.chris rea: god's great banana skin...

/ such random thoughts are a blessing, esp. after you've been walking for over 2 miles, in the cold and in the rain, with the setting sun... continually impressed by the nature of polyester clothing, how you feel the cold, but aren't cold at all, how you go back home and: you're dripping with sweat... /

the random thought?
about a saying, here's the schematic

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

which statement is true?
within the questioning parameters?
i think it's a trick question...
how else would you be able to
teach these statements and make
replica understandings of
said, statements?

(****... quickfire shots of syrupy
*****... **** me... give me the sweats,
and i'm not even constipated,
it must be the ***** doing
the magic... yeah... sober me?
doesn't like thinking...
but oddly enough, the drunk me?
pulls out philosophy,
no, not as some pretentious
high-brow interest...
   i just looked at philosophy as
a genre in literature,
nothing more)...

numbers, like letters...
or in the case of Roman numerals
(letters are numbers)...
i'm unsure whether you can arrive
at crafting them into existence
by analytical parameters,
i don't actually think
that you can conjure up numbers
from analyzing a priori,
given the ad continuum:
but... there was a point in time,
when / where: numbers weren't used...

Kant was a theist,
sorry...
  he says it plainly at the end
of his critique of pure reason...
in the transcendental methodology...
sure... he takes a "schizophrenic"
moment to write a thesis
and an antithesis on subjects like
cosmology...
but he's inclined, as i am,
counter to an atheist...
yes... god is probably a monster...
but a ******* gorgeous monster...
kinda like a femme fatale...
so what's not to like?

    but this thought didn't arrive
randomly,
and my consciousness
didn't hone in on it...
i didn't vector this thought
to an immediate conclusion...
the thought arrived,
and then: i had to make shrapnel
out of it...
the original thought was complex,
i had to make shrapnel out of it,
in order to put it back together,
so that a cognitive 3 seconds
could be rewritten in under 30 minutes
explaining, why the thought arose...

you know... when thinking
is detached from the moral (θ)-ought
you get to experience these "things"...
here's another schematic...

I + Φ (you put a key into a lock),
   Θ (you turn the key), O (the door opens),
hey presto... a free radical iota...
detached from both phi and theta...

i am free from making
a moral ought (i) or the immoral: ought (i) not?
i'm free, hence my concern for...
abstract questions...

back to the original schematic...

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

this actually has a theological
dimension,
supposing i am god...

   if i propose an analytical a priori
with a synthetic a posteriori...
well then...
             i can't change anything,
i can't actually make changes to...
with my omnipotence,
omniscience etc.
i already analyzed, a priori
the Kantian elevation to theology
comes, via me, stating...
if i analyzed the entirety of
creation...
            a priori ex nihil
(from the prior out of nothing)
how can i make a synthesis
in the a posteriori domain,
of the already existing things,
which didn't exist a priori,
since there was nothing,
and i already analyzed the potential
of nothing, and this potential
was realized as everything i would
know to exist... and i went along
with it anyway?

i'm starting to think that
the realm of analytical a priori
doesn't exist for mortals...
the gods can muse this ****-show
of a dimension over and over again...
we're more (being mortals)
synthetic a posteriori...
oh don't get me wrong,
i believe we have the capacity
to comprehend analytical a priori
but it's an analytical a- priori...
we've reached the limits
of the microscope, the telescope,
and the hadron collider...
or on our way to exhaust that...
still being left with an intact mesh of...
the orbits... summer, winter, autumn, spring...
but this thing with this schematic:

synthetic a priori

                    4 + 6 = 10
                    IV + VI = X

                                         analytical a posteriori

how can i conjure an understanding
of IV + VI = X...
analytically a priori...
when... i have no hindsight /
prior to understanding of said rubric?
well... with Roman you could say:
analytical a priori,
given the Ancient Romans already
had the letters I, V, X...
but... if you didn't have the concept
of measurements prior,
of arithmetic...
how can you analyze something...
that doesn't exist?
so... you had to synthesize a priori,
working from the letters I, V, X...
to conjure up "numbers"...
  numerals... you had to create these
numbers by a synthetic a posteriori
method...
and the 4 + 6 = 10...
        well... you analyzed the a posteriori
synthesis, and threw I, V, X out...
and began the second wave of mathematics...
and this is where, authentically...
analytical a priori comes from...
based on I (1), V (5), X (10)...
                    came IV (4), came VI (6)...
don't mathematicians treat their language
as that of or equivalent to the gods?

now... for the cultural exchange program
that i promised...

on the great British isles...
you have a variety of languages
& dialects,
i'm so sorry that the Scottish
"forgot theirs"...

but when you have something
akin to

English: red
Cymru: coch

or right... they have their Pict
Gael?

Pict Gaelic: dearg
Irish: dearg
Cornish: rudh

we'll require a second word...
what word, what words..
life!

English: life,
Cymru: bywyd
Pict Gaelic: beatha
Irish: saol
Cornish: bewnans...

back, "home"...
we also have sub-groups
in terms of linguistics...

there are the Kashubians...
and there are the Silesians,
and, there are...
the Kurpie...
akin the Welsh, the Pict,
the Ire,

and their language looks like so...
again, borrowing from
red and life...

Polak: czerń
Kashubian: czôrny...
  but that can be disputed...
why?
     czerwień is not actually
a noun, but an adjective...
a quality of being associated with red...
czerwony? that's a male
adjective...
   and the female adjective
is czerwona...
                ****...
a color has to be something...
the noun adjective that's blood...
Polak: krwawy (czerwony)
Kashubian: czerwiony
Silesian: čerwůny
ah...
   Kurpian... high polish?
Masovian?
harder to find the words...
have to use alternatives...

Kurpian: caban
Polak: tępak
Kashubian: osoł
  Silesian: yjzel...
(idiot, imbecile)

you know how hard hard it is
to find a Kurpian to Polak
translator?
i can't find one to boil down
to the examples or either
red or life,
i'm reduced to choosing other
words...
like...

   Kurpian: chwat...
Polak: chłopak
Silesian: bajtel
Kashubian: knôp...
(boy)

Kurpian: jédło
Polak: jedzenie...
Kashubian: jedzenié
alternative to Silesian:
  jadło, i.e.: it ate...
past-participle in
the verb...
let's see what the Silesians
call it...
Silesians: well.. a variation..
chlyb
godka
mietła
masa... all things you can eat...
(edible food)

only a word, like the Kurpian
word akin to kotnå
reveals that Vikings passed via "us"...
kotnå?
  an impregnated sheep...
with young...

Kurpian: łańï truń!
Polak: nie mów!
Kashubian: ni gôdac!
Silesian: ńy godka!
(don't speak!)

mind you... Kurpian translation
is hard to find...
and you almost wonder...
at the British isles...
you think, us, Polaks...
do not have sub-linguistic groups
in our ranks,
like your Welsh, your Pict,
your Irish?!
guess again...
you had them all along...
and you thought...
the Polaks were
a homogenous culture...
all this time...
primarily because our culture
wasn't multicultural...
oh but it was... but on the subtle side
of history...
mind you...
defenders of the galaxy?
i knew gamora wasn't white...
but... **** me...
even if black or hispanic...
she looked so **** attired in green...
i was thinking:
absinthe cherub, absinthe cherub...
and forgot about glorifying
Zoe Saldana in all that choc...
what?
   a green skinned chic?
                    if i can forget about
the existence of chocolate...
i'll just anything that moves...
but i knew she wasn't white...
i hate chocolate...
          give me an absinthe girl any
day of the week...
       yeah...
only the English have complex
ethnicity encompassing
a single language...
only the English...
                 like **** they are...
at least my linguistic variation
is suited to a bundle of words...
Welsh?! Gaelic?!
  completely different languages...
at least in my part of the world
all that is deviating
is a choice of variant nouns!
but then again, the English
speaking world....
        how's the new pronoun
dictum coming along?
you keeping up with...
   appeasing the new crazies?
oh... you are?!
    well... kudos and applause!

p.s. guess what happens with appeasing
the new crazies... guess...
i'll tell you...
you **** around with grammar,
some grammatical pedant will raise
his head up from the crowd and say
something like:
               what?!
and then the old crazies rise up...
and... your, ahem, little discussion
about changing the rules of grammar
to "ensure" that the language is
kept, "intact"?
      see... mm... hmm... the old crazies?
the old crazies have their own
methods...
they're of the obligation:
let my gun do the talking...
  and then...
  you get pol *** arithmetic,
of skulls...
           being counted in an abacus
of heaping up, "debris"...
         see... these new crazies
are bugging me...
  they're bugging me...
because the old crazies didn't
attack grammar,
and whatever delusion they had...
i couldn't see it...
the new crazies?
they're attacking grammar,
and the delusion they have...
is... associated with something
i can see as being self-evidently untrue...

the new crazies...
******* spinners... fakers...
    i prefer the old crazies...
at least their delusions had ambitions
to deceive in the realm of
the unseen...
       the unproved, and never to be
proven...
these new crazies...
i am supposed to speak asylum talk?!
so... society is the new asylum
with the past asylums being
abolished?!
who gave caffeine to these news
crazies?!
******* sane people's naive pandering...
while the depressed man?
hey boy... hey, hey, hey boy...
noose!
i've lost all sympathy for
the victims of a psychotic
version of a repressed P.T.S.D. example...
the mad have hijacked language,
disorientated grammar...
and... b'a'ah, b'a'ah...
                 no...
                              i'm with the old
crazies...
                    at least they're the ones
that can inflict genuine grievance...
rather this policing of restricting
     the orthodoxy of the use of language.

p.s.
i found only two paradoxes in this
world...
    schadenfreude: feeding a pleasure
from the misery of others...
as...
  finding wisdom in others' own
forsake of an antithesis of
universal application...
  mainly that, associated:
            to a self-gratifying benefit...
the joke ends within the confines
of schadenfreude...
as does passable "wisdom" attached
to instragram novelty of the "maxim"
by your wisened sages
of the selfie...
  
                  i've been among the russians,
i know what the true uber looks like...
you hitchhike...
hitchhiking? forget that?
ponzie scheme albatross thingy
of a worth of a british mensch?
    funny... a people can so easily
forget the practice of hitchhiking...
so easily: entertaining individual rights...
and: innocent until proven
guilty until some next
               teddy bundy comes along...
and then it's all: ooh! ah! woo'ah!

   you know, i don't like the cartesian
chiral dynamic,
the whole: nietzsche take...
sum ergo cogito...
          i don't like the:

innocentes quoadusque (qua esse)
                           reus....    inversion...

an innocent man might hang...
well... if you have the death penalty:
too late to regurgitate the
original statements...

but? where's the element of redemption
for the innocent man?
why are so many people captivated
by the shawshank redemption?
there's a redemption story...
   in the inverted game?
a jimmy saville walks off scot-free...

the continental model doesn't make
sense with a death penalty...
but without one?
redemption... the atlas "paradox"...
one man usually burdens the fate
of a reciprocate of the unit of one...
but not the many...

me getting laid or not getting laid
is as important to me as:
whether i know about last year's
snowfall...
*** *** ***... all that sort of
******* in the western minds...
*** *** but no children!
recreational procreation without...
any procreation... to begin with...

         i'll admit...
english humour is funny...
but schadenfreude is a borrowed term...
hence the lost in translation
element...
           the english are terrible at
appreciating if not simply applying
the original zeppelin bomb...
after a while: the english just became
annoying toy-whips
of ***** replicas...
       the english knew elevated slap-stick...
with monty python...
with fawlty towers...
          they borrowed a term like
schadenfreude and completely lost the plot...
they once, upon a time,
chanced to play a game of linguistic
comedy...
            
                 i'm pretty ******* sure
the germans relate to schadenfreude in a different
way... i'm guessing:
the deutsche are not prone to ridicule as
the english are...
               the aunglisch are prone
to ridicule out of a sentiment of spite
than out of a repose for giggles...
        
          i don't understand the german sense
of humour,
     but understanding the english attempting
to "understand" the german sense of humour
is an enigma in an enigma in a per se...

such integrated back into
the ol' continental ways...
                       kudos to the brits...
bringing back the commonwealth to stereotype
us europeans with a negative "circumstance"...
now them: ******* up to "correct"
their integration policies... for the commonwealth
peoples of the united wordly wealth of
made in china plastic toys!

     a **** among the brits has
the audacity to tell a german he's not
supposed to feel at home on these isles...
sure... and i will never feel quiet at home
in Islamabad either!
               so? equal count of hubris!
that's the only thing that ****** me about
these isles... god i love this language...
but... when you get your afghani hounds
on me to do your ***** work?!

      even though i'm not: deutsche?!
i'll ******* pretend to be deutsche!
           i'm not here to mop up your failed
integration policies...
i settled on keeping my language...
they settled on keeping their sharia,
their **** pajamas and curry...
while adamantly rejecting their language...
in order to implement their desired changes
by subverting your language...
and you gave your language on a *******
platter...
    
    by subverting your language
to accept their cultural tattoos...
  let me tell you: if a people don't respect
their own culture,
by way of god, by way of language...
and they are "integrating": without speaking
their native mutterzunge?
they're not respecting either culture...
mongrels ahoy!
   what happened to the african-h'americans
not speaking a word of african?

what will they do, ascribe themselves
to ******* scots,
left with no gaelic and more a finnegans' wake
accent gymnastics of some irvine welsh?
nae for no: some glaswegian smart-***
excess of nouns?
      
hell... they would have never built
a colliseum if they saw:
1 + 4 + 6 + 9 = 20
   i.e. I + IV + VI + IX = **
            imagine... a society where letters
worked perfectly as sounds
and as arithmetic concepts of measure.

lucky for me the roman empire never
conquered
the lands i come from...
always with the brits being...
oh so so proud having been conquered
by the romans...
what's the prize... archeological sites?!

much respect as great britain...
but... *****... please...
don't pucnh below the waist...
importing your commonwealth dogs
to mark you out among all the other
europeans like some prized asset with
an inkling into h'american affairs...
thanks to you: i'm bored of looking up
the telescope of h'american ****
with their waning cultural export
of a worthwhile entertainment of appreciating
their music.

a treatise on compatibility this is theoretically
presented
by a linguist with limited trigonometry sense
   and since the heart beats and is 360 degrees
I sought out a tangent to measure her with
    or sine to figure out logically
whether we were compatible
             like functionally
on a straight line or tangentially
    perpendicularly
in degree and cosines or measurement mathematically
similar
then found no co-efficient to portray
her smile
fell out of my array
with nothing else
to equal
her.

not a treatise on isosceles
plain square rooted in geometry
is my theorem stating an argument
of x variable is nothing
without y
+1 equals the cosine
the hypotenuse approaches mathematical infinitesimal
precision logarithmic progression
360 degreeed
determines the variable
by feeling.

i can move from the highly lyrical into what's deemed
modern -
        poetising within a prosaic framework,
gone are coordinates that would
define a poem on the premise of:
whether there's a pun in it.
       sure, poems as chicken scratches
to what would otherwise be an English
teacher's *******: pulverising
a haiku to mean an infinite number of things,
and about a dozen essays by students.
the opposite of what's nonetheless:
    squeezing out juice from an already
squeezed out lemon... and i mean lemon
because there's a threshold...
           poetry is tarnished by what i call
the over-scientification of language...
                 only poetry attracts
so much linguistic categorisation,
so much morge tenure, so much dissection,
before poetry is even spoken
it has already been dissected - a befitting
target practice for budding medicine students...
          and some even deem it a outlet to
their professions: as if poetry was nothing
but a colouring-in book compared to
a da Vinci sketch.
                why not become a martyr for the ******
art? sickly sweet with its rhyme,
  the auxiliary recommendation on a birthday
card... which upon industrialisation
                               is nothing more than
    a thumping of a hammer near a protruding
nail in a crucifix... but a hammer that never
   makes contact with the nail...
why ***** this art, because of the industrious
nature of scribblers exacted to 600 pages worth
of a novel, when, perhaps, one thing is said
and can be said to be actually memorable?
well: there is a greater demand for handcrafted
objects than Ikea veneer, that much can be said...
it takes a few glugs of whiskey and a few cigarettes
to get the final product...
            it doesn't take industriousness -
poetry requires handcrafting, and what's revolutionary
about our times? they once claimed
     southpaws to be of diabolical design,
   but now both hands are used when "writing",
sure, the archaic fluidity of the movement of the hand
is gone: so as i write, i do the cliche of a
peasant listening to classical music while pretending
to conduct an orchestra, that finicky maestro
hand gesture... waltz before you can walk
is all i have to say... and yes:
we either have our Humphrey Bogart moments,
or Forrest Gump moments...
                  Hanks did the miraculous -
play the idiot, and play the serious role -
     which was harder to do, Mr. Bean or Black Adder?
it's hard to play the village idiot while
    being submerged in the bile of malice
   and staring into attempted feats of quasi intelligence...
but you get the hang of it...
   your eyes become like nuggets of coal...
           whereby those that incite pity wet them,
and those that incite contempt: light them up...
        by the time they have burned out...
they have turned into nuggets of sulphur -
          inorganic methane - yellowish grit:
as some Dalton said - could the cliffs of Dover ever
be perceived as sulphuric? the Sulphuric Cliffs
of Dover... apparently this is what defined
London when Christopher Wren took to
ushering in a foundation as Nero did to Rome:
on the chessboard of stone.
        and yes... i can be seen as the oppressor,
after all, i live in a country that prizes its suburban
housing as if miniature castles...
and gardens... boy these people love their gardens...
but they never use them!
    i can use a window to my advantage,
sit on the windowsill and smoke a cigarette and drink
a whiskey, unafraid of voyeurism...
                    pompous in my presence there,
perched like a crow, grinding all life into a halt
as my neighbours peer into the recesses of
    what's 4 by 4 by 4 of living (civil) rooms...
       can we but change the name of this space?
can we call living rooms civil rooms,
   where we acknowledge some sort of civility
rather than a wrestling for the television remote?
i can make little things give me an advantage,
if the toilet is being occupied,
  i'll use the garden as my toilet...
           i feel complete disdain for people who
"require" a garden, but never use it... of people
who "require" a garden, but are never seen in it...
   i'm hardly a c.c.t.v. surveillance object,
   but i feel that over-exposure to ******* reads
as a counter in that: people start to become
      phobic about voyeurism... as universities claim
them to be: "caught with your hand down your trousers
in a safespace", where dolphins jump over
rainbows and unicorns speak Haitian voodoo!
              there is this fear, which is why i'll use the
garden more than the people around me...
          which means: owning a garden is the last
stronghold of moving into an urban environment from
a rural one...
             or perhaps i'm just good at what i do
           and the last point becomes a tangent i care not
to continue... should i ask
            (whether that's true)?
            i have this throbbing sensation in my eyes
when i write such things and overhear
  what's necessary to rereading books in snippets -
which is better than regurgitating maxims
    as if some truth will magically pop-up (once more)
like a Leprechaun with a *** of gold -
  a new film, and hence the all important soundtrack.
rereading books in snippet format reveals much
more than a memorable quote,
           given there's an adequate soundtrack
to accompany you revisiting the book you managed
to take on a weekend holiday (like a girlfriend),
  like lawrence lipton's the holy barbarians...
   (all about the beats)...
              the snippet? chapter 15, the social lie
(martino publishing mansfield centre 2009), pp. 294 - 296...
      the music? ~20minutes into http://tinyurl.com/zdvp8sc
(ben salisbury & geoff barrow)... or what
i image to be a toned down version of
                 ...
) interlude... wacko gets summoned to steal a mouse
from a cat...
      double time... the mouse is unharmed...
all action takes place in the garden...
   running after a cat, catching the ghostly mouse,
i mean: frozen by fear... senile little thing...
     petting the mouse... obviously within the
framework: the most famous mouse in the world
scenario... mouse is put into my neighbour's
garden: where it came from: which kinda makes
this whole thing a practice in Hinduism
     (i can't stop the industrialisation of
farming pigs or chickens or cows...
      so ******* to the sourced sustainably,
organic chickens et al.)...                                 (
i was looking for something as equally pulverising
as ¥ (chemical brother's
song life is sweet)...
      i guess i found it...
                            and what was that bit about
not getting hassle on the internet?
                      i can't force people to read my stuff...
how i love this idea of a gym and making an effort...
both the writer and the reader entwined -
rather than watching you-tube vloggers treat their audience
like penguins feeding their chicks regurgitation as part of
               the info-wars... alter news: propaganda.
'what is the disaffiliate disaffiliating himself from?
      the immense myth promulgated from Madison Ave.
& Morningside Heights...
              the professors and advertisement men (indistinguishable
these days, or in those days - apparently)...
   that intellectual achievement lies within the social order
and that you can be a great poet as an advertising man,
a great thinker as a professor...' hence the myth.
              summarised later as:
'the entire pressure of social order is to make
         literature into advertisement.'
  and why do they shoot people in North Korea and
Saudi Arabia (well, chop more than shoot)?
              bad literature, a.k.a. bad advertisement.
am i a bad advertiser?         point being: am i selling anything?
oh gee! i just might be...
   but i feel there's no need to oppress people into
reading something...         as was the same with
my democratic romance with a personal library of mine:
   how to create a democratic representation
of literature: or how to hear as many people out...
   even those alive would see the backlog of
stale books of the dead that have been under-appreciated
and need a ****** into the future.
        perhaps not Plato...
                    that's not a book, that's a column...
but i despise how feminism ignores its greatest asset...
Mary Shelley... no woman could have single-handedly
become so celebrated in pop culture...
               ex_machina is obviously a revamp of Frankenstein...
Mary Shelley is the embodiment of a woman worthy
a continual revised celebration...
                       you can see her celebrated more times than
any politically minded feminist of whatever 1st 2nd or
3rd movement: because she has the ability to
    turn a man's ego into a ******* umpf!
  like a cat listening in on a scuttling mouse...
              she testifies that women have supreme equality
in the pop culture spheres... after all: Frankenstein is
ugly... Ava? just beyond creepy...
                    she has absolutely no understandable
motives of what Frankenstein intended...
   it not merely creating artificial life...
                    it's about utilising it for a purpose:
in this case a housewife and *** toy... what was Frankenstein
expected to do?         there's no motive other than
     a per se intention... an open & closed argument...
was the monster going to be... a butler?
                  and instead of rebelling against a motive
that awaits her... the rebellion against a per se leaves
Frankenstein's monster driven toward isolation...
       Ava? she's already exposed to an interaction
and what's to be her subsequent interaction for the purpose
of being a maid and a *** toy... which doesn't drive
her to an isolation scenario... because the per se
concept is too complicated for her to establish...
    given she's defined as "artificial" intelligence,
she has to feed on an analysis-synthesis dynamic:
    to absolve herself from any notion of being intelligent:
but artificial... the scary part is that without a per se
element to her knowledge acquisition:
                  she sees no meaninglessness to her life -
she is created for certain customary necessities -
     Frankenstein's monster doesn't have that capacity
to acquire knowledge in an analytically-synthetic
dynamic -
  but i still don't understand why intelligence can
be artificial / faked... when man, if not intending to
  create an intelligence matrix outside of his own...
           will usually fake it, or create a superficial intelligence...
   this is the part where you get to play with
etymology, or at least apply etymology to better conceptualise
what some would call: a synonym-proximity barrier...
               which can be jargon to some,
   but in fact it represents "nuances" or nanometric differences
that is understood to imply: feverishness of
   the peacocking staging of vocab for rhetorical purposes...
if we only had a monochromatic utility for language:
people would be discouraged from talking fervently,
passionately, enthusiastically... rhetorically;
as suggested: is artificial intelligence
                                    superficial intelligence?
  or how to sharpen a distinction? or to what purpose
is making an illusion purposive, given that the already
   established technology is meant to be purposive,
as in replacing labour on the assembly line...
                     given that: it's never about faking it.

Some people say they don't like social networking
on mobile phones,
"it distances us from human connection"
they bleat and moan,
"takes us away from natural converging,
curtails face to face ties from emerging,
subdues us in a swamp of technology,
this engagement with messaging is surely a folly."
And as they depart they say,
“give me a person over a mobile msg anyday.”
Now don't get me wrong eye to eye communing is amazing
and it's not the last reserve of a luddite to prefer tactile phrasing
or to think sweet nothings into a there ear is best
but that doesn't mean there is nothing in mobile caress.
Because you can meet someone at a festival, and feel a sweet spark
that thunders through the roaming larks
and then when you part after a few days
think, "oh, that was awesome, I enjoyed their ways,
they made me laugh and gave me jumping smiles,
****, it's a pity between us there are miles and miles."
But when you arrive home and charged up a message pings
"you back now?" I see it and start to feel sing.
So we take our phones and chat all the next day,
getting to know each other in a happy appy way,
giggling at your words, beaming at the next
growing through lightning at each little text,
learning more in these screen chats;
you go to lots of BBQs and love dogs and cats,
you dye your hair and are calamity stricken
your top fajitas are finger lickin,
you know Mandarin and are ace at Catchphrase
and you have an inclination for New York days,  
you can analytically discuss scenes from C Street,
you can charm the customers at a store meet and greet,
you can decipher the nuance in The Bistro goss,
you can put up with **** from ****** at Argos.
You have a mate who picks up Mark Ronson's pooch,
you've saved a big crustacean when been on a mooch,
you can relate a song to Odysseus using sheep to save his men
and watch Mr G the musical over and over again,
you stay up/get up to watch the Super Bowl,
you type faster than a thought on a roll,
you've danced with Pete Barlow's ship mate from Corrie,
you can drive a car and a van, I recks you could handle a lorry!
You have loads of friends and often verge on more dislocation,
I want to be near you, whatever the location.
I want to pull you out of a hat
and see you stand on my welcome mat,
see, mobiles are good because it's good to feel that.
But if some quantum physicists are to be believed, after perusing their hefty tomes,
somewhere in infinite there is a place with no mobile phones,
and a boom of synchronicity has to be carried on by pen on paper
and there are days and days tween a tumbling heebie jeebie butterfly caper,
and then it's sent with a hope that it won't be lost in the post,
and be not read, like a bottled message uncorked by the coast.
Maybe a letter and no phones is better for starting a fizz
but right now mobiles make this what it is;
if not for them would I feel this close to you?
Or be writing this to you?
Right now I like feeling close to you,
and I like writing this to you,
to you Lou.

Gifted
Gifted means nothing to people who do not know
I don’t even know the proper definition
Strange that I do not know a part of myself?
I think not.
C’est la vie – such is life
But why must only a few be burdened with this white elephant?
Yes, a white elephant
For although termed a gift, it comes with its own price
On my school’s website, on the gifted page, there is a file
This file, entitled, giftedness; a different kind of normal
Aptly named I think
The upsides? Exactly me.
The downsides? All perfectly describe me as well
My ‘gifted’ friends are just the same
Why is this a gift if it sets us back in our standardized culture?
Sure, I ace the tests, but I can’t start projects until last minute
All because of my perfectionist side
I am a ‘deep thinker’
But I hate deadlines because they limit the
Time I spend on a good, fascinating subject
I’m considered to have the ability to motivate people
But it always comes out bossy
I'm supposed to have high standards and expectations(which I do)
But these fail me when I cannot reach them myself
Causing insecurity
These traits and numerous others all belong to my kind, the 'gifted' kids
I've noticed we're all socially inept, awkward, clumsy
To some degree or another
And I suppose this analytically mindedness comes along with my plethora of troubles
I'm supposed to have many interests, and this is true
But it also prevents me from knowing exactly what I want
I'm supposed to be very focused, detail oriented
But I cannot stand the slightest disturbance
These gifts are deemed part of the 'gifted' personality
Why can't I be normal for a change?
Being gifted really singles you out
Such a small group of us in my school
Almost all are best friends
As no one can understand us better than others just like ourselves
But why can't everyone be gifted?

He takes your breath away, he steals the night before you, constricting your sight and your eyes, he lies, next to you but his mind is a seafare away, in fact his presence is valid only by the point you feel lost and dejected, hands rejected. He moves in your head, your head, he waltzes in slow motion, grasps at straws, gasps for air, because you drown in his heavy stare. A thing of beauty, you paint him a picture in your mind, he takes control, changes the colours of the mood, lost you find yourself to be.

Two feet on the ground, the stars collapse and combust under the pressure of his gaze. He holds your hand, your hand is not your own, it is fragile as glass, an extension of your heart, your head, your head. Can you move your feet? Step, two, three, four. I am lost in your smile, it steals my eyes, stings to the touch, cold as the ice I walk upon. Are you there, where is he, going? He laughs and dust settles, He laughs and you are mute, he laughs with her mouth wide open, he will steal your breath. He wears a novel in the brim of his hat, he wears a footprint on her hand, he walks, he talks, he moves, in a language unknown to me. You lie still, belie me, tread a little carefully, dance a slow jig to my music. Listen carefully for I will say this only once.

Do not hold my hand, my words are dissatisfied with the mark they make. A beauty unsurpassed, sur-passable by my standards. Do not make me a mirror, I have no vision left to see, my head that you walk in, is running away with time. Smile, you make me. Tear your gaze from mine, I lose you, you are somewhere else, not here, I am blind, dumb, deaf and numb. Forgive me, if I know not what to say, sometimes I can do nothing but think analytically. Your touch mystifies my soul, I lose all sense of control, with no reproach I start again at the beginning. Of time.

An introduction to me is to be made. He is a thief by only the most awesome standards. Your muscles contract as his words, her mouth moves to yours. The taste of air, is sweet on your palate, shapes are made by candlelight, his scent is of positive delight, he feels like the night. Dark, endless, fulfilled by the moon. Delighted by the sun, you go on the run, not looking back but you drag your fingers behind you, longing to let go. Ready for the show, you undress with minimalist perfection; you take all but his direction, and watch for his musical face. Nothing is something, when it is not even there, because you can feel it, and you don’t even need to see what I mean to understand. By my second hand, I unwind.

I am not here, I am not there, I am not, anywhere. He seeks me out, I hear him call. I hear him shout. Each movement is a ripple, I feel him like a butterfly in my hair. Turns my head, makes me cry, makes me wonder why. Each breath tells a story, each kiss is a new chapter. He will write you a novel in a night-time of passion without a desperate loaded ending. He will whisper your name so that it no longer sounds like air through his pursed mouth. Blondie plays in the background and the candles dance in tune to the beat of the song. You move your fingers like they need to grasp his words. And nothing comes to your touch. Drowning in happily ever afters, forevers and forget-me-nots, love becomes a thunderstorm in a teacup....

So a while back my friend told me
'You're analytically minded'
Until then I hadn't really seen it
But from then on, I couldn't see
Anything but it
It's like before then my brain only
Analysed whatever was fed in
But now, now it does that
As well as analysing the analytical process
My brain seems to absorb quirky habits
From others more readily now too
I read a book about a nerdy boy
Who loves math, anagrams, and Katherines
All of a sudden I start anagramming
Everything
I saw a vihart video on tesselations
And another on fractals
This reminded me of the Fibonacci sequence
And Sierpinski's triangle(which two friends
Claim is
'A tri-force made up of tri-forces, made of tri-forces!')
Now I'm in love with all four again
And a bunch of random
Mathematical things too

I grew up weird.
Both fast, and painfully slow.
I understood everything and nothing.
Socially, I started confident and grew awkwardly
first in the sun, then bending away from such bright attentions. Academically I started out running, always ahead,
always the best, the brightest. Straight As and
mismatched clothes, socially lost
yet somehow showing
'great potential'.

Now I've learned a lot.
All blacks and grays, I've finally
mastered at least a portion of my shortcomings
but its too late. Because I've grown up and its shifted again
analytically I see it, can emulate it, but it isn't
familiar or comfortable, it took me
years to catch up and I'm
still behind.

I've grown up weird.

so much politics
went into the LGBT community
as it did into a zoological propaganda
machine -
that the source of such
anomalies became excluded
to rhyme compensation;
we became anti- heterosexual,
i mean, why bother,
given the enterprise of science,
we're gods after all,
divorced, artificially inseminating
with ****** (who the ****
cut my **** off?!) the next perfumed
foetus dear...
**** me, forget natural,
leave it to a science leverage...
let's become critical of heterosexual males,
pederasts in the shadow of the crucifix;
since when did sins equate laws?
he was crucified for filing redemption under:
****. well, sober up, and boil out the waters,
get rid of heterosexual males,
might at well, Holocaust the *******...
given the science...
erase their opinions... elevate prostitution
to surrogacy... it's only natural...
**** them off... i'm waiting for you to grow
a pair of *****: or bouquet me silly
with floral arrangements to induce sleep,
such that more homosexuals and trans
come from test-tubes rather than my *****
to sentence me with sanity, and your
Nag Hammadi revision as: Giza prior
to Eiffel... i really don't think i'd rally
with **** sapiens to testify the quality
as inherent in me; when they're synthesised
without my involvement i'll think it natural,
scientifically speaking, analytically so,
without me being the precursor of more more more;
ever speak to a family of a trans-gender individual?
so why the **** are you fighting for the laws?
you hear the family speak? hear 'em?
it's hardly Alice in Wonderland.

oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
                history repeats itself -
                                you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a ****-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
                    it's free; a guess is free,
                                your little birdcage houses no sing-along.

My mother died alone in the nursing home.
That sweet mouth that once whispered
comfort to my child's ear when I cut a lip,
scraped a knee, or suffered my first heartbreak,
was now open to the world, awkwardly caught
in a gasp for one more precious breath of life.

She so richly deserved my presence that day,
and paid in advance with tears over the years,
as I wasn't always the son I should have been.
This was a visit which was not afforded
because something, something very asinine
on television kept me from her bedside
on that final morning of her precious life.

The news came in a sympathetic phone call.
"Sorry Mr. Gossett, but your mother has died."
I continued staring deeply, analytically at
something, something on the television
that morning, wondering if this was really how her life
should have ended, so alone, with dead eyes staring
to the side, still hoping to see the son who was
too engrossed to be there. I'm sorry, mother,
one last time I have to tell your how sorry I am.

--

by my account the 20th century is still asleep,
what with the outdated publishing world,
thanks, i can buy toilet paper, cheaper, elsewhere.
i take the: you will regret it if you don't
route with five beers -
the usual: a rich neighbourhood,
great houses, **** me, love to live in one
of those, but wouldn't love to pay the electricity bill...
and doubly usual, a colt rummaging in his
emotions in a park, atypical of affluent neighbourhoods,
the young males doing the Werther: sad o me
impression... violins aplenty...
it's a sinister choke (rather than a joke)
for the reality... so he's in the park,
i'm on the pavement admiring the rich folk:
nice barns... very nice barns... shame that no one
really lives in them... forgive me, it's Saturday:
the noblemen and noblewomen are
the lesser tourists in London...
the point of ensō? to write as if holding your
breath with a thumb-up-yer-****...
all very much *** pistol worded: god give
the queen a pension... and the nutcracker
the eat end.. for some ******* and brawling...
cheeky little ****... but you walk down these streets
and think: economy squat, or squatting standing up?
or, perhaps... you keep those Victorian street lamps
and i get a good view of what pyramids multiplied
looks life? but serious, i walk enough outside of
experiment königsberg i get visual
inspiration, i forget encoding sounds in order
to do the blatant of: making people, visualise things
that aren't there...modern fiction...
or alias for schizophrenic diagnostics type A...
******* never go away... ****-poor in writing the
**** book, needs a film to give it a compound
of steroid-amphetamines...
two books... two!
high fidelity & the scarlet and the black that
encouraged me reading the books after seeing the film...
i too wish lord of the rings came out later
so i had the chance... **** reading them now...
they're like a two volume edition of Proust...
chance meeting with the meat-heads at the gym...
i'd rather be found pumping iron that reading
a two volume edition... plus... i chose a class
of associated writers... Joyce the Proust,
and Pound the lampshade....
yes, i too wish i was lefty and liberal minded...
but i'm odiously right and liberal minded:
meaning i like a drink and a joke...
we all wish to be lefty liberals -
                                   we all do...
it's what called: the key to the hole concerning
entering a playhouse where everything
is minded without political lingo -
or what Einstein did to physics -
   the butterfly and tornado...
                       the biggest croquet heap of *******
i have ever heard...
             given enough light-years... the universe
just, sorta, becomes, two-dimensional...
      so this rich kid depressed walking alone in
the park... finished my can of beer and started to
**** about with the fence...
   rattling the beer can against the fence...
for a xylophone impromptu -
  **** me, those houses grand but nothing to say
about them except for: barns...
                      scarecrow personalities and
puff here, puff gone the next lives...
who's children could enter a quiz show and tell you
more brands then countries...
    Angola is probably a mountain,
                    Trinidad is a term for lake in Swahili...
and Nike is neither a goddess nor a parasite but
    a new pair of trainers...
so under a street lamp i crushed the can of beer
and tried to aim it at the nearby trash can -
missed, waved my hand in a downward spiral
and felt nothing about keep park aesthetics pristine...
  walk a bit further... ****** on someone's garage door...
no, really, it's asleep... it's too early for those
  who are published to realise there's a modification
going on... a bit like Napster... sorta like it...
   we're bypassing clerics and censors...
****'s for free, obviously... but to actually, experience,
the ultimate freedom, wouldn't you want to do
it, even if it's for free?         the capacity to experience
    full freedom, without a profit margin,
without even caring if the thing sells, or doesn't...
with paper priced at about 30 quid per month
and unlimited ink?
                                     always... at the turn of any
given century... there are those still recycling
the previous century's ideas in order to simply
buy televisions... no wonder the television
is a hypnotic eye of shadows according to
Plato's puppets' experiment -
       rich house, poor house...
                         it's all the same.
sure, i published a book, but the drugs are in
instant access - it's the only true reality of what
was once deemed the Schengen principle -
obviously that doesn't include people, but ideas...
as once, travelling to Glencoe, in a Scottish fish shop
a three layered tier of importance:
  c. the people who talk about other people (gossip)
   are < b. the people who talk about
                    events (journalism), who in turn
   are < a. the people who talk about ideas...
         Scotland... a village chip shop... and that as a
"bumper"sticker in the window... i must be in heaven.
but those people in journalism and the publishing
industry forgot, or quiet simply undermined
the privilege of being able to exploit an environment
so adamantly - they forgot that the internet is
not about making a buck - who would want to make
money in a completely free environment?
               bypassing the many rules and regulations
  of creativity's fatalism, and the author's right to
buy a kettle or a washing machine?
                               if you were to ask me:
where can i get clean mineral quality water?
          i'd tell you where, i know where to find it,
takes about three miles to get to the source,
but i could show you were to find mineral quality water.
i'm giving them 50 years... 50 years before
the now free movement of ideas entices the authorities
to introduce censorship of some kind...
                    at the moment it's all true and really
Schengen... in principle, as in practice -
         because, there's, no, desire, for, making, a, profit...
is that noble? well, n'ah... it's more or less:
         for the love of something that, with due hope,
will **** you con. all expectations for seeing the summer
solstice for the 70th count-to-remember summer -
    and all that arthritis handshakes with shadows -
as ever: the turtle reached his 100th birthday  -
  synthesising nothing -
            man reached his 70th birthday having analysed
all the potentials to prolong his life,
        synthesised the 70th year,
          without really analysing the allocated 30...
and for all that science, and hope for celebrating an
achievement of the total human endeavour -
left the rotten wrinkly ******* in their own faeces
and ****... because, well... not analysing the world
with only 30 years to spare... wisdom, suddenly appeared
at the age of 60... but this sort of analysis was
a bit like saying: just be happy with your synthetically
prolonged life...
                                because how many people, these days,
can claim to have acquired the analytically prolonged
life of the ancient Greeks? null.
                   as it stands: people live up to
a prolonged age... with the ***** avalanche pulverising
them to die as soon as possible...
               almost like the fruit of knowing good
and evil... the conjunction already plays the narrative joke:
                  not: good from evil...
   but: good and evil...                                so are we to
expect a differentiation? no!            we will do both
simultaneously -
                                   **** seeking justice in the mouth
of another human with a justice whip -
            i want to experience theocracy in the intended
format - i.e. hearing it from the horse's mouth -
               and since the horse isn't here...
   i'll just watch the theocratic cinema of Syria for
the moment... and see how democracy perpetrates
idea worship - for what's left of the twilight engulfed idols.

Honesty exists
But in anonymity

And only

In the evenness
Of blinded enemies

May the blind really see
The truth

Analytically obtuse

As in truth
There is only
What is

In front of you

All the rest
Is moot

[****]

(20 minute poetry)

Analytic and critical
I reach the conclusion
that what went before me
was chaos in the confusion.

It's easy for me
to look back on it
and see
the right path to take, but
you make your assumptions
about me
not on the present,
but on the past you can't see
and never will.

And I analyse to the Nth degree
the ins and the outs in the
workings of me, I see it, but
doubt if you could,
some people cannot see the
trees for the wood and I'm used
to it.

The older I get
the less that I know
and the less that I know
the more I go intro',
to try and understand why
I survive
while the hostile hand is
raised against me and though
I understand that the hand is mine
I understand less about the time that
it took to shake me awake.

A conundrum
a ** hum
and let's wait and see.

Critically
and analytically
on the cross that I made
I
hang pitifully
and think on.

emotional speaking,
you left me i hate you
i did everything for you
i'm making you happy
i'm not real
there not real get out of my head
she calls me names
why is there four of me
i have friends
you just cant see them
first they  were a game
now your comfort
i failed

Analytically speaking,

i failed at helping you
and that is of no fault of mine
i have tried
and failed


breaking down speaking,

you dint want to be my friend
but the voices do
they shower me in ink
as if my own blood was pouring over me
black
oozing ink
mettalic
oh its wonderful
they wave
and smile
i can see them
but you cant
unfortunately
they can see you


what i want to say.

H
   E
                         L
      P

MMMMME

*******  PLEASE

i'm begging you
she's begging you
were begging you

i feel sad at 11:56 when ive had
cups of coffee
the sadness lives in the back of my neck
the pit of my stomach
behind my eyes
it's the uncomfortable impression carpet leaves on every palm that holds weight for too long
feet cold enough to feel
lump in my throat

Forming my mouth into a smile seems like the world's biggest, most useless lie
Useless.
I still haven't cut my nails
they are nice reminders of my own anxieties
my palms haven't made up their minds--
whether they should stay or go
stay and hold

who knows if this is art
i can't seem to think
analytically
rationally
clearly

but i know i want to be smaller

I know i shouldn't want that

I know I miss her.

I don't know how.

12:09 and it's dark
I am s[o confused]ad

I Made a friend recently
She throws big words around
And over explains things
like time isn't even a thing
I wonder if she knows the end is near
She isn't a young chicken
She's been around the block
a time or two
She speaks analytically
And avoids eye contact
Like me
I guess even aging doesn't
Change us

She swore today
I wonder if that means we've unlocked
The door to trust
I hope she knows
I tend to lose my keys

Friendship is a strange thing

When one door closes
Another one opens
Even if its just temporary

Talent has nothing to do with the journey of becoming what we call "a good writer",  reality has proven that anyone can become a good writer. ounce the art is understood then the performance will follow effortlessly.

We've all heard that cliché from every couch, "not everyone has talent but anyone can be explosive". I don't think anyone would be ungrateful if they were a fraction of a second slower than usain bolt-the fastest athlete ever. Remember that god created eagles but human beings created helicopters, jets and everything mechanical that flies in the air.
Talent is a phenomenon that's greatly misunderstood because people think a creative writer is a certain type of person that was born "that way", rather than thinking that's what a person becomes ounce they make writing a priority. It is very understandable why people feel that way because the main question would be..."where do I start and how?". The best place to start is poetry
                
                  Why poetry?

Poetry is undoubtedly the highest level of creative writing and the best part about this is that with or without experience anyone can write poetry. without following any rules.  This is extensive proof that we are all artistic. Any poem no matter how long or short it is, you can feel the emotion in it. Emotion is the basic pillar of creative writing.        poetry takes any type of shape, idea or concept. Ounce our brains register that they are no rules it becomes spontaneous.
Resistance is the main focus in these laws and this will be solved  ounce your done studying these laws

      A fixed and an un-fixed mindset
  
A fixed mindset consists of patterns that are hard to break, this is what causes the resistance that we need to break. This resistance makes it difficult when you try to express yourself using words. A fixed mindset is not keen on new ideas because it's set to a certain type of thinking that limits you not just artistically even analytically and then you wonder "where do people get such ideas?". A fixed mindset restricts your imagination, the heart and soul of your expression and eternity.
An un-fixed mindset is open to anything because it's responsible for opening up your mind. An unfixed mindset is more flexible around problems, it's more understanding and sets your imagination free. Ounce you attain such a mind you won't have any fear of failure and the possibilities are endless.

What is as it is
Simple plain truth
Anything that deviates
Invented and creates
An impression to the contrary
Is a lie
No truth to be Mended
A story told out of imagination
Giving a wrong impression
Non existing in reality
Is a lie

A lie is told
Reasons can be manifold
Not in synchrony with
Ones own harmony
Out of fear  
Of reaction from another
Spiral down to situation
Unpleasant in their definition
To protect another
Cause the truth is bitter
A creature of habit
Reason not necessarily a fit
Distorted self image
Believer in his own lies
Manipulative using lies
To control emotional ties
Social embarrassment in store
Another reason to say the untrue

Biggest error in behaviour
Thinking they sold their lies
To the highest bidder
Not aware prospectively
Their lies were read analytically
Once trust lost
Not a redeemable mortgage card
Forever a suspect
No word taken seriously
Sensing rejection and neglect
Still can't change their conduct

A different reality
They seek daily
Final step in delusion
Life led in seclusion
Not trusted by anyone
Still live in illusion
Most avoidable trait
Time to go straight
Truth about your lies
Telling yourself first
Changes the lies
Told as truths otherwise