.akin to a reply within the respect of Olivia Gatwood... these are not war chants... these are not war invitations... what deserves the hostile, is what bears an answer... these statements? they're only preliminaries; apparently two freedoms of the same argument, have the right / are expected to coexist: mind you, thinking, is the antithetic argument supporting talking... oh ****... right... i "sound" condescending... the clicking sound of my keyboard is condescending... at what point... did you arrive at the paradox... of hearing, before seeing? airplanes... i see, prior to the dragging "echo"... who said what who said who said what? i didn't say anything... i typed... keeping in line with: freedom of speech... what an exhausting right... esp. in a time when speaking is equated to thinking, and "speaking" is relegated to the opportunism, of writing being equated to "thinking"... talking... simply a tabloid freedom for the populace... i said ****... if this is not in the comment section... who said what who said who, who said when? when? maybe i delayed posting this... having thought it... a thinking, liberated from the cognitive schematic of a moral ought... a cognitive schematic to parody the enshrined freedom of speech, deviating from being forced to ask the moral ought? what is freedom of speech, by comparison? you are given the sort of freedom that implores you to speak... you are actually being given enforced rights to be compelled to speak... but not to think... to speak... at the exact same time... you didn't equate thinking with speaking... oh... right... this, "freedom"... was exacted when... quiet a large number of people were still deemed illiterate... and they were illiterate... but i'm literate... so... why would i need a freedom of speech... when, by writing, i have the higher right / freedom, to think?!

reworking a vindaloo recipe...
what sort of madman...
writes a recipe,
that includes 40 grams of
dried chillies?
i weighed them...
around 30 came in at 30 grams...
i had to revise...
the recipe...
a hopscotch chilli...
two fresh red chillies,
8 dried chillies,
and some Kashmir chilly
powder (much milder,
slightly sweet,
than usual)...
    it's a ******* meal...
it's not a competition as to
who can east the most spicy meal...
you play that **** while drinking
*****, not eating dinner!
mind you... vindaloo?
the most specifically scented
curry in the world...
you lift the lid off the...
baking tray? cooking utensil?
you're immediately hit by
a whiff of... sour spiciness...
can't describe it...
it feels like lime chilli...
hot & sour...
counter to the Chinese
sweet & salty...
   **** me...
     Indian cuisine...
                 it's like...
         what pepper,
salt and horseradish did to
European cuisine...
thank you England...
well... since i'm doing all
the cooking around this house...
i guess... a woman can just
sit pretty, and pretend to be
an ornament of the mantlepiece,
playing candy-crush saga...
works fine for me...
i wouldn't trust a woman
in the kitchen to begin with...
she might under-cook
the potatoes,
over-cook the pasta,
and over-salt a sauce...
so... yeah...
  women are not welcome
in the kitchen.

but, hell, they can bake, women can
do one thing right in the kitchen:
they can bake...
i hate baking, because it involves
waiting... i hate waiting...
a woman in a kitchen has
perfected the role of baking,
but that's about it...
figure this one out...
all this anti-white male rhetoric...
where are you going to
get your rhetoric...
when we die off, died out,
become the prime suspect
of the dodo project?!
    who's going to replace us...
and make the same argumentative
reprisals of your little,
tirade, symptom of
being borne by a real daddy,
and not a *****-bank
donation?!
   mother daughter relationships
must, really really work out
so well..
mind you, mind me...
i really need to ***...

when cooking, i hate waiting...
i don't like making
something, and then guessing /
waiting for the end results...
i want the whole fling...
the whole translation
of organic chemistry into
a heston blumenthal kitchen...
  i want...
the many aspect of transfiguration,
cooking no less an art,
but more a science...

women can bake,
they can also walk around pregnant...
can they cook?
you really want women
to return to the kitchen?!
seriously?!
under-cooked potatoes,
overcooked pasta,
following a vindaloo
recipe word for word?
you sure?
    in the army...
women didn't cook...
the men cooked for the men...
sure... a feminine role...
but...
   and this this is a pretty big but...

makes no fighter on an ill
stuffed gut...
           men cooking for men...
while the girls play the role
of the trophy mantlepiece...
"jogging" along to flirting
with candy-crush saga...

please, please... come into the kitchen
when you feel like
baking a banana bonanza...
otherwise... *******!

I was born on November 30th , I hear that makes me a Saggitarius.
I dunno what that means.
I  know how to swim, and I'm a sucker for a guy with a nice smile
And nice words.

I'm still learning how to whisper sweet nothings
I'm often loud at times when I should be quiet
I'm often quiet at times when I should be loud
I keep holding back or letting it all out at the wrong time.

I like sweet drinks... a lot.
I've been told that I give pretty bad hugs
People say that it feels like I'm trying to escape
Well I don't like letting people close.
Especially close enough to hear me breathe.

I have this odd fascination with things like time machines and technology,
I assume it's because I like to figure out how things work and fix them.
Am the same way with people, like to know what's coming before it does.
Love usually lasts a few moments,
That's also why I tend to fall in love with men
Who would never love me back
I know it sounds crazy, but it's actually much saner than it seems
And to be honest, I think it's safer that way
See relationships, they often remind me that I'm not afraid of letting go.
But I'm scared of what's gonna happen
The moment that my body hits the ground
I'm clumsy. I usually trip when am following my feelings.
I landed on my pride and it shattered like a mirror i check daily.
Now I can't even tell who's trying to give me a compliment
or just trying to get into my pants.

I've never been into martial arts but I have all these bruises,
I got from beating myself up over things I can't fix
I know it sounds weird but sometimes,
I wonder what the voices in my head say when am asleep.
I wonder what the doors would do if they found out
About all the things that I've done when they are closed.
I've got a trash can that's overflowing with really, really obnoxious mistakes
And a dump site in my closet with all the skeletons.
You'll trap me in a corner and insist I get help.

Hi, my name is Em,
I enjoy ice cream and yoghurt, people watching
And figuring out how to make them work.
I allow myself to cry more than I need to,
from letting all the wrong people in.
I have solar-powered energy, I have a battery-operated heart,
It flickers and dies from overuse.
My hobbies include rewriting my life story, hiding behind poems,
And trying to convince myself that I do matter to someone.
I don't know much, but I do know this
I know that if you don't have standards,
you won't be treated right and be happy.
I know God is still reworking my faults and flaws,
I'm a unique work in progress.

I need you.  You have invaded my heart
like an army looking for bloodshed in the
most important battle of the war.
You have left my heart ripped open,
dripping the hot blood of the most crimson
red the world has ever seen.
My veins are reworking themselves to spell
out your name.  Look closely,
you can see them through my translucent skin.

I'm reaching out for you but the air is cold.
The oxygen that fills my lungs smells of only ice.
No one is near, you're so far away.
I can't stay with you.  You are warm, I am cold.
You're wrapped up and I'm abandoned.
You sleep well with the ghost of another,
I don't sleep. Empty spaces in my bed,
empty spaces in my heart.

Don't talk to me like that; I can't take it.
I fall.  Don't talk to me.  I can't take it.
I fall. Each word that comes out of your mouth.
I trip on it, I lose my grip. I fall. My balance lost
forever with you. I fall. I'm in love. I fell.
And i'm still so cold.
And my heart is still bleeding.

. a sober me will do something akin to: listening to cabbage's song perdurabo from the album nihilistic glamour shots on repeat... reworking en plein air poetics: notes towards writing in the anthropocene (brian teare) - yes, the scribbly bits - and yes, the song on repeat... with an interlude for dinner, a movie (unsane): and about 10 minutes wrestling with a bottle of ***** in plain sight... after a movie like UNSANE? you wish for a drink to mule the whole plot of insanity on screen... but a reminder: i was working on something more important, wasn't i?

cultural darwinism: what could ever be
more than a history that is a history
         in etymology?
  
there is no proof of going up
bound to a ladder -

supposed "praxis":

well... i too was on the search for
an "etymology" of a script
that i'd be able to call: yore - yonder...

albeit not in            ᚷᛖᚱᛗᚨᛁᚲ
i thought i could not
have shared a genesis
                                 as that:

'as old in writing:
as in thought.'

something older,
so to my surprise: it does exist!

but reworking it
had to be known (at least to me) -

standard-bearer:
26... letters... from English /
Latin... script...

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱈ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C    (20)

exceptions:
                              X

other exceptions?
                             graphemes...
which will be included...

20 letters... minus X:
                         minus V... or...
when d'aal...

                 Y....  and H... and J

Ⱘ - Y          
Ⱓ  - Ju   

the closest i've come to is...
well... Greek has 24 letters...
who says that anything less is...
"uncivilised"?
Hebrew... that's 22 letters...

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱃ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C    (20)
Ⱘ - Y         (21)              what's needed,
in all honesty... is... something to balance
laughter on... a H...   ah...           Ⱈ - ch...

which brings me onto the graphemes...
some are missing:
some, depends on your orthographic
taste, in the context of Western Slavic...
you'd be making orthographic
mistakes:
personally?
   if you're going to bother marking
an S with an acute sign...
you might as well allow the S caron...

ergo?

a list of graphemes
and diacritical individual markers:

Ⱎ - Š
Ⱔ - Ę
           which makes Ą missing...
Ⱍ - Č
                       Ż is missing...
   no, no mirage... je suis sam...
Ⰶ - Ź...

or at least this is a sketch of what
i would inherit from proto-slavic...
high-slavic?
   that's the ogonek on the A and
the E... no caron above the vowels,
an an orthographic pedantry of
either U or Ó...

there's already a name for
all of this: i just didn't know where
to look!
- and i was looking at it
to begin with!
  well... what seems like...
modulating what would
have been the equivalent
of: runes...

the glagolith, the bukvitsa:
h'ieronymian...

or mine:                    gadanina
since there's no Ł
   to write out:   słowo (word - swovo)

- looks like we now know
the "problem" of the H, I and J...
here and there: erroneous leftovers of
etymology... scraps...

    and... no one thinks that
the English language has... "too many"
letters?

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱃ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C  
Ⱘ - Y         Ⱈ - (c)H
                    
       certainly the graphemes
  (Ⱎ - Š, Ⱍ - Č & Ⰶ - Ź...
but there's a missing...
                               grapheme
for the je suis! Ř or Ż
   Ⱔ - Ę)...

apparently i need:
                                 Ⱑ - ja
after all..

so... how does one test this out?

   ⰘⰅⰡⰀ!
               ⰏⰀⰏ
                           ⰐⰀ
           ⰋⰏⰋⰤ
                          ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ

a day's "hobbying" just to end up
writing something like that...

last revision:

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱃ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C  
Ⱘ - Y         Ⱈ - H           (Ⱎ - Š          Ⱔ - Ę
Ⱍ - Č          Ⰶ - Ź           Ⱑ - ja)...

  i.e.: there are still only 22 letters...
                    Ł does exist:
like any diacritical mark in modern Russian...
look at it!
                         Ⰾⱏⰹ...

                         БЛЫОTO

душкa душкa!     Мишa...

              Ⰻ    ⰜⰑ

                       Ⰸ         ⰕⰅⰃⰑ?

it's almost like,
i remember those guys from
school, who would sneak out
on weekends
at night, to scribble graffiti;
wherever it was,
or wasn't,
   i sure as wasn't:
                the ever studious
faustian archetype...

      tzn.:
                    ⰖⰝⰑⰐⰨ
                                      ­ⰕⰖⰏⰀⰐ!
here...
            here's my graffiti...
but... ha ha!
here's an idea...

  how about....
how about!
    people get those ****** Chinese
worded tattoo written off their skins?

i don't live outside my poetry,
                                                             i live me poetry,
i have five cigarettes in a packet
and about 3/4 of a bottle
of whiskey left: i haven't had a natural
falling asleep pattern to mind
with a 9-to-5 of tomorrow to mind
for, over, 9, years! i synthesise sleep!
not out of laziness - mind you, if i was in a wheelchair
i wouldn't be eager to fake-dance
or embrace swimming - limb or limbless
there's still Pistorius to mind,
doesn't mind a moth-on-fire to
apply Einstein's relativity to what
Socrates already said: apply
relativity to dichotomy and it all just
becomes an undecipherable monism
without a beyond to justify good and evil...
a... **** it... whatever! let's admire
Louis the XIV fireworks and wine!
but his brother, ooh! what a firecracker!
Chevalier de Lorraine was my hair too curly
they almost might - the intrigue decipher -er,
additions to a false spelling mishap -
or the proof of nobility, had the mother
begged otherwise and the daughter not
endangered the quest by seeking out
a scaffold -er's errand to guillotine the tulips
for a fragrant bouquet - here the admiration
for the stern heart of the east replaced
with the jealous heart of the west...
but Philippe! **** two horses and a cow!
i.e. *******! what a reworking of puppets...
in the hall of the crimson king... e -ing,
-ah ah-ah... the rōnin purity, the pride,
a poet's wet-dream of fancy, best luck drunk,
bad luck sober - i wondered quiet a many times
whether i had ***** or just a ticklish farce of
fancy to roller-pin the protruding genitalia
into the constituency / obligation / necessity of marriage...
the same as Narcissus spoke without an **** partner -
the ****** rap of Louis the XIV courtroom
imitating behind curtain the head of Charles I
in clone chandelier the fate of John the Baptist and
the ****** of hate of Salome...
how the two combined, the export of Iraq met
in Egypt with likewise revision of the genital parts,
Iraq translated into Israel, the two combined...
why f.g.m. rose from yawned over m.g.m. because
of the harem of kings! Philippe though! what a king!
that standards shook, the banners quaked,
the muskets shot blanks for a deadly purpose,
and there was poor Louis with the armour of quote
and a ***** of power inherited: appearance is power -
likewise today, what appears powerful is indeed
powerful, but only in deception,
beside the deception there's is no power
except the innate purpose for symbolic hierarchies,
and look where that ends up, Sinatra singing a song
about pennies raining from heaven,
indeed pennies among the streets of paupers,
the crown easily *******-on from a pavement's perspective...
i'd ask you to sit on your laurels were you
emperors, but you are kings...
so why not sit on that thorny crown of yours?!
hey! pristine gold is worth more than a poet's anatomy!
that's the casual expression, if you sit on laurels you're being
lazy... a poet's Welsh longbow man's V salute against
the French emperors - but i'd like to see them sit on
that famous crown of thorns, or the seven gilded
pikes of Rome resurrecting Vlad and the villainous Turk;
sarcasm disarms all seriousness in attitude
toward rank, and in turn disarming itself as
placed in hierarchic demands of humour -
sarcasm competes outside of the hierarchy of humours,
outside of comedy, it's there to be a buckling
when authority becomes all too... ridiculous.

One by one they fall
The ones I thought
Were my friends
There they go,
Distancing themselves
From me,
Until they are completely gone
From sight
But not from mind

Every night I remember
The fallen faces
Once friends
Now death eaters
Devouring my
Malleable flesh

"You will never lose me"
The newest one to the
Fallen faces said just the night before
She lied, and stole my friend

One less from my already
Tiny group
Of people who "care" for me

I never know what I do
To deserve this from anyone
Maybe its my tone
My anger
The demons that let themselves loose
On the page

Or maybe it's the things that count
The things they know and see of me
The kindness I give to them
The love I give for all I care for
Or the horrible, despicable, evil
Things inside themselves,
That I protect them from

My malleable flesh
That they currode away
The flesh that
They know is weak
And know they can walk all over
Because of my overwhelming kindness

I don't know
Why I keep believing
When people say they won't leave
When they always do

My mother
Gives me my kindness
My father
Gives me the rage I throw
On pages and pages
But never show

My mother
The reason why I'm so malleable
My father
The reason why I have the dreams
Of killing, of yelling

Both
My depression

My mind now
Reworking all that has just happened
In it self
It organizes my thoughts
Replaying the events
Showing what to do next time

Re-Awakening itself
To now know
Not to trust those who
Show no effort
Who pretend to know
Who eventually, will be the others
In my dreams,
Of killing
In my writing,
Where all of my demons let loose.

I want to love all
Even thought I know
Not all will love me

Waiting at a café table
You walk in and I’m disabled
Seeing for the first time
The blue-green-grey of those troubled eyes
Lost in the limelight
Where I found you, saw you,
Knew you in this new space,
Feeling this strange rhyme,
Waiting at an intersection of
Strung out weathered hope
The silence lengthens, the stare deepens
Casting what I knew into distant realms,
Reworking the good and
Finding those lines redrawn
I no longer anticipate, but wait
For those answers only you can give,
Those I was never able to predict.

I am constantly rewriting lines
I am always retracing my steps
I am stuck reworking my code
I am lost in reconfiguration

A skipping records plays
(plays, plays, p-p-plays)
and I am caught in-between
here and there and where I want to be

I want someone who is
More than just a cure for my loneliness
Someone who can seal my madness with a kiss

More than a pretty face
An electric soul
a fiery grace
More than static
Over and out of control

Til death do we tear each other apart
Reworking our guts into the bigger picture
You can't spell heart without "art"

To the one who can supernova my senses with
a stare
     a touch
          a telepathic tug

*Just be here now

I wish that we hadn't dated last year
I'm doing better now
But alas
You're not here

Would timing have changed
Our inevitable fate?
What if I'd been better
In a "more myself" state

--

But I cannot choose
How the cards fall
At the mercy of the moment
Despite wanting to control all

From this I have learned and grown
In innumerable ways
Lessons I can carry
Into life's next phase

An hour is as fleeting as
the angle of the morning sun,
as brief as any moment has
a kinship with the current one.

The fabric of the world with all
its artwork, every sun-dried streak,
refits the future with a small
reworking of a brush technique.

You peal back his past and and pull it through
sewing his history and his going to be up in a moment
torment and torture, you delight in his pain and his fighting
delighting in the life you are tainting, destroying
watching him straining,he is trying to forget what remaining
and I am stuck painting
sketching
reworking
searching
He wants to forget you,He wants to forget your mean, your mad, the things you stole and the things you have.
He wants to forget your mean and your mad... and all the things you once had.
He wants to forget you.
erase your face from the storybook life we have now
you refuse to let absence in, showing up in the dark
throwing bricks
steeling things from his yard
he is too nice, he is too hurt
I love him more and more and I feel this burn
burn your house
burn your yard
steel your cat
and fuel this urge
burn your mean
burn your fire
burn that look
that old desire
burn that smile that's backed with hate
fight that feeling that turns me irate
sit back down
I refuse
to do anything
that makes me feel like you
Hating what hurts what I love most
Burning hot
cheers lets toast
toast to being more
the high road is hard, I am feeling chard
I remember what matters most
I have him in my heart, he has me and his
when he says my name he does not cringe
He loves me.