or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah
this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.

it usually starts with a canvas of white,
frowned upon,
but later, the canvas endears
     and makes anyone the flag-bearing
idiot to ensure that everyone: keeps marching,
    rather than procrastinating -
on and on and on...
    it's not out of defeatism -
                           regardless -
can you imagine Hamlet meeting Macbeth?
    i do, pretty much all the time,
that's why i am not: matrimonial.
    i can't think of having a woman and then
think of providing her a kettle, or
an ironing board...
                           'tis music, that gratifies the soul...
there's no: more more more! in music,
there's either eloquence... or silence...
such as the pleb-kindred musings
of someone who inherited a soul in
a different tongue, and the same inheritor,
dragging such fakery into the abyss...
on a navy pattern patent of St. Andrews:
Aphrodite sat and whispered -
that her heart stopped beating.
  punctuation marks, eye... worth a measure
unparalleled in man to ditto in
a millimetre, centimetre, kilometre...
and so forth...
but diacritical marks! a hot bagel conundrum!
are punctuation marks kindred of
diacritical marks?
to my suspicion, they are...
    Cow Gate... Edinburgh, where the filth
throngs in abandoned churches...
and everyone gesticulates: to a haggis
we'll just juggle... pardon pairing
ol' mctweed - we'll just juggle.
thankfully the anglicans didn't anticipate
anything having worth beyond a comma
with what went above a letter, rather than
in-between words;
    maybe the semicolon is a clue,
as to why it wasn't translated into
               diacritics? the Greeks are utilising
the "squared" version of punctuation...
why aren't you?
    borrowing from German i see...
let's take a word from German and hyphen!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
               what's the word?
  don't know... any skilled cobbler would
tell you: hoof! you cranky ol' *****!
and when did it matter to be "hateful" of women?
well... when someone mattered in saying:
that man desires to pass on his genes.
****! was i ever so vain as to claim a need
for passing my genes toward a chronology?
then again... what's the most important
logical compound that saturates and signifies
existentialism? etymology...
why? well... etymology is an incubator module...
it constricts the eyes to see what's
fervent in claiming building blocks...
the rest is bound to the neanderthal wall
called: Israel here... Palestine with balaclava
over there...
        you gonna count matchsticks with
a neanderthal before you create a campfire?
flint-stones away! bazooka that array
of fireworks! soundtrack provided by
Handel!
    so can i sop? Darwinism has exhausted
itself... but etymology hasn't...
we know that by proximity-resemblance
we turned to ape to shake, the narcissus...
and a thousand ape-**** tantrums later
we're mobilised reason...
         fair enough...
i still think ape is not worth a question
about concerning diapers...
how did the **** and bladder muscles
devolve, for the tongue to evolve...
my goodness!
       a trinity, holy! and glorified on
the groundwork of leeches succumbing to penance
and dieting!
        we gave away the prowess of
       a sturdy ****, to invite a strengthening
of the tongue, and subsequent amusement:
homosexuality... kangaroo fight-talk.
      but it got me going,
watching 20 useful idiots, and etymology.
some words aren't really bound to etymology,
as one can say: diacritical marks ensure
  that words (not sentences) are prescribed
ciphers of punctuational demand... or rhythm.
       the title? the diacritical mark used?
      Denmark in polish: Dania.
  England in polish: Anglia.
                  Germany in polish: Niemcy.
   Dane in polish: Duńczyk.
an englishman (anglo) in polish: anglik
  a german in polish: niemiec.
  orthography is orthodoxy, a strict authority,
orthography stresses when an when
diacritical marks ought to be used,
so it all looks pretty, and well dressed...
what's the synonym of orthography translated
into post-syllable punctuation?
       a dependency to create fakes...
we create these punctuation marks by faking
a breath... or keeping one under water...
   ... = just an ambiguity of trailing whereby
neither . nor , nor ; nor : really matter.
       they are though, indicators in how
one could write a whole book whereby
punctuation marks don't exist,
               or at least a chapter, like Joyce,
and everything would turn out
to be a drumroll crescendo of applause...
but then again, insert but one diacritical mark
into a body of Joyce's Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake...
and the whole thing disintegrates...
  just one diacritical mark on a letter,
and as sure as ****... the whole poncy
artifice of not using punctuation marks is
double exposure as to not have used
diacritical marks, and exposed the world
to Australian, American, Canadian,
New Zealander, Irvine Scōtish and Velsh...
      sure, what's the big deal?
the very subtle way of saying ethnic cleansing...
     no, not a leftist sorta: oh deary me
type of Mary Poppins...
      it's crass, because it's lazy...
and the fact that English creates so much
diacritical diversity, is because it doesn't use
it when encoding... which makes it perfect!
for emoticons and acronyms,
   and all manner of linguistic mayhem!
it was only about syllables mate... to be honest,
it only took a comma above a letter to
say whether it needed pinching a higher-tier
of a sound that originated in a ch sound...
never mind you eroding your memory
to say cheap vs. Chopin...
         and there goes bilbo baggins...
                             in a shopping trolley.

i usually need but one word to be given a prompt to write something with a frame of mind: ******! to the excess, bury that, take out a chivel and a hammer and start working in stone; one word, that's all it takes.

there's this youtube channel,
           i don't really care if it's pop or not -
not fake news,
   videos include things like:
a "feminist" woman went nuts on a couple after the man
kissed his girlfriend on the forehead...
      comments?
                  can anyone find someone a ******
and a ******?
             but this is beside the point,
it's about the same channel, and the video
        boom: spoiled muslim brats talk back to teachers,
state immediately makes them regret it...
   well, what i'm about to write is not
about the content relating to the focus subject matter...
so this guy is reading an article
and i'm starting to ***** up my ears...
           what is this guy reading?
                            i'm not saying he can't read, but what
he's reading has been so terribly written...
    and i thought poets had a hard time keeping
up punctuation standards - just a passing thought.
   apparently punctuation aesthetics is even harder
for journalist - can anyone agree with me that
they write like joyce at the ende of ulysses
  or copycat sartre doing the same in the third
volume of his famous trilogy - nota bene:
    i made a mistake here: he just abandons the paragraph,
thankfully keeping up with punctuation marks.
           similar for sure, but all too different to
make the above made statements.
       anyway... it's when there is a complete lack
of punctuation that really bothers me,
             it's a bit like telling someone:
                      to keep their breath underwater for 20 minutes,
or the translation from the analogy:
       write 20 words and guess, if people won't loose
their breath.
                                      not everyone can speak as quickly
as people doing adverts, when the small-print details
are read out: like shooting an ***.
                   which brings me to my major concern:
mmm, orthography: the upper-tier mode of punctuation:
no, not words: syllables, and how they indicate
   how to best eat up and then spew out a word.
from the title...
                 what i just wrote is an orthographic heresy,
esp. when you compare it to national conventions...
yep, it's the french twist, the acute e...
                 national standards wouldn't require it -
it would be written *zajęte... but like any object
language is gagging for a personal twist,
                               the acute e creates the concept
of three distinct syllables (incision points of the tongue
that's now a scalpel) -               za-ję-té;
       the counter argument? why not make the a acute
too?                   ah, the joy of particulars.
            back on the pronoun debate:
                        pronouns are not gender exclusive,
well that's obvious, but certain words outside this
grammatical category are, "oddly" enough,
gender inclusive (perhaps not in english,
   hence the apocalypse) -
        e.g.? the word above: zajęté -
                it means: it's occupied - which is a usual
reference to the toilet... someone's in the toilet
and a person knocks on the door, and he'll hear that
word 99 out 100 times... the 1 time he might hear
an alternative? spierdalaj! mam stoleć jak kamień!
(*******! i'm constripated) loosely.
   anyway: the rules of orthography are higher
learning punctuation...
                         but there's an alternative meaning
to the above word... and it actually involves
the feminine collective pronoun o'né -
                       in english there's this poverty of
gender neutrality in the collective sense:
the folklore of us vs. them...
                                         other language really do
have gender exclusiveness in the collective use of them...
o'né meaning: a group of females
                    and o'ni meaning: a group of males.
now the word zajęté? they're occupied -
they denoting females.
                                                 but it's not exactly
correct to, well, it is, if you're grunting like a gorilla...
   the expansion is:            zajęté są -
                       the +są
                                         indicates
  the meaning            they're -occupied
                                         and perhaps      a +pre-:
after all, i left the word open for a prefix of some sort;
                    is that usually hair and make-up?      
as already state, the rules of orthography can be broken
fo aesthetic reasons - or just the upper tier tool
for reasons of: perfecting punctuation intra-words,
rather than the already existing inter-words, punctuation.
               it's a shame that english doesn't have that:
standing ****-naked in the dark.

the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.*

there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
        this
love
                affair
claimed
                     to
be
          the
world...
                 i
rather
                         chisel
chequers
                         into
geometry
                     of
x4
              90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.

i really don't know how this is a connected,
but somehow it is,
you drink a few ms. ambers and
your mind just turns into an armchair,
you can unwind,
send the serpent of a tongue
into the garden and watch the show...

the original thought begins with an old
pet peeve...
   the argument...
   what was it?
  ah!
          why so much evil in the world,
and so little if any divine intervention...
can you imagine the sort of
hellish world that would be,
this, zoo?
                     why i believe in free will?
well... i don't believe in
divine intervention...
   however horrid, divine intervention
is "missing", i guess,
simply because we're supposed to
live out all our potential...
however that might be...
             the heavenly has to dance
with the macabre,
   the man with the woman,
      
an atypical argument by the sophists...
why doesn't god intervene
when bad things happen to good people?
do you want to look at
the zenith of being given freedom
to do either evil, or good...
and not be judged in the act of doing
so? you don't want this freedom,
because some magical entity doesn't
intervene?
   then you'd have a case for the non-existence
of free will...

****... did i really elevate myself
to such theological claims? guess so...
catholic education,
   i wasn't going to completely free from
the religious debate...
but that's beside the point...

the first Bukowski book i read,
i bought in Glasgow on one my psychotic
outings...
what matters most is how well
you walk through the fire...
i bought it because of but one poem...
it begins
   sometimes there's a crazy one in the street.
he lifts his feet carefully as he walks.
he ponder the mystery
of his own ****.
- and ends with
when you see a crazy one walking
in the street
honor him but
leave him alone.
    there's no luck like that luck
nothing so perfect in the world
let him walk untouched
remember that Christ was also insane..
while in between?
the line...
  the sane are too numerous...

but this ties in to another poem
(that one was called insanity)...
i sometimes think:
and my, my my,
what a fine way to exfoliate
the emphasis of punctuation,
but breaking lines so much...
point being, there's an upper tier
of punctuation,
primarily associated with the philosophy
genre...
and no... don't even try to read
philosophy book like you might
read a piece of journalism
from a newspaper...
  3 years to complete Kant's
critique of pure reason...
believe me, you can have your fictive
novel breezing through moment
when Kant writes out
  a schematic for transcendental
methodology... that bit is easy...
but you can't exactly read Kant
in 3 weeks, and subsequently spew
the content, or rather, plagiarize
it, hiding behind schematics,
and the obvious a priori / a posteriori
categorizations...
well... unless you're a college
philosophy professor,
and much akin to a news anchor ditto-head...
then yeah... plagiarism is the way
to go...

you know what elevated punctuation
looks like?
   you read a snippet of a philosophy
book, you'd be lucky to read a chapter
in a day...
   thinking... thinking is the over-arching
punctuation from your casual punctuation
already imbedded in the script...
thinking does the punctuation
when reading this genre of books...

but it dawned on me...
aphorism XXXII, pondering(s) VIII...
just one sentence...
  (i favor Heidegger?
because he favored poets)...
             poetißing and thinking enter
into an essentially transformed,
incalculable relation.
     when & how both become manifest
as da-sein with self-altering beings,
without publicly existing and "operating".

this immediately brought be back
to a Bukowski poem,
    the last poetry reading...
****... that's not it...
it's not even captain goodwine...
whatever the poem is...
it reads something akin to:

   you're an entertainer now...

that's what i steer away from,
  indicating that these words require
a stage presence,
an oratory valor...
   a performance,
     no public performance,
no freedom of speech *******...
    no speaker's corner manifesto...

            i already signed up to the ontological
motto of...
   cogitans qua esse per se...
thinking as being, being in itself...
the fact that i might leave my mind
and instead morph it into a waggling
tongue on a stage...
the fact that these words could
make public office,
and even be deemed as, "operational"...
not so much petrifies me...
but...
               disgruntles me...
   disincentivizes me...

  after all... i've noticed this...
once you start performing?
your repertoire suffers...
                   like all artists...
the moment you become confident with
your poetry via its public
reception,
   your creativity, your virility,
your fertility succumbing to new ideas,
drastically diminishes,
i've watch countless poetry
performers...
"poets"...
     with a repertoire of... 10 poems?
maybe even less...
   they start performing,
they stop exploring...
   when poetry is bound to the high
court of silence,
yet becomes visible phonetic encoding,
like... like I.T.,
signs, symbols emerge,
but there is no sound to be heard...
when no one is being entertained,
it expands...
        come to think of it...
Heidegger is quiet right...
     poetry has more to do with
philosophy than it has to do with
rhetoric, oration, sophistry,
   or Sophocles... to specify...
            poetry is about "speaking"
the truth...
   but who the hell, in public...
will speak themselves,
  speak the truth?
              let us leave that to the actors...
who... imagine themselves speaking
a truth, but certainly, not their truth,
the truth...

i want to be as close
to cogitans qua, esse as much as possible:
or rather...
cogitans qua loquitur,
   ergo loquitur qua cogitans,
qua, esse, qua est omni illud;
   (thinking as being talking,
therefore talking as being thinking,
as being, being, as being all that is).

p.s. well, yeah,
poet-thinker or poet-entertainer...
i don't need a freedom
to speak, i need a free to think,
and when i equate
thinking as speaking,
but i write,
rather than speak...
      see the comments sections
for more details...
if you "think" that this is
"talking".

I'm not a poet... just a blah-blah machine... intellectual stuttering does involve: searching for... the best choice of words: which do not necessarily add, toward a nomination of intellectual girth... delayed stature... a Pole, like Jew, is more himself in exile, than with a stubborn claim of "origin", or rather, past... a people who have truly understood themselves, among themselves, are the ones without a heritage of a land... which is an ultra-form of democracy: the people have already spoken... the people, having no obligation for: a people... have no necessity for: a land... the Germans are infants in this line of argument, given: der VOLK... 2nd nomadic participation of a secularised people are the Poles... least because the most vocal among the throng of Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians... grind teeth and say Crimea is not Ukrainian... where land and people are synonymous, in development.

it's sometimes hard to envision the democratised voice as not being either: too personally "impractical", or too "impersonally" practical; of which, politicians fall into the latter category... hence democrscy's shadow dictator, known as the status quo... mind you... even Sisyphus wasn't allocated the task of moving an unmoveable stone... that being said, i feel no need to bask in some intellectual tectonic shift observation, as this is, quite simply, the most unnecessary allocation of words that, needless to say, are said, without encompassing a motivation for any subsequent dynamo expression... lazily rolling a cigarette as precursor, and... a serpentine of rattling skeletons like playing a magician's, xylophone.

       a cold shot of 100ml of żołądkowa gorzka, followed by a rolled sweet Virginia tobacco cigarette... and a walk in a park... high spring scents... and that perfect companion readied for mirror and introversion: there are two, shadow at my most nihilistic, and "loneliness"... at my zenith, which is a gratitude, resembling the closest excavation of the truth bound to carpe diem: a sunset... was it ever going to be a day worth
completing?

     the conundrum of a stiff 5am wake up call,
   some would call it, a stretch of the imagination
to craft a pivot on, that might realise a continuum...
    closer to the heart an empty stomach,
than a claustrophobic mind...
    for once in my life I imagine people
who find thinking unbearable,
   trying to measure their ails in the ethereal,
dissecting the mind entwined with
the soul, or what some would argue is
the sigma of the mechanisation of
the body... nibbling at love from
the unconscious rhythm of the heart,
prodding at desynchronised patterns,
aches of loving bound to
a scaffold without an executioner:
other than oneself...
      perpetually seeking a biography
spanning but two weeks,
    of Nabokov's counter-lollipop-16
frizz in goosebumps...
     my... am I so sterile as to dream-up
a cougar on a leash?!
                 porcelain beauty
before the altar of a bull and
the infuriating moorish -sculinity...
porcelain youth,
    hybrid came the minotaur...
somehow archetypes are stiff
as the introduction of the god
Solipssus into the parthenon...

   un-*******-believable:
    Fraiser's concept of self
some greenish 'reesh 'nome -
  can we do away with the surd letters?
there aren't that many after all,
given the english are famously
tingue-numb vowel impersonating
consonant "grievers' wounds"...
        'ockney 'acking 'ockney,
and some dame off her frrrrr'ah
  ick'ing         'ockers!
       hmm.... súm!
     anything to get past
old riveriera, *** Sinatra...  
   *** martini super dry with
a dupper-uber wet:
    snout of a mole in the caverns of
finding false teeth and
dangling ding-**** virginity...

in a brothel 'ardly the cherry picker...
if you've never been...
   you've never been,
                  and s much can be said
about that...
       what do you call an Arabian
leech?
        a minor European with a taste
for Bulgarian seconds...
   but of course, that white....
  dress is because we all took to
replica monogamy of certain animals
seriously...
          but that weight of
a ring finger,
     has me itching for the down-trodden
being mawled in my mouth
to later constitute pet food,
   almost seems familiar,
but not quiet,
    came those seeking fire and
were vigour prone,
came the necromancer and
tried to raise the dead,
before the living priesthood
began talking with the lead tongue
of mammon...

     the ones who do not monetary
authenticity in the following coins:
a pence, a two pence, ten, twenty,
fifty... perhaps a quid...
     a snippet of royal metal...
   why wham! and not aha!
                               ?
too much, eureka connotations?
bewildering, like 500ml bottle of *****
in Poland, and 25ml "shots" in England...
**** first of puke blood prior to
taking a ****?
        dunno! hence the tycoon
bonanza!
   a bit like asking a pirate parrot
for a quote only by pulling out
one of its feathers... to get the...
    mechanical parts: geared up to
Cucklington.... and that is by no means
a place i can associate, either drunk,
or sober.

   how the hell do people even find
the diem or the motive behind it,
to craft the sort of "1 + 1 = 2"
   momentum, that becomes carpe diem?!
I heard some say (well, I thought it
through):
     dzień ma zbyt wield małych "trosk" - - - - -
(wyroków by zważać na innych...
       tzn. rz pirdole skolną
    ortografie bez autobiograficznego
  zaparcia na: NEIN!
  szambo szfedzkie...
     wiwat!
                 F to finał...
  nad machaną rę(n)ką...
   czyli, tyczy to:
       wodą... e e e! goń ty sam
zza gównem...
                 pierdolonym Soviet
ma tylko bjet...
     bjet... ubogi nasz pan...
       twinie!
                     maciuk jet harciuk!
ble na nowo (Ь)
     i ble na start (Ъ)
                       to mi... kurwa... nowina!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
   (I lost the sense of paragraph
and punctuation)
       the world already knows
of those who shoved carpe diem
down the ***** of public figures,
and lived out
the motto of: carpe tutti...

  better english with none,
than Russian with.... pseudo
impressionism of diacritical marks
beside the geometrical
revisionists of the blank canvas...
    thing...
        nice post-Greek lettering,
shame about
the lack of... finesse...
           when teasing the third tier
of lieracy,
   spelling, grammar ****,
     punctuation, breathing ****,
and diacritical distinction:
**** thappy toad zee gwafrifrifritee!
B7LVARK...

         there is nothing grammatical
about spelling...
             there is simply an aesthetic
involved...
          an "orthography"...
minus the "grammar" Nazis comes...
   the people that say:
   I really don't see why literacy is a
necessary benchmark of education
for the sort of jobs,
    that really require nothing more
than consumer supervision of:
the minimum literacy of
reading advertisements...
         what else?
    if people are sour about an aesthetic
of the written word...
without concern for punctuation...
let alone diacritical application...

PEOPLE ARE SEMI-LITERATE...
     if grammar "nazis" exist,
then people are semi-literate...
   they equate thinking with speaking...
and then file "complaints"...
   as to how their thinking
diverges from speaking
because of sophistry,
    and how talking doesn't integrate
itself back into thinking
because of philosophy.

filozofia: zapał, i - las ~ zapałek.

I've seen carpe diem exhausted
on the shoulders of the routines
of retirees;
    better the life akin to the thrills
of a doormouse,
  or an intellectual,
than some, mythical Taj Mahal of
orgams, reduced,
   into a pale lighthouse insignia
of violent purple, namely black,
masquerading white,
in a sober, en masse, funeral yawn
grey.

   this can only become a "difficult"
reading, something that always seems
to excavate: primo uno...
     and nein auf omega...
   not as an insult this... "thing"
concerning a semi-literate people,
just concerning the people:
who have been taught to read
in order to "read enough"...
   and how much of that is focused
on punctuation?

       tilde contra macron.
just an idea of fathoming pause,
and the comma, ' from above...
     e.g.
                  czas ~ na mosty
   sound slightly different to
    czas - na mosty...

       in no defence and with no concern
for a rubric of populism,
   the half-forgotten:
  neue-punctuation: Saß...
              given the Oxford compound
of the attempt to break (-) away from
using shrapnel...

hence by "arrogant" claim concerning
the literacy of the genral populace...
these come as minor observations with
minor impetus being guaranteed
of populist dent...
          flimsy ******* gay
oops-e-daisy patchwork Adams sort
of reminders to begin a tomorrow
as brimming on: "resolve"...
   and above all: impetus!

      the men should join the army...
Bratislava quarter limbed voters
and the crab eating fetish
reaching its penultimate lap...
for some reason,
I haven't been given the Darwinian
drive,
   somehow lost with
the remainder of my inheritance,
ha ha! slumped into
a canvas remindful of a:
cinemagoers' jerking off screenplay.

Why I Use Punctuation

I use punctuation
To help people read my verse onto
A resonating air;
Verses you can hear, i.e.
Aloud.
I’m proud to say that it has
Meter, rhyme,
Capitals that start the line
So the intention is fulfilled
And joined up with tradition.

A dot has meaning, comma too.
The semi-colon’s there to help you
Understand my thought processes.
When I want emphasis
Or that you accent,
Or I make a special statement,
I take care with punctuation,
For communication is the key
That underlies all poetry.

I might use exclamation points,
But never when it’s not important!
I use hyphens quite a lot
Because my lot lies in creating words,
The standard dictionary not enough.
And I do so want you to ‘get it’.  Get it?

Ah, dear punctuation!  
We could go through all the signs for pauses.
Unimportant technically,
They’re there to help you verbally.
A poem is to be said - not read.  
It’s all for you!

Why I Use Punctuation 6.27.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

.for two days a song was haunting me, seemingly unheard before, hidden in the deep recesses of my mind - unrelated by sound or memory... yet burning itself a presence regardless of my faculties... restless... i had to take a walk through bedfords park, havering country park and hainault forest country park - through sun and rain and two bottles of wine... twice seeing bambi and at times scuttling like a rat / misanthrope from the unusual traffic of these parts... to finally find peace... Borodin's prince igor!

there's just enough of gloating to have to muster...
before some grander detail has to take form:
i've been trying to capture the song
i want to listen to: but it's hardly a genesis
of an #A... or... whistling...
             kik kershaw's the riddle?
                         it's not - now that the hindsight ("spoiler")
is presented... it wasn't a bach aria:
or a batCH... well: who's the good surd?
'ere boy... vat's a good tau: ba'ch...
     the would be baчelor: j. s. baχ...
                            a juggling act of... less than...
what james joyce's finnegans' had to offer:
and more: the diacrcrcr-detail-of-antics...
       pop sort of reference points?
                   would they be... if they weren't...
for the per se reasons?
                  details are in the noumenon -
that... axe-folding: exfoliating lesser demand
for: **** in machina...
                                      the sort of details
that mind: the over-simplified woman...
and... the terrible complicated seance of...
when witches were detailed about...
their broomsticks were to be replaced with...
vacuum cleaners... terrible details of
"unnecessary" complications...
man of science man of technology man
of engineering and man of mathematics...
much later... the man of linguistics and...
the troop of ballet dancers... the choreographers
and the composers...    

i have taken enough days to gloat...
working an addiction in reverse...
a bank-roll filled with: plenty of nicotine...
and chem.,
           just waiting for the completed
day... an exercise in language:
and jack daniels bubblegum:
pale blue... blueberry images... gluttons
of colour: those pearls...
back to music... back to music...

   i wanted: rather than tried...
to fathom a pause in the construnction
of the res cogitans: with the usual
punctuation markers...
it's hardly a semi-colon...
          a full-stop... a comma or a full-stop...
hardly the detail of syllables
with diacritical markers...
    hidden letters...
rare in english that sheer and chisel
should come together...

i was thinking of a punctuation marker
to block of all narrative...
not a mere punctuation marker -
not some apostrophre...
                precursor to the possessive article:
's..              's...
even the russians do not have
what i already have...
         namely... дж...   джик is an approximation...
something is hidden within...
dzik itself (boar)... dzikość - wildening...
        a lost attribute for the civilized man...
   дж is... slightly off from the intended:
   дз - while ж (rz or ż-art - joke) -
              is... well... it appears...
but is a few letters apart...
       for example in: drzeć (tear - ter:
not tier - nor teer - backwards to forwards...
latin diphthong of æ) -
                        to tear paper into pieces...
   a tear ran down my cheek...
   to have read: rather than... to simply: read -
and... the reed - a stalk of a bulrush...
               the eastern lands...
                      synonyms and two best known
aliases: the birch tree and the bulrush wetlands...

this is the only best: approximation
of a song akin to Borodin's prince igor...
that can't be hummed... unless heard proper...
not from an abstract of memory...
conflation of adjectives?
abstract is more an adjective than a noun...
for this presentation...

      hiding letters like a good 'ebrew...
           surds detailed with apostrophes...
mollusk legs... exercised...
  a day later and the extreme cigarette high
is "missing": not found...
   щыт "vs" szczyt / ščyt -
                 no less congested than:
                                       dość! enough!

from the initial fascination of working
english into greek...
                     things had to translate themself
into "mordor" regions: Ruś, Krym, Tartar...
the Caucaus...
                        and the Turkic dwarf plebs
of mythical Constantinople... takeover...

- with thinking i wanted to capture:
res vanus: the empty thing...
       a synchronised: symphony of...
with what's being emptied...
while at the same time... with what's being
filled...
the years passed when pacing
with a heart of a turtle...
compared to... the heart of a mouse...
i call it: no known noun...
              to think is to have the heart
of a mouse... easily agitated...
no room for lost narratives...
      hell: better still... without haikus
and all those condoms of denial and...
delayed view-count murmurs...

          a case of: res cogitans:
a thing most animate...
a case for: res vanus:
   aa thing most inanimate...
         it's... a slingshot... a strain on purpose...
it's an incremental addition of purpose...
it's a punctuation mark akin
to: lost the linear...
up toward the copernican east we go...
and then back toward the flat-earth
project of... being able to read a map:
topography... without: the need for 3D:
3D the copernican: it's all very imaginary...
vector alpha:
points beta and gamma...
to find punctuation: a silence...
a bit like... finding gravity...
which isn't a sound... but if it was...
it would be... the sound of falling rain
on leaves or lead plating of a roof...
or... the sound of recycling...
of water... in a waterfall...

by now all the ******* readers have
disappeared... there's no more...
instagram haikus in the system...
there's the drone drill sequence...
a very distant humming sound...
perhaps an impromptu crescendo of
variations of a cat's meow...

absolute: total: шит... more like шитышит:
    шыт if i was... to be honest...
   sheets of paper... floating about...
                    well... i too once thought:
those russians... with they cyrillic...
but no diacritical markers...
      well K in a mirror: ж...
                      no one told me about brining
mirrors into the project...
     sh-ch-
sz-cz-                щыт - height: well... zenith...
bl-ы'h bl-ы'h: blah... blah...
       it's a letter: the russians call a "sound"...
like the english should start calling
the letter "g" or the "h" a >sound<:
surd...    an apostrophe: gnome: 'nome...
gnosticism: 'nosticism...
                                 'alf the 'arvest...
prop'er: cockers and pouch of punches...
   very ******* irish sober to me...
brings all the harlequins and loon'doon'ish
to the backyard for:
                   milch-schütteln-und-schäkel...

and then i return the cork back onto the corkscrew...
as i pa'k - my... packaging... CCCP... comrade...
the folded soviet shop...
don't worry terrible ivan... there's a new shop
in town... the iron has morphed into silicon...
see-through curtains and...
this virus... did more damage...
than any... brave lion of the jihad would ever...
circumstance of the affairs of westminster bridge...
they would "epstein" one through
one in a while...
                 to **** chicken the populace
into a cucklicking KKK strut dance of:
burning hoods and bras and crucifixes...
and ******...
                              conventional... formal...
language usage? please reserve that for...
the golf course and business talk...
                write? write what? a kandinsky?!

yes... a big hello ******* from
tiktok and twitter...
1 minute videos and... 180 characters...
         i feel constrained... claustrophobic...
if... i can't write an imitation Dickens chapter...
1000 words is ******* lemonade...
2000 words is... regurgitating a day's worth
of a newspaper... saturday edition...
which includes the editorial and the magazines...
3000 words? a truly rare thing...
      given that... conjunctions and their details
are not counted: ' - is both an apostrophe and a surd
letter... t'at all depends: on the "v.a.t."...

the whole point was...
finding excuses to write about quitting smoking
are other... they were all fine: crack ******* smoked
when the levels of nicotine were dropping...
the upper body was exercised...
but the legs weren't... mollusks and oysters for *****...
or... toes...
to count... oysters for toes...
but when the legs have been exercised...
and a balance has been reached...
there's little to gloat about... about...
quitting smoking...
there's a need to say: the glory of the tongue
and its palette when walking...
the budding beauty of things surrounding me...
all blushing envy of the green...
  self-respecting green and its almost
teasing green phosopherscent insomnia
in the rubric of the sun: next to wake...
next to hide... a bud of bishop hues...

insomnia green of the forest...
                     poor bambi (x2)...
                    zinfandel rosé!
count! syllables! nurse! scalpel!
zin!-f'ah-del... rou-s'eh...
                              oh remind me of the night...
and the forest... the blinking moon
by count of clouds obstructing its glee...
turned into a melting moon...
spray-painted over the leaves with
its last will of agitated: clingy mercury tinge...

the debate: "debate" wasn't about...
i took 3 days to gloat about quitting smoking...
there are more important affairs to mind...
notably! notably?

example!

la traviata is an opera in three acts by (giuseppe) verdi
set to an italian libretto by francesco (maria) piave
                                                 (verbatim: i.e. borrowed)...

there... they cite... the composer...
    who doesn't need a first name, since: verdi is...
synonymous with verdi and opera composition...
but...
         yeah... you need to mention the first name
and the surname of... the libretto: francesco piave...
the opera...
      music... and... the words...
well so much for the music...
but... last time i heard... a violinist holds...
a violin and a bow...
                         what's the opera singer
to hold? the melody? no! he needs to hold...
words...

   today i passed a family in the forest...
a mother, a father... two children...
                   and a grandfather...
maternal / paternal... i don't know...
i was already on my second bottle of wine...
the woman asked me:
   'will we get back to the car park if we turn
around on this route?'
        i was already eyeing them with
a curiosity prior...
i uttered the words... 'you should...'
          not... 'i hope so... since i'll be
testing that question'...
or 'you will...'
                           several minutes later
in my own solipsistic interlude...
            you should... i swear to god...
sometimes i say something and can't
see letters behind the sound...
      like: i shouldn't really see: meow...
behind the sound a cat makes...
since... a cat doesn't just make an: ego sum: meow
universal statement...
there are variations...
    'you should'... i repeated...
slightly drunk and... whatever... i didn't see
any letters in the sound i made...
           for once... not the last time, though...

to abide in such joys from a past -
chevalier, mult estes guariz -
                 to cite charmlemagne and prince rolo:
the scandinavian convert -
who's (whoz: not who is) descendents
were the morphed vikings: the normans...
who conquered england...
        since the predecessors couldn't...
walther von der vogelweide:
                    palästanalied...
all through the german autobahn...
                   the word... AUSFAHRT!
the lands owned by the lithuanian who
married: and by marriage became converted...
from the last pagan prince of europe:
enclosure rhapsody of caged
elephants: prior: mammoths...
  the estonian bulwark...
von meer zu meer (von baltisch zu schwarzes meer)
these jagiełło platitudes of envy... chełm...
      sch'war'zes...

begotten not made: blistered...
the scarf of colour to capture the frenzy of
autumn... a shawl best worn to...
loot the colour and suffocate the subject
with: no past a dream and a dream
without rucurrence...
to borrow from the past as much
if not more from fiction!
to say: once they pickled Barbarossa...
come the third crusade... disgruntled oath-breakers...
sought the prussians...
and the lithuanians... and all that land
to the east...
had they only known... what the prussians
would make of the absence of the saxons
of the pomeranians and the bavarians...
i wasn't there... no...
but a romance is a romance is:
here's to... no ode to a ******* sailor:
capn' ahab... or the rodin instruction
knee deep in the mud at ypres...
or the mass-graves of german youth
or: how kaisser wilhelm and that in-breeding
crew of familial ties tore europe
on the altar of the bull...
before this bourgeoisie whittle adoolph HIT!
came about and charged the former
bitzmarck ***** and the elites with...
eh... the story is so told and so old...
"they" couldn't fathom the middle-project
of the khaki and ******* not coming
from their... high-brow... aristocracy...
better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven...
choir boy whittle adoolph said:
i'll borrow the schnurrbart from chaplin...
after all... with a surname like mine...
a ****** or a chaplin is no... WIN-D'SOR!
yes... apostrophe 'ere if not to hide a surd...
it's to elevate punctuation...
for the sake of syllables... the hyphen is not
enough... vowel catcher tetragrammaton
invocation! the first arm of the god:
the second arm is for: ha ha ha! laughter!
cynic and satyr!
            eh... let's leave the stoics to their
love of labouring over the fate of oysters!
protestants and pre-destination-alists...
clarvoyant calvinists!

                         from the decadence of a "lost"
empire... what "pseudo" history is to be
resurrected... romanced...
the angevin empire?! that there is a past...
the "lesser" dream...

a patrick and andrew a george...
and ef bwy newid troi (he who...
altered path) -

troedfilwr - petty velsh:
quasi-silesian / kashubian / little warsaw
of the "bigger picture" masovia...
CAPital neu...
          
- ever write something...
at a snail's pace: crow pecking...
because a moth has just flown into your room...
and... unlike... holding a seashell to your
ear... to find the ivory shore...
and the details of false echo of... galloping
waves...
you clench your hand...
and hear... fluttering... like the sound of...
desperately falling rain..

madame butterfly is an opera
by (giacomo) puccini, with a libretto
by luigi illica and giuseppe giacosa

the magic flute, k. 620, is an opera in
mozart to a german libretto by
emanuel schikaneder:

           der verk is in the form of a singspiel:
singing and spoken dialogue...
my demise: the awe... interludes of...
theatre... in an opera!

               rushing rushing and... kandinsky
the colt serenade kind...
  with... canvas... and an auction house
of reserve that... fridge magnet enterprise
of a single mother of... 6...
              
you couldn't get an opera...
working from the carmina burana...
the... libretto... thankfuly...
constricted the music...
you'd only get what you already have...
a medley... opertics instead of an opera...
sketches of an opera...
    the whole custard mess...
the rhubarb the rasberry "finicky"...
         the Goliards and the... gonnards...

               were diu werlt alle min
               von dem mere unze an den Rin,
               des wolt ih mih darben
               daz diu chunegin von Engellant
                lege an minen armen

the quid pro quos and the... anon. circus
spectacular sheen!
  
  what is the composer without the libretto?
the violin player has his violin and bow
attached: like some... frankenstein's take
on an elaboration of an autumnal fallen:
leaf of: a "false" limb...
dire desires for a lingering crescendo...
of a piece... without an overture...
bothercome children and the good life...
nothing worth clarifying the nouns:
to a supper... a goodnight...

                       bedtime with nabokov?
my take... well... it becomes apparent...
when... the local... easily accessed by the many...
avenues of love... are exercised...
what remains? taboo...
and once the taboo is... investigated...
invested in... well then...
there's that all overpowering tease of
thought not materialised into a will...
a 14 year old girl... below the mark...
she's 16 and i'm 18...
and i'm not her... cousin and this is not
israel...
                  after a while... the only *** available
is... the forbidden type...
and there's... so much freedom in
what's forbidden... when it's only thought...
the complex: θ(ought) complex
that becomes φ(inking)...

              the moment "she" starts to
perceive the mirror...
       and you're looking into the concept
of time and of glass...
  
but then... there's... the libretto... and the composer...
the rare event of: richard wagner...
where there's a schizoid... bilingual...
"in theory": der kommissar working 7/11
on the advent of: neu-muzik zu kommen!

  queen of the night aria contra...
my sleeping karma - satya - ahimsa...
that one: "last" cigarette...
me... a wife and a child...
        tidy... if i only aimed at...
the fraction to no effect...
the wife and the sole child...
i'd be doing all the proper details...
a wife and... the hungarian model...
of at least: towing 2...
      hardly an embitious venture if only
towing the holy trinity of:
fake hey-gay-zeus fake myriam fake josephus...

not looking for queen of the night aria...
   nor satie's gnossienne no.1 sampled...
ezio bosso - under the trees...
           vittorio monti
jean-paul egide martini {/^.5.p 6^)_(0$drd...
toast!
it was... bothering me... started last night...
took 6 rough miles to get the tune
out from my head...
into a coffin... of sorts...
it was... borodin's prince igor! all along!

p.s. re-flex: the politics of dancing...
       duran-duran: the reflex; ******-pointer-ler;
h'american pie contra dad:
   the gay bar: electric sexes und siebens:
hefyd...                         deutsche bankschisch...
zeit (time) and the ruschischen:
              цeit... always conflated as...
indistinguishable by a ****** / lithuanian...
           цeit - bißcuit... crumble: чarcoal...

hey presto: a *******... voilà contra eureka!

one must wonder
if the word “Punctuation”
is a relative of “Punctured’;
for, as you must have noticed,
a prose passage
with no punctuation
is as good as punctured…
poetry is cunning;
she uses punctuation as she wishes
and still remains pregnant
with meaning, if you know what I mean

promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:

•
                  •


                    •
      •



           •

•
    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.

as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...

diacritical indications are as unorthodox as punctuation marks, even though both can be rigorously checked by standards of orthodoxy, in a tribunal of "proper" usage... yet i will use them, as i use my punctuation marks, as a ronin... zite... gé-kre-ū-zite (arabic glutton "surd" g sandwiched to boot); i wish the hyphen compounding extract of the whole was missing... english, far from perfect, is oh so welcome to interpretation; ever the blank, never the bride, never the bride of punctuation from above, but always the punctuation from below, and ever the insult from the irishman: word-salad... word salad this & that... keeps writing a ******* novel for 3 years, can't give me a paragraph to read; who's sad salad noodles from here on in?! all i said is that english lacks punctuation within words, every language has punctuation between words, but all i said is that english lacks punctuation within words, clear syllable indications, and that's as much as: the right for an arabic conquest... next time i see you in warsaw, it will be in december, with a broken glass in your head.*

and let us just say, that the best of his
verse, was met with the least of all
possible critical acclaim...
man could have written a tolstoy novel,
or a shakespearean shake-up
of frothed over events...
   but he wrote the mediocre,
the sort of crap you might imagine as:
once upon a lark upon a tree,
then a lark in a birdcage...
      who's the grievous,
                           and who's the wound?
last, lost holden, but nonetheless
the most beheld,
   that eternal everlasting plasticity
of a worn smile...
           we all have the last requests,
but none summarize our lives,
with that is best the ultimate in
that the epitaph be a post mortem scriptum;
the dead write themselves into life,
for what a sadder death,
than a grave with merely a date of,
and a death of...
                well, not all of us
could usher in a choir of
canterbury choir boys,
castrato, ***-****** by the surgeons
of the crucifix media momentum of:
keeping up with the the bishopric of
canterbury - **** all ruby,
you, ******* *** squeezing quack?!
everyone pleads their innocence
before the antithesis of a crucifix,
i.e. the impaler...
   you really think the crucifix was
the ultimate "sacrifice"?
      now you're just ******* around my
respect of: not attempting to laugh...
how about the iron maiden,
or how about being impaled?
             take your "saviour" elsewhere -
i am as the japanese demanded of the portuguese...
take your "saviour" elsewhere,
hell knows more of the zenith of torture
than merely settle for a crucifixion...
   how about impaling the sacrifice?!
   what with the fight against
homosexuality, imagine impaling
a homosexual... via his ****...
on a sharpened stump of wood...
  being crucified seems like a pish-poor
genesis of a belief... there are so many more
wonderful tortures to succumb to...
               for one, being impaled via your
**** to distrust the modern homosexuals
as both ****** and nagging auntie...
         of a "harem" that's merely a monogamous
affair: of periodically charting
     expenditure...
aufspießen (impale): zu gegensatz (to compare)
    mit die gekreuzígt (with the crucified).

i see it like this:
i know the teenagers
have the outlet we never had,
we had to invent the graffiti tag
to be seen or heard,
there's no courage in internet
anonymity - we're as successful
as insects to adapt, with 8 billion
of us, i won't be knocking of your door.
i see every poem that i write
as a character, even the cameos
(great cinema in edinburgh
is called cameo - european films,
turkish, iranian, real art-house),
and with each poem it's like a passer-by
on the street, the street is the narrator;
i just wanted an oblivious narrator,
not some genius chess player
moving in & out of people's minds,
i wanted to use poetry to destroy
if not simply obliterate the voodoo complex
of novel & novella architects...
seeing through silent "dialectics" / ~dialectics
psychiatrists attacking poets
and philosophers defending them:
like this theory i had - about how god
didn't destroy the latin alphabet like he did
of babylon (new age atheism is great,
but these atheists started congregating,
and that's not cool) - and i see punctuation
marks above the letters, umlaut for a colon,
comma marks above o and n if not elsewhere...
but by god i mean god = word(s) - a means
of communication - extended into a reality
when so complex it's near solipsism,
impossible given that you can understand me;
better stick to the poetic maxim of paul valery:
poems are never finished - just abandoned.