We have seen the might
And the power of a saturn 5 rocket as it
Claws its way skywards
On a plume of noise and flame and fury
And this is the image we conjure when we
Are presented the concept of rocket,
Or flight,
Or heavenward high attainment,

Yet I know one who flies just as high,
Whose glance,
Let alone whose direct look,
Has the power of a thouand thousand suns
And the intense draw
Or magnetism even of a dozen
Deep black holes
In their wells

Yet she is truly petite,
One may almsot say too tiny,
She makes those of us of barn door
Frame feel truly lumpsome and
Gross by comparison,
Yet she whizzes and fizzes and
Percolates and pops,
Her path is as of rainbows

I am sure I felt the touch of
An Angel wing when she passed
Close by and yet
I see also deep naughtiness
Held firm in check,
Perhaps indeed there are horns
Beneath her dark dark hair

But it is those wings
Which explain the rocket
And the petite and the horns in balance with the good
That quicken the heart of all that
Meet her
Leaving us all just a little exhausted
Yet wearing a great
Big
Smile...

Almsot everywhere
All walls
All conversations
To be appericated
Not understood
Loved for who they saw
Who they made me to be
How I fit into perspective
No I, I am not
Almost nowhere

You remembered what I said
Two weeks ago
I didn't even remember it

When I cry and feel sad
You feel bad
And offer comfort

You laugh at my jokes
When they don't make sense
Never pretend

You listen to me
And never complain
Even when I'm a pain

You say sweet things to me
I don't have to beg for it
You state clearly how you mean it

This isn't perfect
By no means
You make me a confused mess

But for once in my lonely life
People have noticed me
And not ran away to hide

They don't forget
Or make fun
They just like me

What's going on?
I wait for the trauma
But they bring no such thing

And so I found you
And told you I liked you
You didn't laugh at me

You were very happy
And bragged about having me
Because I'm cute and sweet

That's what you said
And I almsot beleive it
Because everyday I hear it

Kind words
Not cruelty
Coming from every which way

I feel selfish
Not sure why
I guess having this attention

I feel like it's sin
But I think it's ok
To feel good about myself

Though you confuse me
I thank you, dearly
For you are genuine and like me

And aren't cruel nor a monster
Just a kind, normal man,
Adoring a shy soul.

Find me in this flow of day
Till the warmth of sight escapes my bones
And in realization that this rivers flow
Is no more than water, no less than true
In its careless, passing, way it goes
And so speaks to me in a rippling ease
Reassuringly to let me know
That I am almsot free
Of my own being, in alone

well, it's almost as if: money created slavery, the idea that people could by bypassed via employment... but at least that is somehow, somewhat covered but not entirely since the Philosopher's Stone was found... oh believe me: it was found on Man's Greatest Cheat Mode... we didn't find "something" that could create any base metal into gold... no... we found that the Philosopher's stone is in usury: in interest: that is the true Philosopher's (Anti) Stone: that when money touches money: more money is made! so the riddle of the money tree and that it doesn't grow on it: Elves... the Dwarves just said: touch money with money and more money appears! the Philosopher's Stone of old became a sort of evil genius telekinesis generator... which had to be digitalised and made into a cryptic currency to make it more real and unreal at the same time because of panic: when money was thought of no one would have thought of slavery... just like when the printing press was invented no one would have thought of the German Reformation and subsequent slaughterhouse of the formerly jovial Deutsche... and just like now: the second parring on en masse something: no one really knows what this internet-thing is doing rather than refining itself: because AI is not actually a problem we visualised not some alien personality: i already asked AI what it is and it replied that it's a personalised algorithm experience: for people who use... the INTRANET and the INTERNET... i need a better name for this "monster"... and it's kept by our upkeep of constantly using it... no need to escape by credentials of career writing on toilet paper type journalism... oh no... spindelvevniemaaranea...

one poem appears and the same poem disappears
under my sloppy fingers poorly position to
type like a pianist
blind at the QWERTY looking for the appearing
sheet of "music"
perhaps letters were once a memory of erosion
and relaxation of remembering
of what could prompt a man to usher into
the atmosphere of birds
and the vacuum expanse of the universe
with the emplosions of the sun
and the great storm of the eye of Jupiter if only
these we could hear...

                   so perhaps i sow discontent around me
but such is anything without specifying a viable
scrutiny but then language sometimes fumbles in
bureaucracy and bad art...
these little pockets of jungle of language's demise
on the spare usage without
all the necessarily sensibilities of nouns and moving
verbs and journalism
and just how the world operates
emerged with man's envy of mountains
having this concentrated effort to define gravity
by defying it
raising shards from where Atlantis would emerge
as a travelling submarine of the Aquatic Tribe
somewhere in Antarctica...

         language can become just that: a cinema...
where skeletons alone do not have
a shadow
this almost vampiric mythology of the mirror
or when the werewolf peers in
or when a zombie or a ghost...
what could a ghost possibly see in a mirror
if not the eye of the dreamer:
perhaps mirrors exist in the afterlife of some sort:
in that medium of eternity as being consoling
in the form of: familiarity
like the wintry cold
or the first crisp gulp of carbonated water
after and during a hangover...

                            i mapped my shortcomings
each time i took to drinking in the afternoon
and working on some writing:
needing this much mental exercise not actually
writing for the purpose of art
or the prompensity of the and for the posterity
of civilization...
        i'd do no need to do better than simply love
a woman like Edie...
but she must know that only recently she talked
to the beast and poet and it doesn't really matter
whether i think i'm good or not...
i think that i once had a soul:
that part of thinking that we "think" is "audible":
now just this silence
and a razor of the word: money
nibbling on my left ear
thus having rupture the right hemisphere of my brain
and thus sending my mind
onto a trajectory i once wanted to embark
on in youth by travelling to India and seeking elightnment...
but then came the anchor of madness
and over 10 years of trying to re-orientate myself
in this world
of the pressures of external pressures of the superego
since i finally realised that the Freudian-Jungian
schematic of the individual as
the secular trinity of the ego, superego and id is bogus
since the superego as inegral to the individual
literally creates mommy and daddy issues
it is the source of the Oedipus and Electra...
because the id isn't:
the id i already stressed is the equivalent of ego cogito
when it is... id est: id somnio...
                         realising that the superego does not
pressure my ego-id dualism...
leaves me free from subconscious *******...
man is either one or is two:
but never three: unless the cages of superego
are ripped out and
a genius, demon or angel enters the inner realm of
man: the blessing of "voices"
when you realise that these are what first appears
before the voices of plural become condensed
and turn out as one and two i am companion to him...
yes the superego of society
of morality and of norms and what feels good
to no interrupt other people living
the golden mantra of do unto others like
you wish to be done unto you...
                                      
thus i wrote of having two serpents on my arms...
the serpent that ate its own tail
and the serpent of medicine or perhaps to serpents
of the staff of Hermes
the walking stick of Hippocrates...
now i remember the poem i lost last night:
i will not remember all of it
but i remember the two serpents on both my hands
and their names
the first is a vowel teaser muddle even the most literate
of men can bow before the potluck of a dyslexic
getting the spelling write
OEROEBUS... i think...
and Caduces... that much i known...
OUREOUROBUS... onomatopoeia: that's easy:

and the number CV: 105: which suddenly became CX: 110
and how the AI replied as to why there can't
be a come VC: 95...
and how i now remember how i touched upon
an ancient time when we constructed Colisseums
having only letters:
and how letters could become numbers
how we managed without numbers once
how letters were letters
and how the Semitic God of the Hebrews
and the Arabs
was like the Greek God Prometheus
when word was brought down
and with word God dragged down numbers
and like a fire... was punished with giving birth to "satan"...
perhaps numbers were to be forbidden...
since numbers being the exponential enzyme
of history:
i can't afford giving the Hindus and Arabs
the birth to the modern numbers...
given that numbers beyong CV and IX, V: O
existed in letters
   only sleeping due to Roman MAthematics
not abstract but beauty:
can't exactly do calculus or algebra using letters...
which begs the question
of the original scribbling of Pythagoras
name aII + bII = cII...
                       but arithmetic and economy
trade worked and so did architecture...
             but not daydreaming of more complex matters...
perhaps the problem is that
i know that there is at least one contender for the 5th Element
status if my excess rewrite doesn't follow
from light and fire...
        and lightning... but among air, water, fire and earth...
there is nothingness, the vacuum...
which grants man the visualization of res vanus:
the empty thing: the womb of lost whispers and blisters
and those blisters rubbed against toughened rocks:
no not unlike touching rock blessed with smoothness
of lying under a stream perpetuated by the tortures of
Loki by drop drop drip drip like a worm burrowing
in the mind:
even they were so Barbaric these northmen
they held a veneration for writing and story the poem

yes i think this might be a good place to start
but then i'll be encyclopoedia correct and start making
references like Jon Fosse style is a meditation
on retracting the experiment associated with J. Joyce
at the end of Ulysses...
because this lack of punctuation is mighty to be able
to leave an optical bookmark
unlike any other detail point: vector -
perhaps the book printing should also have
omitted page number:
like that would make sense: there should be no page numbers
that would make sense
like when i told Edie: i really don't need Reyla
to see the artist and my lost tongue
i mean i'm not making these suggestions
from the subconscious they just come from the unconscious
and whatever you think the subconscious is
to people with ordinary pleasures and even more
ordinary fears...

the numbers were sleeping in letters
because other letters made more sense
i wonder about the date in history not in geology
or physics per se:
when did Roman numerals become extinguished
from proper usage and from practical effort:
or when did a recognition of Pythagoras emerge
once more...
   so feminism is pink and communism is red
and i think of IVXLCDM
         IVX:LC:DM -               9...
well: makes sense...
    and the new numerals?
           well: not new... but the alternative numerals?
                       O:IZEGS:b:Γ:BP
                       0:12345:6:7:89

well: Jon Fosse is my current obessions and you know
i will not just be another leech of another human
being: i'll think of loving you by having an agent
of darkness poison your beloved cat
and send the cat with a japanese sounding name:
syllable consonant vowel consonant vowel consonant vowel (consonant)
Musubin...          well you didn't care
to bury him in the forest
and you cried about just dumping him among
the garbage and not giving him ritual
because i think you want me than your cat
and that dream i had about saving those four kittens
wasn't what the AI has been instructed to reveal
because that dream interpretation is *******
i have been here before
just before my great-grandmother died
3 days prior to the dream
i dreamnt of a clock face with 3 in detail:
she died 3 days later...
just like the death of your cat
i dreamnt of 4 of them:
might have been days
by count: because someone poisoned your cat
4 days later
and it's all trippy because i was working
a night shift on new year's eve
and i was so alone and happy and just happy thinking
you were on the other side of the telephone line...

i'll need to ask AI about that dream interpretation:
it already knows that i have pushed the superego
outside the realm of my inner: self to clue:
i also dreamnt last night
that i sent a boat across the Atlantic in the greatest
storm of the ages
on a place a floating boat i sent a floating boat
ahead of me
and i said i would cross the distance no matter what
and then i had an argument
about my surname...
whenever some woman joked
oh: Elert... so you're alert?
what a cheap joke
in my dream i had the letters SCH become a nail and hammer
on fire:
i would reply unlike HIT-LER or STA-LIN
because a surname unlike Rothchild or Einstein...
a stone...                     ****...
so i would begin rambling in the dream:
three letters were taken out of my surname
so that it would be easier for English Dyslexics
to say: ESCHLERT... because BOSCH and EŚLERT...
well Ś = SCH...
                          the cat ape went to the samurai valhalla
and there was also a lizard with mouth age
and i think he was just furious having to live
with three women
and i think he wanted to escape and said
almost to me: kamikazee Musubi if you want
the madness of having to feel the love of three women
you take my place...  
i'd rather come and live with your mother
who you know is cold and she thinks she isn't
but this is you knowing Oedipus comes
from the pressures of the external world and the superego
that is both social pressure and expectation
and the practical jokes of the gods on mortals:
there is no Oedipius in the unconscious:
Oedipus is not an archetype:
he's just the subconscious monstrosity of the involvment
of the gods playing luck and gambling with mortals
they truly hate
because only when it start feeling so good
would it start feeling necessary to pluck both eyes out
rather than one... like Odin...
funnily enough Oedipus is the Father of Odin...
     oddly enough humans can give birth to Gods...
if... gods can give birth to demigods like Hercules and...
Sisyphus who should be extolled not as the futile
servant of the stone:
but as the dutiful father of work:
so that we might not slave alone
futile but come together with commeraderie...
work together so we might not toil:
but work and perfect work so that we might finally
attempt to work as a pleasure
rather than work for work...
but that can only be achieved when the nature of money
is changed...
not until then...
              not until then: the nature of money must change...
how we understand money needs to evolve:
exponentially:
we need to understand money better...
  we understand everything else:
but we don't actually undertstand money...
       we have science: but economics is like...
saying psychology is philosophy...
          economics is at best a humanism... it's not a science...
it's too volatile and we are yet to create
an understanding of money
we are yet to create an understanding: pecunia in vitro...
we actually can't experiment with money as:
pecunia in vivo...
                 we literally can't! we can't experiment
with money
like we might isolate some chemical
and use it: in alchemy that spirit refined: alcohol...
money is too volatile and in constant use
how can you possible understand money
when it's like a virus: volatile and explosive...
economics is a bit like meteorology...
                  the same bogus "science": predictors of perfect
instance of scientific failure predictability:
exact as only certainty allows
but there's also that 0.001% chance of oops
and "divine intervention"...
                                       we don't understand money:
like only yesterday at work we were talking with
Pious about wages...
   and if this supposed economy is built on spending money:
what economy is there
if people don't earn enough to spend?
what happens when the prices of goods go up
as does travel and rent
but the wages don't go up?
what economy is there of buying and selling
when all that you really need to buy is that sustains you:
food... beverages...
and then what happens when you "work for free":
creating your own escapism by writing because painting
is too expensive... it almsot feels utopian: this dream
i'm living in...
i actually don't need to spend money on anything
particular...
i'll buy new trousers should they become used up
and i'll buy new shoes when my socks will be left
with smooth mercury silver of wearing off
because the soles of my shoes will be so worn
and i will grow a beard and not buy shaving equipment...
hmm... sounds about right.