your body, the drain plug,
that climactic days of a day
murky sweet strawberry milk water
ebbs and sways
around, surrounds, and surmounts you

Your body the dumping ground
for pretty poppy seeds
seep, steep
seeded somewhere deep

as

synthetic stinging metaphor rain
pours on your mistreated singing skin
spotted, dotted, synaptic rule
akin to lemon poppy seed muffin tops
your head- a top
spins round
and mimics
never-ending bath drain whirlpool

ambulances and ambivalences soundtrack
this nocturne
night of a morning
mourning already
my poor lost sister
a little less than intact
lost in her head
I'm loosing her

and she's nodding

            and she's nodding

                          and she's nodding

                                    and she's nodding
and she nods
and grumbles,
fumbles for words that aren't there
four words that aren't there
forward isn't there

because what do you say
about matters
when your high
and breathing last breaths overlapping
in humble showers
in heart crumbling nakedness
your faithlessness trapping
murky sweet strawberry milk waters.

.it turns out German, is a language worthy of opera... but, my god... to my surprised liking, who would have thought that Peter O'Toole could play a baddy, in the **** fetish TCM film from 1967... the night of the Generals... great... but i still think movies were better in Technicolor... i haste CGI... give me a Technicolor film and i'm like: agape... someone telling me to shut my mouth, so that a passing seagull cannot drop a dump into it... yeah yeah, Jack Lemon, Shirley MacLaine (god, she was hot... those dreamy eyes, akin to Claire Forlani) in the Apartment... but the ultimate Technicolor classic has to be Bell, Book and Candle... James Stewart, Kim Novak... sure, sure, the coloring seems excessive, but it's the excessive aspect of Technicolor that's so... comic book... eh... modern films... like the Artist or Schindler's List attempting to revive black & white... how about... reviving Technicolor?!

a recurring theme of internet usage...
lately i've been having
a problem taking a **** in one
sessions...
    oh god, i tried playing video games,
listening to music
while reading some Heidegger...
but it's like... i need to go back,
and sit on the throne of thrones...
and expect some inverted **** ***...
mind you...
i really admire the homosexuals...
i wouldn't have the ***** to ****
****, or there lack of...
kudos gents, kudos...
         but the whole drama ends while
i massage my **** while sitting
on my heel on a windowsill...
ha ha! that rhymes!
        and i obviously need to do the following...
preliminary drinking...
a beer, two shots of ms. amber,
another beer...
   and some alt. media political
commentary videos...
       and when i'm done... the menu comes
to my attention...
  and that sweet, sweet grand release
of not giving a **** about freedoms like
the freedom of speech...
crescendo cascada...
   cascade of sounds, ambivalences...
music becomes water...
   ars musica, est aqua repraesentatio...
you'd think of ventus...
how European music could be
described as representing the winds...
well... prior to the African-import
revision and incorporation of the drums...
you could see it as such...
but...
    when you counter the H'american
freedom of speech...
                 argumentation...
        and listen to some of the internet
commentaries...
  have enough drink in you...
and abruptly put on some Beethoven?
the ******* dam bursts...
   aqua, anti claudo...
                    so while the Africans are
all smug about their melatonin
concentration, their perfected skin
not riddle by acne...
           who's who in the lactose race?
you can contain almost all other elements...
but water?
    compared to these internet
commentaries, with a shy intake of drinks
in me... i put on Beethoven and
explode into a fury of joviality and hope...
music is the representation of water...
oddly enough...
with all the brass and woodwinds it
ought to be wind...
               but come the crescendo...
what do i see?
  or a preliminary crescendo teaser
without the choir, in Beethoven?
                    the bursting Hoover dam...
oddly enough... the addition
of the African accent of excessive drumming?
i think loop, i think tornado,
i think...
           there story of the reel...
repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat...
the end sounds just like the beginning...
with some sort of variant in the middle...
well...
   here's to that second beer.

In the singularity
perfectly good poems
are being written by laughing
and crying machines
washing machines and dryers
about their daily tasks
and ambivalences
which will be indistinguishable
from those of future
farmers and philosophers.

In the singularity
evolution can be said
to be the master sorter of data
as in the factories
of the suns
where protons are smashed together
and unusual weather patterns
make consciousness a candidate
interesting for its complete dependence
on the substrate of the brain and body.

In the singularity
everything anyone once did
always remains current
as if invented yesterday
for an immediate purpose
such as curing cancer
although that may be unnecessary
to achieving immortality
i.e. the happiness one feels
the day before thanksgiving.