistakes...
that's why i would never trust western
neo-atheism... d.n.a. as the only future blah blah...
sure... if you can lodge a thought
into d.n.a. and receive the token of finding both
self and consciousness within such claustrophic automaton confines,
"somewhere down the line"...
much older generations would have told you...
that's in the fables, the mythos, the temporal crux
and crossroads... time doesn't give a donkey's *******
about your "rational", scientific materialism's worth
of continuum...
etc.