the Islam of Malcolm X isn't the Islam of today... it isn't really the prescription of Nietzsche had before the Heraclitus flux took sway and said: waterfall or lottery... it really, really, really doesn't matter. the Islam of the 1960s isn't the Islam of today... too tinged with Sieg Heil... although less the Ave Caesar salute and more akin to: who's up for ****, *******? the Islam has changed... if i was wise enough i'd have converted, to mind you... but i thought: putting my faith by only having a library of only one book... i thought... n'ah... that's a bit extreme, can i at least have a comic book strip to add to that massive library? no? oh well, no, sorry, at least one book mentions several authors who tried to imitate but failed on the last hurdle, at least i can revise that, and completely erase the two extensions that borrowed from Hinduism; 'cos' like it ******* mattered.. don't test me, i'm anticipating death like  suicide-vest child... come on! let's start the Slavic crusade!

perhaps it's not about not thinking certain thoughts,
or feeling certain emotions...
but perhaps it just is...
i say, we need the Sophists these days to
apply the fishing-net tactic to deciphering or
simply selectively reflecting our vocabularies...
strait-jacket vocabularies are there in plain sight...
i mean... wait a minute...
i jumped from jazz into pop music on the headphones,
from Miles Davis' *kind of blue defining
moment of the flamenco sketches right into the bog
of one direction - so i guess this is where
the antidote for art being too subjective comes in...
well, they sorted that problem already...
objectivity in art is around us as we speak,
it means "artists" that are manufactured,
art in the age of mechanical reproduction
(Walter Benjamin), it means more props than artists,
the problem got solved, it means reaching an
autocratic plateau of plugging in and sharing
a non-individualistic stream of emotion,
the opposite of democracy is autocracy, it isn't
despotism... i don't know why democracy doesn't
understand that it's ugly sister (autocracy)
is the enemy and not a Genghis Khan style of government...
democracy in the form of autocracy is a failed
attempt at Utopia... it suggests the system is perfect...
it means the institutions go about their daily business
like children in the playground who ******* and wet
themselves (the bankers), and still not one does anything
about it... what was once a demo tape of a indie band
becomes an automatic big seller big grosser E.P.,
just because the tragedy came, and they drove the touring
bus off a bridge in Sveeden... *******...
you ain't fighting dictators, you're fighting your change
from democracy into autocracy... where things
seem so perfect they can hardly ever change,
they're automated, they're not demographically sound...
sure, i'm the clown, i'll juggle a few big words around...
but in term of art? well, pop music has reached
the limit of what "philosophers" argued against...
to be frank... jealousy got to them that argued
for counter-productive constraints...
now they rebel against this objective construct of
artists in the shadows, writing text and tune and needing
some amateur to perform... and where do you
seek their rebellion? in the subjectivity they once
argued against: that famous Rage Against the Machine
protest against the X-factor...
so wait, first you argue against the subjectivity
of the artistic expression, then you postulate the non-existence
of the self: countered as the dasein for all subjectivity,
then you miss artistic objectivity with the karaoke
and what comes as the **** utopia with French
euthanasia tourists in Switzerland and Belgium...
you missed the argument you favoured, i.e.
artistic objectivity, i.e. performers, not people who write
the hit singles, Hiroshima Karaoke,
well, aren't we all objective now, that we have to source
our feelings in the expressions we once made angst against?
odd, isn't it? you never knew how well established
the counter argument became...
it's pop culture, it's evidently going to become viral...
but you see the power of subjective art...
it spreads like an infection, no point arguing against it...
objectivity in art is already a well established
virus, it doesn't really bite into your soul,
it bites, but you just get the odd body chicken ****...
that's what i mean about how a self-assured-without-a-self
democracy morphs into autocracy...
the fake Utopia of the well-established social
institutions actually being bankrupt, starting
with the post-colonial charity companies,
lying sharks and interest rates at 2000% per annum
i'm starting to think of Islam... leeches and hypocrites...
so your pointless critique of the subjectivity of the arts
became your most sling-shot friction strained weapon
to aim at the industry of art objectified,
in the age of mechanical reproduction true art = dodo...
it's on its way out... i hardly think that
50 years from now you'll find someone as idiotic
as me writing poetry for the love of the **** thing...
you'll get Utopian plateaus, anaesthetic democracy in
the realm of humanism, and hanging over you
autocracy... immovable foundations, cos' everything's
just perfect, time to invade another Libya where
some genius ensured the people knew their place
and who kept order on the pretence of
keeping weapons of mass destruction and
dog leashes... but there you will be ****-strapped going
huh? i thought subjectivity in art was bad?
n'ah mate, that's the only thing that made art good...
you got your ******* Karaoke, live with it!
the English Renaissance of the 1960s ain't coming back,
even if you gave Belfast back to the Dublin crew...
i say we need another Protagoras to get
the vocabulary inflation up to speed...
i say devalue the words self, ego... and make the
psychologists bums..
i say devalue the words nation, british and hamburger
to make the anglophile influence on Europe
a bit like sniffing a mortar of ******* off a penny...
i say reestablish the virtues of Japanese feudalism,
scare depressed teenagers with the words:
your only way out is by Hara Kiri.
something must come from a poem like this...
i have rage... you reason with it...
i'm not going to reason a calm into my heart with the words
i just wrote... n'ah... n'ah n'ah... that ain't happening...
it only took one needle in a haystack to give me prompt...
the ailments of subjectivity in art...
that got me, bull's eye reddened mad...
you ain't turning me into Darwinian grey matter!
this is democracy at its most despotic...
let me try democracy first, before i join the legion of dentists
with happy middle-class lives in autocracy...
can't blame ****** in this guise of organising people,
'cos' there just ain't no ******...
that got me hot wired and hired to argue...
first they say: art deserves no subjectivity...
fair enough: 1 man draws a rhombus a 1000 men draw a square...
but now that we can finally see objectivity being applied
to art, we only get pop: **** jazz, classical, rock and speedy-indie...
we get manufacture... as you once hated those with
personal intention to add to the democratic demographic,
now you turn against them for disturbing the status quo...
well, happy are those that come to the sun's repeat jargon
and happily doubt the roundabout...
because criticising art as subjectively orientated
really spared you art having ascribed objectivity to its cause
of attaining mechanical reproduction,
and the subjective placebo... neither thinking nor feeling
anything deeper than nervous yoga twitching dances...
spare me the ******* details if you come up with
a more accurate historical pinpoint.

She sees blindly, selectively.
She sees the man whos arms are the only place she feels safe, not the violent brute who beats her if she breathes to loudly.
She sees her friends who care about her more than anything, not the people who complain to her constantly, as if they've forgotten they have working ears.
She sees a job she loves where she gets to help people, not the one where her boss feels her up & tells her if she says or does anything, she's fired.
She sees the man in the elevator who says "good morning ma'am" every morning & "good night" every night, not the man who stares down the revealing shirts her boss makes her wear to keep her job.
She sees the man who helps her wash her car, not the man who spits at her window & calls her a ******* ***** because she accidentily cut him off.
She sees freedom & a way out, not the gun.
She sees blindly, selectively.

They say I suffer from retrograde cash flow
and it is afflicting me with anterograde anxiety
so they let me go
bleeding money from every pore
leaving a red paper trail behind me

A memetic virus of unprecedented scale
has everyone pale and empty-pocketed
their haunted eyes reflecting
the fear of an exofiduciary reaction

The resultant melancholy
proves infectious.

My sad-sack coworkers,
drained from the same numismatic disease
seek alternative medicine
but I am hooked on the slow copper drip
and wait patiently for the bag to empty before
I even realize I should have
seen another doctor
before
my internet support's been pulled.

Oh Rudolph, hath thou'st been picked upon by thy peers,
And hath thou cry'st thyself to sleep upon thy very tears.

For hath thou been bestowed 'tis distinguished nose,
For which thee other reindeers have selectively chose,
To be'st the prime target of thou'st dearest tears arose.

Yet, as swift fame arisen hath false friendship emerged too,
As horrid bullies now be'st bestest friends as thee night'st adieu.
For little Rudolph sees not the emergence of such facade,
A'th thy actions of dearest Santa ha'th granted thy accolade.

Again'st his dearest peers and their jealousy little Rudolph sees not,
For his dearest downfall must these devilish, horrid little beings plot.
Upon 'tis dearest red heart should see'st then 'tis fated knife,
And end'st now upon the hands of thee jealousy, shall his life.
For dearest little Rudolph hath known nothing of what a masks a'worn,
Shall beings do'st yet another despire thee words prior a'sworn,
For false masks of friendship shall plant thy dagger a'heart,
Until thy jealous'd fame and body shall separate apart.

Of all the cracked sidewalks
The winding maze
Of everyone else's shattered city

He traces calcium caked bones;
Ribbon strips of dyed out dreams
Close your eyes, close your eyes!

Selectively seducing the spires of silence
Romancing the carnage soaked thoughts
Smiling all the while

My choice or his design
I am hypnotized,
selectively blind
Claws cradle the head
Control the mind
Sweep over my face
And cover my eyes
He kisses my lips
Conceals my mouth
Stops air from getting in
To prevent words from coming out
Under a crown of talons
I am his Queen
As he sits on his throne
I'm chained to his seat

we all flow through life like rivers
here and there, crested glimmers
sun shimmered
atop waves once ripples
at last glance of this looking glass..?
men surely shivered

locked in depths of mind
where feral thoughts blind
binded by
"my" mentality


the self is selectively obsessive
malevolent
eloquent
evident
in heaven sent temperament

I.

I..

I...

can do no wrong..

can do no wrong.

can do no wrong!

those with bias
revel in personally pious thought
a myriad of self destruction

pompous contemplation
decimates civilization


we all flow the same way
we all ride the same wave
once a ripple from a stones throw
bound to glimmer when we all flow

Selectively mines,  on conditions that I don't step out of line, don't dare ask too many questions because it makes you answer with more questions where I'm turnt into the bad guy,

the one who doesn't understand, it's all my fault somehow, it's because of me, I failed to give into to ridicules accusations or allow defeat, I was pushed past the point of breaking ,

I even lost me a few times, I've been insane for as long as I can remember but this time it's completely different, I wake to walk in fear every hours of the day,

I'm made to feel ashamed for loving you, told I'll never be as good as the one you're faithfully into someone whose not even known you not the real you not as I do,

seed after useless seeds polluted a once healthy womb, drop after drop tears fell ******* shadows passing me up,

leaving me for what may become a happy ending to this fairytale nightmare,screaming myself away flinging covers off of me, laughing as I cry  out darkness, so dark and the scents nostalgically unpleasant, the many times her scents lingered on you

even in thought I conjure up the smell of lies, the musty deceit, the filthy metallic accusations thrown at me

Selectively mines when it suites your ego and when it's not inconveniencing you, I'm turnt into the bad one the person whose always to blame,



                  the one who
doesn't understand,
                it's all my fault                        
                      somehow,
it's because of me,
           I failed to give into
                           to ridicules accusations
                                                       or allow defeat,    
                                                  I was pushed
                                                     past the point of breaking


the reason you need her - where I no longer have a place, I had no choice too, I had to move on.

Hardest things to do when your reaching for a hand but end up with  straws, darkness and no help, dreams unpleasantly real, craving a touch a kiss, to be notice.

        Knock knock,    
              
                          whose there?
                                  
                                             No one....
                                  
                                       Just your
                                        
                                                  Wife of 11 years.


                                  Always Me Ayeshah ®
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