i. the beer:

of all the drugs available for legal consumption,
well illegal too,
   i love how alcohol is the only
with a credible, even a romantic story,
take today, as an example,
  i took a gamble (the english really know
how to craft "flat" beers - namely ales...
in terms of lager? ******* can't beat
the central europeans - carling...
    that's all they can summon) -
but this one i came across today was a gem,
crisp and i am a sucker for crisp,
but not enough body of a typical ale,
body? flavour...
                  **** me, having a chemistry
degree i should be brewing...
     ah, but i do have enough vine
      for about 12 bottles every year,
but the dream? well, with music shops
doing the dodo march... i guess the ever
present ambition is to brew beer
(and yes, ***** is brought about by
the fermentation of potatoes);
   but i just love how every bottle has a story,
take this one for example:

               sharp's (rock, cornwall)
  (and yes, cornwall is bue -
            quiet unlike the rest of england,
  they even pretend to be
   "basque" separatists -
  goergie goergie - poachy poachy -
            king john the **** -
raise the black flag with a white cross
to invert the teutonic banner of
             black cross upon a white flag!)

aye ****, d'er beer:

           *doom bar
(est. 1994 - exceptional amber ale)

but like i said: not much body in it -
if a budweiser is the "king" of lager -
then this is certainly a "king" of ale.

the story? verbatim:

    'at the mouth of the camel estuary in rock,
cornwall, lies the trecherous doom bar
sandbank, the inspiration for this
exceptional amber ale.
                the sandbank is revered as a
formidable nautical challenge that
should be approached with respect and
nagivated with skill.'

well **** me, i'm off my rockers, i get a beer
and* a story... bargain,
                            at un' poond und aye-tee!

ii. lactose intolerance / constipation /
             a 4th of the "horsemen of the apocalyspse":

of the four "supposed" horsemen of the apocalypse?
i greatly admire but one:
                                          daniel dennett...
and for what, if not the virtue of being
humbled, awe-stricken, and not much of
a sophist -
                    i.e. a rhetorician.
the other three?
                to me, just a trio of pompous
*****... but daniel dennett?
now that's the bearded fellow i can admire...
he's the humpty-dumpty of the lot,
  he's like the epitome of the socratic method,
translated from ancient times
   into modernity - i.e. not the dialectician:
but the mediator.
      
   and when he mentions lactose intolerance
in humanity beyond the years of man's
"instinct"... i approach a well-known woman
to me (after all, i shared her body as
a foetal "parasite") -
  and she's tried all the could to alleviate
her constipation...
            i walk down the stairs with a bright
idea:
             how about you start drinking
raw milk?
                      maybe raw milk would ease
the constipation?
                           she replies:
not even if i had raw milk with a cherry...
worth a try, i say,
given that i've never seen you drink raw
milk...
        me? i still drink the raw fluid ivory -
better drinking that,
       that shooting rhinos for sport...
for some reason i can't get enough of it...
  cheese beckons?! not really...
but give me a pint of milk, and i'll drink it
in one worthwhile summary:
   concluding in an empty pint glass.
maybe milk will ease the constipation?
   who knows, worth a try.

but of the four "supposed" horsemen,
   i have respect for but one...
      yes yes, hitchens sycophants out there
than have their carnival of mumbles
and ooh and ah's... and a-ha's...
          yes, eloquent to the highest degree,
but a pompous ****** the name came to be;
only on the death bed, was he ever
earnest to curb his sophistry -
       and as said:
              nearing the abode of death,
              man stands undressed,
              in mind and body,
              the unlikely foetal kindred -
              naked, in the fluid of change -
              readied for the onslaught
              of the forever eternal flux.

iii. the three animals (laika, albert jr.,
&, why of course: dolly):

funny, isn't it...
           if there was a soviet darwin,
the soviets would have sent an ape into space...
but instead they sent a dog...
  
seems hard to find people with ape pets,
domesticated in the allign of a zoo -
    probably just as hard to keep a domesticated
money, as it is to keep a pigeon take
to a return roost...
hence the romanticism of space exploration
residing with the soviets, over the americans...
the world will forever remember
  a laika than an albert jr. (originally albert II,
but lets not allow aristocracy into the domain
of the lesser mammal) -
  and laika will always burn an imprint
into the mind, a dog always overcomes
the monkey in the here & now
                                 (dasein evolution):
but that's space taken care of...
what about time?
         none other than "alice", i.e.
     dolly the clone sheep... cloning
explores time... and dolly was the first
explorer of time, or the perpetuation of said
artefact...
                   do i sense a "humane" obstruct
being imposed?
         the frankenstein phobia?
               oh i think i'm right on the money...
with so much knowledge and so much
power at our hands, the collective man seems
only orientated around the carnal dynamic
of perpetuating itself around a dynamic
of pains and ills...
                       never the broad shoulder
giant looking toward the western continents
from the shores of portugal...
                by now we realise we're not
standing on the shoulders of currently-temporal    
giants... but on the shoulders of:
midgets!      
               as i a child i conjured up the idea
of the other A.I. -
nothing technological...
                  i actually thought of
insemination - and if auschwitz would still be
open, i might have joined ol' joseph in
the experiment,
but like a true scientists: beginning with animals,
i.e. impregnating a dog with human *****...
or a monkey with human *****...
obviously jo mengele would have
preferred the reverse, i.e. impregnating
a woman with the ***** of the already stated
examples...
                       well... in the dark aeons of
*******... hasn't anyone noticed the crude
representation of a white woman,
******* the phallus of a horse?
     ah... you weren't internet savvy in the early
00s... what with rotten.com.

The way is blocked
Hurting only you
You can still help others
But your creativity stopped
You have Creative Constipation
And there is one way to make it stop

Face your fears
Try something new
Make a memory
Get scraped a few
Take a Creative Laxative
Get those juices flowing again

Then you’ll have
Creative Diarrhea
Ideas flowing forth
In the forms
Of line or verse
Movie or paint
Everything you see
Will be touched
By your creative spree

To **** or not to ****, that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To ****, to ****!
But perchance to ****, there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the *******’ o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ****-plug wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

Unable to express your feelings out is hard
Like your whole being is constipated

.a very prominent interlude of bitterness - something that needs to be drank as an antidote of the aftertaste of a brothel... bourbon - sickly-sweet bourbon of a brothel... otherwise the best beer on these isles: the original stout: st. guinness - second, 13... hop house lager by the same culprit... i don't know about you but a regular IPA doesn't float my boat... stale pale ale of 3 day old sputnik ***** excavation of bio-matter living off of iron shrapnel and termite ****... let's not go over-board with the bitterness of fenugreek seeds added to a curry... but... a hop lager is not an indian pale ale... because? well: because of the excited circumstance of extra bubbles! once upon a time that horrid absinthe period... last time i checked i became the st. peter of the drug details... ***** tells you too many truths come the moral-hangover the next day... but ms. amber in her guise of adele bloch-bauer by klimt: take her for a whiskey, take her for a bourbon... a chanel no. 5... or a brandy or a cognac... please excuse me from drinking the ales... goldwasser: athens, sparta, venice... dan dan Danzig... i'd call the genesis of world war II to be... that envy of the city-state... the little cosmopolitan high-heavens of a concentrated locum... of affairs of both tourism and the subsequent merchant class... that Danzig didn't belong to anyone: not really... does it even matter now? the current city-state model is... don't bother filtering the excesses... it has to become diluted... you'll find pockets of concentration near them... yes... homogenous... therefore solaced by that fact alone... only teasing incorporating outside influences... it's not going to be a replica venice or danzig... for that you'd need a window... st. peter designated the window into europe as a capital with an access to the sea... not land locked... even though i'm pretty sure that moscow has a river running through it... jump-start the window: a capital by the sea... hey presto! a window: the baltic sea into europe... words that become apparent: microcongestion of undigested souls... a schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... another foot in reicarnation... lob it or nutmeg the footie: it's a particle when observed and a wave when not observed... an orbit for the schematic... but a cloud when getting into the nitty-gritty details: specifics oblong... misnomer... if my ******* into a tissue, subsequently flushed... then a baptism of a shower... is not a genocide? then... bullseye... the ***** that made it into the ****... it's an abortion mid-week... i'd count that ****** come a certain count of months... otherwise... well... there's that cat of his... one foot in limbo and one foot in reincarnation... wasn't it the western exhausted theological mind: from that god of the omni- litany looking toward the budding-ha-ha? abortion... prized ***** makes it to the egg... ah... ****** from the argument of effort... me and the basic schematics of genocide... otherwise: schrödinger's cat... one foot in limbo... one foot in reicarnation... better still... Farinelli! drop the ******* don a niqab! the muslims and an eye-fetish... mind you... i do have a hand-fetish... "fetish"... i can count five of hers and only four of mine... fingers! unless she is a proper Arab bride with roots of synonyms in the Ukraine... and she has butcher's hands... hot-dog fingers... and a kardashian thick-*** that is just readied for a 12" dung-digger of ******... while at the same time... breaking the floral patterns of a porcelain geisha's... "missing tongue O"...

manícorona: peanut-crown!

               in between the hype and...
in between the trough...
and the happy pigglets of prop
and grandour...

little charlie little dervish of
a dar: gift...
                        win-win scenario...
i'm worried about...
constipation...
           terribly bothered...
                    
         but there's also the fact that
i haven't seen a dentist for...
a donkey can count a decade:
at least that's my hope...

my tooth filling has become lose...
having finished with yesterday's
etc. i tried to fall to sleep...

the pain came as a blunt object
in need of sharpening...
it wasn't a sharp object per se:
to begin with...

the radio was off...
the dream of falling asleep to the sound
of rain like it might be
a song off the cure's disintegration
album: lost...

                 i concluded:
it must be a dream...
how else explain this trivial pain
of a tooth when all the bones lay
intact in a body in an impeding grave?

to have been lullabied by a trivial
pain of a loose filling...
                   i'll give it until monday
to check a dental clinic...
i'll wait... because:
god only knows i am bound
to learn something new from
this crazed - infuriating pain -

          but at least that has
constipation covered...
    fear not: ****** **** of the golem heights!
no chelsea smile up your alley:
any time soon...

        the crown virus...
sooner or later: yes my liege...
yes my sire...
i'm sure the africans will... jump the queue...
we've been raising money for
a malaria vaccine...
i'm sure they'll be quick-on-the-mark
to raise money for the crown-virus
epicenter! europe!

oh... come come... komme komme, meine liebe!
it's true!
the europeans will be fundraising
money for malaria...
while the africans will be fundraising
money for the peanut-crown virus...

or... i like that one quote i heard,
"somewhere"...
   a stewardess asks a mother whether
or not her son would like some peanuts...
the mother says... he's allergic to peanuts...
he's allergic to maize... air...
glutten... ******* haribo gelatin and all...
he's allergic to hiccups...

                           there's a winking match
involving imitation chess between
the very sick psychiatrists
and the mildly sick schizophrenics...
a bilingual comes along into their foray...
and asks: who's multiplying
and who's in charge of division?
all a splendid metaphor... wouldn't you agree?
there... metaphor...
already the focus is gone... splinters...
some go to metaphysics,
some go to metaphors...
some go to orthography...
some go to: telepathy...
        some go down the para-
hello, my name is Norman...

         it's natural then... darwinism in action...
hold a peanut to a crowd of
people allergic to peanuts...
the joy of cashews...
the joys of pecans...
   cashews, pecans, brazilians...
macademians... hazels and waldorff's...

no other feeling...
like a ripe hop lager in between
a bourbon's drip drip drip...
      
                   horrid breaking up an already
comfortable ideology... isn't it?
when something like this speaks for itself
and the "lamm von gott" is brought before
the altar...
                           darwinism sings!
sings! like the brian jonestown massacre...
this is my body... my peanut...
brought to a cult of peanut-allergy-riddled
anemics and haemophiliacs...
        
the darwinian ideology fizzles out...
when it's not longer looking up through
the telescope of a primate's ***...
but looking through the form most primodial...
i've been gardening for the past week...
i've watched an earthworm here...
an earthworm there...
        life without eyes without ears
without music... but this idiotic god-given
impetus, imperative, "will": "freedom"...
virus... crown virus...

sooner or later we'll all be kings and queens,
sneezing and waiting for the entire
small intestine to come out of our noses
like glue: glut and gelatin pieces
wobbling where once bones stood
to be later broken...

a beer in between these slugs of bourbon
will do just that...
all good when it concerns
of apes and men...
           the similarity greatly helps...
but of course we'll borrow from other
skeletons...
                  no one ever heard of a headache
from having "too much"...
i.e. od przybytku: głowa nie boli...
o ale boli boli boli...

      constipation...
            the peanut crown virus...
and a loose tooth filling...
                ***** blondes and "how many"
light-bulb jokes it would take
for a tsunami of bleached ***** hairs to turn
into a happy cousin itsy-bitsy:
a spider cravat... what else?

otherwise history...
   either a wet-dream or a castration...
              or the bull wrestled by the horns...
or a dog wrestled by either kicking it in
the ******* or wrestling with its mandible jaw...
echoes of warriors...
warriors and pirates... the lesser muscles
of a farmer? a blacksmith?
              either a wet-dream or a castration...
lost avenues of "heroes":
all leading to: up my ***... otherwise known
as my original churchill's V...
the welsh longbow men: ditto the fwench...

such a shame that so much of history
is to be filtered when the children learn of it...
and whenever returning to it...
it's as stale as an antique's roadshow...
or it's: skimmed over...
whatever natural selection gave...
i don't know whether it's natural
to witness this historiological selection...

some would say:
too much of a congested toilet: n'est-ce pas?
too many of the dead are still haunting us...
natural selection contra:
historiological selection...
                             the ape versus the virus...
it is over-inflated...
where are the boils, the blisters...
the glutton spew of ****?
                              
                     this is... it?
panic riddled neurotics?
   so... so... twiddle-thumb-twiddle-toe...
where are all the psychotic:
airing of the soul examples?
smoke and mirrors...
   if i see a *****?
   i'll let you know!
          we'll huddle and watch
tom hanks win an oscar for
Philadeplhia...
                          show me a *****
******* a zombie...
         this, this grand disguise as flu...
it's almost a precursor
to a greater joke...
       of... phantom limbs that
had grenades worth of champagne
bottles being uncorked as
the origin of the demise of...
if only they named the ship Prometheus...
Titanic is so general...
     Atlas... Hyperion...
                  Oceanus...
                                   you can't expect
to keep an adjective as a noun: afloat...
or could have... could you?

but about time you listen to all the darwinists...
when the seas are: a'rough...
ask them about not looking up from
that telescope via a monkey's ****...
about the darwinism of a...
very original... very basic: a first...
first in line end result...
that might have been us...

                 tough luck bringing
no wine and no bread...
to the congregation...
nut-allergy riddled whisperers and soon-enough
to be drop-off counts of: the sieve...
the peanut! crown - and:
if only it was as simple as a reconquista
of what the goths left behind having
stalled spain's worth
and having died off in north africa...

now's the time to stop looking through
a darwinistic: famous detail of:
the peeled banana on the inner-sleeve...
the root or yellow...
teasing you unpeeled for all that was
the velvet, the velvet and the underground...
a very pushy bladder...
i mean: fickle bladder little gremlin
with a yappy-yappy for a mouth...
and it's not the sort of mouth that echoes:
hungry! hungry!
the sort of mouth, though...
give it the plumber...
                          
        how very pedestrian of me.

.how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...

)            that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:

i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...

after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...

but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...

current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...

there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...

somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...

sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...

which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...

and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...

perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...

this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...

not when you're walking: and trying not to think...

also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...

and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...

i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...  

but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:

act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.

id est:

act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...

o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?

i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...

water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)

or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!

the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...

there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (

since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:

stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...

all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...

this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...

that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...

it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...

but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:

when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...

even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...

perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...

superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...

perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!

perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...

walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...

this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...

since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?

how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se -

yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...

i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...

now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.

i generally feel constipated... that's probably
the best word to use... constipated...
   i was sitting in Warsaw's modlin
airport, and it felt, very much like
a scene from james tissot's painting:
  the ruins (inner voices).
i just kept admiring this guys
     beard,
  in western lingo he'd be classified
as hipter...
             **** me! so much ***** hair!
resurgence of my beard-envy...
  my my, if i only donned such a bush,
i'd be the first one on the dancefloor
peacocking a ******* of sweat and leather
grit...
    alas! not to be.
       a thought concerning a cottage
and a return to the countryside did shine
for a bit... how i remembered having
a russian girlfriend and how i couldn't
see a larionov, or a tatlin, or a goncharova...
  or a mashkov...
           a kuprin... a konchalovsky...
    shukhatev ****** grigoriev...
i also call that: predating the selfie,
  via ilya repin...
           see?! constipation...
      i'm literally bound to heave this tomb of
past lives, expected to recount some chess-prodigy
or some other, chess-komtur.
                     for the help of god i can't ease out
a **** into the toilet that's supposed to be
human history, for the love or antagonism of:
the abstract deity...
     back when it meant concrete things:
hades the shadow-******, zeus the lightning bolt
  and incarnate libido-starved swan,
poseidon and juiced up knicker-oysters
    of a woman's genitals... so they came:
with their floral pattern analogies!
                        my, and what a worldly invitation
that came to be... niqab bound, or by western standard:
  a little more than the pauper's veil...
     enough dough to cage the poor women
and keep them motivated to live, that dull
         caricature everyone else knows to be life...
    i should have stood up and gave my
investment into jealousy, right there and then...
it's unfair that you have more ***** hairs
on your neck, cheeks and chin than i!
             oi! give me the same fertility gimmick!
that's me, and there's people doing cossack
adventures into outer-space...
                       it's like i want to laugh...
but i can't, because i'm suffocating on paper mâché...
yes, i feel constipated,
     if i'm to be called a civilised person,
and not a barbarian...
     i somehow, have to, ingest,
this backlog of human art,
     i have to know certain names
i might recall for a baby-shower congregation...
   and aphrodite gave us aphorisms...
               ****'s sake: anecdotes!
  that's me being a civilised creature...
  but still that ****** constipation...
   there's never enough: because there's too much of it!
and if you cite this painter, outside of Poland:
  matejko...
                                 you'll probably have
a saint's'-feast day named after you...
i really feel bloated...
           i have too much human history to account for,
it's always a case of juggling some grieving
priority...
      as is the loss of experiencing the everyday
pH 7 body temp. 36.6°C...
             i am literally forced into taking up
the role of censor...
     to look cool and not admire the statue of david,
or make a pilgrimage to the Louvre to see Mona Lisa...
a peacock's tail on a flamingo strutting toward
a ****** drama of *******...
               once more, this constipation,
  and this fake, as if: i'm supposed to be thankful for
the ****** inheritance... i ain't!
     take those masterpieces to the grave,
                 while i try to re-apply myself to
creating a thing of beauty from playdough...
                most people never get the idea
of rust, let alone dust...
          thankfully the two words rhyme,
and thus the easier singalong congregation:
   of the ores... sunset hue man,
              extracted brown and burgundy from
polished grey metal...
                and himself laid rest:
              among the sneezing myopic worms
to never be clarified by moth or butter-winged;
so persistent is this cultural constipation
               that it's hard making a footprint
on uncharted land, worth the cool...
           and of those places where culture stomped
as a fascist brute...
                                so much for culture,
that there's this backlog of people expressing
culture, with so many people willing to forget it...
     without a genetic preordinance:
try telling your mechanic father, or plumber
that you're an artist...
                ah **** it... let's end this poem like
a scene from a gang-****...
                               ugly... ugly...
egalitarian... but nonetheless ugly....
                                    i have a museum's worth of
****... and that really is: the prognosis
                              for the next 100 years,
or what's called: undistrubed peace,
   or a piecing together of organising the next
propaganda umbrella, worthy of the noun: zeitgeist.

They said my lines were weak
So I learned not to speak
     I decided not to speak

Now the lines are stuck in my mind
Driving me insane
Stay in your lane

I'm a girl who loves to dance
Yet too afraid to give it a chance
Utterly bored with myself
Wishing to purely connect

Aching for
the courage
the tools
the words
To get out of this rut

All my ideas swirl into gray lines
That fill my mind
And fuel the emptiness
That keeps me from feeling alive
Left only with a penchant for pleasing

I just laugh it off
Then cry dry tears at night
Where did I go?
Can you see me?
I'm lost in the monotony
Can you save me?
Can I save me?

I think I lack a life
And feel dead from the neck up
But it's easy to see
I don’t give a ****

No
No
No

No motivation
Just constipation
Mostly
*******
Pay no attention
To my frustration
Breaking my concentration

I can't find a job
Must admit I don’t look hard
I wanna fix my ways
But I don’t know where to start

No
No
No

No motivation
Just constipation
Mostly
*******
Pay no attention
To my frustration
Breaking my concentration

I'm evil
I'm twisted
My train ride
I  missed it
I wanna
Get better
I'm writing
This letter

Dear reader,
I can't get outta my own way
And I have nothing to say
About the person I am
But help me if you can
Or maybe I shouldn't change why should I rearrange
I like who I am
So ******* man

No
No
No

No motivation
Just constipation
Mostly
*******
Pay no attention
To my frustration
Breaking my concentration

Get that **** out
don't let it stay in
building up, soiling
inside and rotting
like the mold on a loaf of bread
ignored on the shelf
for two weeks
too long.

Get that **** out
for what seems to come out
of your ******* to you
may just be that
lost, buried treasure
another has finally found,
and oh how they might worship it
your magnificent ****.

and my soul fell through the hole in my soul which fell through my *******.
                                                                ­                                  signed:
                       ­                                                                 ­                    -abe da babe linkin.