when reading spinoza i find that:
  the mere word god is the best lubricant
to utilise when structuring language -
since god: remains in the domain
of language, and this language is
bound to thought, rather than
lunatic procrastination of prayer -
thought is not a duty: it's a leisure...
which is why i find atheists so pedantic
and pseudo-atheists even more
pedantic demand a genital sphere
of god - a word, or rather, a noun
that gives origin to all other nouns...
and if i were to truly make a "******"
distinction, after the difficulties or reading
two or three germans,
    this dutch jew is like what a woman
might think when moisturising
a baby's *** with ointments or
powder...
                  all i have is a rod -
and my child is in the crevice of a grave,
and if it ever has a womb to
insist upon, it's my mind -
the womb of man is his mind which
extends into the grave -
  and from the grave the child
answers...
which is why i have no affiliation
with living authors, none...
        reading spinoza after having
finished reading heidegger is like finding
the most unimaginable ease -
to read heidegger or kant
you have to be an atlas -
but when spinoza writes:
   it's like watching an autumnal leaf
tornado down to the ground -
spiralling in a ballerina poise -
    only when the truly difficult has
been carried, is the apparently
  "hellishly" difficult all the more
easier to be carried across the valley
of shadow, grit grime and gangrene...
   yet if we do share genitals as
what they are intended for:
  then man also possesses a womb:
the mind...
  the mind in man is the equivalent
of the womb in womb...
yet the difference is:
each of man's children is born of
death - a still born excited by
a dancing partner of your ego engaging
with it, lost, abandoned, hushed:
dusted over...
  never will these children
     feel the touch of oils upon their
buttocks, only haemorrhoids from
sitting on cold gravestone marble...
   and can you just imagine as to how:
the birth of man takes so much longer
than the biological birth of man
via woman?
                sometimes it takes a near
estimate of 2000 years to give birth of
man,
  or it takes 2000 or so years to finally
cut off the umbilical chord feeding
the *******, given archaeological findings
in egypt, and abort this ******* child...
to spare: the good man, joseph.
      yet the ease with which spinoza
nonchalantly uses the word god,
  un-found in modern atheists,
  who constantly barrage the word with
hurdles, obstructions,
   the mere mention of the word
without a suggestion of a being / non-being
ever being made convincing -
  it's simply a word that glides across all others,
obstructing the mere use of the word
suggests a belief in a being,
  rather than a fluidity of the language -
i'm actually surprised why atheists
do not consist of merely stutterers...
      a word among words does not
just happen to convince me to imagine -
yet if all casualness of the word is
curbed, and we are dealing with people who
actually use the word to imply:
   some concrete, aren't we really dealing
with atheistic hysterics?
                just a few aphorisms of
spinoza and you start to walk on water...
i think in the inverted circumstance of
not possessing a womb,
   but sharing opposite genitals to a woman,
hence i must possess the opposite
of a womb... i too must accommodate
a fetus of some sort...
    sure, it's dead, but with each dead
fetus in the womb of my mind -
  i bring about a morphing of the dead into
living, like frankenstein (mary shelley,
probably the only woman that i respect) -
i revive it, it morphs, i die, someone else
picks it up, morphs it...
   abortions are not as bad as when you
think about it masculine terms:
how people are ridiculed, defamed,
             misinterpreted -
e.g. heidegger being a ****...
        that sort of **** breeds my fancy
had i the wealth of my childhood uttering
the words: imagine impregnating a woman
with wolf *****...
   i'm pretty sure i said that...
                 or male ***** with
a chimpanzee...
                       auschwitz seems pale by
comparison...
                         but god almighty,
spinoza is dancing in my head -
   he's punching, kicking like a woman
would say when the fetus is near maturity -
obviously a man's version of the womb
does not breed in situ amphibians precursors
of mammal,
but then we're less the missed
connection of the ape, and more?
  A ******* WHALE!
                     whales are mammals...
and are we not the titans of this world?
    and does not this neurosis of using
the word god not begin with:
curbing the enthusiasm of giving oaths?
that the now apparent desert plains were
once great mountain ranges?
what, they're ******* with the big bang,
i'm ******* with geology...
   the great mountain range of Gobi -
the Saharayas (sahara,
  like the Himalayas, once upon a time) -
and so the ancient egyptians "thought":
****! mountains used to be here!
  let's build a nostalgic piece of architecture!
wa'h la'h! you got the ******* pyramids of giza!
they're were write about something,
their dreams reconstructed a very, very
ancient piece of fact:
there was no reason to build
mountain like structures in a desert,
unless they had been faxed by their ancestors
the intuitive speculation that the deserts
were once mountain ranges, eroded by:
millions and millions of years...
                         welcome to porta stella.

All comforts we create
Can't compare to the womb
All our fears of fate
Drive us toward the tomb
They cut the umbilical cord
They way I cut my phone cord
Leaving me alone and torn
Wishing I could curl up in a curl
And experience comfort from the world
Where people pay with change
Because they have no money
And people pay with rain
Because they have no honey

I've seen the chaos of fire
And the serenity of water
And the steam that rises when they're combined
The wet ashes of love mix into a thick cement
And become the heart's hardened womb
The heart's hellish hatred blooms
From within the darkness
Bringing us hardships

When my brain is in my eyes
It brings discomfort in disguise
Like the discomfort when I lie
And say I don't give a **** about what others think
Mentally I have become fetal
Yet I'm trying to sound regal
The illusion of indifference
Protects me from conversation
Like the womb or the tomb
And the broom is the tool
That sweeps dirt up under the rug
When my heartstrings begin to tug
The womb is the only place clean and snug

In a world where people become mindless weapons
The womb becomes a pistol
Blasting bullets into the Earth
We save our solidarity
For the moments when massive amounts of people die
And the bar seems to keep rising
And we forget the importance of one
Until we are hit personally
And look down to see blood from multiple wounds
The result of gunshots fired by multiple wombs