i.

for the past few weeks i've been doing an experiment,
thankfully philosophy allows such things,
of course, they're deviations from what i'm used to
in chemistry, they're less, what's the word?
spectacular - but they are nonetheless experiments,
and that's the beauty of being grounded in some sort
of science (trinity of biology, chemistry and physics
and that's the limit, beyond this there are only
pseudo-sciences)... medicine? that's the tsarina of
learning: like any tsarina: gets down and *****,
and yes: mathematics is the genteel queen.
philosophy on the other hand seems like a vagabond
in learning, never really pieced together,
never really sentenced to a single direction:
and for that matter, thought can become less narration
that stretches into the sort of philosophy that Sartre
embodied with his novel, and more into thought becoming
experimental...
you might be wondering what the experiment consisted
of... well, over the weeks i've been sadistic unto myself,
it's to do with trying to figure out the modern curse
that's the 3D's: debt, depression, dementia.
                i can't fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey
cigarettes, sleeping pills and music playing in the background:
which would make me a terrible partner, anyway.
   beyond that though, for weeks i repeated a pattern,
i fell asleep to the *hellraiser ii: hellbound soundtrack
by christopher young...
       day-in-day out: as if to pressurise the idea that
the faculty of dreaming could be censored in the same way
that thinking is censored in liberal speech
eroding people's vocabulary, **** included.
     what i mean by that: every day i woke up with 15 minutes
of despair, then the zenith came after i lay in bed
for 4 hours and felt too many leeches ******* at me...
   those 15 minutes of despair were always there,
but then i usually got up and went about my daily business...
i admit that whiskey could be to blame,
anyone could argue the alcohol-is-bad argument,
but arguing as R. D. Laing might have that it's
also a sedative if you don't include social adhesion to loosen
the tension of going out and dancing:
then i don't see the point of saying it's all bad.
         sleeping pills (i found) are not 100% active without
what the prescription states that you should do:
i exceed limits, but then i write during the night -
            create a balance and i'm sure any insomnia
might be made minimal... anyway:
so i've been doing this roundabout experiment,
listening to the above album while falling asleep,
but then yesterday i decided to fall asleep listening to
godspeed you! black emperor's album F♯ A♯ ∞,
and guess what the experiment proved:
  i felt little or no anguish for 15 minutes,
obviously the usual groggy of a pseudo-hangover,
  but that doesn't mean staying in bed for 4 hours
because you feel **** about life 'n' all...
                   as already stated there's what we call
a cartesian dichotomy, that somehow altered mental
states cannot be translated into a physicality -
depression in this sort of language becomes lethargy -
people never seemed to connect the dots that
state the monism of everything having a pairing either
side of Humpty-Dumpty sitting on the ergo fence
asking about a flying omelette... ergo is a variation
of what precipitates... depression = lethargy...
the purest kind of what i know (i have enough psychiatric
literature to redeem myself from what would
be deemed quack-medicine with their quack doctors) -
some say that taking the vitamin B12 supplement
could help you: or that weak digestion is to blame, too.
i would be quack doctor if i was in a position of power,
and since i am not really earning anything from my
"poems", what sort of power can i abuse? trust -
but then again these are thought experiments,
           i first experiment on myself, then note down
the observations i have accounted for.
               so what will my unconscious eat today while
i switch off my consciousness? i was thinking of
the cure's disintegration album,
         perhaps that's why i did weeks of falling asleep
to a horror movie soundtrack, to later move into
neo-prog "rock" and then into 80s goth melancholia...
    i'd say that pop ****** melancholics off...
and such a nicer word for depression...
                   it's not even close to compression and has
nothing to do with aviation or the Netherlands...
     melan, melan: ah! melanism - a certain darkness,
    choly -         condition of darkness...
       and that star of Bethlehem appeared at night...
man of sorrows, well that's just blatant;
           but for all the romanticisation about darkness
and the mysterious moon and all the insomnia,
i still prefer the anti-cartesian explanation of actually
creating the proper answer to what has become
a dichotomy between the physical sciences and
the pseudo sciences, given that ergo is a precipitation
then for the two opposite to become inseparable
depression must be equal to lethargy: which is a variation
of the grander genus (family): metabolism.
               is this the point where i re-quote that famous:
doctor! heal yourself!
                                      well, if there's anything to go by
i have in my mind, given my life a prolonging in a way,
what was it... amitriptyline?
                                         the new ******* for
the respectably prone to citizenship's serenity of leaving
other people to their own demises -
  i mean, look at all the teetotalers: hyperactive bunnies
with too much energy that translated into things like
the infamous pyramids and the doubly infamous chimneys.

ii. the danish girl

i would have never thought that the transgender movement
had such a puritanism about it,
such platonism - nearing martyrdom;
who could have thought?! i only managed to see the film
today... i'm a sentimental ******* and i was choking
on not crying at the end of the film
here was a true representation of an artist,
         there's he (einar wegenar): a successful local
artist, within the confines of Copenhagen,
modestly famous: primarily because of having
perfected a technique and sourced it in a childhood
memory that keeps haunting him,
    thus he keeps repeating it, although with slight
alternation to refresh it, but no photograph to work
from, hence my previous statement:
  memory is the best cinema or arts' gallery (this
is not a universal statement, memory doesn't always
heal, or fascinate or have the ability to revitalises itself
or become the most potent "hallucinogenic" experience);
and then she's there (gerda wegener), also
painting, but more in line with paying the rent
rather than appeal, rich people needing portraits to
hang on the walls of the future of their lineage
        in years to come so someone might boast:
that was my ancestor, who founded the first bank
of Copenhagen sort of stories -
and all she wants to do is be an artist like Einar;
and she keeps coming back from galleries with her
works and they never give the critics any appeal
at being original - they have a suggestive generic
quality to them: precisely because they've been painted
for money. art is cruel in that way,
  when critics reduce producing art like they might reduce
being a cashier in a supermarket on the basis of:
job done... then comes the offense from the artist.
the beauty of this film is the platonism that soon explodes,
the near innocence... i really don't know how
the transgender movement borrowed from this:
all those Baphomet ******* with too many parts,
silicon chests and ***** and what not?
       this is one of the finest forms of defamation -
these days the transgender movement is so sexually
potent it doesn't really deserve what can only appear
as a self-imposed crucifixion...
              this story predates the unearthing of the nag
hammadi scripts, it's intuitively bound to what was
unearthed in 1945...
      einar sees the desperation of gerda, he knows
that he'll simply remain a local artist,
    bound to a square mile of earth, local, provincial
even... what he decides on is best expressed
by Marilyn Manson's lyrics: now i'm not an artist
i'm a ******* work of art.
        how can not this resonate further into the film
if not by this motto:
it is a consecration of a memory, to invert it and
un-seize the moment long ago experienced and now
fuelling art, or the repetition of a safe technique established.
one man's frustration and a woman in a cage:
the potential seen - then a sudden bursting of madness,
the evident anti-cross -
                                  to say he had reached his limits
and she was kept frustrated and under-appreciated is
blatant enough, this self-sacrifice for a woman to
find her subject, was all too evident when she utters
the words that: the student overcomes the teacher,
and that's the whole story,
                       he has to walk into the canvas,
     in whatever way imaginable, and what a better way
than on a whim to escape the dreariness of parties
   by dressing up as a woman, after gerda's model
is late so she can continue a painting and einar
has to step in and wear a few female garments...
       to later realise the Dionysian consequence:
                                  only to the utmost excess, from here.
this could hardly be a propaganda movie for
the transgender movement... the "propaganda"
aspect ends when you hear children imitating this
artistic "prank" in today's society...
      it wasn't a prank in the slightest: but a profound
expression of love between two artists...
          outside of art the whole transgender movement
is still only ***** and silicon **** of Thailand's lady-boys:
that's not reality?        
although i actually did choke with nearing to cry
in the closing scene...
    unlike the Christ story... there was no resurrection.
so hans and gerda travel to the place where
einar depicted the landscape in his revisions,
       and both of them are standing there
        and it's ****** pulverising with so much depth
upon being so little when reduced to a canvas
but because you see the painting first, do you later
see the landscape with more emotion...
     and i thought to myself: gerda will recreate
the landscape in her own eyes, she'll what he saw
and what he gave up for her to paint him in his
transformative (transfigurative) state of becoming
lili elbe...
                     that's why i was about to cry -
     that she could put lili aside, and return to /
resurrect the memory of einar the locally famous
artist... that she would apply the same technique in
painting lili / einar but turn her attention to
landscapes... as if to imply that both of them became
reunited before all the madness of life came chasing them
into extremes.
          to my dissatisfaction? after the film ended
and before the credits started rolling... postscriptum facts
after these true events... she continued to paint
lili / einar as she did, which prompted her to fame
on the Parisian estrade; after seeing that, written down?
tears? what tears... i'm actually thankful that i choked
on them and didn't do an outburst necessarily...
thank **** i wasn't watching the film alone!
     i know that i might have invoked a sense of:
rough around the edges with this description, but i'm hoping
it's abstract enough to make the film more potent:
filling the blanks with images;
still, this was used for a transgender movement?
                                                did he make it plainly obvious
that this was a transcendental transgender iconoclasm?
         it's the platonic element in it that steers this whole
story, away from what 21st century movements regard
as prototype for their ******.

A real monism
Can change
all the world

Philosophical epistemology strumming adventures
Albeit, coherent mental decoding stratifications structured
Supposedly our world rests in our minds, revolving knowledge
An entwine of conceptual abstract flowing within oneself
The mind in the “I” the “I” a reality lived in my experiences
George of Leontini, a mine mind approving solipsism exploring innatism
Imaginative insights that nothing exists, the secrets secreting secrets
The knowledge behind the veils that remains un-communicated
A reverse of normality and known existences, moral disposition
Hypothesis of depersonalizations, adventures of self internalization
Justifications for what lies outside the Medulla Oblongata
Skepticism and just alternatives to western philosophy
Subjective unapproved experiences only robust in one’s mind
Descartes abstraction of inner experiences, reciprocated paradigm
Intuitively, perceived lived formulations of "Cogito Ergo Sum"
Psychological conscious undoubted individualistic thoughts
Berkley explored perspectives that physicality is an embodiment of the mind
The mind a decoding visualizer, that encompass the non-existent
An idealism marriage of ‘metaphysical’ and epistemological philosophy
The intense esoteric “dualism” verses the fiery “monism” reality
Mind boggling differentiated truths bleeding with blinking unresolvable hypothesis
The jiggered methodological, streamlining the un -logic sequential beats

strange, there's always "the" truth, but always "a" lie... i never understood the monism of truth, and the pluralism of a lie (lies), what is interesting is that with the exclusion of articles: there's but one truth... as there is only a chance of lies... when your disregard the use of definite / indefinite articles, you are talking about truth and lies... reworded, as is necessary ti effectuate the purity of language... the truth: a lie... we speak of truth, but then reconsider this truth with: lies - lies have no uniformity, no honing foundation, not (0, 0) vector enterprise to guide a third negation (kant equate 0 with negation) - the third coordinate of negation is impossible... two negations are possible, but a third negation is near impossible, since there's the first negation of a proposition, then there's the negation of the negation of a proposition (second), but a third negation of the second negation (of a proposition) is impossible, because by second negation the third negation has no proposition to negate, only a negation, and a third denial is a contradiction, and how can a negation that's a "proposition", be negated?! magnet dynamic.

telling "the" truth (a truth) is actually
the easiest thing to do,
  truth doesn't erode the memory,
in that by not eroding the memory -
it allows a narrative a continuum
that does not necessarily have to
digress into a regression of overlaying,
repeating a said lie -
truth is hardly mingled with
memory, truth is forgetfulness -
however, lies reveal a strain on memory,
in that they have to be repeated,
to keep a narrative: intact.
    - and that's what my mother always
taught me:
              - unlike a chinese mother
who says: keep your heart small -
no, instead she said:
    don't like -
  conjure that one up against
the ten commandments:
  there's no shall, i.e. you shall
not lie, she simply said:
               don't lie -
                 if i lie i lie about
the most finicky concerns / details...
notably in culinary concerns -  
   i ask whether i under-salted a dish...
i don't lie about my drinking:
yes. to excess,
   in one ear, out the other -
a litre of whiskey is sometimes not
enough, per night,
           but then i act upon
the sober person cordiality -
              i hush my footsteps -
    i encourage bladder talk and
squeeze my **** to avoid
the unexpected gush of soggy
cornflakes...
  telling the truth is fun,
at least the narrative is glued together,
it feels almost vampire-like:
   perhaps there's a visage in the mirror
to my body, perhaps even a shadow
in the night, but when i stick my tongue
out from out of my tongue?
i see nothing.
  truth is a honing device -
lies: always shrapnel -
  a lie was never and never will be
a unifying concept -
            since there is
        no definite lie -
               as there is, a definite truth -
for there are indefinite lies -
   but no indefinite truths...
                  well, that's also wrong,
indefinite truths exist
           but their indefiniteness is
historiologically* true, rather than
historically true -
              i.e. history is a lie,
    but also a truth, when empowered
with a chance to repeat: or improve -
yet it is still necessary to denounce
  the article as sole inheritor of being
                 definite or indefinite -
              a chance to see truth (the)
applied to the definite article, as seeing
lies (a) applied to the indefinite article
is not merely singularity honing,
  or pluralism shrapnel...
              but by simple construct of but
three to four words:
  the truth...
                   vs. a lie: which implies
a singularity indefinite - i.e. a pluralism,
the truth resembles only one resolve -
a one inside a one;
     a lie?
              a lie of how many?
     hence the pluralism of a lie: lies.
                         now do we believe in
the signature ending via S?
                                        i never believed
in abstraction per se,
        the only abstraction i ever believed in,
was how to mature with one's use of
language,
              i only believed in listening to
idiots, while reading geniuses -
so much of language is burdened with talk,
that so much optics is lost...
                     i only fathomed philosophy
within the framework of how far
language could be abstracted, away from
the jovial everyday conversations in a marketplace,
thus said: how to unlearn asking
for a kilogram of apples from a country person;
but more importantly:
for to speak a tongue foreign to me,
but in a way,
as to make the native speakers:
feel nothing but shame,
and if not shame: confusion...
to become a tarantula...
for personal reasons, i rather keep
intact in the person i am becoming.

once you realise what you're realising about religion and that
the only vibe is that of psychiatric attempts to dislodge you from
inquiring the pig trough and the vocal soldiers who's words are
like bullets for the authoritarian rulers even in the free world...
you begin to wonder, indeed they made people literate,
but they also attempted to make people less read than would be
expected, they subsidised the gift of literacy with television,
they created libraries with very conservative books...
in my local library you'd find about one / two books
that is present in my private library... they might as well be
stacking comic books... there's no ambiguity of who "they" are,
i know i could provide an ambiguity, but in the end it's a power struggle,
and the only power that wins is the one that is struggling with what's
being enforced, rather than what's commanded to an expectation
of what could be assured.*

when i begin to realise post anno 21,
i started hearing phrases like:
that man saved my yorkshire terrier
by extending his hand into the mouth
of the bulldog, while using his other hand
to hold firm my dog under the bench:
i keep remembering this scene too often
for pleasure, the york- terrier was left unharmed
with my yoke of hope bursting into the bulldog's
attack curbed...
when i was a man of late youth, aged 21,
i used to go to the gym to pump iron three times
a week, play squash maybe twice...
but then the treadmill got to me...
there's a modern don quixote among the treadmills
somewhere, i'm sure... the routine got to me -
although i did manage to scratch off the stubble
thick enough to acquire a beard i always wanted;
there're days i make brisk footsteps and
enter the psychology of the hands having no exaggerated
movements like putin, bush jr. faking it, quidsmith /
john wayne about to draw... i.e. there's no swinging
from imaginary tree to imaginary tree to imaginary revolver...
psychology is so basically trying to provide explanations
on the basis of imagination that we can sometimes spontaneously
hallucinate the past century where we were all equipped
with six shooters... and what of that default schizoid conditioning
where you think everyone around you works for either
m.i. 5 / 6, k.g.b. / c.i.a.? what if you never wrote / read a spy-fiction
story but think everyone will suddenly grass you up
for some minor offence of free speech?
you qualified?
another thing, about that religious concentration of concern,
ha-shem is a pillar of fire ahead of the hebrews,
and a cloud of smoke behind the hebrews...
the koran states that the devil (iblis) is just that,
it's quoted: god created from smokeless fire...
now i don't know who to believe...
but if i was being righteous in poeticism
i'd said god created the devil from formless shadow...
like he created the world from chaos and formlessness...
so the creature crafted from formless shadow
could be a mirror to provide a prince of the world
as the devil is known... and god become a chiral-dualism...
since no chiral-monism can exist... unless it be
chiral-monism of either existence or non-existence;
no it really is troubling to infuse a poem or an argument
with religion... the hierarchy is too strong...
the pawn priests are too benevolent... the bishops
wear too much purple jew imitation belt and kippah...
the cardinals akin to bishops but too much red...
then the white jew that's the pope... who's queuing
to answer the christian kippah debate against
the black pope who adorns no signifying testament of
being religious: just a *******.

the form might be that of a poem, but to be honest,
it has nothing poetic to it -
                  i wanted to feel angry -
to vent anger out,    i drank during the daytime:
daytime and drinking?
                                                       ­         bad idea.
                               daytime drinking
and fasting and smoking
and coffee? a doubled-up bad idea...
         but i wanted to feel
a wrathful voice... i got bored of my otherwise
gentlemanly attire and what not,
i wanted to waste my tongue into
anger... best propeller of the act?
drink during daytime...
                          when night falls,
the lazy one comes out.
                   consider this -
some use language to encrypt, not
to to simply memorise rhyming and
bounce bounce the bubbly pink ball
on stage...
                    Pavlov's lapping tongue
of a dog overheating -
             philosophy deals with
double phonetic encryption,
                  that's a psychological reevaluation
of what language is, from the standard
of the three tier cake:      consciousness,
                                      s­ub-  " and un- "    -
again Christianity plays a great deal with
the point of a trinity -
                               that's the secular version,
a populist version for each individual
regardless of the church's credo -
                    but as i was saying:
philosophy deals with a doubled variation
of phonetic encoding:
                      primarily for one reason:
this is primer for idea forming -
               isn't it?
                             the first level is that of
being able to read the encoding -
   like a music score...
                                   to write a s k
              and then say the word: ask.
but the second tier of encoding sound is
to translate it into optics -
                   the basis of idea forming -
not the basis of making sounds, but to peer
more deeply into any sort of narrative -
sometimes a single word can pull
the gravity of thought
                                 away from the narrator
ego, and into the realm of the id:
        which doesn't narrated, but
    conjures up ideas: to me the source of
all "magic" formulae -
                          here again, a classic plagiarism
working on the basis of a trinity -
          i dare say dualism is so unfashionable
to most people, as is monism -
             people prefer triangles to explain
their psychological life,
          and circles to explain the physical life...
   dualism is out of fashion that
it would seem to be more (dangerously) fashionable
to be of split-mind - but never mind that -
romanticising any medical condition is
a faux pas.
                                i was spurred on
by reading a review of O'Hara's poetry,
namely the poem sardines -
                  the reviewer writes how the poet
'actually writes his poem by breaking down
language into its most basic units - words.'
well... technically this is where the other point
of phonetic encoding comes in, the third tier...
words aren't as basic as you might think -
they reside in the realm of meaning,
but also a realm of being bound to a thesaurus -
(apologies, i'm not trying to be pedantic,
  you might see where this might be going,
in terms of sharpening the point of
               what's language and
the basics of language - yes, a niche topic,
as usual, pedants ahoy)
                          words are components
(or compounds)... letters are units, akin to
mathematical digits...
                          but then again,
kilometres are units -
                                 as are miles and hours...
surely then if worded
                   the representation would be that
of a/z                             rather than
                                   p/o/r/r/i/d/g/e          
      a/z seems like a better basis for unitary
conceptualisation of language
                        using a, b, c... z as the basic
units of language... yes... much more so than words...
            because the third tier of encoding
is based primarily on letters,
                                       yes, we know the
plight of the Palestinians, but the Jews have something
i want, and use, quiet frequently,
although with variation - there's no
              toying about with gematria -
i don't accept this method of investigation -
              i find absolute futility in it -
not that i can't grasp it, but i find it useless -
         it's this third tier where ideas are formed
without any distinct orthodoxy -
                           so:
tier 1. phonetically encoding a s k to say: ask
tier 2. phonetically encoding a s k to think:
                                      what am i going to ask for?
tier 3. phonetically encoding a s k to then
            (primarily) venture into encoding
                                              a s k i n g f o r p a t i e n c e.
we're not dealing with Chinese ideograms,
    we're dealing with a linear juxtaposition encoding
   e.g.
     a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p (q r s t u v w x y z)
the bracket? i first learned the English alphabet
as a sing-along... to my memory i forgot the rhythm
of the song (i was 7 at the time) and subsequently
             the rest of the sequence... but that doesn't
necessarily mean my vocabulary suffered because of it...
still linear juxtaposition encoding, as above, only
         n y m p h  (x y s t)
                             a b c d e f g i j k l o q r s t u v w x z
                   (a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r u v w z)
                                           e x o t i c s (friz)
          a b d f g j k l q r u v w x z
                              (a b c d e g h j k l m n o p q u v w)
                 ...
                                    
     ...
                         (b c e g
                                                            - interlude -
   well, technically, you could say that diacritical
marks are used for the purpose of dissecting
words into syllables, that's not to say
          latin compound fixations on meaningful
  prefixes, such as: aqua-        or omni-
                   (yes, the etymological section
of the dictionary is the most interesting part
of that book - as counter to Darwinism,
                     or something less intrinsic with
visuals, and focused more on a shorter history
of mankind, the less ridiculous time-frame,
         or history without Alexanders and Socrates -
                  SS... the English hasn't fixed
the notation of pluralism here...
            something akin to ß      or σ          or     ς
                    is begging to come out of this problem...
lets just say the ending variation of sigma denotes
the plural, so, etymology, or history without
       Alexanders and Socrateς / cruder or more
masculine Socrateç... Tess' - as in: it belongs to Theresa)
        as Plato noted, i too, like Socrates
are investigating how my name ought to be written,
by the looks of it, from what i discovered
               i apply diacritics as syllable identifiers,
or: how to cut words up -
   ergo? even though this is not orthodox,
my name, should be written as
                   Máteuš -
                                               the acute a
stresses the cutting up of the word, i.e. the first
syllable is identified, primarily because diacritics
stress non-prefixes, i.e. simpler variations of
what a prefix is (a loan word), or a sound that
has an ancient meaning, for example pre-
or pro-, meaning the word was forced into the shackles
of being accompanied by a hyphen
when the ancient tongue disintegrated and its grammar
was no longer adequate to accommodate
the barbarian tongues of the north...  
so it has come to this: diacritical marks are not
exactly aesthetic concerns where not writing an
acute o but rather u is displeasing to the eyes...
      it's about seeing where the syllable incision has
been made... shame the English never adopted it...
but then again: the Empire blah blah blah, Star Wars
blah blah blah... special relationship with America
blah blah blah... that old chestnut -
                  or can anyone forget their eccentricity
of doth and         all that Canterbury *******?
   or even Shakespeare's English?
                                  i'm on it... well,
apologies... internet encrypting, acronyms and
eight and L8 for late. it was never adopted -
        and never will be... ****-naked Charlie
and ****-floral-naked Angie...
              sitting in a tree, one two, one two three.

  - post-interlude -

              (b c e g...
                                           i really can't be bothered
   trying to finish this little scrabble -
           i mean, looking up words
                       so i'm left with the last possible letter,
or no letter at all...
                                  what with
    the six vowels a, e, i, o, u, (y)
                                                  nymph as a word (though)
is the closest you'll get to the pronunciation of
     y (why)               in                   Polish...
                            ny-                 or -ymph
                                 obviously cut off the μ and φ...
but if you're really bored...
                  you could probably finish that
little game... for no reason, whatsoever -
        as already stated i'm more interested in things
contained in the interlude, but then again games like
this provide the capacity to abstract and return
with actual application of an idea.

i actually did own a doberman pinscher called axl... yes: no e in the same. ****** was mad, what do you expect? his ears were sliced so he could look like some urukai orc of isengard... try trimming the ears of a human being: to then pretend "think" they'll be wiser... that part where they chop of the tail of a doberman? i wasn't around when that happened, i can clearly picture the plastic surgery on my axl... so what am i going to say about circumcision? makes the ******* mad! they're sending ****-picks to people... how about i just watch you smile? is circumcision the ideal motivation for preserving life? like you need the complete vuvla to be attracted by it? ******* surely isn't fun with that revision... just as much as saying: a billion ching changs... or we could do away with the lips and call these people the todkompflächeln; personally? i'd begin the aesthetic surgery on the ears, maybe making a few "elves" would help the situation... otherwise m.g.m. gets no mention, because those ******* don't even know what ******* with one feels like: i can peel mine back for *******... but you can't cloak with one during the grand practice of: taking a ****.

billions... it's starting to look very much like a *****,
given the character names... i mean: wags?
next season is bound to invoke the nick
*****... it has become an existential prison,
since the moon landing: bye bye
the brothers grimm and the fairytale...
i know this because someone has already
made the same conclusion...
billions? who'd i like to doppelgänger?
   mike wagner... scalp him, skin him, whatever,
i am trying to believe that i don't have
that wry smile of his when writing this,
the cheaky chappy type of smile,
what i can tell you is what happened yesterday
after my drinking session ended...
spring's impeding, *******, i'm going to
watch more television since i'll be sad having
moved from, what could be best described
as alaskan funfair... night by the 5pm mark...
i sometimes get the shakes...
but only out of anger, that boils down to
my neighbour complaining that i sometimes
lose the plot and say things aloud...
the boundaries i'm crossing is equivalent to a bird
singing in the night...
    but last night, was, spectacular...
   i forgot what chess even was...
   i had heidegger's *ponderings ii - vi
(in hardback) on the windowsill...
                       i had a crescent version and a complete
version of amitriptyline (25mg)...
       nurse! scalpel i'm getting a headache!
    ami-tri-pty-line (ptee line? or pti lean?
yes, lean, no fat on it;
   so as i was about to get the sucker punch
i was playing imaginary dominos
even if just that, or throwing invisible dice,
exchanging positions of these two pills
            and four swan (brand) filter tips...
i do remember saying something into the night,
what it was? i don't know.
            so it was either dominos or "throwing"
dice on a book on the windowsill,
moving the one complete pill and the other
bitten off crescent (what's that? about 13mg?)...
and the filter tips...
                and it was on a hardcover surface
of a book on a windowsill...
             i knew i would take the plunge at
some point, the question was when that would happen;
i don't know what i had to even cherish
the grace of thought at that moment...
the next oddity came with an empty glass
and trying to balance it on the parapet ledge...
it turned out to be a case of fractions...
     the tipping point stood at: two thirds...
it would never be done in halves, and certainly not
quarters...
              see... mm... money is fascinating
as a concept, how it was arrived at;
  i can know the man who invented the lightbulb
(jefferson, right? ol' tommy)... money?
   no clue... who could have "blinded" the greeks
to the extent where we stand now?
      the more i drink the more i think that this
cann't lead to any sort of accomplishment other than
the stated words...
    i do really retract into speaking verse that
i never write down... it's there one minute, gone the next;
but that domino / dice thing with 1.5 sleeping pills
and 4 cigarette tips (yes, i can roll a cigarette
like a machine, so the tips were not ***** by tokes
to remind people of marmite / vegemite of australia
colouring): i smoke cigarettes thinking about a sun-tan.
why was i doing this?
don't know, what's the point of playing domino
or throwing dice to gamble?
                     there is a chiral point to be made,
or at least a parallel point...
         a chiral-parallelism, as is the case with concept
of parallel per se...
such that title suggests i stole "something" that actually
steals...          hollywood and cuckoos...
      there are always two ways of saying the same
thing: moving forward, however dichotomous those
sayings are...
                  since that approach later turns into
a dualism that then eats at psychologism and morphs
into monism and: we're back at square one.

“What type of poem am I?”
I am as formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.

I am not a classic
written by the author, God.
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.

I am not in me,
though I abide within myself.
I am but a colour,
whose colours have worn away.

Maybe I was written as
an ethical effect of modern art.
Or maybe I was not written
but just replicated from the lives of others.

I wish I could read the critics’ minds.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anyone?
I loathe the way they recite me,
pretending to understand me.

Maybe I am
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or maybe I am
the narrative of my own life.

However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they can’t write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling, with a rose in the hand
in the boulevard of the thorns.

However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.

O Poet! O my maker!
What type of poem am I?
O strangers! O my readers!
What sort of poem am I?

I wish I could read myself
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?

“Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax?

This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.

No one knows what it is like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague its core is.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.

imagine retiring before you're 30,
with the great european disneyland
in switzerland waiting for your desires,
god... i stopped celebrating my birthdays
deliberately, so that each day is like
a birthday before the day i die:
motto: oh ****, here again, *******!

so i started brooding on the concept of
monism, dualism and trinity
in chemical terms eradicating theological
impetus to salvage from one (e.g. the buddha,
the christ, the moses without a surname like jesus)
the multitude: mostly fishermen and tax officers
and thieves... jesus... what a selective society you
knit and picked, huh?
i was thinking of carbon monoxide
(C≡O)... so when counter-structures on the
elemental level become coupled in a scenario
of being identical, bypassing non-super-imposable'ness
(disregarding chirality), they can spawn
exponential growth named cancerous economics!  
and methane (C and H x4)
ethene (H2C=CH2) and ethane (H3C-CH3)
trinity's degenerate nature... oh right, so you're playing
dumb but not farming, you're the required
audience in front of the digitalised combine of colours
in a shady room? plato would call that coloured shadows
where no messages are deciphered given the doubt
that they're even passed for the excommunication
of corrupt politicians and the clergy... you know:
french / russian revolution *******.
oh i want a thinking embryo not attached to my body,
i want it so bad that i can compare myself
to elijah's command: execute the priesthood of baal,
because they can't conjure anything,
just paedophilia and mumbles and sugar puffs at breakfast.
well there's all that, what was i talking about?
rambling on many cobwebbed talking matters later
it might appear like Alzheimer's... right the active
ingredient of cigarettes: carbon monoxide,
(C≡O), not like carbon diaoxide (O=C=O),
a trinity in one person creates a fourth dimension,
imagine the interstellar (movie) capsule of quantum-space
of humanism interpreting the crucifix wearing
a cosmonaut suit rather than adam's fur...
it's like that... so apart from carbon monoxide providing
the suffocating dizzy carousel of the cigarette dragged
quickie high, you get the nicotine i thought was
actually a placebo substance, a palette of tobacco akin...
still alice* was a bit **** to be honest,
she was trying to salvage her strongest areas of
personality, she specialised in linguistics,
in phonetics and what not (etc.),
if she suddenly changed course with her interests,
rather than retreated into the laziness of:
all consciousness and thinking is about memory and
memorisation, she was challenged by schooling's
expression of memory: the times table: 2 x 2 = 4, 2 x 3 = 6,
and personal memory, the imprints on other
people, rather than civilisation's imprint on
the person in question: civilisation = the existence of money,
tribalism = you scratch my back, i scratch yours.

i almost forgot to mention the one prerequisite of modern love,
they caught the ****** in Scandinavia -
the punter, got punished - not the *******,
the punter - for crossing over the signpost
obstruction: illegal to cross, legally there, illegal to cross -
if you want an antidote to British xenophobia
watch two Brits having *** - esp. those who are
dumb enough to invite omnipresent, omniscient,
omnipotent Onan - Buddha's third and experience
how much they talk during ******* -
and why do you think most people experience
a fall of libido? professionals in ***?
sure, you can just hear behind that professionals
in carpentry - nail it! nail it! you can just hear it,
Chelsea accent and a swear word -
this is Darwinism as much as i care about a panda
bear having 36 hours to be impregnated per annum,
i watch **** out of curiosity - it's a bigger omen
factory than Halley's comet - in every one of us
a Richard Attenborough - well, trans-categorical
monism, **** sticks together - but listen to the Brits
while *******, i say *** ought to be meaningless
and onomatopoeia fuelled - she moans he plays golf,
he ******* she goes on a shopping spree -
wordless, learning a new alphabet -
but hearing xenophobic tongue on the streets of little England
and then watching British ****, you just tend to
'ave a laugh as to why you have to talk so much
when the primeval cuckoo call is already said -
******* is a curiosity for me, having professional
actors in this area was bound to undermine us
and question our libidos as mere friendships -
sooner or later men will pick up on this and will be
like **** prenups, **** marriage, **** female friendships,
embrace solipsism - Paraclete Union -
but it's just weird that modern love needs a prerequisite,
a ******, even if it's acted out, elsewhere translated as
stage-fright - the fear of someone watching -
20th century complaints of serial killers - impotence -
well, we know where this impotence came from, David
Attenborough in the background in hush tone
as if to not disturb - the female mantis teases her Saudi
billionaire into her **** nest to impregnate and then cut
his **** and assets off like a harakiri execution -
as a humanist and not a naturalist my playing field is
bound to be via a third eye, the attributes of the Almighty
reduced to filth of Onan (third eye omnipresent,
omniscient) - but it's modern kosher - Zapruder -
the first to ******* - there ain't no black
in the Union Jack - there ain't enough white
in the Stars and Stripes - one song lost among Prince
copyrights from you-tube - Manic Street Preachers'
ifwhiteamericantoldthetruthforonedayit'sworldwouldfall­apart,
they deleted it - Prince never got radio on the internet;
album? anthem anorexia - the holy bible / went missing
in Shanghai, lived the rest of his life away from the
spotlight, curating fields of rice into origins of geometry.

obviously with a grounding in chemistry, i'd elevate myself to the only scientific humanism in existence, philosophy, and thus cling to an atomists' interpretation of words... a tier higher? let's just call that a kabbalistic venture... the tetragrammaton can replace the linguistic alphabet; basis: alphabetically you say A... but when you reach a moment of prior to unknown but revealed appreciation for a fact, you express awe, via ah...

and how many brain-cells died
and how much memory has become
eroded by the fallacy of
learning the alphabet?
              not the clear indicator
of numbers based upon evens & odds
interchange -
       so why randomly position
the vowels?
    why not state the five elements
first? a, e, i, o, u
and move toward the 21 pillars
of consonants: b, c, d, f, g, h, j... ? ? ?

re.: aphorism 50, ponderings V.

by being
                 vs.
                         in being
vs.
         being of-itself

             being-of-itself (source,
  direction, vector, cause, motive,
reason) - correlated similis via *by...

   v.s being off-itself
   ( no longer enclosing,
          not supported or attached,
       away from origin
     i.e. coordinates of
   the triple negation: )0,0,0( )
  i.e. in-being -
   a self-serving (per se) manifestation
                         of change, or flux.

aus - off
   von - of
                durch - by
    im - in

    da-mit-sein:

                a purpose!

da-sein merely states:
   there's being (da ist sein)!
  actuality...

      ist da sein?! (is there being?)
   potential...

that's self-evident
   or anti-purposive in observation...

revision:

loss of article, means sharpening
the meaning (enforcing the locus):

   but the "locality" has to change
for the loss of articles - i.e.

hier-mit-sein -
  the loss of ein - the finis abstractus:
the end of abstracting -
   morph the article into a prefix
i.e. a becomes a-,
   and you're left without either
a there or a being to consider...

   ein-da-mit-sein: a there with being -
well, to forget the article,
    hier-mit-sein:
                     meaning?
   (i'm) here, with (a) purpose...

               hic sum, *** id est
  (the maxim to represent esse / being)

it has a purpose, and i have a purpose
to match its purpose of
      watching the spring exfoliation
of the per se...

and what a fetish for speaking german
            i have gathered,
ask the commies...
   they'll tell you that simply
speaking german you're somehow a fascist.

a- (without)
       ex- (out of) -
            out of every instance -
   a monism of:

poetic sketches are the supreme form
of dissociation,
   words become syllables,
while syllables become prefixes and suffixes
and affixes:

              the unison:
           a- without the monistic unison
of the omni,       namely?
   disharmony of free wills -
    
                          a- omni ex- "dictum"...

what the ancient spoke of in terms
of being as λoγoς -
refers to a temporal realm...
what evolved?
   with mass communication
  and the generally perceived electric
spider-web?
             well... the hands of power
had to change, from the greek
λoγoς, to the roman λoκυς -
enforced by heidegger's dasein...

     the locus vs. the logos...

if there is a vs. to begin with.

  hier-durch-sein
   (here, by being)
                da-durch-nicht-sein
              (there, by not being)

does this no answer einstein's mathematics
if no numbers are to be used?
       the space-time debacle?

    already philosophy has become
closely realised in quanta of the tongue
either talking, or silent...

   and if kant "allowed" for the tragedy
of von kleist and nietzsche,
   then heidegger reaped from the ashes
of hœlderlin (variation of original
umlaut ö) - the gold-standard of
enforcing the end of the war of civility
between philosophers and poets
began by plato...
                             ending with a:
reminder of the original enemy,
namely the sophists, by zeitnahweise
also called rhetoricians;
as said, for all who care to think,
              they'll be found chewing gum
and having a hard time speaking...
thinking really does, mute if not
simply obstruct the mouth from speaking.

why do you think i "*****" heidegger's
concept of dasein?
    the hyphen and the italics...
   it came down to style, and how "confusing"
it became...
      i had to explore the temporal
   dimension with the spatial originality...
otherwise known as
     the disconcerted attitude of popular
                   literature, namely journalism.

i don't live outside my poetry,
                                                             i live me poetry,
i have five cigarettes in a packet
and about 3/4 of a bottle
of whiskey left: i haven't had a natural
falling asleep pattern to mind
with a 9-to-5 of tomorrow to mind
for, over, 9, years! i synthesise sleep!
not out of laziness - mind you, if i was in a wheelchair
i wouldn't be eager to fake-dance
or embrace swimming - limb or limbless
there's still Pistorius to mind,
doesn't mind a moth-on-fire to
apply Einstein's relativity to what
Socrates already said: apply
relativity to dichotomy and it all just
becomes an undecipherable monism
without a beyond to justify good and evil...
a... **** it... whatever! let's admire
Louis the XIV fireworks and wine!
but his brother, ooh! what a firecracker!
Chevalier de Lorraine was my hair too curly
they almost might - the intrigue decipher -er,
additions to a false spelling mishap -
or the proof of nobility, had the mother
begged otherwise and the daughter not
endangered the quest by seeking out
a scaffold -er's errand to guillotine the tulips
for a fragrant bouquet - here the admiration
for the stern heart of the east replaced
with the jealous heart of the west...
but Philippe! **** two horses and a cow!
i.e. *******! what a reworking of puppets...
in the hall of the crimson king... e -ing,
-ah ah-ah... the rōnin purity, the pride,
a poet's wet-dream of fancy, best luck drunk,
bad luck sober - i wondered quiet a many times
whether i had ***** or just a ticklish farce of
fancy to roller-pin the protruding genitalia
into the constituency / obligation / necessity of marriage...
the same as Narcissus spoke without an **** partner -
the ****** rap of Louis the XIV courtroom
imitating behind curtain the head of Charles I
in clone chandelier the fate of John the Baptist and
the ****** of hate of Salome...
how the two combined, the export of Iraq met
in Egypt with likewise revision of the genital parts,
Iraq translated into Israel, the two combined...
why f.g.m. rose from yawned over m.g.m. because
of the harem of kings! Philippe though! what a king!
that standards shook, the banners quaked,
the muskets shot blanks for a deadly purpose,
and there was poor Louis with the armour of quote
and a ***** of power inherited: appearance is power -
likewise today, what appears powerful is indeed
powerful, but only in deception,
beside the deception there's is no power
except the innate purpose for symbolic hierarchies,
and look where that ends up, Sinatra singing a song
about pennies raining from heaven,
indeed pennies among the streets of paupers,
the crown easily *******-on from a pavement's perspective...
i'd ask you to sit on your laurels were you
emperors, but you are kings...
so why not sit on that thorny crown of yours?!
hey! pristine gold is worth more than a poet's anatomy!
that's the casual expression, if you sit on laurels you're being
lazy... a poet's Welsh longbow man's V salute against
the French emperors - but i'd like to see them sit on
that famous crown of thorns, or the seven gilded
pikes of Rome resurrecting Vlad and the villainous Turk;
sarcasm disarms all seriousness in attitude
toward rank, and in turn disarming itself as
placed in hierarchic demands of humour -
sarcasm competes outside of the hierarchy of humours,
outside of comedy, it's there to be a buckling
when authority becomes all too... ridiculous.

macbeth: it was (once) the owl that shrieked,
  the fatal bellman.

aye, and i too would ask the urban folk
concerning family and congregation
for any event apart from the most cherished:
for i love only those with whom i eat,
and abhor those with whom i drink:
for i deem them sour company.

and if in haste? from Canterbury seek New York,
there you'll learn a thing or two about
gnarling from a yew tree strained against
the ranks and rags of French nobility...
there, dear sir, will you learn the Welsh Churchill
acronym, by the index and middle i say:
pointing toward the sky as if to navigate
a seagull pooping fresh manna
onto a desert plain for an *oasis of sustenance.
clearly the U was never chiseled into bone or
marble, instead a V... which always confuses
my expertise (2014 GSCE gimmick,
expert-... ease? titillation? prioritising?
no wonder they send spies to south korea to
feed off jealousy of the porcelain skinned
and squinty eyed crap of Zen... because Tao
was the practice of not dipping your head in
a honey jar and running up to a beehive for
a Frenchy) / in Grecian (yes,
poets have abhorring punctuation,
they're donning a take on rasta roots: dreadlocks
  inserted between the talk of personal hygiene
   and vanity performances of family life solidification
to seem the ideal citizen).
      poetry really is an obscurity of prose,
      it's that ****** cousin you hide in the attic,
when you stage poetry against prose
you never, really, get a snooze button fault
while taking a microcosmos of thought to bed
  and "forget" reading something....
   a true testament to poetry? something Mussolini
might say... i am a fascist fetishist: in that
i am also a schadenfreude: a shadowy frau...
   i like to see fascism in others...
          well, you know, Hollywood got sickly sweet
over the years, there's no enough Bruce Lee films
to satiate the palette of middle aged crimbo men...
  don't expect a ****** to know the cartwheel mechanics
readying a girl into ballet...
       cos no attitude brings no Bolshoi, girlfriend.
oh god, how can this age and my contemporaries provide
so many stereotypes?! they're all gay...
         there's me with my pouting but really alcoholic-bloated
face, rummaging in pop culture under the exacting maxim
of: the idiots have all the confidence, the smart uns
      have all things Cartesian...
             you swarm over reactionary talk?
i guess modern people really want to engage in dialectics,
but the current sophistry, the current rhetoric,
     is only based (in bias) against any Cartesian intervention...
the "i think" doesn't precipitate into "i am"...
for example? even wittle Adoolf thought he was good,
but then world war ii and therefore kicked in,
    there was nothing good to be said, apart from
a historical endeavour as to why: the New Year's Eve
Ball of Vienna faked a smile to solidify a permanent
audience...
                      this fire-yawning rhetoric is part of
the zeitgeist (holy ghost) of our times...
                                it's enough that i'm reading the
news review contained in a sunday newspaper on a tuesday,
but another that i'm rereading lawrence lipton's
the holy barbarians at the same time... yep:
the father of the guy that interviews actors on that
show the actors' studio... where we learn all things
sentimental... just before Robbie Williams tightens
the noose and everyone's bloated...
which is odd: it was a promising afternoon...
           i know that society really wants to engage with
dialectics, i've been watching lemon-*******-sessions'
worth of cringe concerning Milo Yiannopoulos -
papa-dough-pu-louse (Greeks have surnames like
dinosaur names: word and verbiage in one go...
a bit like decapitating Anne Boleyn,
executioner on tiptoe) -
                 it would be far more easier to stage
a place by Shakespeare that it would be to stage a
conversation by Socrates... that's how difficult
practising dialectics is... so much so that people invented
diacritical indicators to syllable dissections of words
and then forgot to use them... buttnaked Adam of Essex.
but one thing caught my eye...
  not in a rude way... well... Bruce Willis in mercury rising...
      isn't the Greek a tad bit autistic?
those darting eyes, and whenever a confrontation emerges
the sunglasses are invoked? isn't the confrontationalist
an autistic phenomenon? isn't this autism?
   aren't people rebelling against the spaz?
   the cover-up is obviously homosexual, because there's this
underlying subplot... high functioning autism,
i might momentarily get an eye-contact...
       but anglophone psychiatrists have only two notations
to curate the spectrum of "mental" problems:
1. biting your nails...
          and 2. eye contact.
                  if psychiatry is philosophy without thinking,
then philosophy is psychiatry without being...
              catchphrase? i hope to god no.
               god... well: that's when you say:
i do have limitations in my vocabulary... hence the invocation
to a ulterior being, other than my self
                 (yes, the reflective version of the reflexive myself).
      sure as hell there needs to be a dualism
rather than a monism concerning the 1 + 1 = 2 humanism
of cogito ergo sum, can you imagine a consolidation?
how, in the 21st century (which wasn't that spectacular
even though the evangelicalists stressed was the zenith
and a basis for: no future) the two would never meet?
    if anyone Descartes poked fun at it too:
i'm pink, therefore i'm spam.
                                       can you imagine why some people
were diagnosed with schism that later referred to a mind?
            uncomfortable people for social cohesion are ill...
it's because the healthy people are whipped into
constructing society.
                               adding to the fact that if mental
and physical converged and were made equally obstructive
in hindering people, a fewer number of jobs / specialisations
would exist to counter such grievances...
      you term mental illness i term lethargy and
thinking turned into the equivalent of what the heart is:
de-automated heart turned into poetic muse...
                but otherwise? an automaton pump.
and when thinking becomes automaton prone...
       and when thinking becomes too conscious of perceiving
the body as caged, doubly in a world and earnestly
in the cycle of eat sleep **** repeat... when too much
theory pours into an abstracting pronoun of forgotten Latin
and resurgent Latin with a summary of ego...
   when that becomes a Shiva-likened extra limb...
               when thought becomes automated
  but the body isn't... when thought diverges from any
moral construct to be made intrinsic in the complement
of choice as its sole outlet,
                 all variations of thought necessarily translated
into a narrative die out... because, as it turns out,
              not all narratives are pharmaceutical escapisms
to the equivalent of medicating seriously...
            even though the sky is blue in winter
and all decaying flush of colour of autumn is long gone...
i feel no bolder to stampede against the earth's
tides insurrecting a name and month of birth
                                      as sanctimonious:
other than what the polity deems worthy for me to
inherit, that, which will be my epitaph
is all am worthy of, given such contortions: as already
evident.
    
take your heart to Scotland my good friar,
and then from on-high,
   as if between Edinburgh and St. Andrew's,
take the kingly route back south...
                    and learn to educate those who's
tongue was never kindred to cliche and barbarism,
were it not talk of puritanism and
    a hidden dialect: for no cockney would have ever
heard the seven bells,
                   and definitely shied away, spoilt,
from the meddling cuckoo;
and oh how small this world will seem,
       once you've been woven the greatest attire
of all you command to peacock,
   that operatic Monday through to Friday
that'll always be more than Gucci or an Armani belt...
    routine!