.let's begin: i've been watching youtube haemorrhage over the past few years (4 / 5 in total) and... i do still enjoy the sort of cabaret weimar associated with criticalcondition when comapred to beanie hat tim pool... sorry: i just like a bit of cabaret, i know that comedy is translated in the western lands by stand-up monologues, but in germany and poland: cabaret is the toy assurance to compensate the justifications for theatre or opera... i like criticalcondition, trans-, ******: my my, how did the chemistry prefixes of attachement groups of a benzene ring overpower bio-realism? imagine a blocked toilet in terms of hinduism / buddhism in terms of the metaphysics of reincarnation... well: metaphysics by their great culinary understanding implies: a return to the same debacle, perhaps only slightly elevated... we have already reached a post- gott ist tot scenario of metaphysics... gott is quiet apparent, since the ancient greeks believed that "shamed" men would come back as women: now? the women did a shortcut... they said: tod ist tot... wouldn't that be the case? a blocked toilet, well... if god has to die first, then death itself has to die, ergo: tod ist tot! ha ha... imagine... to think of the glamorous concept of eastern theology as nothing more than a plumber's day-shift... looks like the toilet is blocked... since... men are not spawning into female form after death, instead, deciding to spawn back into male form with a female "brain"... who is that god of mischief in hinduism? oh... look! Aditi! well it's not an isolated case, is it? i once picked up a thai surprise from a park bench, played her some jazz, ****** her in the garden... bangkok ladyboys are the duran duran of 1980s electro-puppy-pop! once god dies, death follows suit... after all... death is (a) shadow of (the) god... blocked toilet metaphysics, all the brahmin as running wild, naked, psychotic: but the lesser men were not supposed to know they were reborn into female bodies, there was that safety net in place to: let them reincarnate with an amnesia principle! what's happening?! the women are raiding up the ranks?! contrapoints compared to tim pool? sorry beanie-boy... you're not the beastie... quiet... i'd love to b.j. that make-up off from contrapoints... problem being... i love when a ****** speaks so much sense... but... hands... i find a woman's hands too be the most ****** aspect of her body... 4/5... that's a fraction... for my five knuckles in terms of hand size, ***** "envy" and what my five knuckles look like to a woman's 4? you get the picture... there is also another fraction... 72 genders?! wha-?! i see gender in the 3/2 fraction... a woman can satisfy three men... the ****, the **** the mouth... a man... can only satisfy 2... the **** and the mouth... oh... wait... 3/3... someone can be giving him a b.j. while he's giving him a b.j..... it's still a blockage of reincarnation though... the greeks believed the lesser man was to be reborn in a "lesser" body... ****, i always forget how the ratio works... i always think: 1 man has 3 options of entry, 3 women have 1 point of entry each... but fraction is wonky though... in that... a woman can entertain three variations of entry: mouth, ****, ****... but a man has to entertain two points of entry and one point of insertion... so the fraction still stands at 3/2... which makes the islamic celestial harem nonsense... unless equipped with an exess of res extensa ****** to satiate the hunger of 72 virgins... a ****** gambit if you ask me... 72 virgins sounds more like a headache than what Solomon forsake in owning for the queen of Shēba... king! Solomon! after all the *******, enough wisdom suddenly trickled into his head, and he chose the route of the monogamy of birds! mind you: whatever wisdom king! Solomon ever had to begin with... i would still favor king David... i like a man with a distrust of women and having an unadulterated desire for music as second to none medicinal property to cure existential ailments; i tried *******, no good... sure, great exercise... esp. with prostitutes... but an in depth analysis of the perpetuated banality of life and how to learn to masquerade it behind a veil of seemingly banal? a harem will not help, but music will. even nietzsche understood this... criticalcondition: i do actually fancy him it her they... she does have that: je ne sais quoi air... weimar cabaret "revised"... not quiet the switz cabaret dada voltaire... but all i know is the number of holes of points of insertion and the fact that i have hands the size that could hold a basketball in one... and how... oh, wow! i really came late to the asian fetish party late... here, have some grenades! **** ying, cat meng, na mu han, you mi, ni ye teng, ai sayama, hoshina mizuki, ayaka noda, (l)im ji hye, lie fei er, (barbie) ke er... ergo? this whole asian fetish scene? am i looking at dolls? i'm not even sure... am i white, by comparison to these procelain babushkas?! i'm not white: orange man bad! i thought so too: i'm... piglet! the i'm not white: these girls are... and the funny thing is, the "funny" thing, is? i don't have to see much more beside the cleavage or the ******* or the thighs to... hey! i'm a late bloomer to this asiatic fetish... side-tracked by the european transgender ******* and the thai surprise ladyboys... what is **** what isn't ****: that, really depends on how much you rely on your imagination... if a sight of white, porcelain cleavage gets you off... who the hell needs the whole "show"... after all... even the niqab is a game on how to arouse the male libido... it's pretty hard to be aroused by a fully exposed female torso like some maasai ivory beauty... then the "said" objects are more functional and designated for feeding purposes... than ***** *******... aren't they?! oh i can see a revision of the niqab... imagine this in saudi arabia... both the eyes are not hidden from view, as isn't the mouth! batman 2."oh"... oh i don't like these new communists in the west... white... priv. who, that japanese?! i'm not white, i said it already and i'll say it again: i'm not a porcelain doll! talk to the **** about white privilege... they're the ones with milk veils... my "white privilege" is only associated to having blond hair, green or blue eyes... it has nothing to do with... skin!

i’m suspicious of the ones that say: without telling the truth
we can moralise, by not stating the truth
we can allow ourselves falsehood in the prime
instinct to provide replicas of ourselves
without truth of two subject interacting,
but merely the truth of two objects interacting
reducible into the dwarf of darwinism
that speaks: over-sexualise and feel less encountered
by understanding the opposite!
so much is true in this era - with the english poodle
waggling in frenzies for the americans to spectate and applaud...
i’ve had to become a german in england,
the sort that might be liked by nietzschean arrogance,
but apart from that i’m working on how
certain people simply use words rather than letters,
how they can never use the shovels and pickaxes,
how this congregation of atheists at comic stand-up shows
is doing my head in: a theological mid-life crises,
this blatant take on theology using the logic:
from monkey you came, to monkeying you shall return...
now that trends like the crown all animals have,
all animals already unique do not need to replicate consciously,
but man is stumbling into wasting his conscious on replication,
on plagiarism... it’s so odd... so so odd! why would man
waste his consciousness to simply invoke replication?
where’s the self in that, the anti-frankenstein story so powerful
he does not wish to do anything other than marvel at
the connectivity of the bone to the nerve to the muscle?
the 20th century gave birth militant atheism -
the 21st century is labouring with a different kind of atheism -
the sort of atheism that says no barriers exist between master and servant
as between worm and pigeon - even though
the depression of the master is opposed to the servant’s depression
that he only spots analogues within the framework of
synonymity with other masters... ‘why are we so depressed?’
asked master a, ‘i have no idea,’ answered master b over lunch.
in the lower decks of the ship servant a says to servant b -
- ‘god, i rowed all day long, i’m so ****** tired!
no thought will keep me awake.’
- ‘that’s true, i’m knackered also, broken limbs of my effort
like a chestnut, no thought will keep me awake either,
lucky we exhaust the body.’
- ‘too true, with the body exhausted the mind is never disputed
never disputed by not having origins in thinking
but rather having origins in the body.’
- ‘verily, i rather our fate than the masters’ fate.’
- ‘why?’
- ‘as you said, our’s is the story of ****** demands,
their’s is a story of thought’s demands,
meaning they exhaust their mind in the accesses
thought provides, it’s like a secondary body we have no knowledge of,
they are exhausted by thinking because their body is not exhausted.’
- ‘makes sense.’
- 'hence their malady of melancholia and our as simple exhaustion.'
- 'where’s the buffer?'
- 'in the olympians, the discus throwers, the most positive lot, and due to this, the easiest
to break down from high positivity; they have no awareness
of complex thinking and are quickly undermined with all this sports’ psychology!'
- 'true to the burning tire... it's all dietary awareness and muscle bulk with them after a loss.'
- 'indeed, as our's is with aesop dreamily awaiting a freedom that’s an anarchy,as translated from aesop's fables into
spartacus' resolve.'
- 'ah yes, that old spartan revolt in the roman empire.'
so like i said, i do know that darwinism is the new super cool sensibility,
taking into account more than 10,000 years of history
and talking about it for 2 hours wishing that something
spectacular might happen tomorrow, or any other given day...
but like i said previously... darwinism just killed history...
outside the realm of journalism we’re talking millions of years...
so why would i give a **** if it’s a friday the 23rd of october in the imaginary year 2015?
well if you put crocodile into a pile of hyenas you’ll probably
get a a cuckoo mixed with a squid because of the beak shared by the two...
i know, atheism is cool, for now,
but when the quantum j provides the classical physics’ objects like jupiter
you’ll ask what the quantum of j is... and i’ll say... full-stop...
that’s because, perhaps, i never use language as:
copy - work - paste - with - copy - me - paste - on - copy - this - paste - one,
but rather...
w - grammatical arithmetic (g.a.) - o - g.a. - r - g.a. - k,
because no one can tell me that the letter j
is uniform in the context of i or k...
as the quantum phonetics of uttering the word
onomatopoeia... is no different from uttering the word bull...
so many variables of spotting the quantum physics
in pronunciation... so many varying levels of required energy
to utter j or k... onomatopoeia or bull -
so... what's the antonym of quantum - the maximum
amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction -
i know that poets speak of grains of sand = no. of stars
and that the mathematicians use the curtain of infinity
to digress... but finding the maximum will be harder
given that there will be no socratic knowledge to use as canvas...
i.e. nothing;
added to the fact that there’s a non-differential quantum
that makes ë and em almost identical in terms of the least energy used,
this humanistic paradox of bonding means there is no unique human
sound that doesn’t borrow another human sound to execute a phoneticism,
otherwise ë and em translate as eh and humming anti-treble of the lips, or finger licking mmm of kentucky.
actually... we have the opposite of quantum physics...
the body functions within an ~37ºC emission...
there are four seasons in a year... the earth's orbit is 365 days,
i just took all the known macro units
and consolidated them in the micro unit of joules undifferentiated
in terms of observable "energy."

i find the 2nd generation migrants to
be the most racist
they may well treat a 1st generation
child with equal measure to
an adult, they'll be olive skinned
and act like far right white mate
of a ship when all the rats sung
in dive unison: find the next shore!
they 'ave a motto: british, born and bread...
they also think that social criticism
needs censoring but suicidal vests don't....
what would you rather have, harmless
social criticism or an insurgent suicide vest
in the depth of shooing i.r.a. (shaira)?
i guess neither.
but the bright smug of 2nd generation
migrants tried to defeat a 1st generation migrant,
i still write whole english sentences for my father,
he only writes pen tapped against the neck of me
getting anger out of poems...
2nd generation migrants are the filth i need to wash
off my skin... they think all 1st generations
are readied for only hammer and the manual skill...
high and mighty dwarfs... lawyers and terrible
doctors... the 2nd generation are... dwarf filth
the 2nd generation are... unable to speak a mother tongue...
dwarf filth! get this maggoty and sweaty ***** sack
out of my face... get it out of my face!*

i dare say... i understood orthodox dissection,
everything was automaton inanimate,
cardiologist heard the constant heartbeat,
the neurologist the constant electric current,
dissection like that makes sense,
automation of a thing to a near inanimate
consistency of animate makes us clever enough
to study it...
but this psychological dissection?
suddenly Oedipus turned into Ego,
and both complex:
one ******* his mother, the other simply thinking,
but upon dissection, so many non-existent
limbs created... subconscious and unconscious etc....
it's dissection as you go along, cut open the arm
hinduism's deity arms spawn into a threefold ratio...
psychology dissected but at the same time created...
and how can you dissect a creative process that
is a multiple that keeps on adding?
if you started dissecting and only kept adding,
how will the ego ever manoeuvre a thinking kidney,
a thinking liver... all these organs, defined by thinking
as governable by thinking only provide pathology:
liver (alcoholism), kidney (dialysis) -
the collective unconscious of pathogens;
i don't understand why psychology decided to
make incisions into animate thing, when an inanimate
thing under sedation carefully laboured by a medical
butcher took to cut and scalpel opening...
when such incisions only showed constant change...
it's hard to replace the ego with oedipus and allow
both a similitude of thinking, leaving the former
with no analogy and the latter with too much analogy
to only create false analogues?

It is hard writing you down…
Metaphors hide behind my ribcage and imagery curbs into the ridges of my brain.
But I’m a writer so I cannot allow my love to turn into a language I cannot speak,
and I’m a warrior so I cannot allow my writing to be conquered by my feelings.
I try to remind myself not to confuse love for war…
I try to think of analogues of us that do not reek of passionate bloodshed.
But it's impossible because I have found the shield of Achilles buried under my tongue the first time we kissed,
and it's futile because your voice echoes the battle cry god screamed when he created love.

i can claim to have conjured up an
antithesis to the cartesian
res cogitans -
    i.e. the thinking thing -
   why? because i once could claim
a continuum, ad nauseam narratio -
toward a nauseating narrative -
and it was filled a continual presence
of thought,
  it's hard to imagine one's being
as completely filled with thought -
and no thoughtless action -
take for example exercise -
no person in existence actually has
a coherent thought or, rather a
     cogitans continuum -
           maybe the old flicker of an ego
with a word springs to mind,
but there's never a narrative when engaged
in exercise,
thinking becomes momentarily
non-existent, the body does not gravitate
toward a mind-body dualism...
                    and in this light i took from
buddhism the ides of meditation,
but made adjustments to it,
  this is a burning thought, or rather:
an purposed abstinence from thinking...
      its the mechanised body, at rest,
in the same way a mindless task gravitates
to a blank slate mind where mere thinking
hinders efficiency at a task,
a task that can in turn, become even remotely
pleasurable, given its mundane essence,
but also agreeable, in that it can become
completed more easily through
                         as one might make an analogy to:
sharpening a pencil, or a knife...
    the only pleasure in this world
is that of perfecting a menial task into
an art form...
          i look at my father roofing,
    yes, the scottish widows' h.q. near st. paul's
if my roof, in part,
              but when you can overcome
the menial labour, and profess the ultimate
proficiency of the labour at hand,
and ice-skate by comparison of
labouring rather than walking up a sand-dune,
you know what i mean.
abstract thinking is a labour process,
yes, ha ha, very pedantic of me to stress
that manual labour is harder than intellectual
labouring -
but then the mind-body duality becomes
a dichotomy...
                when inspected thus.
what do i do all day? i attempt a modern take
on buddhist meditation,
        in that: i once thought meditation had
to be this peace-invoking scene,
   under a tree, on a sunny day,
  whatever the parameters were, became shattered
by my re-invention of the counter-cartesian
"methodology"...
            i moved past heidegger's
dasein -
and the question of pluralism -
thank **** heidegger deals with pluralism and
not relativism, esp. moral,
since that is most abhorrent.
             the question of being in heidegger's
terms is best ascribed to named:
       newton, shakespeare, jefferson,
you name them...
        being is a form of magnetism -
                        the "question" of being,
is answered with beings -
it's beside the point to call for analogues -
that being is supposed to spawn analogues -
a **** similis to prophet or a genius -
hardly... existence is a lottery,
we get our deal of cards, and we play them
as we "thought" we intended to.
         the final point to make is that,
to gravitate toward by "buddhist" concept
from the western, cartesian concept of
res cogitans is not whether so much
of man's thoughts are wasted upon
the ad (nauseam) continuum of narratio...
the final barrier is to breach the threshold
of whether thinking is the rightful carrier
of any moral question...
            i.e. whether thought = (θ)ought (i)?
which is why i invented the concept
     / object (that is concentrated on) -
    when not exercising or labouring to endure
the mundane presence of narrative "thinking" -
i call it the slingshot...
  or, more technically: res vanus -
an empty thing.
   i stretch the rubber of the res vanus for
a whole day, but at the end of the day
i pour myself a drink and wait for a release point,
where, in the end,
i actually do become a thinking thing -
but more or less: res echo -
                my thought suddenly begins
to echo...
             from my mind to my body and
then onto a page, in writing;
                     but this dynamic only happens
when i treat my thinking as non-coherent,
compartmentalised, shattered,
  a rubic cube of attention-seeking deficints
in the sensual world engaged in seeking my
attention for the observer,
of what is the unobserved world...
it is i, who have to be the observed,
    and become so, by "seemingly" not thinking,
well, narrating my own little
solipsistic take on things...
            and to think, once upon a time,
i found so much pleasure from "thinking",
i.e. narrating... imagine my bewilderement
to have found that actual thinking,
is to actually not, think!
     like any other celibacy, which is quiet
funny...
because only by restraint, can you actually
conjure a non-self-sycophancy,
  of the most remote universal unit of, truth.

p.s. can you even stagger and believe that
the greeks already had graphemes?
     in the title, or so i "think" -
as ever, thinking ought to be a certainty
   of the uncertainty of thought per se,
                 doubt -
how ugly thinking became with the existentialists
who exchanged the end product: doubt,
with the end product: denial...
whereby by thinking became the
uncertainty of the certainty of thought:
minus the per se.

in the billionth of your own
kind...
what's celebrity,
a ******* ant?
or make-up that says:
oh babe, you're so un-recognisable!
give me 15 minutes,
it'll give me a head-start
in the marathon;
***** run! run! run!
i too was about to meet charlie xiv
and charles iii in the bedroom...
but i figured... got to keep
the **** for luck, and un-penetrated
and ready for a symphony of farts
when a trombone was to be stuck up there...
take up a clue of deciphering
winding footprints of grease in mud
to say: fried chicken!
and here was kentucky looking all privy and
innocent, that's what happens when you
drink *****, you become a woman,
a professional one and the odd feminist aged -
dear me i said goo footprints in mud that's
dried ash...
get the jealousy ticker to wait for the postman...
but each to his own... cee lo owned a song...
people see crow analogues, analogues of cats
dogs and elephants, they crave analogue
so much they couldn't achieve it
and decided to make cloning knowledgeable,
i mean **** me, it wasn't achieved,
man never achieved the analogue of crows,
he achieved a cloning process,
he achieved fame...
but that was hardly a comparable "to do with" concern,
when crows were innate in terms of analogue,
man was so far from the crows that
he gained knowledge of the dynamism of stars...
but to be grounded, how to achieve an assembled
synchronised analogy akin to a crow
of the non-jealous replica and discard synchronisation?
give them a coliseum! give them darwinism!
and give them the children of plagiarists of darwinism
to the lions!
                  i too unto pompeii beckoning.

the reason behind some of my poetry: i do appreciate the fact that some of them are sloppy, and aim at crafting an expansion of the vocabulary i already have, but as i drink i relax it happens automatically, but i know i can return to the sober reality of increased volume - all i know is that when i do this unwinding into what i can only call abstraction, it's because i'm entering the joycean domain of finnegans wake, which isn't exactly brothers grimm or disney territory, given that the book is dedicated to his struggle with his daughter's diagnosis of schizophrenia. one example comes with words like the prefix nou(n)- and the suffix -verb, which i borrowed from the kantian transformation of the word phenomenon (that which can be clearly understood due to the no. of similar analogues, and their seemingly constant re-, i.e. repetition, recurrence, re-emergence), hence the meaning i derived from the new word is: the activity behind a noun, e.g.: wheel... wheels rotate on a flat surface, and due to gravity roll down hills; another e.g.? bird - birds sing in varying degrees of diversity and they fly, and share a common origin with reptiles, since they hatch from eggs. i think that's enough examples behind the meaning nouverb... perhaps i might change it to nouneverb, because if translated into french, the french might make connotations with noué vogue, and i don't want this word to mean simply new verb, but the activity behind the noun.*

poets are known to use technical terms of poetry,
to invoke a knowledge of the topic,
perhaps even to condense matter, nonetheless
they use technical terms for balance, and orientation
in what they're saying, the key indicators as it were;
but i find it strange that in every philosophy
book i read, there are no prime technical terms:
of course you will find logic compounds,
like phenomenology, ontology, metaphysics,
but you find that such balancing acts require
a constant reminder of these words, and when
inserted into very long expression, there is no
prime balance with the words that i have not seen
expressed in any philosophy book i read,
whether it be heidegger, kant, kierkegaard,
sartre, nietzsche, tatarkiewicz, whoever -
none of them use grammatical words, nor have
produced an account of the dynamic when
deviating from standard lessons in grammar
which can be longwinded - and an absolute
dross; my english teacher didn't like to teach it,
in my two years under him we have less
than a dozen lessons, most concerned with
writing formal letters, and whether to end
the letter signing under either yours sincerely
or yours faithfully... the expectation was to
speak it fluently and mould the written language
from that - if it's comprehensible with the tongue,
it will be comprehensible with the quill.
but enough of that, i'm still adamant to stress
my censorship of dreaming, perhaps because
i just loathe freud and find jung quirky enough
with his religiosity and that book of his
about hallucinations and telekinesis like in that
film interstellar where the books fall from the shelf,
but it's primarily because there is a more important
subplot: today i woke up and remembered something
from 20 years ago, primary school, year 5 (aged 9),
our teacher called in sick and we were left to our
own devices, we were assigned the task of doing
long-division mathematics, and long-multiplication,
the whole class was in furore, but i just did the
****** task (fresh off the boat, you know, vito corleone
ambition and what not) - teacher's name ms. mcguire -
the teacher came back, scolded the whole class
excluding me - then she gave instructions to do the
assignment i did the previous day, and she told me
i could do whatever i wanted... just like the whole
class the previous day... so i read a book.
oh hell, if we're going that far back... pst... a secret,
on the gants hill roundabout there used to stand
a magnolia coloured cinema, the odeon...
i remember seeing armageddon there even though
a few hours prior i fell into a pseudo-epileptic fit
(a weird sensation in the head, crawling into the jaws,
i clenched my jaws, and then a spasm that travelled
into my stomach and started the convulsions and
the pain increased... i've had about three of these
in my life... for days on end after the last one,
i kept falling to sleep in fear... a fear of clenching my
teeth) - oh and the mummy, the little princess
(even though i bought a ticket for jumanji),
gladiator, lord of the rings fellowship of the ring
(about 3 times if not more), mission impossible,
the three kings when i broke one of the seats and
fell on my ***... but back then cinema tickets were
bearably affordable... not anymore... and it took
ages for the film to be available on vhs (when
blockbuster was still around - actually, there is one
left near the loughton central line station - a bit
back to the future for me; yeah, and valentines park
nearby where you could play 18 hole short-distance
golf, but that's also gone - now all you have is a block
of flats... just a massive vitro phallus.

i've seen a u.f.o.,
yep - a weird orb - hardly a helicopter -
and hardly an aeroplane -
i disclosed it once to a "friend" -
   apparently in europe the entirety of
the oddness of the universe can be caged in
the mind of a psychiatrist - that's europe -
apparently every odd observation
requires the secular
"priesthood" of psychiatry -
everything, has, to, be: normalised;
the sort of *******-tickle-talk
that allows you to return
to talking about the weather...
or yesterday's eastenders episode
on the by pedohpilia bankrupt
b.b.c.
  so? **** it, play along:
the funny people will crack any
time soon...
         even though i have seen
an u.f.o. i'm sticking the the british
take on "sensibility" i.e. lying.
so this paddy walks up to me,
a british citizen like any other,
but has this "royal" airiness around
him...
  he thinks i'm mere peasant
and he's a ******* monarch!
          he suddenly think i can't
comprehend english...
but he can... then i ask him
to recite the alphabet... paddy can't!
sure, you see a u.f.o. when
you have to immediately curb your
enthusiasm, because you're in
europe, and europe is "sensible" -
     so you practice your sense &
sensibility: see no evil, hear no evil,
speak no evil: but **** me:
think up a tier of horror
                  above the holocaust!
if we're allowing science fiction,
if we're allowing the "dream"
but never the reality,
  if europe discarded idiot priest
for a psychiatrist,
i'd probably prefer the idiot priesthood
to the secular "priesthood" that's
psychiatry...
        i've seen an u.f.o.,
but as you might expect, i'm "european",
i'm supposed to be the sensible one,
the never: over-fluttering in
excitement -
                       ****, i saw a u.f.o.
actually means: i saw ****, nothing
really happened.
            i'm occupied, the drinking is
hardly a drag, and the music i'm listening
to isn't that bad, after all;
hell, i must have been drunk watching
this electric light orchestra "glyph"...
you start to try to convince people,
   when the people try to convince themselves
belonging to some day-to-day
everyday mundane collective "sanity" -
**** it, you do what you have to.
a bit like this "surprise" regarding the
transgender movement...
         3 year old trannies...
   ever read r. d. laing's the politics of
experience and the the bird of paradise?
i hope to hell that r. d. laing will overshadow
freud, perhaps even jung...
after all: what glasgow giveth one
does not dismiss so easily...
                not without a brawling
spectacle in the back alley...
     what glasgow offers: one does not discard
even upon a 2nd reading.
                 and this is truly a topic of
the proper regard:
          all of politics is an aspect of experience -
as ever, with respect to heidegger:
   there's there-being -
but there's also mit-sein:
     with being, i.e. what?
                           mit-sein has no actual
coordinate to ensure a contract of
analogues -
             not a flat earth my aß...
you ever navigated a car via
    antwerp, eindhoven, venlo, duisburg,
  essen, dortmund, hamm, bielefeld, hanover?      
that serpentine is a ******* killer...
you travel east from that muddle of roads
you'll be a ******* general of the boyscouts...
      no, no GPS... play god, looking down
on a paper, yes, paper map!
            navigate that ****!
       oh right, 3 year olds and trannies...
why the surprise?

       jesus said to them:

   when you make the two one, and
when you make the inner as the outer
and the outer as the inner and the above
as the below, and when you make the male
and female into a single one,
      so that the male will not be male
and the female not be female, when you
make eyes in the place of an eye,
          and a hand in the place of a hand,
and a foot in the place of a foot,
        and an image in the place of an image,
then shall you enter the kingdom.
    (the gospel according to doubting thomas) -

so... trannies?  
              
      a ******* elephant in the room...
it's almost like people don't want to cite
where this entire zeitgeist furore originated from,
i.e. from the "heretical" gospels of
the "lesser" followers of "christ"...
         by now the whole affair
is staring me in the face with burning
coal-eyes...
            if only the nag hammadi
library was found in modern day israel,
and not egypt, and not the story of
the flight of joseph and mary to egypt -
   and not the account of the secular historian
josephus in the reign of nero,
   and the book of revelation ref. nero
rather than augustus...
               hey, i inherited this crap...
even though the old testament is ridiculous,
at least it's only so "ridiculous"
as to be "ridiculous" given the time-frame...
the new testament is just a blatant lie...
a blatant greek lie...
        it's the nadir of what came prior,
i.e. the excellence of poetic harvesting by
the greeks -
         the new testament is a death of poetics -
a religion carved out of:
    the uninhibited testimony of
ever perpetuating the hunger for the next
groove messiah...
       odd, jesus christ perpetuated -
             moses christ sounds a tad bit sour...

never mind, perhaps, sometime in america,
as it stands, in europe, we're stressing
keeping up appearances,
  we're being sensible,
                  we're being the apparently
"well-attired" -
                  there's a "we" that has agreed
upon the secular priesthood of psychiatry,
i'll just ask,
    is it worth the spectacular,
given that so many people are gambling
with the mundane?
       so? shut up, and try to laugh internally;
it didn't help me having either 1 of
the 5 senses to craft an account of
an oddity...
     i was told to step back into line...

   and this, by ordinary civilians...
           i'm pretty sure that army personnel are
more liberal to such odd events, than
your everyday grey-day joe:
you know the guy, you pass about 100 of them
in an urban environment:
that face, so unmemorable that it's almost
like looking at a concrete slab.

- you've seen a u.f.o.?!
- nope, i must have been blind drunk hallucinating,
  sorry to disappoint, ol' chap.

a small town, inexhaustible,
somehow far from mundane,
a predictable spring followed
by a predictable summer,
and yet nature, per se,
never really allows man
a mortal fascination with it,
a mortal by that I mean,
enclosed in replicas and analogues,
with an extinguishable "self"
to boot, as if in every democracy,
one vote, one life,
the end.

                   not some mystical
ever after,
    either the materialistic
absolute, or the other,
materialistic absolute,
                   if latin could invite
itself into the schools among
which sit Tao, Zen and others...
well, drop the prefix hyphen
and call it Re...

               trill of the tongue
that begat Sisyphus who:
     not having a jailor sit and
with pitchfork nagging...
         somehow... didn't roll the stone
aimlessly...
       but, simply,
sat there, less in love with anything
that might be peered at in a lake,
and more, or less,
       a hole that his "self"
       needed to fill...

                            interchangeable
ad infinitum of:
    cube through a square hole,
square hole with a cube in tow..
cube square hole, cube square hole...
trig. meaning either
from up, to down...

      or, or at least then...
offshoot, in life through and in
death, also through...
     two schools of thought:

1. man stands above nature,
2. man stands beside nature...

comes the audacious first,
with its
Manhattan Project,
     and with Hurricane Katrina
and the fact that lighting is yet
to be harnessed, and... farmed...

   comes the awe-stricken
second, with its naturalists
and... nature without man
will run its course...

   unappreciated,
     it diminishes, is even robbed,
no sooner the suffocating
murmur of prayer,
as soon enough,
           the caged bird prays
an indistinguishable song
to the song beneath
the watchful eyes of hawks...

   yet this is but a small town,
inexhaustible,
and by that I mean:
   the pen is always dry,
the muse is always shackled
    and stands mute,
    th conversations are always
less and more a pity on
an urban chance meeting,
the book is never written,
the pen is always used as rather
a tennis racket in a game of
crosswords...

         and a deep fascination
comes across between a youth
and an old man...
     on the lines of:
myopia - shortsightedness
     and utopia - hyperopia -
farsightedness...
          for the old man sees
a graveyard, as a murky lake
of grey, in the distance
the indistinguishable corrections
of detail...

     without his glasses...
but as he puts them on,
the murky lake of grey becomes
distinct in detail, crosses and tombstones...
         what of the distance?
far away and blurry in zebra
camouflage...
        two-dimensional details
in an otherwise tree-dimensional
yawn...

               optic corrector:
no, not a confusion on my part,
nearing age 80,
    he has both myopia    
   and hyperopia,
namely his reading glasses
    and his: walking around the town
glasses: to add to the details:
that's not cascade:
i. e. respectively.
      
Myopia glasses, id est:
   details in the distance
   culminating in shadows
of trees at noon.
  
Hyperopia glasses, id est:
          details on a piece of
paper, reading.

the inability to convey
an illusion of distance,
or rather the mind, cutting
corners,
    since it was possible for
the early game programmers
to trap a two-dimensional
fern in the first tomb raider
game...

   you would walk up to
the 2D object, and it would rotate
on an axis, very much akin
to the observed and the unobserved
electron...
          
    which, to me, is a bit like
discussing black holes...
    a two-dimensional object
in a tree-dimensional space...
     when observed behaving like
an atom...
     when unobserved behaving
like a wave...
or rather, to muddle,
and craft my own Pavlov exprience
in the watering eye...
    
    through the grey lake mass of
the graveyard... in the distance
no differing contorts but:
Monet... Monet...
    the old man speaks of ills,
hiding the achievements of old age,
a seated life,
   as if: no one likes
the man who doesn't leave
an enigma of some sort...
          
does cancer plague the soft tissued
organs? when mistletoe,
in symbiosis with bark bone of trees
can thrive in the winter sun,
minimally exhausting the tree
in its seasonal coma?

   old man cynic and
the woe of old age...
     but before the story of Judas
and H'eh Zeus (in Spain)...
   came the story of -
   the old man and the sea
(according to Monet);

  old man cynic,
on the rare occasion that the old
are disabled like children
at birth...
  while in most instances,
the privilege of old age
makes them in turn
into born again children...
         but unlike children a priori,
these a posteriori children
are... outside being convincing...
     in at leat some,
of their exaggerations.

I will finish five months of therapy
yet find myself wondering
should I have made it an even six?

I question with Four Tet on, As Serious
As Your Life has been, any answers given
have left me wondering.

How seriously do I take it,
Opia, existence?
All I want is to love life,
I thank music for being so kind. What Rom Di Prisco cast
I would divine, Gamma Velorum, Graviphoton, any other insight.

Today I considered several fluorinated analogues for the 2C-x and DOx families, extending these considerations to the 2C-T-x and Aleph branches of their respective family trees. There are perhaps
over a dozen viable compounds, clinical trials pending.
Afterwards I took a lengthy shower and cooked dinner.
Following this I joined my compatriots upon campus, wherein we engaged in conversation aided by the consumption of ethanol and caffeine, tonic wine indeed. These are my thoughts while I am still
drunk and wired. I've been afraid

I might not be ready to leave, I know I am.
"Ohana means family
and family means nobody gets left behind".

I'm coming back.
In that glittering, bottomless moment a pair of opaque pupils refocus.

Bugsy's dream                                Operatic fountains synchronized streams
                                                     Dead music legends interpreted by cirque
                                                     glamour the eyes neon and distractions

gangster's paradise
imploded and expanded                  stars in the sky out shined by fluorescent sands

desert roads in summer throes
craps and snake eyes
piercingly like void venom              artifice and slots easy as swallowing shots
                                                     life: a machination of mannequins
electric pulse of a new heart
as mob money mobs                        sincerely catering service champagne rooms
since greed barely sleeps
and lust is always hungry...             it be only history now viral and industry

sin city  
once only an idea, a peanut
from - y'know - "like whoa! what the frank??..."
but gotta hand it
the business took                            legit crooks, stashing books, making whoop...
dream getaways by blue moons      
in blue pools
privacy like freedom is a pension crap toss
EXPENSIVE...

where those blind to consequence
can witness
(convertible caddy)
the highway to losing grace              seeing is half believing when gambling
                                                       feels like a game, and the surroundings
                                                       rarely change.
Where the indifferent ego
Idled by self
becomes a parasitic pretender
talented liar
actor to some...                              walking among
                                                      the vapid vehemency of true victors & kings
brilliantly glamourized
in billboard lights
numbingly blinking                          hypno hyper active analogues
                                                      of high def diminishment
of common folly logic
displacia of senses
fairy-dust of forgetting                   (in a Benjamin straw)

duty discarded
familial responsibility a hollow weight
a close second to desperations

the hustle was once a dance

the true crime and you
metro and the fool
willing food                                   flash floods and tour buses full

just to be had

gangster pimped out a city
called it "the table"
dubbed by sin
stole some cash

catering to our vices / service entrance in the back

"What happened in vegas...?"

some call it  being had ...

most magical bean to be sprouting
three pairs of hands for existing
all i can think of is a blessing
in time to come it'll be kicking
on the digits, on the analogues
it's definitely narrowing
at the grandfather's,
it never stop ticking

Lessons come on like glass cuts.
Sudden welling blood
pooling in your palm,
understanding crystallizing
roughly analogous.
And so are we.
Analogues for bigger things.
Our absences filled with
the crippling enormity
of grief.
******* wounds in the world.
And somehow we're expected
not to recover but to be
suddenly good as new.
Glass cuts jagged through skin
like understanding
but you're gone like
forever
and I'm having a hard time
grasping that.
We are analogues for absence
we're just standing in the
place where missing us
and losing us
and forgetting us
is supposed to go.
We are cenotaphs
adorning our own
empty graves.
Roughly analogous.
Like understanding
and the violent, jagged
cuts that the glass made.
The blood pools in my palm
and try as I might
I don't forget you.

Northwest of Athens, once lost in the polis of religiosity and pagan worship, Lochnith followed the shoulder to find her on the cliffs of the Acropolis, where they had lost each other, after two thousand years since Theodosius would repeal by decree the Eleusinian rituals. Of rejection and unprecedented glimpse, Aerse was reclusive in her excessive desire to eliminate herself, being for both an unreality because he had possessed her by the neck devoid of the omphalos, causing the avalanche of their bodies and souls towards where they would supposedly perch on him. divine and Dionysian eschatological path leading to the Diokitís of Vernarth, supposedly going to the derivation of a catastrophe in existential decline but immortal Vernarthian, being a rhythmic hemlock with his Aquenio, who carried him from his right chest, for any pretense of being triggered to the encounter of Persephone, without her or he knowing why Eleusinus festering with Lochnith and Aerse as a single concentric whole in quantum beings of the dodecahedron and octagonal by straight or transversal line, which slipped away in the hypotenuse where the serpents were implicitly conceived, leading to relapses when they went to Aerse and wound up in his Hypomorphic spelling and Magna Mater conclave Mistérica, under the organizational power of his ministerial redemptive slogan and bordering on the intricacies that arose in sub-genres of himself procreating exultation in Vernarth's analogues, which were prolonged in eschatological purges and disagreements of the cult objective that must twist from the gender womb, but in magnetism of positive polarization and in a plethora of tendency that would eternalize after the cessation of assets decreed by Theodosius.

Aerse eminently half-dead with Vernarth, was after the compromise of repolarizing what was semi-human splendid into semi-gods from a bi-gender, which coalesced in a retrograde regenerative cult, to achieve reflorals in all the springs of the world, where they could be seen with Persephone in a Finnis that distanced himself from the ultra-earthly towards a dowry of profusion and disproportionate wealth, but not categorized as a mystery, rather as an unknown of a super method when poking the lanterns where no luminescent reflection of Aerse could be found by Lochnith, after getting lost in the polychrome figures of the acrotera, lying in the watery nitrosities of their rift and steepness of the acro cliff.

Biotics will influence Systematic Eleusis, of supernaturalness for all hydrogenated active elements, as prebiotics of the unknown remnants of the great sepulcher of humanity, where the true hecatomb of July has to be raised and a hundred oxen arranged in the new beings of the transitional oasis. The meager will of the annals will multiply in millennia of obscurantism, leading Lochnith towards a late, but exciting management of harassing in the search for Aerse, in a clear exo-mystery, already in the jaws of a night shouted by the reefs of Demeter for those who know about Persephone...?, even though it is an inventive fallacy of the addicted spirit in the correlation of rite and lineage. Every night that he convalesces, he will look insomniac in the servile promise of divinity in a visage that is undressed in his winepress and the festival of Boedromion, towards the born corporal position of a hierophant who dies from this mold and in which he does not renew Boedromion himself.

The iconography of Aerse was reflected in majolica transfused in the Eleusinian streams when Aerse was seen walking from afar floating in the meadows of the knoll, where he set himself up as cryptography of the lost cycle of the cliff when he separated from Lochnith, being able to expose his treachery mythologically and truly transcending epic, relating to the treaty between Zeus, Hades, and Demeter, for the rescue of Persephone, and after being dented on the beginning of the arcane that arose from that amorphous symptomatology. Aerse carried the stripped-down serpents still on her body as if a divine wind had to seek her out so that they would come out by themselves and unguarded, through lost eyes and secret testimonies resting from anarchy from where there is and will not be an Archon or governor, who in rapt trouble improvise a second after the third parties that cause amazement to see you in a process that could not have it of cursed detection.

Aerse, beginning as a Canephore intruder, came to meet her Adonis Lochnith, after the excesses of the self-inferred hypotheses by following him at the command of the gnosis consciousness in her detailing the Kikeon that made her psychotropic ally pale, from the closure of mineral light that was devoured by the numinous portent of the Mashiach, in the presence of herself on dominical or relative to the numen manifesting in eternal powers, before the numinous presence in the hieratic, from a man who looked at her fatherly or in the crass profile of Damien Hessiano, plotting in colossal and fascinating stealth. Here she surrounds him but does not come close and falls out of love, as a dilemma and granting herself an initiation towards a portal of twelve lunar months in Eleusis, for cyclical years and births where they bounce back to meet in the childhood of pre-pubescent that made them known as Aerse and Lochnitt. Here in the greatest trance of life in both beginning, it surpassed all the twists of the gestated penumbra that separated them by shaking of pain and confusion, still being divergent remains of leftover and uncooked serpents of the escarpment of the acropolis, until a meeting of the astonishing divine fire, and libertarian in two martyrs' tenderness that is purely re-propelling them back towards a new end, and muddy shine in a found paradise where the sea unfolds by masculine conscience, and pious is ratified in each flash of a striate, and of rediscovered calculometry in pairs of loves divided by the pendulum of the one who will only unmask the one who drives him away in his dominant ******, and in the misguided space of hieratic seducing in molecules of celestial structures, and urban public and private lawsuits that have never been crude, nor in ablution of simile sacraments of pagan gods, nor everywhere or whatever their dismembered remains parading I know through the creeks of Cefiso.

g) Reflection Temporality

In cavern series, the lava was converted into cations of hydronium, in subterranean sinkholes that softened in the timelessness of Tsambika when the homily was officiated.  Some pieces and calcareous boulders, rotated ramdonic  by the humid and dark narrowness of the anthropic reflection having lived in the heavenly paradise that formed them by the volcanic tube and its syngenetics, by the erosion of the subsoil of Rhodes. The mental rock icons expired of the symptoms, with albuminous cliffs in the genetics of the Theoskepasti chapel, Etréstles carried under her arm the contract of expiration of the Universe, to deliver it with her signature, for the will of dimensional transfer. Everything Bloomed with attractive mineralization systematizations, under an astral dosage, with trace elements from distant galaxies converted into particles of an end of evolution, condemned to gravitational spilling origins of Hera and her lactations in compound stellar analogues, towards the disdain and backlight of her own emission of the spiral, uniting the irregularity of its transit in revolutions and bars of filings, making the entire face of the earth undaunted but delivered to a temporality, with much sovereignty from a terrestrial planet ..., but not from a universe to another in fusion!

In the cognitive, Kanti memorized his wanderings in Crete, imagining his physical body united with his mind on the paths of the shoulder of his ascendancy, with batches of clockwork that went and passed through his physiognomics, bathing with the piece wind, but also with They yielded with epistemological globes, but levitating in excesses of the shoulder and the unknowns, for states of temporality that became mentalized in pursuit of a supra desire ..., ailment or long-standing typologies that used the supposed ontological formalization, diffusing the property of the body with advanced memory towards a new duality. The officialization of Ars Choralis, solemnize for processes of emotional property; In this way the cave of Being and its Temporality is lofty, isolating itself for intra-cave investigations, as corollaries of agility in those who yearn for identity, being able to attach themselves to deities in tens to epicene, which would be from tens to ten, thus being seventy tens and a half, which would be seventy-five of the seven tens and of the unconscious of the phrase that Etrestles carried away, separating the syntactic of the Vas Auric hypothesis, in order that they coexist ..., although the pestilential decants before the syntactic of Kanti's enrobed head. Untreated and conscious-unconscious to his instinct, resorting to and harassing the prodicedemental bars of the Ergo Sum parameter. The temporality of reflection, In momentum ac Diadem, shone from the third trumpets of the Seventh Seal to the potential of the twilight corrodes and its regions that made the hard shoulder the awareness of a temporality reflected in the required and dismayed collectivities, to transcribe exhorts to the behavioral pattern of temporality and love faust. Little remains immobile, little drive when two masses of consciousness withdraw to the warehouses of the Universe already advantageous from their exhaustion, but inheriting them in active emotions towards the preconscious factors, on the heights of the mountains of Crete and Kímolos.

Kanti the steed says: “Deus Nostri Pontificatus annis et ad eum, God is my pontificate and my way to Him…, Adonis in relative absence of credit, before Ephebe with absolute deafness, being surprised here in the Diospyros and his escape from neuro archetype. I ride farther than my physical-emotional, contributing in the micro-fusions of the tubules, in quantum and interacting with the fineness of the miniscule substance, within themselves. Almost injuring the storms that vibrate in mine from the risk prop of a steed, in pursuit of a trance that only ends up being the architect and augur of knowledge ..., of when and where I die more than once, but within the limit of the crushed Duoverse At his own risk, evaluating himself steadily from the transfer of a whole genetic force in solid steel hooves, but of ornamental and Reflected Temporality. I am a witness to the signing of the contract that everyone who did not look convinced and unanimous, but Hellenika awaits us ...”

Am I in some danger?
At times possibly
The hope for hidden strangers
Wordsworth. Wordsmith. Wait.

Maybe Tintern Abbey
Maybe Gethsemani
Plum Village, Mother Mary
Thich Nhat Hanh in Prague

      Ancient Analogues

            Summer rolls
                Noodles

                 Yellow!