[Dedicated to Austin Osman Spare]

Have pity ! show no pity !
Those eyes that send such shivers
Into my brain and spine : oh let them
Flame like the ancient city
Swallowed up by the sulphurous rivers
When men let angels fret them !

Yea ! let the south wind blow,
And the Turkish banner advance,
And the word go out : No quarter !
But I shall hod thee -so !
While the boys and maidens dance
About the shambles of slaughter !

I know thee who thou art,
The inmost fiend that curlest
Thy vampire tounge about
Earth's corybantic heart,
Hell's warrior that whirlest
The darts of horror and doubt !

Thou knowest me who I am
The inmost soul and saviour
Of man ; what hieroglyph
Of the dragon and the lamb
Shall thou and I engrave here
On Time's inscandescable cliff ?

Look ! in the plished granite,
Black as thy cartouche is with sins,
I read the searing sentence
That blasts the eyes that scan it :
"**** and SET be TWINS."
A fico for repentance !

Ay ! O Son of my mother
That snarled and clawed in her womb
As now we rave in our rapture,
I know thee, I love thee, brother !
Incestuous males that consumes
The light and the life that we capture.

Starve thou the soul of the world,
Brother, as I the body !
Shall we not glut our lust
On these wretches whom Fate hath hurled
To a hell of jesus and shoddy,
Dung and ethics and dust ?

Thou as I art Fate.
Coe then, conquer and kiss me !
Come ! what hinders? Believe me :
This is the thought we await.
The mark is fair ; can you miss me ?

See, how subtly I writhe !
Strange runes and unknown sigils
I trace in the trance that thrills us.
Death ! how lithe, how blithe
Are these male incestuous vigils !
Ah ! this is the spasm that kills us !

Wherefore I solemnly affirm
This twofold Oneness at the term.
Asar on Asi did beget
Horus twin brother unto Set.
Now Set and Horus kiss, to call
The Soul of the Unnatural
Forth from the dusk ; then nature slain
Lets the Beyond be born again.

This weird is of the tongue of Khem,
The Conjuration used of them.
Whoso shall speak it, let him die,
His bowels rotting inwardly,
Save he uncover and caress
The God that lighteth his liesse.

By day the skyscraper looms in the smoke and sun and
     has a soul.
Prairie and valley, streets of the city, pour people into
     it and they mingle among its twenty floors and are
     poured out again back to the streets, prairies and
     valleys.
It is the men and women, boys and girls so poured in and
     out all day that give the building a soul of dreams
     and thoughts and memories.
(Dumped in the sea or fixed in a desert, who would care
     for the building or speak its name or ask a policeman
     the way to it?)

Elevators slide on their cables and tubes catch letters and
     parcels and iron pipes carry gas and water in and
     sewage out.
Wires climb with secrets, carry light and carry words,
     and tell terrors and profits and loves--curses of men
     grappling plans of business and questions of women
     in plots of love.

Hour by hour the caissons reach down to the rock of the
     earth and hold the building to a turning planet.
Hour by hour the girders play as ribs and reach out and
     hold together the stone walls and floors.

Hour by hour the hand of the mason and the stuff of the
     mortar clinch the pieces and parts to the shape an
     architect voted.
Hour by hour the sun and the rain, the air and the rust,
     and the press of time running into centuries, play
     on the building inside and out and use it.

Men who sunk the pilings and mixed the mortar are laid
     in graves where the wind whistles a wild song
     without words
And so are men who strung the wires and fixed the pipes
     and tubes and those who saw it rise floor by floor.
Souls of them all are here, even the hod carrier begging
     at back doors hundreds of miles away and the brick-
     layer who went to state's prison for shooting another
     man while drunk.
(One man fell from a girder and broke his neck at the
     end of a straight plunge--he is here--his soul has
     gone into the stones of the building.)

On the office doors from tier to tier--hundreds of names
     and each name standing for a face written across
     with a dead child, a passionate lover, a driving
     ambition for a million dollar business or a lobster's
     ease of life.

Behind the signs on the doors they work and the walls
     tell nothing from room to room.
Ten-dollar-a-week stenographers take letters from
     corporation officers, lawyers, efficiency engineers,
     and tons of letters go bundled from the building to all
     ends of the earth.
Smiles and tears of each office girl go into the soul of
     the building just the same as the master-men who
     rule the building.

Hands of clocks turn to noon hours and each floor
     empties its men and women who go away and eat
     and come back to work.
Toward the end of the afternoon all work slackens and
     all jobs go slower as the people feel day closing on
     them.
One by one the floors are emptied... The uniformed
     elevator men are gone. Pails clang... Scrubbers
     work, talking in foreign tongues. Broom and water
     and mop clean from the floors human dust and spit,
     and machine grime of the day.
Spelled in electric fire on the roof are words telling
     miles of houses and people where to buy a thing for
     money. The sign speaks till midnight.

Darkness on the hallways. Voices echo. Silence
     holds... Watchmen walk slow from floor to floor
     and try the doors. Revolvers bulge from their hip
     pockets... Steel safes stand in corners. Money
     is stacked in them.
A young watchman leans at a window and sees the lights
     of barges butting their way across a harbor, nets of
     red and white lanterns in a railroad yard, and a span
     of glooms splashed with lines of white and blurs of
     crosses and clusters over the sleeping city.
By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars
     and has a soul.

there's always that trailing off i get when i write,
oh god, whiskey is a ******...
    it drags you like a mermaid to the depths,
i start to feel an anchor in my mind
even though my heart is steady-numb...
   and i evidently become slightly dyslexic...
  but hey! what can you do:
     either drink and be miserable,
  or drink and unfold with terrible spelling at
the end of a session... and feel shame the next
day, having seen the outpouring
from the previous night...
      better still... i could recommend tending to
a small vine-patch...
and like me: taking a break from whiskey once
a year and drinking your own produce...
    unless of course you have a local turkish shop
nearby that sells out-dated beer
  at half the price... let me tell you:
that's ****** marvelous... nothing like
out-dated beer... it's right up there with the rollercoaster
and the kick! my my! it's so sudden...
      but it hits the spot,
all the disorientative effects of mushrooms:
without excess Dali lodged in your eyes...
so yeah, out-dated beer... double the trip...
but today is different, i have about 30 litres of
home-made wine just ready to be drunk,
   i've downed one bottle and i'm running
errands with the next... but i'm not miserable
in that i'm washing away my sorrows...
the funny thing about making your own wine
is that once you drink it: you celebrate...
you start to think about all the effort you put
into making it... how you picked the grapes from
the vine, how you squashed the grapes,
how you stood bedazzled by melting sugar
        in a little bit of water over the stove
(and how it started looking very much like
heavy water, or mercury, but see-through) -
and how you sniffed the stench of yeast,
and then waited for a month or so for the ****** thing
to take up strength...
   and now you're drinking it...
                    oh yes... wine in essex is very much
agreeable... and my my: i am really celebrating this
endeavour... it's not as fake as going to the shop
and buying a bottle of wine... i am drinking
my own work... i am celebrating, there's no god
or omen in the world that can tell me otherwise...
    i waited a year for this, well: two...
i don't know what happened last year, i mistimed...
the grapes froze, there was a sudden surge of frost
and i was really upset because of it, 2 years ago
i was drunk like a skunk for several days
and wrote some poems in between,
      and put my own wine on the christmas table,
but since i was ****** for so long, i could only
showcase one bottle...
      well they do say there are spirits out there,
and i must say: wine, esp. your own really is
the veritas, as the saying goes: in vino veritas...
    bring it back to whiskey, or Ms. Amber as i like
to call her... she's not sour, and she's pulverising,
so she's no friend of the tongue... in case you're wondering
i'd like to call herr goebbels right now...
         but can you feel a shame of having misspelled a word
drunk, because your hands started to feel
   a bit like a daddy longlegs with one or two legs missing?
in terms of the keyboard...
what are the prime digits?
right hand: ******* - ****! now my hands feel conscious
of me talking about them...
middle and thumb (for the spacebar) -
   index finger for the opening bracket (  
pinky finger for the enter button -
                 to make room for the next line -
which makes me wonder about my left hand,
it would appear that i'm left handed when before
the keyboard -
   the main provocators are the index
middle and... surprise surprise! the ring finger!
the left hand thumb sometimes does
                       use the space bar also...
the the right hand ring finger is hardly used...
i remember watching my doctor type at a keyboard once...
a bit like a crow pecking... it went like this:
index (right) index (left)
    index (right) index (left)
               index (right) index (left) - it was agony...
it was a bit like standing at a supermarket cashier with
an old lady in front of you, buying butter and milk
and talking for an hour while counting her change...
   ageism? no! just your typical life-bound comedy of
how the stats stack... we spend this many years in traffic...
and my, the hand thing...
       yep, next thing you'll - aha! there is the ring-finger
utility in the right hand after all - it comes with words
that come shortened, i.e. you'll... the ' mark,
and also the backspace button...
                  i was going to say: (the shift button?
pinky owns it) - as the great kabbalists have this fetish
of looking at your hands, it's worthwhile to note down
this geography of the keyboard...
   they'd just point at the indententions of the hand
and spew words out like: girdle of venus...
     malkhut (silent h) -
                 which brings to mind:
   we already know the name is silent,
  since you might be served an indian dish called
dhal... and in fact you would be served such a dish,
but you'd only say you ate daal... or dāl...
then again that's also true with the pedant puritan
who'd note it as: dhāl... which is funny that this isn't
merely coincidental... a language that doesn't
use diacritical marks, and has a third arm sticking out
of it in terms of what letters remain silent (but are
inserted into words nonetheless), and a concentration
of the same rubik's "cube" akin to y and w...
      y and i are so close! you can almost feel them pushing
together, or giving birth to something!
  why?! why?!
                         (insert snigger)... drunk humour:
it gets the better of me sometimes...
   so yes, that thing about kabbalists and the hand thing,
other words could be included, like: keter,
               bina(h),             gevura(h),  
strangely enough Hod...   tiferet (what a beautiful word),
    yesod....     chok(h)ma(h)...   chesed...
netzach! hey! surfing u.s.a., i think i'll bring my banjo
to sniff out whether i'm part of the scene:
dangle dangle plop plop... ah poo...
                   p pi po'h...           and last weekend
we had snow... it scared the bejesus out of people
for a while, but things returned to normal nonetheless...

- interlude -

the tyranny of being conscious...
long recognised by eastern philosophy and the practice
of meditation...
  to be away from me...
        and they do so, splendid,
and then all toward vanity, given you're forced
into dreaming... so even when you're not even
conscious... i.e. unconscious...
   you're being fed a dream...
  and however disroted that you in the dream
is... there's still you...
oddly enough: if i make thinking = dreaming
   i can honestly say: i wish i dreamed more
than i thought... me not a mighty oratory gob
after all...
            evidently doing hallucinogenics
   was to excavate the dream into the waking hour...
and that's how i'll leave this interlude,
   i just imagine andy warhol testifying about fame
at the opera...
   or that's me bound to watching:
   alain de botton... or what does need diacritical
marks: alain dé bóttą...
                        dé bóttą... the art of travel,
                    on the QE2...    
      dé bóttą! oh the marvel, French of all languages
is nasal and glottal! when speaking Polish you
might as well be talking in razors...
                  Greek and lisp, English and Cockney rhyme...
and the lost trill of the R... R hollowed out...
                and once again to modern times:
the imperial march (darth vader's theme) vs.
     beethoven's 9th symphony...
                                                             tra la la -
both as universally acknowledged as the sound of
a ****... and perhaps a pigeon's coo-woo
                                                                                       -

...the interlude actually contains what ignited me to
write... drinking aside, but drinking too...
   in all too a great happiness that somehow i live
a life that asks for narrative minimalism,
               i can say: and in between i did **** all,
i thought profanity was necessary,
            and how i'd wish i'd have written a epic
like don quixote... but then i thought: keep it real,
keep it real... av a laugh...
                           i'll probably taste the sour from the wine
sometime soon, once the narrative becomes a Gobi
and i get worked about the eventual loss of
   a carpe diem quickie...
                           but it's still there, for the moment...
        and having realised that: it's gone.
               and i did say:
    by the personnae principle, in line with not writing out
a Tolstoy, i have to admit that i never know
who i encounter in my exploits...
            and there is a personnae principle at work here,
it's not Shakespeare, that much i know,
   it's the practice of personnae incorporation that
does away with: and Titus said:
                                      veni! vidi! vendredi!
(oi oi, enough of the French static, ya ponce!)
          so that's that, poetry has come to resemble
   modern art... given the personnae principle
we have done away with all the intricacies of
        writing a Shakespearean play...
Titus - lo!
   Anthony - a plum tree!
                          as a person competent with narratives
i ask for all people to leave the building...
   a pit of tongues i might also add...
      populo in singuli!       ah freckles and ash...
it has to be: pertaining to the vulgate...
   nothing better than speaking illiterate latin ol' boy...
  a bit like richard brautigan
writing the pill versus the springhill mine disaster -
there the buds of the concept personnae (without clear
indication that we are dealing with a crowd,
so no memorable quote or character, the narrator
is trying to keep his **** together, pardons for the laziness
and lack of indicative marks that there are actually
more people in the room than could be expected...
me and drunk me make up a thousand crude-essentials
as to what is intended to imply: having a good time) -
    sometimes poetry is just that: a quickened code for
acting, albeit without any character-study,
        or diet, or paparazzi...  and it's so quick... you've
watched a movie like a mosquito lived its life and you're
writing the credits...
       like richard brautigan wrote that poem -
      when you take your pill
           it's like a mine disaster.
       i think of all the people
      lost inside of you.
richard brautigan! richard brautigan!
this is the mine disaster company, over!
         yes, we number 34 souls in total.
       and there's your thesis! it must be hard to
write "poetry" and never, not once: experience
the Styx in your travels, the pit of tongues,
         or the personnae principle...
              always bound to rigid narrative constructs,
alway having an aliby with a 'he said it!'
          it must get horrid sometimes,
   living that life of a puppeteer / narrator -
     never really drunk with pesky humour -
       never once enjoing a wicked thought -
        a meddle on the omnius frivolity of life...
but personally? i find it almost bewildering that
of all the ancient Greek gods... Hades was homeless...
that's before Hades was a noun designating a place,
a realm... i just find it hard
to believe that of all the gods, Hades didn't have a temple...
    the only god from ancient greece that didn't
have a temple... sure, they had a statue of him,
  but there was no temple to see to benediction...
now i really think i've over-stepped it...
                     the wine is imploring me to end this
polyphonic nonsense, and think of a monophonic
sound of a woodpecker... relax... think of the sound
when wood is chopped...
      relax... forget this circus of what could be
described as a theoretical exploration of a schizophrenic
symptom... think of a monty python sketch...
        calm



                                                                                 .

i may be a catholic apostate who did not
take too lightly in being confirmed,
and even though i studied chemistry to a degree
level, i find a welcome break,
an armchair metaphor in studying
esoteric materials, because they simply bring
that kind of comfort, and a complete
lack of rigour that allows so much to shine
through...

like my discovery of the sign of the cross
in the Sefirot...
        again, i have to stress that i have
a fetish for the Deutschezunge and Hebrew
in theology, for i could never fall to my knees
before the one most despised by the Jews,
how could i?
          i required Hebrew literature,
and may i add: the study of kabbalah has
proven to be, after all the trials,
a very scientific endeavour into
the mechanisation of language...
        trans-linguistic is would appear...
i simply can't return to the mundane world
of either prayer or mantra...
     that's below me, plus it erodes the memory,
with its rubrics of said words
unnecessarily recited...
  forgive me, but it's one thing to
remember the necessary words
only when something is conjured and appears,
and another to conjure nothing
more than a missing poetic cannibalism...
which christianity invokes:
poetic cannibalism...
             sorry, no, the bread is stale and
the wine has been watered down,
you drink my blut -
              fermentation of rye and barley
and wheat... have a sucker pouch for
a glass of whiskey...
                  bread?
      swallow some lead pebbles...
                       i can't deal with this *******
lightly, i tread along this route with shackles
clinging, swaying, breaking silence upon
silence within silence that's an enigma...
              
but i found something of interest,
  the sign of the cross in the supposed
"tree of death"...
                  for i have nothing left in me
than the admiration of a Hebrew...
       or as i like to call them: the Hebraï...
      i.e. not the indian raj,
          but the mingling of ray with ri-fe,
    the former bit of the puzzle...
             i wish i could return, sometimes,
but most of the time i'm unabashed
in not fathoming if not merely forming an
apology...
  there truly are greater reasons beyond
the catholic church's ******* priest...
           just today three pubescent girls walked
up to me in the deathly hollow of
the night and asked for direction...
  just doll like features, barely 13...
          porcelain in moonlight from the fat
on their cheeks glistening and bouncing off them...
i merely replied: for the love of god
i do not know the street you're trying
to find... Waverley Avenue?!
   i know of Waverley St., but it's up in
Edinburgh! with that touristy greeting
of a scot in proper attire playing the bags!
anyway... back to the "primitive"
concerns...

              | in the name |
                         keter
                  ehyeh asher ehyeh

    | of the son |
               tiferet
           beauty, YHWH,

       because wasn't it beautiful?
look how much beauty arose from
the crucifixion, am i not right?
  the son is always depicted as beautiful,
esp. under the powers of
      torturous event, esp. then...

  | and the father |

binah, gevurah, hod vs.
       chokhmah, chesed, netzach...

   oh, wait... ****!
it would appear that i'm the sort of person
unashamed of showing mistakes,
or to put it "mildly": glorifying them in being
included,
   for the only end-product is one filled
with imperfections...
         after all, the prime philosophical
narrative drive is: inconsistency,
albeit inconsistency visible,
not the end-product, polished version...
i simply remembered a wrong
version of the trinitarian formula...

once again, maestro, hit me!

and it will spread to the north
                             first,
then to the west,
then to the east,
and last: unto the south bound
      (the geography of the trinitarian
formula).

being an apostate at least i got
the beginning correct:

              | in the name |
                         keter
                  ehyeh asher ehyeh

  | of the father |
     there ought to be a dispute
given the crown of myrrh...
   irony serves god best,
namely? what king serve a kingdom
sanely with such an object,
what is a crucifix compared to a throne?
hence?
      the father is the foundation
      (yesod)
  rather than the kingship (malkhut) -
that's one for riddling the zealots
and teaching liberalism...
         the heart of the father teaches
a foundation,
since, as the common saying goes:
the woman wears the trousers.

  | and of the son |
this is where it becomes complicated...
was it really the son's
final statement to express love (chesed)?
what sort of person admires a self-imposed
masochism?
               there are two rubrics at work
here...
  binah                            chokhmah
   (understanding)           (wisdom)
gevurah                    &       chesed
(strength)                               (love)
hod                                     netzach
(splendour)                          (victory)

| and the holy spirit |
   what is singular in transmission,
and what allows a collectivism of
these six traits?
        not understand,
       not splendour, not love, not wisdom,
perhaps strength,
  but surely a vision of victory...

| in the name of the son |
who is the son, when characterised the most
with said attributes?

tiferet (beauty) abides by the world,
and is, the world.

           | amen |
            malkhut,
               kingship!
finally! the relation of the crown
to the kingship via but a single word.

| and of the son |
or perhaps it is that citation upon
the cross: my father's house will be a house
of prayer: that self-assurance of victory
(netzach)... which could only revel in

   | and of the holy ghost |
   as being both gevurah & hod
(strength & splendour) respectivelym
what with the strength of an enduring religion,
and the opulence of the churches
bleeding ornament gold...
marble... silver...
  
yet the reason why the son clashes with
the holy ghost is because:
the father is unrelated in the concept
of a trinity, for so much of him belong
to the Jew, and not the slandered Gentile,
as the Gentile was slandered by the mouth
of the son...
                  
      at least the "father" is clearly related
to the following Sefirot dynamic:

     keter (crown) = malkhut (kingship) /
yesod (foundation) = tiferet (beauty)

the "son" is paralysed from this dynamic,
there's not beauty in a crucifix,
even if gilded in gold...
                    or managed by marble sculpture
macabre of the penitent madonna..
          
already the crown, the crown of myrrh
is a bad joke, the throne a hanging instrument
a torture another, bad joke,
     there is no foundation in that image,
the foundation is more scientific,
  a droplet of saliva on some glucose,
for example...
    and the beauty?
              how about exchanging two gorgeous
torture symbols to cowbell dangle
iron maidens?!

  i have the luxury of studying religious texts,
since i paid my allegiance to studying
science to the age of 21...
       i have this luxury,
              i did the science,
but now i have to attempt the ultimate
humanism: a study of religion...
but given the times:
                it's hardly nonsensical
to attempt such a feat.

Magical and inspiring
All my heart lies in the tips of my fingers

The memories of where they've been
The hearts they've traced
The skins they've ached to dance against

The language in which they speak
A language in which they are fluent
A language that is foreign and ever adaptive

So much sensory intake
So much motor output
All in the most neglected place

Finger tips left neglected
For actions of rushed intentions

All that is needed is to hod my hand
All that is wanted is a warmth
A fire that won't die when the night gets too cold

I don't need the wind through my hair
I don't to be exhausted by emotion
I just need to feel that my heart can still race

I just want a circulatory high
I want something no money can buy
I want the euphoria that no drug can provide

This poem is about a night out on the beer which almost went horribly
wrong



I put out my hand and touched the face of God,
. . .bit of a surprise, really, I was expecting my Hod.
Lying on the floor, thinking it was my bed,
Coated in *****, face down, arms spread.
I've ****** my trousers, shat my keks,
A natural reaction, to twenty three pints of Becks.
Stumbling through Cambridge, I can't find the Site,
I know it's around here, first left or third right. . .
Crashing through hedges, I've forgot how to walk,
I can't ask for directions, I'm unable to talk.
So, I'll go no further, here I'll sit tight,
Sneak back to the caravan, when dawn sheds her light.

I didn't feel the cold, the damp creeping through,
Best shirt, Purple Chino's and I'm missing a shoe.
It's my dancing outfit, for impressing and posing,
Ideal for the Nightclub, not alfresco dozing.
The temperature plummets, I'm giving it "Big Zeds"
Dreams of warm women and petal-strewn beds,
Breathing gets shorter, body starts to shut down,
I'm sweating buckets, beginning to drown.

Ronnie, the Night-watchman, knows I must be in trouble,
In an hour and a half, I'm due back on the shovel,
To keep the lads happy, with bricks and fresh Pug
And barrows of concrete, poured into trenches I dug.
Under an Elm Tree, thirty yards from the job,
Ronnie catches sight of this prone Northern yob.
He doesn't panic, just yet, he knows what to do,
He's seen it before, when a body turns blue.
Those First-Aid Classes, when he told us he was fishing. . .
Vital signs are checked, I'm in the Recovery Position.
Ron holds my nose, lifts my head off the floor,
. . .then he kissed me , in a way , that I'd never been kissed before.

P-Pacifying storms with a soothing balm
E-Ever subduing the tempest's hod of harm
A-Allaying our minds of the raging alarm
C-Ceasing thunderous sounds with a palm
E-Earth dwellers seek a road to tranquil calm

it’s not that i hate film literary film adaptations, but only one adaptation made me want to read the book: stendhal’s the scarlet and the black (starring ewan mcgregor and rachel weisz).*

i don’t in a respective romanic auditorium
with toga donning senators
walking to egyptian flutes from the cleopatra’s entourage
gleaming old fames as to prove the pyramids
and sphinxes were above in the hierarchy of awe
to the iodine and hod on papyrus,
to give these localities the respectable aura of re-,
i take to hammock’s kenotic and burial’s untrue:
the former feeds the northern feel of autumnal london
suburbia and the latter the southern quarter,
but never mind that, it’s already minded and eerie.
i watched the screenplay adaptation of empire of the sun today,
i have to say, i was jerking up the thought
of salty rain rather than acid rain on the environmental
perfusion surprise - so i ****** a jamaican fake on the hopscotch bonnet
mascaraed on the eyes, or the romantic tears of cutting an opinion,
but honesty... honesty! three scenes made me push my
manhood away from the stench of molten iron of the army:
the was the protagonist sang the song of the kamikaze
just after they downed a shot of koji and started singing
just after doing the flap-your-hands-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care
salutations of encouraged nihilism.
it’s the editing part of the film, how the boy’s voice overpowers
everything else and becomes “monotone” against all other sounds,
the dignity of the boy’s enviousness and admiration
for the kamikaze... even in captivity! by god, what a scene!
the other scene that haunted me to near tear
was when the prisoners entered the cemetery of hoarded
valuables by the japanese upon invasion of shanghai
and taking from notables the jewellery chandeliers and cars
(pianos too): after seeing the prisoners familial in captivity
exchanging cabbage heads for cigarettes
proving what the world would be like without the existence of money...
i thought of the familial “humbling” of the people in captivity,
and the sheer haunt of the same prisoners returning
to a world they so dearly lost - in that each to his own
piano and mercedes benz, that neo-tribalism of earn earn spend
frivolity and self-interest that democracy prescribes
allocating us each a tomb of fancies (and sometimes the odd *****).
but the most striking thing became apparent - in these
japanese prisoner of war camps... the prisoners didn’t wear uniforms...
i can understand if those in power adorn uniforms,
but the oddity of the prisoners not having uniforms is quite
positively giggly sinister... given the fact that the other sinisterness
is when there’s a prison camp and those in power
wear uniforms and those imprisoned are also tailored for.
i see a major libra of power in all this,
for if the prisoners are not tailored for denoting their collectivisation
as in status of prisoners... then there’s a certain freedom in all of it,
like on the grander scale, in society, where the politicians,
the overseers only wear suits and the communities differentiate
themselves with hawaiian floral tattoos on t-shirts and tourist slogan ones too:
it’s almost as if the ultimate leniency of power was being exercised
not having to wear prisoner uniforms in the japanese pow camps,
unlike the pinstripe ones of auschwitz - as some collectivisation
of guilt within ideological framework rather than the opposite:
wrong place at the wrong time.
the last tear i got? well the music on the credits reel pulverised
by the images of a son re-recognising his mother by touchy touchy.
conclusively? better on your mother’s *** and able to cook too
than on the cooking *** of a wife and with two left hands preferring
the hot topic of takeaway or restaurants - hunter gatherer died -
me belly full of berry - how is it that **** sapiens is also called
**** perderus awhile the tortoises saturated achilles with peace and thought
and no chance of martian glory telling him of zeno’s paradox?

you will soon understand the point, or rather the worthwhile point of investing in the right places, notably books, and notably the essentials of solomon's music filled harems, for you will treat both book and apple alike, how can my contemporaries feel no void in their piracy, in their cheapness, and not expect their thieving to not catch-up with them... the whole lot of them would emerge as philistines, unless of course, they are dumb enough not to congregate on the plateau of genuine commerce, and feel that by stealing artistic outputs they can suddenly surround themselves with brick walls and call them the ursulas in the hermitage admiring artwork, while at the same time forging copies and remaining entrapped, a world whereby suddenly plumbers don't get paid! there's a reason why music companies exist, they are P.R. dynamics, you think that any artist would be lifted from the hades, on a mere whim, or mere admiration by a few? piracy of the content doesn't help, at least with these P.R. companies the crumbs from the table, but when people turn anarchic, the artists are eating ****, and the more **** they eat, the more people are left with nostalgic content, nothing new, nothing explorative, because the contemporary artists suddenly brake rank say to the people like the people once said to the kings & queens: *******! shove that 20th century content up yer gobs and call it sunshine!

i can't say that heidegger's L, VI didn't spur me on
to begin this dragon's breath worth of vitriol
and scolding agitation,
come on, what's this supposed "lived experience"
these days, what is apparently "lived"
is nothing short of the disorientating
"dasein" of journalism...
        we can't even live the basic facts,
always regressing toward an "evolution",
always starting with some sort of
"mutating" presence & adding a superiority
complex...
  we killed of the neanderthals... but kept the apes,
so there goes the "missing link"
argument...
    i wish we kept the neanderthals and
made bush monkey fufu with the apes,
at least we could have authentic slave archetypes
from the neanderthal class of humanoids...
but no, slaughter the **** similis,
and keep the biodiversity of the apes...
how does that work again?
    you're tell me we killed the missing link,
and kept the darwinian vanity project
of the "****" speculo (mirroring man) so we
can write "poetry" with respect to other animals?!
so let me guess, a lot of women wouldn't
really like the black widow spider / mantis
comparison... of course they wouldn't,
but we still make all the other compliments via
a "comparison"...
  why **** off the missing link,
  why **** off all the tarzans that might have
told us: actually, the origin of the eskimos
comes from japanese macaque...
so no: not everyone came from ibrahim nigeria,
you **** dollop of custard for a brain!
don't get communist on me with
a collective history, **** of a common origin:
you have your big "bang" theory -
like you'd hear a "bang" in vacuum...
          enough! of this clowning around!
i agree with this ****, the supposed "lived experience"
is a catchphrase that has become unbearable,
because the sediment of facts is gargantuan
that it's hard to break away from it,
there are no "facts" in the sense of a *lived experience
akin to: and i had my first kiss while i was
5 / 6, and she promised me what she
would never fulfill...
        that's not a "lived experience" event,
that's only hypothetical, a delusion, a fiction...
and at the tip of this atlas pivot pose is
this persistent, primarily insipid in persistence
darwinism...
       i don't live in a civilisation worthy of
no more credit, other than one that provided
the typography of a, zoo:
and darwinism is zoological psychologism
at best... came down to the alpha & the beta -
no wonder we have the alphabet sequence
that makes no sense at all...
        and no, i have no theological bearing with
this, i already equated god as a paraphrasing -
it's the humanism behind this coming-of-age
of populist science turned humanism onto
its humpty-dumpty head that bothers me!
for one, it would appear that thinking is no
longer qualified as being a lived "experience",
are we no longer living by essentially thinking?
evidently we're not;
hand on heart heidegger could not have
predicted his concept of dasein being *****
by the medium of journalism,
   in that journalism morphed the adrenaline
rush of being "there" -
         hence the necessary constant stream of
a global "narrative"...
        in all instances there was no "being" burdened
by a there, other than the being
burdened by a "there" - as common phraseology
suggests, e.g. in church witnessing an ex-girlfriend's
christening of her twins, with the person
sitting next to me exclaiming in a hushed
tone: you're not really here, are you?
   there's a "here"? i replied.
lived experiences my ***,
    after being bombarded with too many
scholastic secularism of hyper-factoid rainbow,
and the eroding of keeping personal memory,
after all that, and still the persistence of
this ****** trivia game shows where
"knowledge" is about storing information
and nothing but that, and why didn't the ancient
greeks, in their old age, worry about
killer proteins invading fat cells of the brain,
and "flexing der muscles for mental
gymnastics" ever worry that ol' alzhei mc. hammer
would be relevant?
     well, while looking at some of these
youtube view counts i start thinking:
  thank **** people are still *****,
so many children watching these brain-drains,
but to be honest these brain-drains can be
like stretching a rubber band, back into a puzzle...
but that's beside the point,
   everything i write is impromptu,
which reminds me of the title and content
originally intended... the sefirot...

   schematic!

  ultimately the keter = yesod = malkhut
(perfect calamity for a disatrous trinity)...
   and there is no person in the world, known to
man, who has achieved that... not even moses...

  then there are variations:

   binah yesod chesed (understanding the foundation
   of love)...

yesod chesed gevurah (the foundation of love is in
strength)...

binah tiferet hod (understanding beauty is in its
splendour)...

tiferet chesed chokhmah (beauty is the love of wisdom)...

yesod keter malkhut (foundation of the crown
resides in the kingship)  
  which is the antithesis of christianity...

chesed gevurah binah (love is the strength in
understanding)...

please make make me stop, but do you know
how many maxims you can obtain from
the sefirot?!

   let me show you the sefirot and you make
the other maxims that could contend with
the book of proverbs, and rest with
  what replaces the star of david; namely?
the hod of david,
   away from the jealous tip of solomon's keter.

                               keter

binah                                          chokhmah

 ­      gevurah                           chesed

                              tiferet

hod               ­                               netzach

                         ­     yesod

                              malkhut

p.s. netzach malkhut keter
         vs. netzach malkhut yesod

i.e. victory does not reside in kingship of a crown,
   rather, victory resides in the kingship
   of a foundation,

  and now i really love how that's
contradictory to what is but the remnant
of indoctrination, as the story suggests,
which is why these two books can't coexist
as one, it makes schizophrenic factories
all the more apparent,
   even in christianity, if you've assimilated
into a culture, but retain your "maiden"
tongue, your bilingualism is treated
like some mental disorder akin to
schizophrenia...
    again, only in england, me marx and engels
thinking up future horrors,
and it culminates in me...
  so... bilingualism is a psychiatric disorder?!
gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
lawrence, bring in the syrians and libyans,
we need to teach some lessons!

What is Fetch?
Instinct.
What is Instinct?
Need, desire, want.
To eat, to sleep, to drink, to dance.
To protect, to run, to hide, to fight.
***, Self, Passion, Pride, Power.
To create, to destroy.

What is Fetch?
Memory.
What is Memory?
Past, future, now.
What was known before it was lost.
What will be learned again.
Connections, links, guesses.
The womb.

What is Fetch?
Belief.
What is Belief?
Unconscious, not logical, faith.
Love, hate, desire, repulsion.
We know but we don’t know.
What do we know?

What is Fetch?
Victory.
What is Victory?
Netzach.
Overcoming, conquering, destroying.
Emotions, strong and weak.
Masculine, warrior, fighting.
Protecting, defending, overcoming.

What is Fetch?
Glory.
What is Glory?
Hod.
Embracing, surrendering, comforting.
Rational, understanding.
Feminine, lover, loving.
Overcoming by embracing.
Nurturing, mother, child.

What is Fetch?
Foundation.
What is Foundation?
Yesod.
***, ******, release.
Union, giving, receiving.
Masculine, feminine, together.
One, at one, united.
To fix, to establish, to lay a foundation.
To begin, to appoint, to ordain, to constitute.
To support oneself, to lean, to rest on one's arm.
Heaven and earth, crown and kingdom.
One, at one, united.
***.

What is Fetch?
***.
What is ***?
Power flowing, always changing.
Union, coming together.
Two become one, one is found in two.
Giving and receiving, receiving and giving.
Release.

What is Fetch?
Self.
What is Self?
Looking inward.
Loving who you are.
Standing firm, standing tall.
Self-contained, self-constrained.
Who am I?
Who are you?

What is Fetch?
Passion.
What is Passion?
What you love, what you do.
Giving all to what you love.
Emotions, feelings, strong and weak.
Embrace your feelings, embrace your loves.

What is Fetch?
Pride.
What is Pride?
Confidence, strengths and weaknesses.
Standing tall, standing firm.
Inner strength.
I know who I am.
I know my value.
I am valuable.
You are valuable.

What is Fetch?
Power.
What is Power?
Mana.
Energy pulsing, ever pulsing.
Change, power to change, power to be changed.
Be the change, be changed.
Power flowing, ever changing.
Be the change you want to see in the world.

What is Fetch?
Instinct.
Memory.
Belief.
Victory.
Glory.
Foundation.
***.­
Self.
Passion.
Pride.
Power.

What is Fetch?
Fetch.

Lock me up and feed me
through a shutter.
Devils in the carpet,
Wolves in the skirting,
Whales hanging from the ceiling

and:

I **** fire

and:

I crap boulders

And life is all about yesterdays
and tomorrows,
never about todays.
Time is not a line
It’s a rough cast brick- a
singularity of clay-
I am a clay man,
laden with a hod of
affliction and a weak
world view where
love is an abstraction
and affection a weapon.

Help me.

apologies for not inviting the hebrew text,
bit of an *** when encoded in html.

you never, ever! associate yourself
with the *keter, or the malkhut
of the etz ha-chayim (tree of life), ever!

why would i write such things,
if not for your own safety?
the last person who breached this rule
was yeshua...
   and what was the reward?
                    keter am-qowts -
                          a crown of thorns...

you have the 10 name association,
keter through to malkhut (from crown
to kingship) -
  but such are foundations for a god,
a bitter price to pay, should you
meditate on them...
   namely the crucifix - as the symbol
of kingship, and the crown,
  as already stated.

as men?
     what is important is the yesod,
the foundation...
   shaddai el chai... but look how much
choice you have!
    you can claim
   a yesod-bet-chokhmah
       (foundation in understanding),
a yesod-bet-binah
   (foundation in wisdom),
a yesod-bet-chesed
   (foundation in love),
   a yesod-bet-gevurah
  (foundation in strength),
  a yesod-bet-tiferet
   (foundation in beauty),
  a yesod-bet-netzach
   (foundation in victory),
    a yesod-bet-hod
   (foundation in splendor),
   you can have all that!
   and be free from associating yourself
in a despotism of allowing
    the keter (crown) and the malkhut
(kingship) to blind you,
  as it blinded yeshua...
    
    you are not to mediate the keter,
nor the malkhut,
   but only the yesod...
  as being man, that is all that's required
of you...
   for the keter, in man, is the kippah...
and for the malkhut in man,
                    is his home...
how these two names blind men
into seeking beyond their capacity
to attract the other names,
   in man, the names
  chokhmah, binah, chesed, gevurah,
tiferet, netzach & hod
can only come to an agreed
expression using only yesod...
but should man try to impose
the above names using primarily
keter & malkhut -
he will find himself, having forgotten
the foundation, the yesod,
that respects each virtues,
by always returning to the first step
of having seen,
   how an equilibrium can be
be appropriated, and mediated...

never mediate with the eyes of
avarice, that are known as:
                           keter & malkhut,
or what was the downfall of
   yeshua / jesus "christ".