Octavian Octopus
lives In the sea
with eight long tentacles
to hug you and me

He spends his days
with Seahorse Sabrina
who dreams longingly
of being a ballerina

Octavian wants so much
to be like his crony
but sadly, all of his
dance moves are bologna.

Still he felt that
he needed to impress
his funky fresh pal
in the pretty pink dress

so for hours, Octavian
practiced his spins and his twirls
he even got a costume
with glittery frills


So came the day
of the big talent show
He could show old Sabrina
that he too, was a pro

But alas,
half way through his act
his big squirmy arms
got caught in a crack

He tripped and he stumbled
and fell off the platform
tears started to fall
and away, he started to storm

"Stop!" a voice shouted at him
and he turned around to see
his best friend Sabrina
giggling with glee

"the very best dancer,
you don't need to be
if you really want to
be friends with me"

He smiled and she laughed
"you're very cool, you silly-old-goof,
but just be yourself,
not a stumbling doof"

this will make sense in the end, or at least along the way... a modern version of the Ruben's judgement of Paris, although if you watch the debate, the mediator already insinuates the "confusion": to my left or to my right, ha ha, left to right, right to left, 1st 3rd 2nd... that's putting it mildly, if i were Paris i'd have given the apple of knowing to Hera, queen of the goddesses... naomi wolf... beauty is in the eye of the beholder... and your phallus in the hand of... mhmm... softer than the flesh of an oyster at the end of the day... they did say once in times just after Pericles: make my inner as beautiful as my outer, and my outer as beautiful as my inner... then take art as not representing images: or the "shallow" arguments... any man would have given the apple to the intellectual Aphrodite (karen straughan)... we all know that antigone darling is Athena: who speaks so little you start to equate wisdom to be a distant synonym of needing courage to engage with a plebiscite crowd... oh don't give that prize to her: she'll probably tongue-tie herself and will never be able to speak into a microphone, the intellectual Aphrodite knows all too well the conundrum... it's the cougar attired in crimson that fuels the whole debate... she doesn't need to have inner beauty, you phallus is already shouting 'sir! yes sir!' at the drill sergeant anyways... you take Aphrodite as a paradoxical beauty, namely that of long conversations and not long interludes of ******* and baking cookies... you'll leave Aphrodite confused... i once heard an English motto: don't take for a wife a woman that's too attractive... that wasn't intended to be within the bias of intellect, i mean a beautiful woman within the bias of being able to manage a harem of 72 male virgins... well **** yeah, artists leave clues, whether knowing or unknowing... they're working from triangles, poets end up writing from Δ, they obscure textures and antonyms of what appears to be monochromatic, we say: red, crimson, burgundy in x-ray confines... the point being: there's no intellectual debate to be had with someone representative metaphorically or not of Hera... you can't have a Parisian fashion week catwalk where you find dehydrated beauty on the outside and an anorexic ego on the inside... what you find in Hera is a volume (voluptuousness) on the inside, within which there's a leech libido that transgresses all demands for intellect... unless it's pistons-well-oiled orientated... please, read some Marquis... if you get an ******* having read a few of his works: you're qualified - or as i like to call it: neo-classical *******... ever masturbated over Bronzino's Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time? well, if you haven't i guess **** ******* and gang-banging is your outlet: mine are pictures of Aria Giovanni and Chloe Vevraire (googlewhack no. 3!): Chloe Vevrier... but if you're never done the Odysseus pokes fun at Polyphemus... yep: the ghost hand: nobody!


you know, you can cram a lot into a 30 hour "day",
which results in the complete erosion
for the capacity to dream afterwards,
to actually work from the unconscious and create
a subconscious medium vector that connects
to points of consciousness: 30+ hours awake,
however many hours asleep, and then awake again
for another 30+ "day" to digest...
the classical definition of the subconscious, in theory,
is that you get plenty of sleep,
and it's a bit like that schematic A x B (algebraic)
A knows x     and B knows x...
   something mutual acknowledgment
via the same schematic but
A knows x, B knows x,
A knows that B knows x,
A knows that B knows that A knows x,
   which is all very Aristotelian to be frank,
it's this hyperlogic of having to acquire
great technological feats and reduce such
complexities to cat-videos on the internet as
the Egyptian partake in the genius that actually
made it possible... the slogan goes
Moses, you fool! said Nefertiti...
    so B knows x and knows that A knows x
and knows that A knows that B knows x
and B knows it's not necessarily anywhere
alphabetically less, even though the French said
a, b, c... which was very imperial of them,
that's the imperial version of what the mathematical
imperialism proved with the English inches, miles
and furlongs... but in this French case of imperialism
it wasn't a e i o u, b c d f g h j...
            that's what 30 hours awake does to you,
you wouldn't think of alcohol as a party drink,
a social barrier deconstruct... after 30 hours
you're hoping to meet Vladimir Klitschko on your
way to bed... aye pleasing Cossack, give us a
smacker goodnight... one glove it filled with
whiskey, the other with naproxen and amitriptyline...
boom! k.o. snooze, baby:
you gotta love buddhist honesty...
at least you get to see the bright side of life...
  and if people start thinking that Kant was the harbinger
of ill fate... you obviously haven't met a necromancer...
it was only von Kleist for ****'s sake!
       and he had the American option of a suicide
pact with a terminally ill woman and a bullet from
a pistol in a ditch... you can't get more romantic than that...
and there i was, mid-afternoon, having done a few of
the household chores: the washing, the ironing and
cooking a two-course meal while my mother did
the taxes (seems only mothers understand their sons
these days... women my age?
   ever see David Attenborough describe Emperor
penguins? money was invented for women,
because it brokered the end of the brotherhood of man,
we became famished by feminine needs
and have reduced inherent sports in us (hunting)
to sledgehammer bashing entertainment...
i'm the "drunk" that would rather watch ten hours
worth of ping-pong that tennis...
    i don't know why they resurrect the Olympics
every four years, have a **** coverage of it anyway
and then go back to that Glaswegian diet
of deep-fried pizza and haggis... and i hope to never know,
maybe Sepp Blatter knows...
but that's 30 hours of being awake, and only not
able to relax, by writing...
                 you wouldn't see this sort of "abuse" of
alcohol anywhere in the world...
the Soviet sleep experiment is actually not that silly...
too much sleep can also make you feel the minutes
upon your wake as if you've been stung by a bee...
three of my all time favourite songs?
the stone roses'* i wanna be adored,
    chromatics' cherry,
and finally: i can be forgiven for having missed this,
i got into them seriously with the album aufheben
and didn't really move anywhere else,
the dandy warhol effect got me...
but this song out of obscurity, 20th century technology
translated into mp3 and then onto c.d. and then
back into mp3... a song from an album that doesn't
even appear on their discography...
the brian jonestown massacre's pol ***'s pleasure penthouse,
the song in question? fingertips.
so there's that three...
      but **** on me, i half expected android (2015)
to be like ex_machina (whatever year that was)...
same topic... what the difference between android
cyborg and robot?
                                  aren't robots the proper a.i.?
as in: in production, the thing that's not hand-crafted
is artificially crafted, because it is crafted to a large yield
of a product? isn't that so? i can't distinguish (as of yet)
the difference between android and cyborg, i guess
as a Latin man (a - z user) i have to condescend the Grecian
pompousness of demeaning Hebrews (original anti-semitism
originated in Greece, not Rome, the Romans gave
the Jews not elaborate architectural schemes to abide by
in honour of Octavian, but the supposed pride in Greek
thought, undermined what later science would provide
a Latin man with, given the translation of יחֵוָחֵ,
indeed variables... i once wrote a piece about
the two Adams... namely how אָ (alef)
and עַ (ayin) are prominent letters among consonants,
but no vowel kindred of Eve is equal...
or how Eve is covered in both mainstream Islam
and orthodox Judaism... and Christianity is
a Rastafarian dream for more jerky reggae reggae...
they never sing down with Rome, judgement upon
Rome... they always sing about Babylon...
well, polytheistic or poly-schismatic,
it's all Hindu from hereon in - apart from that
here's a very tiny heresy... is that yod he vav he
or is it yod he vav het?
         there is a difference, afterall:
he (ה)        and het (חֵ) obviously differ... oh!
xet!                   god this garden is a mess,
               i guess the fruit of knowing good from evil
was intended to say: till the land, deforest,
learn agriculture... that's good, the **** you do to each
other... well: that's hardly a tonne of grain...
but they so alike though, even when you apply a noun
to these two symbols!
  could have said he xet but instead it's known as he het:
no wonder the Hittites came along for a curious look...
mind you, had not a prominent Roman, a centurion,
asked for help... we'd be prudish in runic from the northern
invaders... so thankfully no one within the Roman confines
of encoding sounds didn't have the bright spark idea
of looking at the very tiny little island of Israel and that
four lettered word and how it became known
to say o = omicron, ε = epsilon and γ = gamma,
   and cutting those things apart leaving only letter
having done plastic surgery on the noun that denotes the
letter that's denoted by the symbol, rearranged it
and got the idea of εγo: ****** marvellous!
- this is not brian pallenberg's story about the pleasure
penthouse album...
but you know what really got me in those 30 hours:
day, night, day, night: a NHLF debate between
naomi wolf, karen straughan & antigone darling,
the part where karen makes the point that
once upon a time men who beat their wives
in Scotland were publicly whipped (dhaal,
straugan), and if they were beaten-up instead by
their wives, a plebiscite of good-wishers would turn up
at the house and apply the Freudian theory of
a castration to the man, bang pots and pans,
and then in public display him having to ride on a
donkey backwards, having to hold the donkey's tail
for stability...
     see that woman in red in that debate? a true political
man-eating beast of ***** readied in atom bomb
explosions... the one next to her isn't wearing any tights...
unconsciously you're thinking: i like her french freestyle
of not having shaved her legs... the smart one is wearing
jeans and she looks oh so desperate to get out...
    the discussion doesn't even enter the realm of ideas...
hen-picking is discussed... all poetry ascribed to language
is gone... is it politically correct to ascribe the sexuality
of female chickens with the word hen to women?
behind me in Blackpool stag-dos (dos? no does...
there isn't even a ******* spelling for that phrase...
hen-nights and the inflatable Juan)...
well obviously your mind is working out why you'd
**** the middle 'un right away... she doesn't say divorcee
which is so "unsexy" but say she's a mum twice,
a mum, a single mum... polly wants a *******...
her address is new york city? ******! i'm heading there,
right now! can a white guy use urban colloquial
in the suburbs on a piece of pixel paper, which he claims
is mere the cartesian extension of his thought
and disinterest in rhetorical skills? i hope so...
it's not like herr adolf wrote a disclaimer saying:
read this or a thousand volts up your ****!
that really was a constipated debate, plus the red was all
provocateur and peppered with "you know",
   and "i know absolutely nothing": there were no ideas
in the debate! whenever there was a chance to debate
ideas, the debate turned into a debated about words,
and what words to use: to simply brush aside any clinching
to a idea-debate... perhaps because feminism is
an ideology without any coherency of ideas, as stated
from the debate: a coherency of wording: and that better
be hen = an asexual chicken, rooster = an asexual chicken...
it's still a chicken kiev at the end of the day.
now? i might squeeze in another poem...
     but it would still be great to get any kind of analysis
comparing the movie android and ex_machina...
the only problem would be: both creators are men...
so that's gender-stereotyping already...
but hell! she gets to build a buggie that she directs with
a laser pen... so that's nice...
but i'd love a discussion on these two films,
given that the music in both films is very oomph!
thriller genre always had better music than horror...
horror music is too romantic... thriller music?
***** back-stabbing you whenever you think you're
going to get a comfortable 10 minute slot...
but it's there... aside from both robotic creators being male...
woman: ex_machina - out of the machinery of man
          ergo? deus, or woman as...
i actually have a problem with the word android...
the woman is a factor of playing the two men against
each other... the android actually find a mechanical
part of himself in the way the "human" talks to the woman,
while the "android" is prejudiced against the rigidity
of his ****** movement: unlike the "human" having
an intellectual rigidity... the woman plays the two against
each other... well, 30 hours no sleep...
  i'm doing the helter-skelter trying to throw ideas
by way of remembering the actual plot of the film...
this obviously adds nothing to the discussion:
meaning i probably gave away a "spoiler" -
but more the point, i need a refill and some fresh air
to breath, having farted into a leather chair for the past
hour.

i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.

lessons in graffiti, or the Pinocchio giraffe;
and was the H absolutely necessary
when otherwise asking of a cappuccino
or at your local caf? evidently there was distinction
with the mocha too, but that won't matter,
otherwise the language isn't used... but abused.

lessons in graffiti, or other confectionary products,
while you ooze the shopping experience
on your daily commute,
       *skittels on brickwork with the origins
of the #, cut short by simply the graffiti tag,
      you wrote tag, without the collective hash,
  not so much noughts and crosses gaming,
or remembering your phone number,
                  here graffiti: or the rekindling of
trademarks in the urban scenic bypass,
or: truly under the bridge.
             writing on money does very little:
but writing on newspapers? that say a lot,
the odd day i write something on a newspaper
review section and feel almighty -
        which is much more than the rage against
the machine instructions are about:
   write a message on a penny, it's still a penny,
write a message on a dollar, it's still a dollar,
but write a message on a newspaper:
you's basically encapsulating shouting at a protest!
() hence the picture.
             r.s. (receptui scriptum):
         i never knew whether the dot belonged in
the ). or the .) part of encapsulation, if that's to be
worded or acutely pill-sized embryo,
that bypasses the oesophagus workout before
the hydrochloric gym acidity.
   how is one to make science human again?
how is one to make science lessened in the Frankenstein
myth and the ostracized ostrich citizens
that scientists very much so, actually are?
       my notes on the matter?
non-existent: i see the feminist movement
i.e. there are more women than men as such
as not a case of **** culture, but as a case of "i'm not
getting any!" call in the Vikings,
mind you, even the supermarket cashier looked
astounded in between Friday and Saturday,
  on Friday a litre of whiskey
    on Saturday a litre of whiskey...
and some men climb the Everest or walk the moon...
while some envision their liver
as a Klitschko - the tetragrammaton exists only
because people made aesthetic suggestions / blunders,
it's a suggestion in the sur- or what's otherwise a surd /
a silent nonetheless inserted atom of sprechen:
like Nietzsche and Klitschko: you say less than you
write... out pops the tetragrammaton -
        if ever Caesar Octavian needed a teacher
my vanity suggests i'd done better teaching him
than Aristotle teaching Alexander, or Seneca teaching
Nero...
                  it's all down to excessive spelling, or
the keeping up of appearances, or simply looking
bizarre, and like in mathematics, there's a remainder,
what yhwh represents is in linguistic terms
as in mathematical terms: what's left over, scraps...
see it differently and it becomes gold:
five fish, two loaves of bread sort of scenario.
                           it's a remainder -
it cannot be eradicated, denied or be left into a limbo
of diminished responsibility
      it's man concern with how language should
look and how painting should feel:
               the fact that we created art from letters
and forgot our concern for art representing forms
is not postmodernism, it's post-Platonism; finally!
of course the s and the z are the crude and the refined
versions of each other via the transition of
being modulated by the chirality enzyme,
          but they're still called zigzag twins -
there's no delta involved akin to one face of a pyramid.
how grand then, to be living in a time
when a single phonetic encoding of sound
transcends into complex meaning:
akin to s and sigma and what's mathematically
the sum / total of constipated matter...
                    strange how the Cartesian model
falters thus,
           the fact that i think is never the ending
causality of my being's summation:
           it's but a summary, but never the summation /
sum - it's never the arithmetically sound answer:
hence the god-implant, or as i said:
the remainder, which i can't erase from the realm
of thought.
                 by the way? no Jew could have wrote as
much about their god as i have:
as said: the crucifixion was worthwhile,
      but there was no question that Latin had
to remain -
                     what was saved was the Latin encoding,
not some puny redemption from doing ****...
**** no! you couldn't create robotics or write
software without Latin: no other encoding has as
many "blank" hula hoops as already provided:
Q, R, o, P, p, A, a, D, d, g, b, B...
        26 x 2? 52 - and of those how many are spies
that we are descended from the gods and can
create our slowly-ascending replicas in robotics?
as the list suggests: 12.
     should i call up St. Peter and the rest to work
out the ******* numbers of correlation in
the framework of mirror / anti?
                      ah, the eagerly waiting public:
speak of the devil... and he shall appear.
      that ****'s been going on since the death of a man
in the year 1900...
           and oh my, the search has been gruelling,
you have Western Europe remembering the 1st
and Eastern Europe trying to not remember the 2nd...
   the name's Mars... while i say: try Moby **** first:
because god knows what's lurking in the depth.
or maybe i got my bearings wrong? maybe language
truly is a statement of Bermuda magnetics
that makes all compasses into twirling ballerinas?
to me? what comes with authenticity is a good joke,
nothing remotely suggesting a seriousness:
or as Wittgenstein said: have a joke, make a joke,
compose everything with a joke in mind -
        oh the fringe minority still have a bargain on
identity in this field, they're brewing their next cup
of tea brown-nosing and fidgeting over how to
answer... oh i'm mad enough to turn on the Mr. Bombastic
attitude, 1L of whiskey in a single night goes a long
way in terms of unwinding and making vocab verbiage,
or counter to that: something worthy of an antique status.
still, a reminder, the yhwh is the Jews' great
present, expressed dutifully in English as equivalent
of the mathematical remainder:
                      only because the diacritical bargain
wasn't met with much approval:
what with the elites wanting to push a global rather than
a solely Mediterranean twist on the plot of how:
a revival?          well... combing back to the ulterior
motive for graffiti, an elitist sport, your handwriting
over printed press rather than Coca Cola sorta similar
on a brick wall: i'm telling you, handwriting is
a bit like wanking these days...
         but isn't it true that when we write we are
sorta becoming radiologists? aren't poems essential
x-rays? am i not simply showing you my bones?
these isn't skeletal? you sure?
and there's me thinking that America is on
the threshold of romanticising the French Revolution,
with the former concern? to reinstate a Polish
state, i.e. the Duchy of Warsaw...
              but it's not really a first world war reparations
injustice while the Germans used money instead
of wood to warm themselves in winter...
no, nothing can be said that would ever appeal
to the fact that the Third ***** was milked:
not even Indiana Jones had a ******* of that horror;
me? i took the best of the ****** affair,
the fully bewildered insurance broker of the zeitgeist:
Heidegger, and yes, i made more apologetics with
him than philosophy: as with an fatal attraction:
be it the bazar flute charmer of the cobra -
this one is bound to sting in the ***.
then another thing hit me, usually an internet
variance off state media... you ever wonder why
very claustrophobic pronoun usage (frequent interchange)
is almost equivalent of brawling with someone?
dreams of Angelique:
                     imagine a scene at a protest (two people):
- i doesn't matter what you think! your opinions are not relevant!
- true, as is the case of: you don't matter with regards
                 to what i think.
anyone spot this concentrated pronoun use
for the purpose of aversed violence via a degradation
emphasis, concerned with defending sported violence
but not social injustice : turned into justified violence?
   (yes, colon as ratio, variant of fractions,
meaning? less comparative literature of the fraction,
   and more divergence of authority within the Libra
of what's necessarily unfair: the whole is no authority
to distribute fairness);
  it's just that i feel the relentless overuse of pronouns
in a confrontation symbolises a need to use the body
rather than the tongue -
when too many pronouns are interchanged
and the repugnant pronoun collectivisation begins
the paranoid "they" and the sane "we" -
            well... Rη-oh! Rη-oh! Rη-oh!     (sheen sheen Mecca
       ism)
                             well hardly ref. to Brazil: rhy ate!
rhy ate!
                see how that tetragrammaton remainder just,
like, plops up like a baby gazelle from the mama
gazelle's ******? plop! and no diapers either.
ah: the cruelty. or as someone said:
  few letters are given geometric status, or at least
something remotely symbolising twins,
but still there are a few:
   m - sine (trigonometry)
   w - cosine (     "              )
  Δ - Pythagoras for short
      LΓ - the right hand
                  and the left hand in the non-superimposable
          categorisation of things
   ψ - the devil's barrister / i.e. a fork
     also 8008135 upside-down on a calculator screen
(insert a weird face) -
   χ - compass convergence, i.e. the point b
        you need to get to from your starting point oh,
and i guess H       for a rugby goal...
             oh hell, only a few phonetic encodings make
it out of blah blah land -
                       and without really wanting
to orientate myself on the origins of things:
i'm getting a suntan basking in all of this
in the immediate sense: actually using it.
                             and to think: we actually think
about what we talk about using only 26 symbols?
that's ****** effective,
                             which is why we were so keen
to spread out encoding system to think / say things.
and why the Chinese felt the greatest pull of gravity
in all of mankind and due to their ideograms
got pulled way way down and just say there:
which enabled them to reproduce on a scale such as
is apparent to us exporting our manual labour to
them: who the hell would want to learn
unit wording when it can be wording units?
       they have words we treat as onomatopoeia
shrapnel -
                   which is why we have enshrined ourselves
to sit on laurel leaves with Mozart:
     if ever us, then never us: linguistic atomists
                                            who perversely dissect
words into, what i can only call: a Lingua Table of
the 26 elements. it's there, it's naked, compared
with the diacritical approach: English is all
and Adam & Eve ready for a voyeuristic spelling
out of realities - hence the plural:
    there was never one intentional crowd-surfer out
there to make people form cults, plagiarise
and sooner than later: get lost.

The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
I being his favorite, bestowed his name
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
In memory of him and of his fame.
I am the ******, and my vestal flame
Burns less intensely than the Lion’s rage;
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
The golden Harvests as my heritage.

What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike.  I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.

Mike T Minehan

in a room filled with the music, it's hard to say what
the emotional intensity change feels like when the headphones
are in, next on the menu:
camel's masterpiece - another night -
from the album moonmadness -
and here, what Islam ought to be
kindred to: conscious r.e.m. akin
to epilepsy - and no pagan in sight -
the approaching October with
his Octavian prose of shrugged shoulders -
and an article about gender-neutrality
and fleabag - 2nd year at Edinburgh
is was all about skipping the late afternoon
tutorial, doing the shopping
and foraging on Last.fm... for the next
progressive rock-band...
hence camel, hence spirit, and many others...
a new mode of basking in the sun for a tan...
what you're thinking -
bad question... i don't want to know...
as all pubescent conversations go... that's
the one question you cite as: minus 100 points,
on a tally of 300... the end,
hello Tolstoy. so that's me,
camel's moon-madness album,
an opinion section about gentrification,
and how your genitals never bubbled into your
'ed, because it was not necessarily minded
before ******* took over...
so gender neutral... awe at the power of science...
they could have got 19 pence anti-cancer pills...
but H.I.V. was more important...
yep, never did ****... and don't intend to
join the feminism of: let's do ****, and stop
those ******* leaving us barren and destitute in
their funny guy shags guy...
if that ain't a woman thing (doing ****)
to discourage men from doing men...
i know why the majority of bachelors under
the Octavian rule of thumb would be
pressed grapes and end up as wine...
hands up: just saying... i plead guilty...
and the art of dialectics left to its own
devices produces this... no point to hook-up onto...
less agreed on and even less argued against...
dialectics like a derelict house for you:
shaky Stevens with the knees... PRAY!
there's the church, and there's the holy ghost,
who's never to be a personified,
ugly nuns praying for alcoholics...
and if there was a more successful brothel scheme
than the nuns of the Vatican... please let me know.
lying and being angelic faced: if ever
there was a bigger turnoff than that,
i'd be banking on that 'um.
so there's camel and the fleabag sitcom -
        there's also a.... burp... and that too including
something else...
                            you know... Poland seems
like a rather sane place to be a child... well, that's
1986 through to 1994 -
                     a sane place...
                                          a sane place being raised
by you grandparents -
                                   because your parents
were establishing a new lie in England and were
away...
                  a pretty sane place...
        whatever the western world is selling: i'm not buying...
you never know, it might just be malaria...
                     as a propaganda composition to
    seek out personal benefit?
   no... like looking for an honest man is as hard
as looking for god (Diogenes and the lamp debacle
in the marketplace, later understood as pure Nietzsche,
n'ah ah)...                    i keep thinking about
my childhood because that's the period where things
were sane... getting exposed to western ideas just
bred more ******-doodle-do than i'd care to say,
or Snowden and that guy who found North Korean a haven,
so much for press-freedom... at least you
can spot the dictators, the magic mushroom people
running the so-called "free media" are tyrannical moguls
who want their faces printed in tabloid papers as if
tabloids meant mirror...             at least people
want to assassinate tyrants... no one seems to give a toss
about these Eton Boys' Club Furore:
bow down to the messiahs! comparatively enough
zeros (000000000000000) on your cheque, is like
                 inches in the length and girth of your
one-night-stand capabilities.

as said by Octavian, may my tongue waggle
from the east to the west, whereby also
north unison with the time as in the southern realm -
Cerberus fed three portions of raw meat -
einklang sprechen - no laurel leaves for the
poets to sit on with pretence for idolatry of laziness -
let me don them on my cranium for proof
of authority - as prime citizen, solo utopia,
solo urbanity, let me become the butcher, the carpenter,
the baker, the street cleaner, all composition of one,
self-sufficient - but nothing of a puppeteer's worth
of fiddling the knitting of the fabric of an Empire;
poor Octavian, never quiet self-sufficient -
always the dependency, the donations of blood -
as with one review of a book: the only reason
we moved from drawing long or short shafts of wheat
as the Athenian prescription for satisfactory democracy
(oh sure, we need prescriptions in politics too) -
the reason we moved away from sortition is because
we ventured into constant entertainment -
the magician and the hat, Mr. Roger Rabbit as p.m. -
it's all about image, Core Bone Light has an image problem -
they really want election to look pretty, sortition
meaning: a Mr. Sputnik will have to be minister of
finance, and a Mrs. Paraphrase will have to be education
minister, both will loath their jobs, just like the everyday man,
hate their jobs, and in hating their jobs become more
efficient - no care for image representation having
that mint comic book quality - they'll wear
perfume akin to the stench of old books - and they'll finally
shut the **** up - these days it's excess rhetoric,
making a dialectic puncture is like finding a needle
in a haystack... you'll sooner open up a ****** girl's ****
than find that needle... no number of big bad wolves will
blow that haystack and wrap it into a tumbleweed -
no number of big bad wolves. join the shrimp colony,
or the sardine swarm of clouds beneath the sea -
make arithmetic snap click nod ye ha! lasso that bull in!
i agree with applying the magic trick or lottery to
democracy, they loved the ones that looked pretty,
modern democracy's motto? something from
a Louis XIV assertion of seeing himself in mirrors...
look pretty, people will trust you... power in appearances...
airs... isn't that how aristocracy functions, simply on airs?
imagine the king on his throne minor... out pops
Napoleon's head - the crown is heavy, but the throne is
lite / mm pop of a Pepsi, **** ahoy! plop... shiver me timbers,
yarrr or yarn in the weeding pool of gimme gimme a
**** in the morning before all the major affairs of human
interactions take formal tones - overtones? eyeliner.
my curriculum vitae - i think i studied once, i must have,
but i'm not sure if i learned anything -
i know i started self-education myself and learned
Faustian secrets along the way, became an optometrist,
i swear i was taught by other people prior,
i learned how to tie my shoes, make a hangman from
a tie and put it round my neck, shoeshined a pretty smile...
did i mention i drank to excess and held a V of index
and middle against the wind on the way?
did i mention i faked madness in order to be free to
slander with truth? they can't lock me up now...
i'm a "vulnerable" citizen - plus closing those mental
institutions means that society has to vacate them -
in turn becoming a madhouse - which England is,
as we speak, the virus spread to the blonde comb-over
brigade across the "pond" - this Anglo-Americon
relationship seems too friendly... if you get my cockerel
quiff minding the matter -
and never was language so rigid as to say it only dampened
the tongue to slur words in clear division of fiction
or otherwise - the time has come for my eyes to burn,
or turn into complete whitey of the sclera -
or, what was that? oh yes! now i remember, reducing
theology to what pronoun is adequate... god-he or god-she
or Alanis Morissette? team America accented Damon -
m'eh... we have squatters and priests in this domain,
call them parasites if you like, but theology is more than
what pronoun is adequate... let's just call the transgender
movement as if calling Stephen King's It -
acronym for: infatuation technology - i.e. what a lovely
butterfly, what a lovely pear, what a lovely sunny day -
aaaah mm, a naturalist's common thread;
oh right, so this ~arithmetic and politics -
quick agreement / disagreement followed up by a quick
validation of the point (dialectics is reserved for old
people, that being said, when Potato Plato turned 70
he discouraged young Aristotle, unlike his mentor
Socrates, Potato Plato never reached Socratic maturity
when he turned old... dialectics remains the art-form
of only one individual... nothing was learned, as the populace
proves every-single-time... we're quick to state opinion
than to dispute it... minus points for encountering /
encouraging bullies to make opinions physical, an iron tonne
of gravity with knuckles). language and gymnastics -
most people write like they're ******* pedestrians,
stiff coffins of vocabulary, never the verbiage fern phantoms -
oi! i need the shade! there they are, dreaming of
astronaut eyes doing the Olympics' triple-jump on
the moon? hey! lack of gravity! it's not the fault of doping!
they want the physical experience, never the mental
labyrinth - they write their curriculum vitae like they live
it - based on a lie - they never really turn rōnin
against their first oppressor - grammar;
always the ******* never the **** - shame really,
it's this naive Newtonian acceptance of gravity,
words like apples fall into their laps and they slurp rigidity -
now that's really a stance refreshing Heraclitus -
tenet? obscurity - or in revision: ah forget what is written
as being obscure, let's test them using punctuation -
that will really **** 'em up - after all punctuation is
literary architecture - Cinderella's glass shoe of the soul...
if it fits... it fits - if it doesn't then slice the van Gogh heel
or the Everest climber's toe; or let us say
the arithmetic asthma of punctuation, catch a breath...
release; shame i never learned to read music,
played the recorder and the xylophone in primary school,
i guess this is my revenge - to have written something
in complete silence, punctuated as i have done,
and never revealed the way it ought to be said...
i learned to read music scores by punctuating as it goes...
well... never learning either, sorta automating an ode
to the symbols of music with the symbols of poetic
musicology - p u n c t u a t i o n markings - the Pharaoh's curse.

I want, to be able pure poems to write,
To sleep near the sky like star gazers at night,
To dream near the belfries, enchanted and filled
By their solemn anthems diffused by the wind.
With chin cupped in hands from my attic to see
The workshop which chatters and sings and feels free;
The chimneys, the steeples, these masts of the town,
The skies making people in fancy to drown.

How nice is to see through the mists a star bright
And a lamp at the window, burning still in the night,
The rivers of coal rising up in the air,
The moon pouring down its pale charm everywhere.
The summers and autumns will quietly go;
When winter arrives with its white and dull snow
I'll close all the doors and pull down the blind
And build lofty castles at night in my mind.
I'll dream all the time of blue distant horizons,
Alabaster small fountains which weep in the gardens,
And kisses, and birds, chirping loudly and rife,
The pure love affairs we cherish in life.
The bustle, enticing, at the window will drum,
With my head on the desk, I shall sit still and numb,
For I'll dive in the sea of exquisite delight
Of evoking the spring with my will and my might,
Of bringing the sun near my heart and create
Of my fiery dreams an abode warm and great.

On a ridge so nice,
Nest of Paradise,
Here come in the end,
Down the ***** descend
Three white flocks in queue
And three shepherds, too,
From Moldavia land,
Transylvania land,
And from Vrancea land.
And the second one,
With the Vrancea's son,
Well, they schemed a lot
And devised a plot
At the end of day,
Merciless to slay
The Moldavian guy,
Richer – cant' deny –
For has many sheep,
Which are fair and leap,
Horses trained for ride,
And dogs full of pride.
But that ewe, so cool,
With a gray-white wool
Three days in a row
Spoke in a voice low,
And walked to and fro.
– O, gray little ewe
And with white wool, too,
Three days in a row
Spoke in a voice low!                    
Doesn't the grass grow
Or you're feeling blue,
My beloved ewe?
– O, my shepherd dear,
Bring your sheep down here
Near the woods today
Where we have much hay,
In the shade you'll stay.
Master, hear my clue,
Call a dog to you,
Bold and of good breed,
True to you, indeed,
For when night is near,
They will **** you, dear,
The Vrancea's mean son
And the other one!
–  My ewe with meek eyes         
If you are so wise
When you see me dead
On a foxtail bed,
Tell the Vrancea's son
And the other one    
To dig me a tomb
In this pasture's womb,
Near the pen for sheep
To bury me deep;
Or behind the logs
To hear all my dogs.            
Tell them what I say,
Near my head then lay
A pipe made of beech
Its nice song to reach,
A pipe made of bone,
With a doleful tone;
A pipe thin and real,
Which plays with much zeal!
Wind will sweep the grass
And through them will pass
All the sheep will flee
Here to cry for me
Shedding tears a sea!                
If I'm killed, don't run,
But tell everyone
I married one day
A queen far away,
The world's bride, I'd say;                  
At my wedding, tell
That a bright star fell;
That the moon and sun
Held my wreath for fun.            
Firs and oaks with nests
Were my lovely guests,
Priests, the mounts with herds,
Fiddlers, the wild birds,
Birdies stood to watch,
Stars shone like a torch!
And I'm asking thee
If one day you see
Old mom feeling down,
With a belted gown
Crying in despair,
Asking everywhere,
Shouting in the air:            
"People full of joy
Who has seen my boy
Shepherd proud and dear,
Slim and without fear?
His face soft as silk
And as white as milk;                  
His moustache so sweet,
Yellow ear of wheat;          
His hair combed with skill
Black like raven's quill;
His eyes deep and droll,
Two pieces of coal?”
You, my dearest sheep,
Pity her and weep
Then tell her somehow
That I'm married now
To a young queen nice,
There, in Paradise,                      
But don't give detail
To that mother frail,
That on wedding night
A star lost its light
Firs and oaks with nests
Were my lovely guests,
Priests, the mounts with herds,
Fiddlers, the wild birds,
Birdies stood to watch,
Stars shone like a torch!

among the dead, two heroes, Octavian, and Philip Augustus
(from the house of Capet)... to all hopes of a revived Hollywood
encircling them, fermenting as many credible names -
strange people, poisons that smell like perfume - what?
lord anthony is dead - is that how one says it?
simply as that... mark anthony is dead -
the soup is hot, the soup is cold - anthony is living, anthony is dead -
SHAKE WITH TERROR WHEN SUCH WORDS
PASS YOUR LIPS... FOR FEAR THEY BE UNTRUE
AND ANTHONY CUT-OUT YOUR TONGUE FOR A LIE...
AND IF TRUE... FOR YOUR LIFETIME BOAST
THAT YOU WERE ABLE TO SPEAK HIS NAME
IN HIS DEATH... A DYING OF SUCH A MAN
MUST BE SHOUTED... SCREAMED!
IT MUST ECHO BACK FROM THE CORNERS OF
THE UNIVERSE!
ANTHONY IS DEAD! MARK ANTHONY OF ROME
LIVES NO MORE!
i know of only two men be worth a taxing memory,
a taxman's assertion worth of bookkeeping...
that one was Octavian, and the latter remnant of Charlemagne,
namely Philip Augustus, father of the Magna Carta...
beyond the celebrated procession of Westminster Abbey...
there the minded tear...
they binding i admire most... keen puppeteers,
such that i too suffer sufficing to be with the smallest army of
exercise in the demand of owning land bereaved
from ever being lost, as sufficient demand for
posthumous reenactment of the up-kept bibliography.