now i'm breathing cigarette smoke
into fog....
it's local and it's bypassing
the global narrative...
i'm sitting perched on
a windowsill
debating whether
d.n.a. predates the other curses:
i love music more
than women,
i'll say it again: i came to love
music more than the Tehran's worth
of women, the music over-powered them,
i wash shaking at the knees
of ac / dc, and i asked for d.n.a.
inclusion... because i was
bothered to read it as otherwise...
and i know there's a woman out there for
me.... and i known there's
  a lesser comic book hero to guide
the matter into a mortgage...
but i know where they gas the liberals,
i know know where Switzerland is...
   i'm bound to a boredom already
hijacked...
      ai'd gas a few liberals had i been given
a chance, like my gradfather likes to
recount: herr! bite bonbon!
         i don't mind writing about extinction
i'm quiete dodo about it,
       if the music plays, the women can shut up.
i heard my grandfather whisper into
me a chinese whisper about ensuring
your heart remained small...
             behalten herz, klein herz...
           herz uber alles.
i don't mind being an extinct specimen
akin to the dodo,
        that might sound insane around here,
but i am vague about the argument
to pro the alternative....
given the culture i find no worth to scatter
the proof...
      music overcame my want for women...
and i what comes next is a stamping,
i just want to fear the end of gravity
but instead i'll probably hear a harnass flinging
Amazonian bridge between compensator and
instigator... and i hope
   i'm wrong...
                              all this dyslexia
and anti-Rousseau sentiment... had i not read Voltaire...
but i have no one to cite...
              apart from them, so it really does seem
like all other clubs: slightly selective...
                       after a while not getting any
makes your forget that dating sites exist,
    you start to learn the proper narration of the world:
so close: yet so far away...
                           i can't state the last bet i made on
the roulette of passion, i decided to feel nothing
concerning it...
                    it got a bit worth a right of a bollocking...
all i needed was a club, and a barbwire wrapped
around a club for a signature, to turn
the debate with the right ink...
                i said n'ah, i prefer music more than
a woman's nagging... women married always
tend to make other males more useful than their own
partners...if there's a love: it will tear us apart...
otherwise we'll congregate with the accomplishment
of jealousy...
                 and if we feed the little heart:
there's no great love to be had...
                                    i can't expect this to sound
as a guiding principle, as Athos said:
  the best advice: is to give no advice at all...
                      i just love watching what
darwinism did away with the historical narrative,
we'll all be dead within the next year...
                            we're all counter to what could be
taken as worth keeping...
            i mean... we already said that fame was pointless
given there was no competition left to
usurp us... having congested the edges of the world,
becoming prime in Siberia... and lavished
in Arabia...
                      but i know that this is really
an anglophone reality, talk this talk in germany
or france and the reaction is different...
                   the more i realise that i do speak english,
the more i wish to not speak it it...
i get tired of it...
                   i sorta lose the plot, wishing that
there actually was a plot to care about...
                                          i can't see the plot,
i can't see the plot because there isn't one to begin with...
   it's architecture kept by invoking a care for
superglue... i can't see it as migrational,
   i can't see it as eastern european economic migration
or the african stampede, or the eternal-judeo
   dispersion...
            if the western people are bewildered by their culture,
then i'm doubly bewildered by the export of all
body-works to china, leaving earopean man with
menial, but rather mental works...
                  and i'm drinking, so that's a +,
but i just can't see the end as related to d.n.a.
being upkept... i can't see that narrative...
                          my concept of eternity can't really
transgress your lack of it...
                        it's get boring after a while talking
with atheists... i'd prefer talking with ahumanists...
        i'd love to pair an atheist with an
ahumanist... because i don't actually see a lot of
human in what's god's own...
                    a- (indefinite article), meaning without
god, or the kaleidoscope finger to the eye
suits the noun right... thetheism is also a very
ugly noun that could exist.... before god has no
parameters, i'd prefer to look at the words that can exist
but don't, given our care for lubricants...
     the- (definite article), meaning with god....
    well the alternatives are islam... christianity...
or the argument by populist secular commuters:
we actually do believe in the same god...
question is: what's there to question in your spare time?
        after that it becomes a hellish enterprise...
  or a dictatorial reality... or the democratic basis for:
i don't eat with you, i won't sleep with you,
and i'll certainly not turn the central heating for you.
   the least thing accessible for me, is to
watch television with you,
                 because that's how it works.
given we've moved into a.i. and robotics,
i'd like us to play god, beyond definition, by simply
not being there... just so we can perfect creating the robot...
so atheism must come with ahomo...
                          best prescribed via ****...
   or the *****...
                         well, if we are to forsake the existance
of god, and fully embrace creating the robot,
we shouldn't technically be here...
                                which makes Heidegger's
dasein really useful... given that popular culture
made fun of germans as not really human but
merely robotic, until the human peeped through
the veil of Auschwitz and everyone was like:
um... revision? just like they thought the Jews
were stupid clinging to the tetragrammaton...
  they did... in the past 2000 years of "judeo-christian"
interaction, you'de get more crucifixes than
talks about the tetragrammaton...
                well, if we're serious about building
the ******* robot, why not do away with god
but also humanity? i don't see the point of disposing one
and keeping the other...
           in our ambition to create a.i.
we didn't forsake god, we forsoke ourselves...
    i don't care whether god is dead...
                     given we have youtube
                  stars that act as clogs in the advert machinery
i find no care to find a deus mort, or a **** viv!
i find, no concern, in finding a dead god,
  or a man, alive... non deus mort, vel **** viv!
  counter:
    numne deus mort: **** est non viv,
             **** contra viv... contra deus...
                 strange to think,
a non-existent thing: to be so obstructive,
and later construct one's life around him
being so beneficial, as to make a life from
orating atheism... a tad bit funny...
        how can i perfect this vulgate?!
numne deus mort, **** emortus...
                evidently, given our preoccupation
with robotics and a.i., the death of god
came with the baggage of becoming gods
and asking to spark a secondary case of the Edenic
charring...
               again the Latin... it's a fetish, my apologies...
deus mort (god dead, est, yeah), or
                        **** viv (man, life bound) -
   it appears the two aren't as explicit as it would appear...
it seems there's a natural basis for a god,
whether satan's clause does actually involve
being paid in toy-structures and cleaning the conscience...
          and i do speak worse Latin than
most English people speak modern English...
luck of the draw... the long straw.... i win a tumble dryer...
you win a voltswagen beetle engine...
   we both end up hearing a midnight song of
mechanical burps and fake stomach maracas...
       i just thought i'd say:
either god is dead, and man has died with him,
or god is really dead, and man fakes living a
posthumous life, encouraged to create a robot...
which he has done, alternative to prayer,
  creating something a god might occupy himself
with then man has abandoned god...
                    i sometimes think:
of all the anglophone writers, i use the word
god as shamelessly as most anglophone writers
use pronouns... i use the word shamelessly...
  because most anglophone writers use pronouns
so freely... i know this doesn't give the fat
of the argument... but i use it freely...
       i'm starting to wonder wether
            god is dead gave us anything more than
people paying for a grave before they get
shovelled into it...
                  as it stands: quiet the opposite...
long before the epitaphs or the dates are
              enshrined, they have already bought
the parody of owning a home...
they are already waiting for the marble space
beneath the maple trees...
                 which is why i ask by restating
the end of metaphysics, if gott ist mort,
            what mann ist viv?
     last time i checked, i found more human warmth
of my own voice asking a refrigerator about
the weather, than my neighbour about
    last Sunday. i'd sooner punch my neighbour
dead than ask him about his feelings.
6ft1, 115kg... i guess i could put a sock in
the right case of gob.

The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.

To escape, to begin.

He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.

"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.

Viv brought him between her legs.

"Gentle. Gentle," she said.

The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her ****. A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."

And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-**** escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the  brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.

She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed