i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

. you're using all the right words: for all the wrong reasons... and let's face it: if women own the monopoly on reproductive avenues... then men hold the ego-key, to slot their presence, through a door, that curbs or gives allowances, to what is thought... *** was nether a transluçent enterprise... oh look... the Roma sigma pops up... dire straits: de profundis - money for nothing riff - boogie boogie... milkshakes from the 1950s 'n' all... you know what my biggest pet peeve is? the englih language imitating ancient Latin, i.e. not applying diacritical "punctuation" markers to close in on syllables and make the language atomic (i.e. H is hydrogen, He is helium)... **** me... the same Brits who lived in the 19th century, are not the same Brits living in the 21st century... no wonder the fertility rate is s ****** low.... try ******* an english bride... no thank you; i'd rather **** a female gorilla.

the milkman passes my house
at, circa, 3am...
see the van skid around the bend
up the hill...
            
i listen to music at volumes
equivalent to my father working
the construction site -
i'll be deaf by the time i'm 50...
     and guess what:
                  for the music i'm listening
to? it'll be worth it...

dittoing out:
   have the criticism of post-modernists
ever suffer?
doubt: doubt, is the modern
relief from existentialist
    negation...
  
why is doubt being attacked?
doubt is half than that outright
******* of denial
proposed by French existentialists...
doubt is good in that it's
tornado of emotions,
you want to imitate Christ on
Golgotha?
  you doubt, and achieve the pinnacle
of the passion...
you start negating?
     you're, nowhere...

    on your own...

came the noun-phobia of philosophers -
the tinkers and tailors
of a.. what seems to be:
a noun-phobia
  guaranteed with fog...
   and thing..

  the term
  "thing" presupposes
the supposition of tree...
     which subsequently serves
the proposition: let's hide in it!

      philosophy and its infamous
noun-phobia -
               thing...
           and it's nihil...
  its nothing...
      
                 a ******* cul de sac -
     epigram -
       of quasi morse encoding -
     braille to boot -
September is coming -
           van Morrison (moondance) -
hiding autumnal chill -
           pan-Europeanism:
proto-"africa": either in Hindustan -
or Siberia;

suppose a moon, suppose a shadow by
candlelight, some edgy urban solo -
as a bricklayer i could raise kids
and crux on a woman -
          chicken / doctoral itching with
a blunt nail are called scratchings -
       hand-writing:
             less digits in the digital
formatting - and more
calligraphy...
                      the rotten handwriting
of general practitioners...
     Hippocrates might have made an oath...
but in terms of a handwritten cipher?
no clue...
               the canvas of a monkey
onomatopoeia within the confines
of a custard of a lexicon...
   a mouth thus opens -
a month begins -
instead of a tongue ejected from
the ivory temple -
  a sludge crescendo of a quasi
                 cascade of sludge gluing the
whole theater into
a replica of a Russian drinking game...

....                 ⠞⠓
          ...     ⠑⠁⠑
     ...           ⠞⠑
    ............                  ⠞
...                      ⠥ ⠎
     : : :           -  ⠎          
   ........ : ....           ⠕?

100 wolves of the continent...
for, but 1, fox,
of the English isles...
   i'll settle for that ratio...
and then i'll bite to ensure
a signature!

  howl all you want...
but have you ever found seagulls
annoying up the river?
more annoying than magpies
or crows?
             the wolves can howl
all they want..
ever endear the ear
to hear a fox "laughing"?
   no?
  might as well listen to me.
i cradle that sound,
above the chariots
of a human newborn...
        i grieve!
   i am... sombre gsture...
    a past, a passing,
a future, a wicker man within:
torch...
   banquette of souls!

    let's interlude -

   touko "tom" laaksonen -
    how can people "do" sober
           when entertaining such
extravagances....
        is it empathy, or sympathy?
            in the name of the either,
with either being the sum
of what wll never be a sum
allowance,....
     to gain from...
                  why not
       ****-ease up the ****
    for a zeppelin-esque
                            bomb drop -
(minor the Nagasaki) -
                    and hand-piked ****
with the cusp of your hand -
         throne of thrones -
  flagship?
   "king of kings":
  like ****...
  the holy trinity of
       the no. 1, as the no. 2,
   and subsequently the no. 3:
**** (father),
       take a **** (son)...
            ******* (the holy ghosts)...
king of kings,
never sat on the throne
of thrones...
   i always hated "artists"...
    painters -
   plagiarists -
      cheque sketchers...
             plagiarists...
         ******* indentation
from holding a pen to add to having
exposure to a grammatical examination...
       quality cinema:
panorama take on a versus of
heavy editing...
                     and there was a time
frame to encompass dialogue...
      somehow it fits:
the verbal myopic -
            the entire pre-
& post- canvas of a blinking eye...
   always the question of the
pre-industrialißed sketch;
words predating metaphor
akin to  -
  words versus metaphor
in genesis -
   format? anecdotal.

      in writing:
            by one hand alone,
made into two...
        my, my...
  what a ****** self-portrait
"assumption"...
        a self-portrait...
a wish for color,
with nothing to show,
but the relief of encompassed bones;
that become a disembodied
skeleton - minus a purpose
of tendon attachments...

∟          "contra"    Δ          -
equilateral my ***...

            a few days spent within the confines
of a Promethean *****,
     there be, elemental insomnia
of an electric bespoke...
if Prometheus stole fire,
who, in in all for ****'s sake
stole the saber of Zeus,
the thunderbolt -
electricity, who?
who craved the insomnia?!
             this Frankenstein-esque
insomnia-zombification -
             white as is white:
with all the dermatological
copper take on broken shins...
         should ivory coco -
come between piglet *** copper
auburn in terms of autumn...
******...
             *******!

take your ****** *** elsewhere,
and then... start spelling
it with a missing G...
when citing Niger...
  you do the double dip of the NBA...
you count the second dip...
why do i love Batman as the best
superhero?
  not of his superhero powers,
he has none...
          his enemies are
the only interesting
counter-factoids of
having implemented an existence
for.
   there is no exacting of
a superhero,..
   but there is enough
to mind an antithesis...

          tylko wieśniak
by wydział film w tym,
          bo sie nie rusze -
    cegła, kamień -
       pień - mur -
           i by mówił - w tym
co zamarzło -
          to co ostygłe -
    w co z tym samym -
        meine filmisch -
      i skakaniem świec -
   od i na nagim cieniem -
   pytać nad pyche -
       tanz! tanz!
                 moje iskry słów...
   sto! i lat,
    o wielbłąd churem o
grzbiet da, i da,
       iskra; alfabetu!
    bogiem impromptu
o czym warty: -gień.

- suppose a moon, suppose a shadow,
by candlelight - within the confines of
mercury - that quickened silver -
some edgy urban solo -

      as a bricklayer or a cobbler  -
shoes that deviate from ushering
an echo -
          i could raise children and keep
a woman: only if she decided
upon not allowing me
a leash -
            what a saddening affair
of minds and freedom...
           chicken doctoral -
i don't know: vanity of the impossible
mortal gain...

    the monkey onomatopoeia
    within the confines of a custard
of  lexicon....

          that Victorian image proof
source of envisioned Braille in
the confines of a primate...
  
handwriting:
itches, scratches, chicken esque
clucking... which is what
handwriting looks like these days,
what, with the coding...
    semi plumber,
half the electrician...
  and certainly null when it comes
to calligraphic invigoration...

- homosexuality was always a contingency
escapade to release suppressed yearnings -
a sudden but a non-fulfillment questioning
celibacy...

               you can enforce curbing homosexuality,
but then there are two outlets...
the perversity: or the question...
of Ayn and Sophia...
                          
        greeks ****** the hebrews in the hole
without an outlet - zee heed: with a missing A...
      Ayn - Aleph -
                    twin Adam -
          perhaps a Siamese abomination...

mind you... the forbidden fruit?
sounds more like... the forbidden flesh...

thee burdensome walking
the already burdened earth: as the fruit,
somewhere between the flesh of man's last predator,
contained, on land, and his hidden desire
for revenge and introspection,
a denial of commonality and shared purpose -
thou shall not consume
that which also hunts you -
little or no concern with equal
     measure of forbidding, that which you pet...
the forbidden "fruit",
in between the flesh of a sabertooth tiger,
and Cain's fruit of famine and incompetence:
               cannibalism...

   and why would you think about
drinking a ms. amber with pepsi...
pepsi! to coca -
and not slide in a slice of lemon
while you're at it?
  terrible mistake...
       well... one way to get y'er vit amins...

        and why is it that all the best
movies these days are about homosexuals?
the dutch girl for starters...
   me, drinking, watching t.v.?
either **** good drama,
a western,
   or a movie about a *******
homosexual...
          did i mention that i think that
homosexuality is an auxiliary escapade plan?
natural, of course,
    but i'd hate to have to life
a doubled up life -
then again...
     perhaps i would...
           me? i have a new girlfriend -
Sophia - and her ****: Philip -
           so am i expected to make demands
for the child they might end up
called Ayn, or Aleph?
                - the Wahhabi hypocrisy
    concerning music, or rather, censoring it...
but... but i thought the adhan:
the call to prayer: was sung,
rather than abiding by the catholic
credo murmur?
     no?
                         my bad... you know better...
i'll send you a postcard from
the Galapagos Islands,
if i find the time, to find:
    that 4th dimensional concept doing
the trigonometric shoom! elsewhere -
on a tangen "bias": **** knows where -
like a comet - missing a tail -
shoom!                                       gone.

shrapnel:

            not enough thrills for a hard-on...
... images... drawings...
   apparently fine art is not enough
stimulation to ******* to for these Arabs...
****? .....   in general?
cartoons.... cartoons of women....
   ... because?
well... apparently the niqab...
  extends beyond the realm of...
  readily available attire...
            women on the street?
   pornographic "actresses"?
                       you see the cartoon?
it's all ******* ******...
                  oh don't get me wrong...
amy adams?
  buff as an exploding Hindenburg...
    the pale ginger - milchskin...
                - unrelated:
   how about i sneak a skunk into
        a coco chanel perfumery -
while advocating that people will still
call it a: scent just shy of roses and strawberries.

- people have heard of incels -
but have they heard of Vcels?
    huh?!
   yeah, yeah... voluntary celibacy -
i know what a ****** sounds and looks like -
and, to be honest?
   there's hardly any rhetorical ***
involved -
         a bit like jerking off...
              monkish chants -
Byzantine -
     the fear of man,
   when his own inability flourishes:
     in a woman...
                          
these acts have become well trodden...
so well trodden that i'm
authentically surprised that anyone
would still goosestep them into
their mundane plagiarism's existence...
    replica invigoration:
turns out...
    
   zeit ist nicht gerade, aber
kreisförmig...

                              touko "tom" laaksonen...
i.e. tom of finland...
   question: you think a macron over
one of those As
                     would do the trick in terms
of spelling correction?

  touko "tom" laaksonen...
you seriously can only watch European cinema
while drinking...
    again... invigorating the english language:
one baby step at a time -
a simple grapheme -

    the vater's S Z interchangeability -
   synchronised contra synchronized -
    settled -
    synchronißed -
                       sometimes the slithering S
of a snake -
   otherwise the rigid totem with
a torso of a zebra...
                     hardly a major investment -
but when i see English having moved
from the Elizabethan Shaky Steward of
thou etc. -
       imitating ancient Latin -
    coordinating the Greenwich study of
dyslexia...
            Joyce...
              no diacritical application?
   hell...
                 might as well release a bull
into a China shop...
                 or a rottweiler into chicken shack...
still... why is there an orthographic aesthetic
in practice, hovering over I and J,
  when there's no difference, as suggested
in CAPiTAL letterIng?
                                       ah... i see...
the english "think" they can bypass the para-
frontier, and the orthographic frontier
and race down to the metaphysics...
        first?
   you explain why it's i and not ι,
  and why it's j and not ȷ.

has anyone said anything to the LGBT movement that,
ahem, it is also a pronoun? i can't believe people are
getting dragged into:
                a. not only being taught
a secondary vocabulary that's "political", well, let's just
say democratically fascist - but that
b. a theological argument
based solely in the pronoun category is pointless -
i know point b. isn't really big,
or relevant, and to think
that St. Thomas' gospel once rejected
by the Church came back and
reigned in so much havoc that
it could have sparked the Syrian
civil war, and in general:
well... better edit Jesus from the bible...
at first it was the imitation of
the Kippah and the Tonsure -
in between the peacock and the pig,
religion resides - how you juggle
that field is up to you...
i tend you approach it as: well, whatever.
but this is really the best to be alive,
you can laugh in the night like you'd
never imagine laughing before -
i mean - who the hell would think
it wise to attack someone who sees
grammar use and wonders: but that's
also a pronoun, the changed Freudian
that (scalpel probing utility), later
popularised as it - or the complete
objectification of unit, aliases involve:
thought, self, personality, character, etc. -
well it's catching on like a ******* virus,
this unearthed grail of the Egyptian
desert - yes, they did travel to Egypt,
and look what came back...
perfectly fits Josephus' account of things,
which is literally two sentences
including the words: Mt. of Olives insurrection
deposit - i'm literally showing the easier
way out... most people took it too literally...
the existence of demons turned allegorical
altogether, but the existence of the words
inscribed as: make the outer the inner,
and the male the female: just shows you a lack
of both grammatical knowledge, and
poetic knowledge - the literal approach throws
you into the maggot pit of bullock -
and that's how it's going to say...
people took it too literally, that's the first
wave... taken as a sign of guilt from
a colonial past - they call the Visegrad
the new goose-stepping surgeons of thought,
this idea of a free and open society
has no boots on the ground in Anglophile
society - they fake being arrogant by
being courteous - being courteous is a sublime
version of feeling one owns a moral
superiority, which one doesn't...
and can you actually imagine yourself
being dragged through the filth of a discussion
concern pronouns? learn to build up a
subconscious of pure grammar association...
the unconscious, who Jung discovered
to be a hive you can't control,
i once suggested the idea that the collective
unconscious would resemble a society
where plumbers didn't know they were plumbers,
and no one knew what they were doing,
but incorporating the individual i see
the point of finally rationalising the individual
via the collective toward the unconscious -
the great free ***** debate -
primarily though, the particular use of language
will never reach a universal use of language
that isn't fragmented into a pseudo-arithmetic
of grammar - but it would do you a greater
good to endorse and implant grammar spectacle
to see past the fluidity of casual language use,
i.e. spot the ****** debate and say: hyphen!
down the middle! it! after all, we were children
once, and we played the game: you're it!
and ensure there's laconic appropriation while
people become forceful addicts of the flesh
to provide the weight to the categorised words
due to their change, and you're all airy fairy
with just the worded explanation,
still with the required genitalia and 2 billion Chinese;
but it's true though, look how horrified
the church is... the old geezers are not getting it,
they left the Egyptian shepherd unleash hell
on both Christianity and Islam...
the revision of the kippah was the monkish
tonsure - but this bit about ***-changes?
once again, blow-bubbles-through-your-lips
by motorising them and move your index finger
up and down... hey presto! a mongolian harmonica -
i can't believe so much intelligence was wasted,
and so much incorporated, and so much lost,
over a piece of skin that wasn't even categorised
as cartilage - it's a joke, right?
well, if it ain't, why the **** am i laughing?
if you learn grammatical categorisation of words,
you learn the insulating method of using language,
if whatever is offensive, becomes inoffensive,
someone will spend a whole life arguing the
transition from she                   into                 he,
with the haircuts and other adjustments,
while you'll be there, calling it neither he or she
(the end and the original result), but call
the individual accepting the transition by
the act of transition - incorporating the past
and the future via the transition period,
it! that's the laws of grammar, grammar in
psychological terms is the subconscious:
Freud tapped into the unconscious with dreams,
i managed to censor dreaming and sleep,
hence i tapped into the subconscious by
exposing grammar as, well, yeah: subverted language:
or language submerged by universal laws -
               in context you can understand
everything i write, in content? probably not -
again the boiling point is not 100°C - it's
universals and particulars - that's the 100°C of language -
via the thesaurus you get similar d.n.a. strands
(i just hallucinated a smiling face, but not too vivid) -
i.e. via synonyms and worded cleansing of antonyms
   off the respective suggestion as zenith-conundrum
                                                                               of Socrates:
       if something is universal it's evolved or translated
   into context - the context? using the alphabet and
words... (time references to coordination aren't necessary,
   well, something has to be unanimously expressed
  even if via dyslexia) -
                    what's particular is what's rigid in terms
of evolutionary adaptation - verbiage, i know!
   inescapable! what should i do? gauge my eyes out?!
again, dittoed paraphrase, shortened self-plagiarism:
     if something is particular it's independent or non-reciprocatory
  within boundaries of context-out-of-context: content,
   which means a b c d e f g... but arranged to a self-proclaimed
deviation (let's call prefixing the self- to a word provides
    the whole mechanism of deviating non-universal
automation, mildly put: eccentricity) -
                  in summary, you ever wonder what's
related between the list of phobias such as arachnophobia
and xenophobia? apparently the term Islamophobia
was translated into Greek as: god is one, and Muhammad
is his test subject... the sum of all little fears -
         oddly enough phobias are spontaneous and are
rarely instilled, they're lightning strikes...
i see a big spider, i recoil - it's not a permanent setting -
i stand on a ladder 3 metres off the ground, sure:
acrophobia -                    i sit in a crowded tube train,
yet again: claustrophobia - but these phobias are
a sort of antidote to the maxim: the thing to fear is
fear itself... phobias are reflex reactions to being conscious,
how people managed to translate them into reflections
is beyond me... i happen to come across phobias
all the time... but in a reflexive way: a ****, a spontaneity
surrounding them... there's nothing to be reflective about...
it's not even a phobia when i tell you a similar
reaction: suburban street at night, beer, cigarette,
walking, eyes not concentrating on anything...
~suddenly two women sitting on a low cement fence
in front of their houses startles me... the immediate
reaction is a nervous shock... who the **** would
think of that as being a phobia worthy a category?
no one. which is why i don't understand
the concept of Islamophobia... it's weird...
i don't get the same nervous sudden **** of seeing
something that isn't supposed to be there
when i walk down Oxford street and see a Burqa-clad
woman... whoever invented this word,
had a really ****** time at school and transcended
all laws of etymological construction:
i.e. on basis of really claustrophobic syllable constructs,
Islam is way beyond syllables, it's a noun,
as if the suffix / affix phobia - or little fear,
no, not sigma fear, fractional fear.

No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:

A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.

“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as

marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks

Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition;
and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner,
the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful,
obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing,
the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated.

           The Tibetan Book of the Dead
          translation:  Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup


Free Tibet your sticker tells me…
Yes, I think, perhaps I should –
and the noble thought compels me,
uninformed, half-understood.

Will their freedom help my Karma?
Upgrade my reincarnation?
(Soul who could not dare to harm a
fly… much less a Buddhist nation.)

Not to justify aggression
by the ever-brutal Commies,
let us grant no glib concession
to the Maoists – or their mommies.

Slogans echo in the void,
shining in bardos of the dead;
stopped by the light, I am annoyed
impatient for the change from red.

A bumper crop of human woe
beams forth a mandate to my brain
while red Dakinis circle slow
in Buddhist hells of karmic pain.

The eastern concepts here diverge
and bow before brutality.
They make this driver long to merge
with incorporeality.

Then I glimpse a monkish fellow
swathed in saffron, calmly seated.
His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow;
mine the traffic; stalled, defeated.

In his gaze of stern displeasure
I perceive the orient stars
calculating man’s mismeasure
trapped, exhausted, among the cars.

Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire
he extends an accusing hand:
Western slave of base desire:
come and  liberate my land !”

I meditate before the stop light:
am I ready for the task ?
Should I just refuse it outright
Can’t it be someone else ?  I ask…

Must I free this mountain nation
from the Buddha, demons and Reds?
Shall your sticker’s declaration
shatter the yoke and raise their heads ?

Somebody ought to free Tibet,
and heed this Himalayan cry.
Maybe we should get upset…
The red light changes. Cars pass by,

predestined for benign events
and unconcerned for persecution;
oblivious to dissidents
awaiting execution.

In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.

.
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.

In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.

if god is dead,
then poetry is nought: but suicide.

could it be the evermore question, a year from now
the same autumn will rinse the lands of once budding colour,
and stretch, as the eye can see, the witry skeletons,
where once the birds nested their young in bulbs of harvested
twigs  bundled up? for what if the wintry tree, if not
the last remnants of the airs of spring,
a lizardly womb of flight...
   so the paupers of Rome argue
about the benefits of monogamy,
as they might about monotheism...
and they say monogamy is not "natural",
but what is? why take the burden of
a widower swan, why extract monogamy from
swans and later find the harem of monkeys?
and then simply say: it be unnatural... why?
we were never gracious enough to mirror
swans, hence the brothers Grimm and the
ugly duckling mistook...
        oh wagers of the translated Graeae
of Scotland, where it Hamlet on the couch,
or where it Macbeth?
what matters is how populist media makes
a franchise of a form of athletics that cannot bed
a guised look of despondency -
      puritan saxon conference on sexuality
that gone beyond the ******* use:
***** therefore thinking,
            flaccid therefore not thinking...
you can utilise language to a point where mathematical
certainty is given, as is the missing blemish of
woad... no wonder the Saxon maidens
    retain their virginity at home,
but treat themselves for a nibble of the Magdalene
on the isle of Malaga... puritanism disintegrates
2 weeks in...
                   and still they bemoan,
if they have been growing more and more depressed
since the second world war...
                why allow them to create this viral infection
that's like a virus ingested by unsuspecting
       victims... are they not the ones
prescribing premature depression since they
heaved no foetus in their womb?
          and having done so, are clear of the command:
remove that alien **** from me!
   aren't they?
       if god is dead... all those who write poetry
have committed suicide...
           i once made a lament statement:
given that god is dead, then so is poetry,
i don't which is more lamentable...
but i'm sure to spot a few more eager-beavers of
kneeling and prayer than i'm to see poets...
and can i return to the heights having sunk so low?
      evidently i didn't sulk on my way down,
could poetry ever be tamed with no populist
acrimony? no *auld lang syne?
      i doubt it...              i very much doubt
a care for anything else sing-along astute than that,
for all i can compete with, is, some sort
of individual... a shadowy statuette...
         it's what's called the reverse of having a heart
for the cardiologist, a brain for the neurosurgeon,
a pathology for the psychiatrists,
  an ambition for the philosopher (mistook them
as humanists you have, for those that are simply
relegated from the realms of language by linguists) -
  for the oncologist that's hardly an ontologist....
swans epitome monogamy with the widower...
apes are Islam with the harem...
          and they say gods do not exist...
but if one sees no god, how is one to replica
a god's existence, if man borrows from the purest
sense of plagiarism that hides no legal documents
enforcing a slack on plagiarism, namely that of anima /
animal? man cannot grasp a concept of god
by sacrificing himself on the altar of imitable animal...
swans have their monogamy... man too presumptuous
also chose swans as the guiding beacon...
softened core, a mongrel of mammal and lizard
that the birds became... furry but borne from
a cracking of the eggshell... man too presumptuous...
he looked elsewhere to no visionary guide since
Narcissus: for mythology is the guiding hand of
new poetry, should god be indeed dead, and poetry
akin to that statement be merely suicide...
then at least mythology is equivalent of history
for poetry... at least there is a logic involved..
   for assuredly should god be dead,
and chlorophyll as pointless as the logic of bio:
be that of life outside one's own graphic or within
one's graphic... should life be nothing more
than the tactless usurping of history that is merely
a blank hole between the omni toward a speciem,
then why have we bothered recording history?
of all scientific theories, of all that rampantly
degrade all human dignity, why create a despotism
within science, that constantly repeats itself
to be overvalued, for reasons that suggests:
en masse applicability due to its pictorial invigoration
for a cruising simplicity? i gather this be a reason
for the emergence of technophobes, or men equipped
to war armed with nothing but sticks!
it's one thing to popularise an idea, later morphed
into a theory, then morphed into an ideology
(an idea that recurs persistently and has no
theoretical basis to not succumb to its theoretical
premise of becoming dodo - the theory of evolution
doesn't take into context the notion that it too can
become extinct... surpassed by something more
invigorating)... later morphed into a shiva
construct that destroys itself...
          we've seen 20th century's pinnacle of this
idea... we've seen eugenics emerge from a pristine
monkish background that said: how best
to economise the case of: the accurate *****-count...
is Darwinism the zenith of invigorating man?
              i find it's too arrogant to even imagine
a square tilting into a rhombus...
       suggesting a rectangle...
       but the days of roaming the Savannah are long gone
and past us... the dependency on oil and gas
and central heating has created a prison-like Akeley...
from what we've inherited, toward what we can
expect, or with suspicion: demand.
            and to think having begun erasing history,
and to think, having erased history of what's noteworthy,
we turned the slapped cheek into a cubist abstraction:
it seems pointless naming pubs after Charlemagne
(shar-le-maine) let alone singing about them...
let's all celebrate running ****-naked on a Kenyan
plateau... and rather than dealing with the past
on a poetic scale... rather: on a literalist scaling of things...
it's almost like biblical literalism kinetics....
     in either case: everyday poetry dies...
or as the case is minded to refresh the argument:
    with the death of god, poetry committed suicide...
i don't know which is the more tragic evidence
of what language has become...
                     this doesn't even invoke an analysis
of the marketplace use of language that politics is...
god forbid it should ever come to that...
  aren't we supposed to feel something otherworldly
at some point in our lives?
                     it's not that i can't rationalise my existence
into this world alone... and feel all the contentment
i need by mere concern for thought trickling into my
being within it...
            it's just that i can't rationalise my existence within
this world alone, based upon a hierarchical
          symptom... much akin to Guy "Lucifer" Fawkes
tried to state by blowing the houses of parliament...
which doesn't suggest a need for a celestial conjuring
of dictator... man has already encouraged that
with English 24/7 c.c.t.v.,
                                                   and as might be suggested...
the point you reach when catching yourself trying
to persuade or enforce a point...
         that lacks all emotive sensitivity hoping for
a romantic excavation invoking the zeitgeist of the times...
neo-romantics are on the rise...
                            we do live in a time of neo-romanticism,
as a few might have suggested: globalisation's
and the audaciousness of militant Islam's offspring:
lying dormant, like a speech by Pope Urban II:
     it just lay there, under a fog of submerged Calvinism
and secular sensibility... waiting patiently
        till the nibbling stopped and it had a chance
to counter... it truly was a case of Damocles' seconds...
tick-tock, tick-tock... and thus the guillotine dropped;
you could feel the carcass stench in the air
         or what cultural-marxisim would make of
an economy that attacked its own economic model...
  it would be deemed dead economically,
but culturally? resurgent...
         you could sniff it out in the air, that rotting
carcass menu: providing a wake of vultures,
                                  or a comedy house of hyenas.

after hearing angels sing, in
a church, where i begged for death,
attiring myself in the service cloth
of the side altar, with
an mp3 player to test my sanity,
then rampaging silent in satanic guise
in the church and later outside
in the wider world of London,
it seems only monkish chants soothe me,
de paccem domine -
c k q x s -                      
                             i wish i was a fervent
psychotic telling people to live the village life -
i don't wish people to believe me,
i want them to live their everyday lives,
i am saying to advertise further:
in need of butchers, in need of doctors -
but why should half of me feel ashamed at
at an experience i had no control over?
if he said: i need a general to Moses,
what would not suggest him saying:
i need a philosopher to me?
comparatively only warring monkish chants
soothe the ear that once entertained
an angelic choir - but there you are
again with your filthy slander -
it will only get you thus far as necessary -
i too wanted to labour to own the sweat of my
own brow -
                  i never thought being denied it
was up-kept with thoughts of vermin and
ethnic classification: i test the notion
against the fact that possessing a university
education bore no gifts to benefit society -
it really didn't,
                         i was university educated
to only stack shelves in a supermarket,
if i was that eager for money i'd have never
put any effort into getting university education
in the first place... this is England...
don't come here, this is an absolute ****-hole;
you're better off in North Korea, or China;
oh, but wait, their xenophobia with a population
of a billion... n'ah, **** it, starve in Wisconsin.
i'm not trying to convince anyone,
because my experience will not provide
a pig's trough of smirk-snout interests akin to:
the left hand washes the right hand of my
collaborators - i'm just saying what happened,
and that misdiagnosis is like a surgical mistake
of leaving an apron in the digestive cleft of organs,
people these days don't seem to understand:
the sizzling of blood on the brain is painful,
i'm not hearing voices you ***-holes who
romanticise madness to get a novel and a mortgage out
of it... has anyone told you how ******* you
are? not all experiences are intended to
usurp a status quo - most are, surprisingly
famed for being dubbed qua status, or, as being stated:
the rich are rich and the poor are poor...
the hard working continue their work,
and the artist is content with breadcrumbs rather than
a loaf of bread. i can't change what i experienced,
i just don't the politics of a personal
experience being impersonal and therefore "democratic",
which in turn might eventually depersonalise me;
anything of metaphysical note, when applied to
a democratic expression is despotism, a collective form
of what used to be: a king and a prophet...
thus, democratically, with a farcical monarchy:
a philanthropist's idea and the non-taxpayer.

oh hell, every time i write some embarrassing a day prior, i turn into honour killing from Pakistan enveloped by shame... 'what the hell did i write last night? i can't remember, but i know for sure that i didn't roll down the stairs or **** in a phonebox'. well, i could sit here romanticising like Marcel Schwob, or just dig into like Marquis the Sade... honestly and oddly enough the latter did give me an *******, and he was half-the-pervert that everyone deemed him to be, flashing his buttocks from the Bastille... his uncle abbé de Sadé (i love to put that accent in on purpose - sounds better to me, less boorish) - and yes, Creedence Clearwater Revival does more justice to the harmonica on graveyard train than Bob Dylan and **** Jagger put together... it's just there, and it ain't it's because it's there that makes it... ha ha... groovy - maybe that's why they spared him from the guillotine, in that he wrote more of his exploits as wished to be done, and of the actual exploits too many were hidden in his blabbering prose undone; ****** is by far his greatest work.

i told you the black and red Oranjeboom is a trip, they used to sell it at 8.5%, now they dropped it to 7.5... that beer can get you crazy in nanoseconds, quicker than a formula 1 crown jewel of a Mercedes-Benz, i'm serious, the ****'s lethal - you drink with me you'll be talking l.s.d., you'll end up a Mongol somewhere in Siberia, stark naked in minus forty saying the words: 'where's my umbrella? where's my umbrella?', indeed on repeat... 'and that yak? i was riding a yak... where's the yak?' we have European bisons to await you colonel... 'about time, i was waiting for a bison... isn't that the place where storks migrate to to make butter over the summer? and the Jews hid when the Black Plague was sweeping across Europe leaving them immune in the vicinity of Cracow?' yes it was, Herr Mascherschtic-Messerschmitt -
'who's on the oboe? and the soloist violinist?' we don't know, working it out, 'you better, because i don't really long for a drum-beat of knocking two stones together to spark anything but fire, rather, a conversation; 40 days in the desert with Jesus trying to relocate the Jews to Goa worked out so splendid that they moved North, started speaking riddle Hebrew that's Yiddish and followed suit with ****** being gassed, but instead of trenches, death chambers - people tend to forget he was himself gassed and dated Eva a Jewess... no far right assimilation, i spoke with a grandpa that asked for sweets from an SS-man and a great-grandmother who fed her daughter opiates to hush her on the eastern front so she wouldn't cry - sometimes stating a self-consciousness detached from thinking (the inhibitor of existence) is as random as a lottery - because it's just that, thought is an inhibitor of existence, being is an exhibitor of the (sic) stated - oh please don't read me if you're into ******, i'm with the bookworms and freaks, premature ejaculators and whatnot, go eat a ******* macaroon in Morocco or something - of all the admirable circumstances worthy a stage thinking isn't really allowed, it's not exactly glorified, in two sentences:
- *i thought about it             (how two pronouns
                                               interact without Freud,
                                               or meet, or are the proton i
                                               neutrons thought about
                                               and the electrons it)...
it's a permanent duality of expressing something and anything,
we need the first person, the eyes give it away,
but in the end we're either touching an axe to chop
down a tree or attaching ourselves to a detachment of
chopping the tree down for the Freudian third it -
it's no longer a game of 'you're it!' tagging of
the kindergarten game but a work of fiction, transitions
like that must be painful - third person narratives are
generally conceived from being lazy in the first person,
how many people do you actually need to **** the poet off?
film credits: and it's a long list, mind you.
oh yeah, that word: dzwiękać - it's about making 0.1% of
a Mozart symphony with two stones smacked against
each other for what the feet used to do, a drumbeat,
it's not exactly an act of Prometheus' Odyssey into
the first glimpses of chemistry -
alternatively?
- i am it / or some alternative to something even more alternative,
  in the French school of thought dubbed deconstructionism
  that's also a blah blah reduction,
  Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinclair, a slum-dunk
  by the Lakers - it's still supposed to mean that i intended
  the phonetic encryption, i visualised nothing for
  you to follow-up on, sounds, poetry isn't cartoon,
  the harsh reality of having to read the Mandala of
  mouth expressions without, eye, eyebrows or cheeks
  or chin - ends up being dentistry when you want to
  say a but end up adding a            h     while
  the dentist inserts a blunt object into your mouth for
  an ah (be my guest, macron or umlaut depending
  on the volume of your lungs added to the a for reasons
  of reality's prolonging the seance of rotten teeth).
what i meant was the notion that thought is a different
type of being, or expression of out of every instance -
thinking too much won't grant you access to
people who say: 'are bored with their *** life. especially
gay men, who 'see *** as something you have to do
while on drugs'. so once **** no reassurance with
forever ****? **** it! could have given it a one-over
back when i didn't have a monkish demur.
well i can admit i'm jealous, but i just remember *******
before puberty and feeling the muscle sensation and
seeing no *****, aged 8 - the ******* help, and incubator
for all that raging monotheistic operatic harem wanton -
it's still a balancing act writing a sentence,
you are basically juggling two words, both are pronouns -
you throw a boomerang, you throw it as yourself
and expect it to come back as yourself,
pristine, juvenile, ******, intact with a pride of being
a person not influenced by others... the origin of
Columbus... it doesn't work like that,
the boomerang ends up like a windscreen with
several bugs attacked to it, bugs like Kant, like Heidegger,
whoever... whatever, free-love **** *** is overrated for me,
the ******* build-up and the flashing lights and whatnot,
i approach *** like a lumberjack a tree,
axe, tree, chop chop, tree falls... i'm out after an
hour having paid £110 for the pleasure... so you can take
your little feminism into the annals for these free-love
festivals (burning man in Nevada, killing kittens
in the hamptons etc.), preach there, leave me and my loser
****** high libido crew in the shadow of the crucifix -
judgemental ******* - i never expected so much stigma for
giving an ****** that i paid for to give, it's like an
Albert Camus novel, or worse, his life,
paid for a train ticket but decided to travel to the desired
destination by car, dead in a car-wreck - Irony with an ism.