Members
Poems
Marshal Gebbie
Feb 2015
Some years ago, there was a Mensa convention in San Francisco .
Mensa, as you know, is a national organization for people who have an IQ of 140 or higher.
Several of the Mensa members went out for lunch at a local cafe. When they sat down, one of them discovered that their salt shaker contained pepper, and their pepper shaker was full of salt. How could they swap the contents of the two bottles woithout spilling any, and using only the implements at hand? Clearly -- this was a job for Mensa minds.
The group debated the problem and presented ideas and finally, came up with a brilliant solution involving a napkin, a straw, and an empty saucer.
They called the waitress over, ready to dazzle here with their solution.
"Ma'am," they said, "we couldn't help but notice that the pepper shaker contains salt and the salt shaker -- "
But before they could finish,..........
the waitress interrupted. "Oh -- sorry about that."
She leaned over the table, unscrewed the caps of both bottles and switched them.
The was dead silence at the Mensa table.
Mensa, as you know, is a national organization for people who have an IQ of 140 or higher.
Several of the Mensa members went out for lunch at a local cafe. When they sat down, one of them discovered that their salt shaker contained pepper, and their pepper shaker was full of salt. How could they swap the contents of the two bottles woithout spilling any, and using only the implements at hand? Clearly -- this was a job for Mensa minds.
The group debated the problem and presented ideas and finally, came up with a brilliant solution involving a napkin, a straw, and an empty saucer.
They called the waitress over, ready to dazzle here with their solution.
"Ma'am," they said, "we couldn't help but notice that the pepper shaker contains salt and the salt shaker -- "
But before they could finish,..........
the waitress interrupted. "Oh -- sorry about that."
She leaned over the table, unscrewed the caps of both bottles and switched them.
The was dead silence at the Mensa table.
Related to me with deadpanned humour by my irrepressible old Maori boxing coach.
M.
M.
Mateuš Conrad
Nov 2016
could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.
ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
about, it's just a John Bishop
Scouser type of beating.
ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
- we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
no i'm about to sell my first copy -
i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
or why you never take l.s.d.
question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
- or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
it was truly a devolution via brass -
you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
far far away... well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
i love that: y'all -
it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
originally
he had
another thought he wished to take
but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.
interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...
and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
p.s. as to be ever written!
thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!
the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
they begin with memory -
it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.
or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh
ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
about, it's just a John Bishop
Scouser type of beating.
ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
- we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
no i'm about to sell my first copy -
i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
or why you never take l.s.d.
question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
- or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
it was truly a devolution via brass -
you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
far far away... well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
i love that: y'all -
it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
originally
he had
another thought he wished to take
but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.
interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...
and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
p.s. as to be ever written!
thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!
the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
they begin with memory -
it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.
or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh
Ethan Apr 2014
The Mensa and the Model
Ethan
Apr 2014
This emptiness i can't feed
through these people i too easily ****
i hope i'm wrong
but i know i'm not
here in the vessel
i rot
wasting my mind
wasting my time
waiting, no rhyme
everything i try
every time i die
nothing new
one didn't work
neither did two
both were perfect
but i'm insane
i try to hard
for them
i'd always be perfect
but no one wants that
i'm cold
calculated
doing what's smart
not what's caring
but i'll always share
my everything
i'm not happy
somewhere between
mensa and model
i look for a new her
if someone understood
that...would
through these people i too easily ****
i hope i'm wrong
but i know i'm not
here in the vessel
i rot
wasting my mind
wasting my time
waiting, no rhyme
everything i try
every time i die
nothing new
one didn't work
neither did two
both were perfect
but i'm insane
i try to hard
for them
i'd always be perfect
but no one wants that
i'm cold
calculated
doing what's smart
not what's caring
but i'll always share
my everything
i'm not happy
somewhere between
mensa and model
i look for a new her
if someone understood
that...would