i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for my self mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed
Beated and chapped with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
    ’Tis thee, myself, that for my self I praise,
    Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

he fed you sweet sweet words like honey
their taste like sugar on his tongue
no one had ever been so kind
so to every word you clung
he told you, you were pretty,
in the dress he had bought
that you were smart when you remembered
all the things he had taught
you came to need those words
just as much as you need air
the way they showed you that you had beauty
ever since he'd placed it there
but you didn't see the truth,
the holes the words left in his teeth
as he used all of the sugar
to coat the rotted heart beneath
he revealed to you your beauty
but made it so you would believe
that you would be quick to lose it
if you ever were to leave
so you stayed fast stuck beside him
as you fell deeper for his trick
smiling like nothing was wrong
when the sugar made you sick
but let me tell you something,
you do not need him there to shine
a boy should never have a say
on how your worths defined
I know you have the power
to break out of his sticky grip
for you were beautiful before the words
had touched his sour lips

and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y

no... i felt like writing tonight...
but no...
it must be a "first"...
i've built up a headache...
i'm guessing she's Pakistani...
or thereabouts...
         first she sends me picture
of her in a Sari...
then? she sends me a picture of standing
naked in a shower...
o.k.... o.k. **** me...
you ever watch that 13th warrior movie?
the deity of the cannibals?
the headless...
armless... legless ******* and stomach?
she just sent me that sort of picture...
i'm getting a headache...
i'm feeling dizzy...
wasn't i suppose to be this western
stereotype of a man sending
his post-******* sized comforting
envies?!
headache... headache...
why would a Pakistani girl reach out
to me... and send me...
a picture of her naked torso in a shower...
ugh... what?! what?!
sure... lovely *******... a stomach
that could eat a camel's ****...
what about the thighs?!
i'm getting a headache...
   even i know that a ******* is
disorientating...
               i tried it once: never again...
         i prefer the company of only one
woman... two women is a fidgety toe in tow...
oh sure... sure...
western women are the perverted ones...
the desperate ones...
they're the ones sending all the ****-lick-picks...
becauae: likewise... the Muslim women
don't send you pictures of them
attired in a Niqab... and then...
full torso... naked... while under the shower?!
like i said:
i have a headache...
**** LIKE A GLORIOUS COW DEITY
THAT'S TO BE GLORIFIED BY CANNIBALS!
i have a headache because i'm
feeling frenzied...
i'm... losing my ****...
                  
what a terrible headache...
middle-eastern people are terrible at profiling...
they are terrible at: giving themselves profiles...
**** me... if i were to send a ****-lick-pick
to a girl i'd be X...
but if a Pakistani girl sends me a picture
of her *******... and her torso... and her legs...
standing in a shower... prior to sending me
a picture of her in a hijab?!

all the while reading ZHUANGZI...
this world is a joke...
   ****'s sake...
this girl sent me a picture of herself as
a WENDOL'S DEITY...
you... you know what that spawns in a man?
the darkest of cravings...
such that: with the shadow
of man nibbling on the extremities
of the night...

i'm having this terrible: headache...
my shadow is starting to eat the night...
a woman sent me two pictures...
one with her in attire that would
make her sensible...
then another: reckless...
like i perhaps should be:
doing... sending her a picture of my post-*******
phallus...

but... she sends me a picture of her glorious *******
and torso...
she's standing in the shower...
please... don't wake the WENDOL
in me...
            i don't want the "mother-deity" near me...
ugh... headache...
my... my...
                      i think it's too late...
mea culpa... so much for proclaiming myself
as this lover-boy with a picture of me
kissing a *******...
   no wonder i was going to attract my innermost
perversities...
   the deepest... most scandalous... most: childhood
reigniting types...

              but what's that ******* about
men sending pictures of their phalluses?!
what about women sending pictures of their *******
and their torsos to men?!
oh... wait wait...
not enough men get those pictures?
i'm getting a headache...
i've just received a picture of a WENDOL deity...
******* that fed Genghis Khan
and a torso that gave birth to Xerxes!

i feel like licking a canvas...
of one of Lucian Freud's nudes...
even though: i abhor Lucian Freud...
but the picture this girl sent me:
i want to: i don't know...
lick more than paint...
or paint more than lick...
i don't even know...

sure... chubby on the "rims"...
but those *******...
dangling... dangling like the branches
of a weeping willow...
i want any eroticism to disappear
as i suckle back to seeing the sun last...
i don't know...
chubby on the rims...
i don't mind... but with ******* like that...
i want to retract her ability to
sustain both *** and reproduction
with what's first arousal and later
milking: those glorious "hang-abouts"
of fully glimming fat... pouches...

it's a headache...
                unlike a child: i see a pair of ****...
and i'm like... no ***** in sight...
there's more reason for this pair
to be so apparent than for merely a child
to use...
         headache...
                
terrible idea(s)...
            of course she's not a model type...
that's beside the point...
she's just willing: she's pulling me: tugging at
my invisible noose...
             the fact that she's pretending
is the biggest turn-on...
she's showcasing herself as this moral
Islamic heiress... while in private?!
    degenerate...
                   feeding monsters...
that's... what's most attractive:
the contradiction... the hypocrisy...
the totality: the summation of what it is to be
human! a contradiction!

since? no other animal is a contradiction
as an ontological summation per se...
only man...
but woman... please!
don't wake up in me the deity of the WENDOL!
mind you:
i'm terribly suspect when it comes
to Asian women...
raven... hair...
   i get a headache even more terrible...
than... what might be associated as
racial-proficiency in up-keeping demands
for / of continuity...

Asian women are a slow-burn for me...
as is their thinking...
i could do with German thinking throughout my 20s...
but... upon a "return"?
it's back to sq. 1...
   Tao...
                        
oh all that's Asian and anti-European...
i'm more copper-necked
when it comes to the "romance" with summer...
i abhor summer..
they... seem: so blanched...
yet... so... those **** i want to milk...
create buter from... remotely:
some cheese...

    WENDOL...
                       mein gott... this headache
is getting worse...
i feel a hard-on is pressing me...
it's a first for me...for a girl sending me her ****...
maybe i should think about paiting?
i always liked the idea of painting clouds
of a canvas of demanding: white...

like i once mentioned:
i could see myself as a veterinarian...
and also as a BUTCHER...
but as a surgeon? no... no thank you...
she has a body on display that makes
me "think" of necrophilia...

why? she's exposing double-standards...
i like double-standards...
i also love those clearly encompassed
curvatures of: body...
and esp. via. a woman...
      and since she's Asian?
double points...
        on prior to existential "achievement"...
within this life:
death is merely a rupture
of what's to be preserved: continued...
she might not be a model...
but the fact that she sent me a picture of her
naked?!
                 i could see a thousand pictures
of naked models...
but seeing her... solo?
            i guess i have a hard-on
worth worths' of a thousand years...
            i like the idea of sand
being the improved ruminating
      cull for the description of time.

count?! count?!
beside sand, what's there implied by water?!

.
Sad kings would have themselves
Be known as Bard, tho without music
They clack song, clang along, bleeding
Ears in their sycophantic, bull kingdoms,
The horns, hardly trumpet in the barnyards,
For it is writ, because they have so inscribed,
All must now be audience, and used witness,
The spotted fawn, is all their sorrowed brilliance,
Yet, the tower raven mocks these kings crowing,
How they vainly display their sorry proclamations
On flea broken, loosed, rusted, disused abacus,
Their tabulations of worths non are mounted
In a mirror by their chambers and hands,
But all the knowledge of fallen Rome
Are simply pleasures to dream,
As their dim wordy dreams
Know praises so hollow,
As fools on a throne.

Imagine being free from all the hidden dark thoughts
and secrets you ever had. Uninhabited by modern anxieties.
Imagine being truly free for just a moment.
A perfect creation of pure character and honesty.
Like good artists, evolve.
Like great artists innovate.
Create.
Represent.
Make things happen.
The experience.
All of it.
Art, dreams making us better and courageous,
even if man's inhumanity to man proves that the
very nature of mankind is defective.
It worths a shot to try really hard to change the fact
that mankind is tethered to a vicious cycle of
creation, decay and destruction.

Photos, they say that a picture worths like a thousand words and that's
the reason we take photographs. They can capture a moment so much better than words.
If life was an album in time, how can we know that the best of them aren't captured yet.
If life is a test of multiple choice, in what quantity are the choices our own
and how much are they depended from other people choices?

I grabbed a pen and a paper
With my head bowed down
A broken hearted boy
Very week and feeling empty inside
Casting all my tears and pains on the pen and the paper
To write I did write
But what I wrote doesn't make sense So
I squash the paper and throw it in the bin
Stalking from the Conner there she stands
She picks the paper from the bin
And glance me as I fade to the front door
She grabs a geriatric complacent chair
Swiftly she take a sit and she unfold the paper
To read she did read but she couldn't understand what I wrote
She runs to the front door,  look left and right
But I'm gone
She take the paper and put it under her pillow
Maybe one day when I read it will make sense (that's what she thought)
The days kept on going with the paper under the pillow of hers
The heavenly made gorgeous girl
With a glowing face
I used to call her an angel
But now when I see her, I see a demon on a human body
She covered her tracks very well and deceived me with the glowing virtuous face
With her fake love,  the love that blinded me
In my mind it was only her running infinitely
I gave my all,  she was my world,  the best thing I could ever had
She was my everything
Until I see her true colors
The girl who doesn't tie her knots
Sleeping with many play boys
How could this be possible oh God
But she is quite, cool, the ever smiling beautiful girl
With an innocent face
To me she was a diamond
But in reality she was just a shining stone
The girl with no value
She is worthless, that's all i could say
She took the paper and read it for the second time and still
She couldn't understand what I wrote
She continued on wrecking her precious body by sleeping around
Contaminating her spirit and destroying her soul
She never stopped
I moved on with my life
Dying day by day when I remember her and the beautiful moments we had
It was impossible to let go but
I never seized my dreams
I never seized of being a good guy, being real
I still believed there is true love
I was afraid to settle because I calculated my worths
I continued on building my self and my future
One day I meet her
She was astonished to see me
There she goes
She weeps in tears,  she commemorated all the world I promised her To
Treat her like a queen
That I will marry her
Take her to beautiful places
But now Im with someone else who looks beautiful young and fresh
She took me for granted
Treated me like an option
Pitifully I look at her
She turns back and run away with tears rolling down her beautiful fallen exasperated cheeks
She arrives home and open the wardrobe drawer
She takes the paper that I wrote
She couldn't hold herself
Tears keeps on rolling
She now understand what I wrote
She never stops crying
She grabs a paper and a pen
She writes a suicidal note
Leave it on the kitchen counter
Only voices running in her head
Demons Whispering, telling her to pull a trigger
She goes back to the bedroom
take the paper that I wrote
She read it for the last time
She realize I'm the only one who ever cared
It was stupid for her to let me go
She got a disorientation  
And lost the moon while busy counting the stars
What I wrote didn't make sense
I just wanted to feel better
Take the pain away
I blurt outed  all my feelings
And motivated myself that I will be fine
That's what I wrote