-
bypassing the construct of
a paragraph.

necro-sculpture
                          that is bucling
point for normies...
akin to
                the solitude of
             watching a television...
              i managed
to grasp the worth of
                      a tomb
      as if i perpetually
had itchy fingers...
               the last time i forgot
walking through
                      museums,
i had the "pleasure"
of walking into
         two cemetaries,
with two
                    funerals taking
place...
      yes, i can ******* count!

   crow, two wings,
one tail, two legs,
looks like a god begotten as
a hunchback reduced to
walking,
among birds,
  the most curious specimen...

              the price you pay for
appreciating necro-sculpture...
entertaining funerals...
                      oh great...
now i get to fiddle with
content providers while choking
on slavic toilet brushing
sessions...
                 call the indigestion
police...
                  
   because at what point
is the appreciation of necro-sculpture
the necessary appreciation
of greek marbles?!

                          shveeden he-veen....
   *******...
                     how unfortunate of me
to appreciate necro-sculpture,
and also have to entertain
              two funeral processions...
                          if ever
there came a better appreciation
of wood,
       it sure as **** wouldn't come
in that sort of carving,
worth a depreciated form of door,
and instead, elaborate:
                               packaging.

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

At once, coffee and tea,
next second, scans.
Sweet, to hints of saccharine.
Burned bread is one
thing to dunk-- but diagrams?

Tunnel to the light, here
is the night. All
fall prey to life.
Tunnel to the light, here
falls the night. All
fall prey.

Now, you hasten.
I am still slow.
What will I do,
though, when you go?

Let's find out.

apathy, is me     with you,
                               i am
               the oceans,the rivers&lakes,the
        mountains&valleys,the atmosphere
the Earth,Jupiter,Venus,so on,
i am the Milky Way,Andromeda,all
                other galaxies known&unknown,all
                the stars&constellations,the asteroids,
                alien planets&blackholes all curled up in  
                 the fabric of the Universe
          but
nothing specific mind you
my dear
   ...with you

Love is philosophy
safe in its reach
apathy is me, with you
strung-out on the antidote
with you,
the sickness issa comforting creature;
       the aquamarine-moon cradles
       madness like a fetal daydream
—with you
      
love is scientific,
                boring in its dissection
       love is petty
                 in its honesty
apathy,is me.
             with you,i am un
                            being un
                           dulating b/t there
                         & there
           nowhere near here;

apathy, is m e
                 and y o u inna vacuum
        i am? with you—cut
                            me
                       T(in)WO;
apathy,is me, with me and you,
                i am
                body inna fever
                &
                (my) voice dis
                embodied
                inna tomb;
                send your fever meat thru a tube
                kiss&kiss my blistered
                     bliss
          we’re necro
                         philiacs
apathy, is me     with you

I feel your fingertips run over my back
skin inlaid with gold and rivulet rubies
i am afraid of my mortal body
growing into the coffin it was meant to be
but you dig into the pale canvas skin anyway
tattoo the words you love to say
sink nails into fragile flesh
(who will remember this ink from six feet under)
shovel the ashes into my collapsed torso
chest cavity fertile enough for grave hairs to grow
your letters and sighs rot in swirling stains
down these dying earthly drains

would you mind reading this and giving your thoughts? http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1533551/narcol... it's my boyfriends and i think its really good, Thx :)*

Matthew Conrad  5 minutes ago
i could write many things, the biggest constructive criticism these days concerning any output of poetry is rhyming, rhyming tends to disguise the poet in not digging deeper, in all honesty rhyming poetry is dead, instead there's a desperate need for a narrative, a captured narrative, rhyming doesn't really show you anything other than a strict technique of how poetry used to be written, a very neat Victorian standard of trying to not show your emotions; but to rhyme when talking about something as debilitating as narcolepsy feels like the problem is not really embraced, whereby the rhyming only embraces the routineness of the problem, like a swing... to and fro; if he could just do a carpe diem (seize the moment) rather than stress a whole lifetime's worth of it not changing by engaging in rhyme, for example: ask him to write about a dream, get him involved in remembering dreams rather than the dreary reality, after all... he spends a lot of time in the dream realm. but like i said, poetry these days is really trying to not use too much conscious technique of what was used in the past, not rhyming does not make poetry not-poetry, it just shoves grit into your eyes... creating a sense of spontaneity... plus you feel less constrained to be forcefully hitting an echo.

p.s. necro-lepsy... i'm awake all the time, and i feel i'm dead, the poor guy just sleeps a lot, i'm always dying.

i've been feeding pork and beef to my cats
for months,
   and they love it (i'm wondering why
they don't drink the streotype disney fantasy
of also drinking milk - but apparently
cats are lactose intolerant, and it
gives them the *****)...
          but what i am worried about is this:
there's this uncooked chunk of beef lying in
the kitchen for me to eat...
                                                  it's there, teasing me,
and i'm actually contemplating about going all out
tartar on the thing...
                                        which comes from
what is equivalent to the mainstream forum base
of "virtue" signalling...
                      are there parasite embryos in this
piece of meat? probably? mad cow disease?
probably... i didn't get to go to the glasbury retreat
for almost two years because of the outbreak...
some people don't get to go to the glastonbury festival:
i'm actually considering lucky to have never been...
went?
             yadda yadda: equivalent to be there...
and then heidegger's ontological fetish for being...
whatever...
     it's a raw piece of beef...
                           and it's lying in the kitchen and
i'm supposed to eat it... but go completely tartar?
    it's not mince beef... it's lying here whole...
          it's not going to be a rare steak experience if
i actually do decide to eat it tartar style...
     cultural inheritence? ever experience a mongolian
horde? they did what i'm about to accomplish
with beef, not horse-meat...
                                                 blood-flesh...
sheer... i'm almost turning my teeth into culinary
items of a knife and fork...
   i know i will eat this piece of raw beef meat,
i know i will... because i know that raw aquatic meat
has more chances of containing parasite embryos
than mammalian flesh...
   well... there will be potatoes and broadbean
stalks on the side to add to the flavour... or as some say:
roughage (or fibre).
        but it's the erotica of eating raw beef
that reminds me of the time i "ate" a ****...
                          hmmpf... the perfumes and juices
and aura...
                  the way it overcomes the fetish of suckling
at a sweating armpit...
                             there are gradations in lymph
juices... a person who had a skin (ahem) "disease"
known as acne, and that person being a male,
is twice as like (of the totality of being a person) to enjoy
phem-la... i don't have a proper noun for it,
i hope someone coins the phrase... phemlolo?
               i never knew that ******* only applied to
woman on man... i thought there was a libra in that
definition in reverse... reverse of *******
while ******* a woman? stick your face in the part
your're about to **** with your genitals...
        i slobbered into that part of a woman, teased it with
my nose and spoke so many silent vowels with
the waggling tongue... that i evidently had to become
a part-time eroticist: and that's apparently the shameful
area of the art of writing;
               but you know: as you do in rome...
             now comes the biblical ******...
"forbidden" fruit? that's obvious... it's staring you
in the face!
                          variations of revisionists that cut off
foreskins (excesses of genital parts)...
         it's oral ***... that later translates into
                                          voiced anger, dialectics...
and to think: to state great principles with that part
of the body, and then reduce it to oil up female
genitals? worth it.
                   i really have to reduce it to that,
the mere thought of eating a raw piece of meat that's
in the necro spectrum and will not ooze out
anything equivalent to an aphrodite's perfume
    is brooding over me toward the shrine of thanatos...
but then performing oral *** on a woman's
genital parts is twice as revealing, and taking pleasure
from it? homosexuals do the same, or
are equipped with the same materials:
  it really is a house of cards,
                               the king up and the king down...
yet those who perform this "obscene" act mentioned
           in the book of genesis... of that "tree's" fruit you
will not eat: look... moses didn't speak slave tongue of
the hebrews... and of the people that spoke moses'
tongue, you'd need the equivalent of a rosetta stone...
but now you need three more language variations
to "understand" that's happening...
    probably english... i guess russian... and i'm trying
to think of a third... german?
      but it fallatio... what of the feminine opposite...
and some might dispute this: but i did eat a camomile
in harlow, ****** out of my head...
                              asking the police to take me home
in one of their vans at the end of the night;
fun times in england, with bulgar prostitutes:
who lie they're romanian and then speak to one another
using the cyrillic term haraшo / dobře / o.k.
             still, the idea of what is to come:
eating a steak of meat that's not minced, tartar-style
transcends a literary fascination with *******
literature (akin to harold norse's biography
******* angel) - it will simply remind me of
having once "eaten" out a very flavoursome piece of
****; and then engaged in butchering its face
to contort into O and Ah.

when they said their **** against Marcus Aurelius
then they said a thing about Commodus -
and then i watched  the blueish woad:
as said the heart have earned the fork in road
or the forevermore for the upcoming usurpation -
     blunt grey admittedly:
all jotted a count for,
                the 5 good Caesars -
          O my home, that's Scootland -
        a land i neared to: but never had -
          when no noun be an Ascot toward a verb of nearing
a had helter-skelter off a saddle - later said: a bed.
             oh Scotland:
such that via venture into Hardian
a tongue could be spoken less!
   spoken less and thought of more!
and you could say aye to a yee - toy a princess
toward a girth of a robin's beak bullying a sunrise
into a cry... as parallel toward a mamma mia or
akin to fudge and marshmallow chuckling chastity
chewed for that "necessary" calorie arithmetic!
or runny gooey choc: then i be then i be the one for
hunting fat carps in a lake rather than
the kingly rivers of no return -
                 or how it was all right back then:
are you man enough to be staged?!
oh but when the void is but a yawn - what then?
what care to say profound things?
               honestly: none, whatsoever.
then you turn and say perfumed things,
rather than profundi necro - via
de profundis: or the profound contra of
                      dead profundity -
resurgence of the Oscar Wilde cosmopolitan.
          as some said, merely: piglet,
     but then some say: rightly prozac pink -
blue to ******, and white as salt, as sugar,
         as *******, as Colombian death-opera.
           the dead are profound,
agreeably they are, bound to be found,
        they're a little bit obvious,
      X always marks the spotty acne bound parishioner
readied for liturgy -  and isn't that a cherishable act?
  pay the proper price of pray...
                       still, the adaptation of Macbeth
with typescript Shakespeare agonising ****** tongue
  sho' sho' short and all the better for it - was:
and if ever there was a home for me,
if ever,
           it was neither England nor Poland...
it was somehow Scotland, somehow too the remote
Scandi Faroes Islands, a very much moochie *******
stance on Verstappen (v-necked sh'tappen 'appen) -
               i still think of woad as blue,
and Commodus as one of the five righteous
emperors who did good...
     yet counter is not unrepresented - surely
not kindred of Caligula - woad is still synonymous
with blue in patch-fazed sloppy when it was indeed
tempered with intentional tartan of purring purple;
did i say something profound? obviously not...
did i was anything at all? obviously i did...
did i say more than the wind rummaging a tree
to see autumnal revisionism in lost colour
stemming from green? i d' see indeed!
    an epitaph as more than my trinity name
and by date more of residing worth to
gain breath and so forthcoming take to losing it?
if not as failed individuals didn't we practice
the clarity of procreation for dietary existentialism
being necessarily practice, in light of the need
of not having failed? then too no motherly motto
strand of thought to listen to: or a gym membership
not being joined: as much in need
of criticism, as so in need of actual members -
       for the laconic treatment of words
and the high-notion of advert -
           from " " capsules of the 20th century,
through to the shortly lived ~, or question of
ambiguity,
            into the ***** of what's necessarily there:
           of a question, that's a ~question,
that's a "question", that's actually a -question-
           or how prefixation became exaggerated:
or how every single blonde-**** reader
started to behave like an english teacher
and did the herr salute toward getting excited when
punctuating their own punctuation was a
bit: overshadowed - kindly put: underused.

i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.

wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.

  that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
      there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
  one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
    no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
            it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
     i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
      i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
            i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
       i might ******* in the meantime,
  i might pick-my-nose...
    but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
    i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
                 maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
     but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
    did i see it proper?
   if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
     i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.

     - the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -

- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.

Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;

science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.

Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.

Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.

Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.

With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?

The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.

Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:

   what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
   - and what do you call a man who earns
a living  from old women? Rydzyk.

I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?

How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.

**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);

note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.

believe me when i say:
     i will always trust the turk the barber...
   i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber
if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
      because?
    please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
     that imaginary forest into a british library!

i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
             or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
    a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
   while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
   or as the ancient saying goes:

siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
       a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...

ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
  ein zweite eisenvorhang...

     if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
          me using english grammar...

ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
      bottom up or bottom down?
      it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
  in such examples.

.a grand biblical event could be happening, it could very well be happening... but then you could be like me, treating a toothache with cloves... sieving through the smiths' oeuvre (because when it came to 1980s music, it was always about the cure and depeche mode)... or getting your anaesthetic watching stockholm requiem... robotic or perhaps just zoological swedes treating the case of: unwanted... like a heart-attack is merely a murmur... i imagine the germans in concentration camps being burdened with their trained sadism... sickly sweet from the crescendo of inhumanity... anything but this swedish anemia... this "supposed to be human"... perhaps it should be called the Moebius-Stockholm Syndrome... no... i have no impeding wish to go back to visit Sweden... i'm sure to find more water in a rock... i'm sure to find more sunsets if i were to go blind... come summer and the air would drop temperature come the desired hours of the spectacle... i quiet fancy the nazis to have been burdened with too much of life, the mammalian hot-bloodedness... i can almost imagine them being unable to bypass their erectile-dysfunctions with those deeds of theirs... than these ivory pickles of men... not even an event of biblical proportions would wake these people if their thespians are so... morbidly without a grace of a statue standing over a grave... the facade of flesh... when i can peer at a necro-associated-sculpture and pave my way toward "imagining" something intent on life within it... if the swedish thespians are so... less rummaging... i can't quiet imagine the real-life swede... perhaps they're just autistic? or... let's be kind... solipsistic? well... if only being invaded was something of a cure... as Knausgård mentions... i wonder why there's this sudden rise in scandinavian romanticism: genesis... i would rather trace a backward "plan" from sanskrit and to the great mother siberia... daydreams and ineffectual markings of... these days words of most importance are more ascribed to... the sort of paper you will not write on... escape from sobibor... i can imagine being exhausted by having to perform so much sadism... rather than, say, calmly brewing a cup of tea... it must have been so tiresome to be trained as monsters... of course: exceptions... it's just tiresome through-and-through... buying mania... for shoes... for umbrellas... for obscure details that might allow any general improvement of life... singing lazily as morrissey... did... if the man is to become a pariah... hell: not as bad as a persona non grata: the guns of navarone only come out with the proper latin... the concentration camp "workers"... the salt-miners of the *****... of no affair to make a sympathy... but if you've just watched a swedish thespian production... in unwanted... stockholm requiem... more like a Moebius-Stockholm Syndrome... you'd turn to watch something of something clearly tortured... by torturing... from above: crisp clean napkins and all those anecdotes over dinner while ingeting champagne in flutes... there's no need to make this "look" good... this is still about morrissey, though... tired of the cure and depeche mode... the current craze for biblical sized proportion of events... apparently it's true: absolutely everything is MADE IN CHINA... well... at least no one's dying with boils, spores... weird mushrooms growing out of their armpits... or the leprechauns of leprosy taking a bite... point being... i don't think this current state of affairs proves that my fellow man... could stomach... very little these days... then again... i could get away with this: humanisation of concentration camp guards... because i feel completely robotic having watched swedish acting... i'm looking for the most worthwhile available alternative... when you can't just pet a cat... as william burroughs noted... you can keep a cat, feed it, pet it... but at the end of the month you need to gauge its eyes out to enter the ᛋᛋ... so uber... by the way... why is there no D in armanen runes? hard to make sense of a future language of: the man in the high castle with only 18 letters... that's 4 short of the hebrew alphabet... clearly *******... 24 in greek... 23 in roman... 26 in modern english... 41 letters in the glagolitic alphabet... yes: graphemes and all - all those diacritical passions... 32 in modern polish... early germanic had 24 letters... but the armanen runes? only 18... *******... so much for ***** von List or what the third ***** germans read... the wrong sort of neopaganism: esp. if you're about to... ******* about 6 letters... you can't exactly have a language with a bare minimum of... 22 letters... which is a lie... ha ha... the hebrews have 27 letters... but their vowels are like diacritical marks elsewhere... "hidden"... it's the basic prefix rule of o(mega) and e(psilon)... or for that matter a-lpha and b-eta... well... there's the ******* siamese adams (א) and (ע)... b(ב), g(ג), d(ד), h(ה), v(ו), z(ז), ch(ח), t(ט), y(י), k(כ), L(ל), m(מ), n(נ), s(ס), p(פ), ts(צ), q(ק), r(ר), sh(ש), "t"... so that's the ******* siamese adams and the timmy and timothy t(ט) and "t"(ת)... but there are five over letters... kametz (a), chirek (i), tzere (e) cholem (o) and shurek (u)... although... they're not treated as letters... but akin to the acute diacritical mark when s becomes ś... or when a c grows a cedilla and becomes ç... or when an A grows a tail and becomes Ą... in hebrew that's already exposed... sh(ש)in is a caron s (Š)... and ch(ח)et is a caron c (Č)... no... if you're looking at hebrew as i am... gobsmacked... because they're playing crossword puzzles by merely writing... how their vowels wear niqabs... and are "not included"... you can't have a functioning civilization without a bare minimum of 22 letters... which is a lie... the hebrews just treat their vowels are diacritical markers... they have 27... the standard was given by the greeks... 24... and of those that are, 24... you could say... ΦΘ: phi and theta: F... OΩ: omicron and omega: is that pop and ****? equivalent? there's you real 22 letter alphabet... which includes all the vowels... ξ(ks), χ(ch), ψ(ps) - otherwise the letter that makes π a patent surd... so ψ is the aesthetic variation of σomething else... only differentiated when written... not necessarily when spoken - so you could technically... let's leave it at that.

they're saying about ibuprofen -
whatever the science: how the virus is latching
onto it and is sustained by it -
quack-theory or a barking up the wrong
the tree -
                    last time i heard an ibuprofen
is best for a toothache -
                  if only life... could be more monumental
that living through this mass hysteria:
or lack of it thereof...
       with this most irritating pain -
          this loose filling... there's a pandemic raging
the supermarkets are running out of bread...
there's no sugar and no flower...
       no bread: no circuses of a football match...
no real gambling involving 22 ballerinas,
horses or dogs...
                                  and here i am...
more bothered with a toothache...
                           what remedy, what remedy?
last time i heard...
                   they use a base chemical ingredient
from cloves for all the anaesthetics in dentistry...
last time i heard...
   if you put a clove on the ill tooth...
                       gently bite down...
                    one down... slobbered...
                 the saliva will open up the remedy...
from this humble clove...
         well... so much for merely culinary
purposes...
                                   indeed... a toothache
lessened... by a clove...
                        now for that whiskey disinfectant
to wipe clean the mouth...
         then some cheap ***** mixed with
aleo vera gel for that oh so precious disinfectant
that... evaporates when smeared onto
the hands...
                 i could be making money from this...
as i heard: bottles are selling for 60+ quid...
n'ah... i like being integrated for my already
miniature role of self with... integrity...
the knitty-gritty of honesty...
                                    who would have thought...
that cloves can alleviate toothache;
after all... there's that whale that swallowed
Jonah to fish for... in this current climate:
      of cough sneeze and woozy;
better still... an oeuvre of the smiths...
           because i never really got into them...
now's a good time like any other...
            girlfriend in a coma...
                            pretty girls make graves...
                     some girls are bigger than others...
            oddly... the music when watching
empty buses plough the streets -
             when empty streets become...
arcades for the winds...
                               and... they are not missing
those arthritis prone in-mid-life joggers...
              well... it's still the right sort of time...
to head on high... and find entertainment in thinking.