you can recognise it easily, in that abode
which recognises it,
where a man who loves thought
rather than wisdom, because he accounts
wisdom as too much factual provision...
there in the music, where his thought it scrambled
and literally non-existent.

i thought that *demdike stare would never
produce anything as haunting as they
already have,
but it wasn't them who produced the most
haunting piece of music known to me,
it was susumu yokota's tears of a poet
that's receptively glorified into an allowance
of what comfort might come
from households of ten million chinese
and a few europeans as singletons of that status sibling:
but still in the fathomed depth of violin or cello,
like that of ola gjeilo...
i'm happy for my melancholy... it is amply biding
intelligence with it... only because the rhythm section
is given unto string instruments rather than bam-bam
buckling drums heartless... lullaby rhythm i call it...
i love my sadness, because i can appreciate beauty
with a tear... and no one is invited...
and it's that kind of loneliness that turns me into
a goose... awaiting the pumpkin cindarella carriage
with surprise... if tear be shed, led it be shed at the pinnacle
of man's expression, not the sombre minute silence
of the slain in war of fingerprinted blood and mud...
let it be... decisively... from what appears as a lack of imagination
due to the engraved into cipher geometry of
the chaotic stone's face... let it be man abstracting
himself against so many patterns of chaos...
thus in turn bringing order and subsequent layering...
let man come with an elongation of each noted grievance
fully embodied and consumed...
to rise higher in an assertion of likened to angelic choir...
or will it simply be a story of those who self-love and loath
love by prizing their handy ******* the perfectly caricatured
of female genitalia... and the resolve of explaining those
who wish to embody the act of death to thus differentiate the two,
of those who self-love love occupying themselves
to not take up a sacrifice, and of those who's self-death die
by a known hand in the viscinity of visibility?
i am of no content strength willing to pride myself
as expressing either, or a deviation from,
for i do not speak in the realm of human continuity
that does not express either...
for i am not content with it, and never will be...
due to the merchants and what life is expected to be,
for if shakespeare wrote the merchant of mecca...
and left venice in the judgment of byzantium...
it would not be a pound of flesh to be sacrificed...
but a pound of flesh multiplied by a thousand if not more
and thus allowing the plagiarism of the thousand's
irrelevence and the least expected but the most hoped for discard,
for some future bound example of only one man.

p.s. i dont have the instant glorification concern
when using social media...
i have to be simply content with instant dis-satisfaction
and continue down the road with simulated non-existence
in terms of what invisible / cognitive narcissism
can discard of to expose recognising me;
honestly, atheism ought to begin the argument
concerning the non-exitence of god with the non-existence
of thought... by crossing the street too early for
a traffic accident... or the holocaust - after all god
is a word that's foundational in an expression of egoism
or at least self-autonomy to build a house without the mormons;
i know this language to a point where i deconstruct
the prime fuctioning words of co-ordination
without necessarily deconstructing the nouns
due to ha-shem, or deconstructring the verbs / actions
because of the fact that i think and am taken
aback by some of the action undertaken by people:
like ******, ****, theft, like lying, laceration or faking;
but with deconstruction come spelling mistakes
as the easiest casualties to improve on: the pawns in the game
are given the ordeal of democracy, and this democracy
is a numerous number of spelling mistakes
that feel shameful from the other side of this pixel mirror
having to be fed a life, and thus in life recognised
as accessible to be corrected for a higher reason thus taken.

What a lonely exitence,
Devoid of friends.
which i would if i could change in an instance,
But unfortunatley I walk a path of violence and bitter ends.

I feel cheated by life,
I grew up in my brothers shadow.
And was sentenced to a lonely path i neither chose nor wanted.
Along a lonely road less travelled.

I grew strait and tall with morals,
And always helped and stood for the ones with troubles.
Which i have followed on in life,
For manners, morals and justice are like a wife.

He was a Gypsy fighter and good at his talents,
And gained high reputation.
But cared not for his brother or his new stance,
Who he had to pass onto this delicate balance.

So to one so ferocious with justice at heart,
I took on the torch defended from start.
I became a destroyer of men with no worth of my self,
Yet here i now sit, alone, like an old toy on a shelf.

If I could rewind the years and take back the mistakes,
I would be happy now with the soulmate I lost.
Now left with the aches and breaks I carry,
With all the time in the world to calculate the loss.

i recognise a mediocre take to verse, this is a mediocre take to verse, i know it is, because i'm not as drunk as i'd like... it's too apollonian... to coherent... not juice... not frenzy, no tornado; basically nothing but the fact that i've been listening to you-tube "creators" talk crap, about whatever it is they talk about.

what has *respect for someone,
have in common with
loving someone?
nothing...
     an old man once
uttered to me:
i still don't know how
to love,
  i don't know what
love is!
well...
        me neither...
to me love is a wild
relationship that lasted
half a year,
spanned three countries...
and ****,
the *** was wonderful...
easing her cramps
on her period
while doing it in the bath...
sour milk
              on ******...
that was love...
   but love is much too
mingled with ***...
       and that's fine...
it doesn't last for
          more than a year,
if by miracle, it gets
to a year...
you see...
     respect is so much
more necessary
       as an "alternative"
to the epitomes
   of cohesion between
two strangers...
   the lesser respect?
      courtesy,
       or in the fine details?
manners...
              to me, that's
the definition of love...
    i'm not going to shove
my **** up your ******,
all i'll be doing is whispering
into your ear,
   and that's not
         even tounging it...
so there, that's love...
god, i hate love poems,
   the whole genre
                 of love poetics...
if it's only: how you feel,
and not how throbbing and
barbaric your limp sergeant
can become a copper-statue
and penetrate (akin to
       the knitty-gritty
                  of ovid's verse)?
as i've known to begin -
you learn love by respecting
old people...
     and then you work
your way down...
        you don't really get
to learn babies...
  you learn the tactic of turning
into a cushion,
   or the first man
         to step on the moon...
you don't learn love,
you learn tenderness...
           if there's a love to begin
with... you learn it
   in how you treat old people...
the same fragility
         you see in babies...
even though the cradle
  is that of death, and not
that of the yet-to-be-explored...
      just look how the supposed
  "love" looks...
it requires vampires,
warewolves, fiction...
               i too don't know
what love is...
   having visited a *******
i think the argument is secure,
respect counts above all of what
"love" offers...
             i'd rather show respect
than the utopian "free-spirit"
   hippy jargon of "love"...
                           respect can satisfy
more people with a greater
number of instances,
  than, this so-called love,
    in a bedroom,
      or in a relationship...
well, sure, atheism and god,
fair **** enough...
                              i'm a-amorous...
ugh... typical, the sophists' take on
the cartesian "equation" -
state the "i am" first,
                to keep talking...
the hi, my name is...
           bob the goldfish,
in saying that,
  nietzsche reinvented sophistry,
   and grounded the basis
           of the rhetorical
stronghold...
   he inverted cogito ergo sum,
  into sum ergo cogito...
       annoying as ****...
      in the reverse people
     always have to
identify themselves as:
such & such, so & so...
                        it's a great bullet-point
system to just keep on talking...
on & on, & on...
  but that's how sophistry works...
you invert the cartesian
   equation...
     picked up by sartre...
   that pickle of:
existence pre- essence -
                   the nietzsche quote?
in one of the footnotes
  in human, all too human...
               sum pre cogito...
        and that's true... for babies...
   you can't tell me that
the essential humanity exists inside
a baby,
   given that the baby
can become a non-essential human,
e.g. a murderer...
  but then here's the problem...
  there's no such thing as a "non-essential"
human being...
             paradox... even
****** is necessary...
                              but sartre
expands on nietzsche's
    cartesian inversion...
  but in existentialism nearing
its end...
       sum = exitence
     and cogito = essence...
        meaning?
   the essential human being is a being
that can think...
                  to be human is
to be able to think,
  however genius, or however stupid...
   stupid... yes... but not *******,
i.e. not having the capacity of
   cogitans per se, id est ego
             (thinking in itself, that is, ego);
it would be easier
   to show a blind-man heaven
and blind the seeing when stepping
a foot into the realm...
           it would be easier
   to allow a deaf-man the heaven
of music,
   than it would be to let a man of hearing
to see past dyslexia.

n'ah ah, you ain't getting away with it this time,
there's no room for a squeaky clean
move, little miss sunshine;
you're not passing unto the dead
with those words coming from your mouth,
i count them as the psyche from the ****.

why do people confuse the *dead sea scrolls
with the nag hammadi library?
while at the same time ignoring
  the entries of the historian
flavius josephus
                      (joseph ben matityahu),
well: the sure as **** shared
same physiognomy - the jews
    and the romans...

the second coming? it happened!
it happened in the year 1945 a.d., with
the unearthing of the nag hammadi library!

the current transgender zeitgeist?
it stems from st. thomas' gospel!
          no ******* clue as to why it has
become un-reproachable,
but it has...
                        but why is there this mundane
confusion,
   of stating that the dead sea scrolls
refer to jesus?
                  clearly you don't understand
the bigger controversy, namely
of the courtesan prophet isaiah -
the dead sea scrolls are of those beloning
to his adherent heart...

theology? sure, and existential boredom.
           what's the grand controversy?
well... let's just say that when you
are executed by crucifixion,
  you're not exactly taken to the limits,
given that isaiah was cut in half
            yep, right at the abdomen -
imagine that!
                       why are this servitude in
pity toward the crucified one?

      but what a mighty conclusion to
2000 years of huh?!
                       why were the books of isaiah
hidden and why were the entries of
a jesus also hidden, and by "luck" -
re-emerge at the same time, to shape
the 21st century?

            the dead sea scrolls are mentioned
more times than what has become
the christian denial of the exitence of
the nag hammadi library...
   after all these years, and the ******* still
love the idea of pyramids!
     sorry, i'm not so keen on crafting such
elaborate sentiments (monuments) for death...
i'm not buying it...

            the 2nd coming has already happened,
but then again most people are too devoured
by the zeitgeist of androgynousness -
  and i source that origin in keeping
things "holy", esp. texts, namely
                                 the nag hammadi,
which refers to jesus,
which doesn't refer to isaiah and
the dead sea scrolls...

             as ever, the religious know so little
in what they gesticulate...
    who was the first person to
write the first verse of the koran?
     (a spanish H on the j)
                      k(h)adija(h) the literate -
imagine that! a woman wrote the first
verses of the koran!
  ****** was a ******* all the way through,
he had to allow a woman to write
his schizophrenic revelation -
                  then he became mouthy with
a 9 year old...
                       ****-load-peek-ah-boo!  
****;
last time i heard he didn't know how to read
or write...
       this arabic version of charlemagne
this shylock, this merchant of mecca
(why didn't shakespeare write that play?!)
if that camel jockey started writing,
we'd only see:

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        yes yes, plenty of kisses, thank you,
no thank you...

                     the 2nd coming,
already happened! and look at what it brought!
   ***-change-demagogues!

only the english are applied to this "sentiment",
well, let's call it an honest observation:
only the english are capable
of making philosophy a pompous endeavour,
i guess that's because they are
pompousness best exemplified -
     they always considered themselves
the belly-buttons of the world,
far beyond the talk of hemispheres,
their's was always the greenwich meridian:
here is my, year 0.
              why should philosophy ever
become a pompous endeavour?
       was it ever?
                only the english could think
of philosophy as a pompous endeavour,
but there's nothing pretentious hinged on
the shoulders of philosophy...
   philosophy at best, is idiotic...
          or at least: the highest form of acting,
the sort of acting that says:
well... it's hard to play a mr. bean,
it would be much easier to play someone
with at least three dimensions,
   akin to a blackadder - cunning and
intelligence you can anticipate and play
with... but idiocy or faking it, well,
that's a hard gig to pull off...
                         since that sort of comic idiocy
is anticipating you, like a god
before an altar... rather than you investing
time & effort into prescribing the populace
with its exitence, staged.
          it's always harder to play
the idiot, than it is to play the manipulative
member of an intelligentsia...
in summary, two equations:
if sophistry = the study & pratice of rhetoric
then philosophy = the study & practice of dialectic(s);
i'd say it's harder to play the idiot
than it is to play the grand "intelligent"
rhetorician...
         in the latter you really have to try,
in the former (example) -
   the idea toward such a will is to avoid
trying... faking becomes
   more tiresome than actually trying;
ah yes, in conclusion:
     dla boga ból,
      dla diabła: nuda
    (for god, pain,
               for the devil: boredom).