If a man says half himself in the light, adroit
Way a tune shakes into equilibrium,
Or approximates to a note that never comes:

Says half himself in the way two pe!
ncil-lines
Flow to each other and softly separate,
In the resolute way plane lifts and leaps from plane:

Who knows what intimacies our eyes may shout,
What evident secrets daily foreheads flaunt,
What panes of glass conceal our beating hearts?

It was four o'clock in the morning. Robert wondered why his name was Robert. He decided to get rid of the "Bert" because it was the name of a Sesame Street character or the name of a ******* in Tempe, Arizona. Then again, he thought, "Hey, just Rob makes me sound like I change tires for a living or that I work out at a gym that discriminates fat people and blacks." Rob or Robert took a second to evaluate his last thought and if thinking "and blacks" made him a racist person.

Robert sat on a bench and wondered if the woman beside him was expecting Forest Gump-esque wisdom.

Robert thought of a friend he had in grade eight, named Alexander. He thought of how Alexander had a glass eye. Robert wondered how Alexander had a glass eye but could not remember or did not know why Alexander had a glass eye. Robert, then, concluded that sometimes he will not know something and how that is okay because most people don't know anything--it's a collection of approximates that stay in our heads, he thought. Robert asked himself if his last thought made him intelligent or dumb and pretentious. Robert decided that he did not know. How meta, he thought. Robert, then, decided to stop using the word "meta" so much, because it made him feel like a professor with bitterness and something to prove.

Robert watched his sister struggle with an eating disorder. She was in a hospital bed, with an IV in her arm. Robert did not know if he would struggle with anything as hard as his sister struggled with anorexia. Robert, then, had intense but fleeting anger at every person that bragged about being anorexic or made it seem cool.

Robert sat on his toilet and wondered what his true identity was and what his true nature was. He wondered what was inherent and what was synthetic. Robert, then, wondered if a synthetic personality was inherent. Robert asked himself if he was a good person. He wasn't sure if sitting on the toilet, in his grandmother's house, and ******* to interracial ebony teen ****, on his iPhone, made him a good person or not. His concerns soon past, though, as soon as Lauren started to **** the pizza guy's white ****.

Robert walked down the street and was contemplating some of the issues that plagued his ****-infested mind, while he was on the toilet. Robert saw a girl running from a guy. Robert asked himself if he was a hero or inherently good. Robert, then, concluded that he was inherently a coward, since he did nothing and hoped that somebody else would save her.

Robert didn't meet a girl and knew that no one would write prose about his meeting a girl and their mutual love for one another. Robert was eating a steak sub, while thinking this.

Robert returned to the hospital, to pick up his sister. On the way home, his sister talked about how attractive her nurse was. Robert asked, "What did he look like?" His sister, then, said, "It wasn't a he. My nurse was a girl." Robert was okay with his sister being attracted to girls, but hoped that she didn't get more than him or more attractive girls than him, because, for some reason, that would make him feel insecure. Robert decided to stop eating so many steak subs and to work out. Robert asked his sister if she wanted to get steak subs. She said, "sure".

Robert was working out in his basement. He heard the sound of retching, upstairs. Robert followed the sound of the vomiting and opened a bathroom door. He saw his sister stick her finger down her throat. He said to his sister, "That isn't anorexia." His sister said, "I know. There's a lot you don't know about me." Robert said, "I'm sorry."

and what a difference a clock brings, two clock stand
on a shelf already, both of them with dead batteries -
a third is brought in, and it ticks,
and it Tokajs - and up rise the zemplén
mountains where Attila was laid to rest...
and after a night of drinking -
the ticking clock gives out an energy:
that makes you wake up early,
the alarm is set 15 minutes prior noon,
but you wake up earlier than that:
a nervous energy surrounds the clock
like a bomb, you actually are the bomb,
going off early - otherwise?
what Sartre said about 3 p.m., that
the day is laid to rest by that time,
and if ever from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. in
the land of Noddy you dreamt a void
of pristine calm, then after 3 p.m.
the t.n.t. in you is wet, and there's no
spark, the ultimate existential angst -
as with any synthetic approach of creating
sleep, you are sometimes powerless to
the cure, hardly any analysis of the day's
dignified toils, in biblical jargon:
to live by the sweat of the brow -
some would claim this to be an aristocratic
pastoral - and it could very well be:
a decadent with a ***** room with whips
and handcuffs - but also a decadent with
a personal library... who would have thought
the two are so akin, even with their
seismic polarity. so on a day like this,
two coffees in, four cigarettes later,
a minor literary feat, as ever a poem -
with an approach of: get me out of these
straitjackets of conformity, according
to genres and proven techniques akin to
the sigma opus (or, oeuvre) of an Agatha
Christie... or as fellow men said: eat, ****, repeat...
the true art: how to find the eye of the storm,
the centre, away from the pulverising
strobe lighting of this realm: find me a straight
line off this ****** roundabout - if to infinity
then all the better: away from the re re re re
of res (the repetition of a thing) - be is summer,
be it spring, and the countless admirers of
such idle pursuits as said: shall i compare you
to a summer's day blah blah -
or start stiff, a corpse stiff in writing: mere
warm-up - then loosen the joints (conjunctions
prepositions et al.) and let us butter those
nouns - and change a few nouns into verbs
as already stated - a real ******* moment in
writing: haphazard here, unexplained mutations
here... let us return the same frenzied favour
that this hellish carousel imposed on us;
and as ever, a day that begins prior to 3 p.m.
will usually yield a daylight poem,
the sun is to bright, a vampire like myself
cannot stand the seemingly ultra-violet tinge
to things: a real phosphorescent sheen to all
things oily, whether my lipid skin, or the aloe
of leaves - then to the massive stumbling
block of the dictionary and all principles of
a priori entitled with that fiendish book -
as with every mind: algorithms never provide
the answers, if you haven't already experienced
the word said, by someone else.
so with a day prior to 3 p.m., you wake and wait
till the "natural crumbs in eyes after sleeping"
(rheum) dissolves - the radio is turned on,
the empty bottle of coca cola is ****** into and
the waiting for the alarm to ring - but it doesn't,
you're up already, and take up dietary reading
snippets of ivan bunin's memoir about
the civil war in Russia: cursed day (some could
say, one of the most enduring books concerned
with pleasurable reading while lying in bed,
flat out) - and this poem? all because of the
following snippet from a narrative:
            the Odessa Alarm is requesting information
about the fate of these missing people:
     Valya Zloy (zloi, i.e. evil, alter. in polish?
        zło, alter. in ~english? "zwo'h");
   Misha Mrachny (mrachnyi, i.e. gloomy, alter.
in polish? mroczny, alter in ~english?
             a dried out y, a hollowed out y,
                                   cz via ch, dependent
    of the exclusiveness of independent elocution);
  Furmanchika (furman, i.e. driver...
              an etymological mirror -
           a driver who transports goods using
    a horse and carriage, this is 1918, after all);
  Muravchika (muravei, i.e. ant, alter. in polish?
   mruwka - orthography as rigid aesthetics?
welcome to the army son... but it's actually mrówka,
    i call it personal preferences sometimes,
  not necessary rules, there's no limit to this anarchism,
and there's also another word: murawa (thick grass,
akin to earth, and ants burrowing) -
but you don't see ó at the beginning there, do you?
  the aesthete says: further in, mostly when
   congested with consonants, the alter. to what
the Chinese call: the great wall - or defence against
Mongolian invaders: doubled up with ideograms
that put the Egyptian ideograms to shame,
   is that necessary classification? owl pigeon palm,
less skeletal, then necessarily not ideograms:
hieroglyphics: it gets funnier when phonetic approximates
come across meaning approximates,
   you get ~etymological something or other,
e.g. mirror, you hear shouting: misnomer!
          and you're like: well, you have surd lettering
   and i have ~thedesiredword, so ~exact -
nonetheless, intricacies of a polymer with a benzene
ring at some point.
               i was lying though: this poem actually
came from a very English peculiarity -
name the word aunt, and how i'm sometimes
tongue tied on it: not ant when the English say
auntie - i.e. antee - or how the tongue is less
tied to a Sisyphus stone with the word augment:
so i guess i have to practice augmenting
the word aunt - so it sounds similarly good as
auntie - and that's the prickly feeling there,
a syringe on the tongue and less of a tongue-tie
but more a tongue-numbing - liked to a dentist's
request: open wide and say ah - not a - ah -
                     ah choo!               and many chopstick
dances later: the sound of pain, a shortened version
of aww (which is intended for babies and puppies,
but not all things small) - as in cute -
thus this au grapheme (no Latin variation akin to
æ or œ) - which is acute in comparison to
the two examples çited - ash and eðel / eθel -
                meaningful enough to drop a unit from
the couplet - as the English already do,
                            as explained already - ouch -
and many more theories can be revelled in -
   when looking for handwriting smoothness
of wave weaving stylistics - given now the hand
no longer writes, but the digits dent in grooves onto
    a much smoother surface (in terms of fluidity).

No place for roleplay in this
illumined shrine of sanctified
skin and porcelain

where the most literal of lovers
whelm in the stainless steel
hot spring's silver stream

where the smoke screen of clothing
clashes with the steam cloud
rising like ironic bread
in Eden's kitchen

where a woman turns around
wrings and whips her satin
***** of hair around a shoulder
leaving to her man ideas
and a bar of soap that slithers
effortlessly in his palm
like a melted deck of cards

where a bubbled corner
is embedded in the small of her back
elevated from the tailbone
to the neck and lowered like the zipper
of the dress he parted not so long ago

where a jolt of urgency
accelerates an exercise in
the ski of soap around the junction
of the hips and outer buttocks
and a segue silently approved
by her arms hoisted to attend
to hair thought to be already
washed and conditioned

where the soap is shared by
both hands on the scaling of
her sudded sternum
presaging an unseen demand
from the beacons of progression
swelling in the wet heat

where a hand of soap and
hand of slide verifies the demand
of hands on her beaded *******

where he answers her swell
with his stiffness in the final feel
of mystery before a soft shift of
arms approximates a plea
for a frontal rinse

where hands return to ******
crowned chest sparking the advent
of eye contact all the while

where his ****** intensifies
in proportion to the eyes closed
in anticipation of their saturated mouths'
magnetic duet

where saliva and the cooling water mix
on their cameos of tongues slipping
through their lips in the midst of the mist

and where their towels hang in
a forgotten heap while he takes her
dripping body in his arms and
carries her to where the roleplay
will have to wait after all

i.

if you attack the darwinian
supply & demand...
who the hell is going to be
homosexual?!
you just attacked hetrosexual
males,
i don't feel like paying politician's
taxes or making children...
thank you, no, bye bye;
women never sang of beauty, they
merely shouted about it:

a father's hands in weeping
crafted a fountain
of the son's clouded approximates
that gave unto us spring's joy
whether that be an abundance of water
or colour.

ii.

if i can't laugh into the night,
and think of the muse,
then i am endeared by your
want of sleep, as a vitamin loss;
oddly enough there are only 1.5mg
of potassium in 100ml of water,
and old ladies
think there's a concern for potassium
imbalance when you drink too much
coffee,
and have to drink excesses of tomato juice
to balance the "books."

All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
        Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
   Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates   the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
    clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
     Today there will be no siren nor
   simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
   against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
    Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
           forethought and afterthought.
   Dislimned – all; you, left
       in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
    in pursuit of light.

i’ve learned all my trickling tricks of puppeteering from philip augustus of france early on in my schooling, richard the lionheart never came close, i was in similitude with philip augustus, that i even bought jim bradbury’s book to read and essay with.*

never become the alcoholic that denies his alcoholism,
you can’t hide an addiction, better embrace it,
when addiction enters the stage as the acted upon acting
there’s no point hiding it,
enter the realm of the full embrace, hiding it will only make it worse
than it actually is, i embraced it, and i think
the piggish commons are getting their tax payers’ money’s worth
with my poems, if you think otherwise... you stand
happy-idle at the supermarket check-out and tell me
the football scores from the big weekend
when a northern monkey team took a thrashing
from a southern fairy team.
the question is different thought - forget the beginning and end
planned - we already have the diapers and the coffin,
make what the middle ought to be, clueless narration, spontaneity,
off the streak of the river currents not expecting change
but having to accept change...
michael greilsammer’s la ville blanche
cream’s white room
or cat stevens’ into white?
none of them... moody blues’ nights in white satin...
but a funny emerged from trying to sing greilsammer’s la ville blanche,
i speak no french,
and in my mumble i managed to see the other imagination,
the skeletal one, not the technicolor one of images and walt
and the housewives sleeping beauty and snow white
(although i appreciate the other walt, the whitman),
i mean, through my “un-imaginative” mumbles i tried
to skewer the words of the song, i couldn’t,
i could usher in a single perfect word
but beyond this i was trying to imagine the god awful spelling excesses
of the french tongue... i mean bordeaux when you only say bore’s door /
boarded up door - no x oh... xylophone, yes, no? no...
oh no wonder dyslexia and spelling mistakes...
these letterings are phonetic approximates,
anyone can make the visuals complicated
and retain power... but few to own up and say:
1 + 1 = 2, but the priestly order said: e + ' = é
as jumpstart ready on the trampoline... but e + ' = è
means you get a sudden attack of the mute & mime.
that’s what happens with a missing diacritic that’s blatant in english,
you get to spell a french word like bordeaux with a zed and look at it and qualify
the tongue to say: yep, bored door... needs oiling... oil up oil up!
then spontaneously play a harp of unconscious snorkelling
(also known as snoring... boor hiccup shush... bore hiccup sheen):
it’s the last stronghold of the imagination, this invested in english
from mother tongue slavic... it’s like trying to sing to a song
without spelling glaring at you...
so you start imagining this blessed primitivity...snakes and matchsticks
to flare up... turn it all into a 1970s disco...
it makes sense to mumble then... for ****’s sake... bordeaux?!
who adds so many letters in between definite lettered sounds
to make it look more uglier than the pretty riviera? huh?!
monaco? oh... well that explains it: why vaduz (capital of liechtenstein)
doesn’t have a grand prix.

i gather you're aware of the fact that i'm familiar
with the many "lesser" things, let us assume that you
think i'm wholly ignorant, but i know otherwise.
then let us progress beyond the realm of man's holy crest,
namely thought, and thus speak of the feminine emasculation
where all thought is a whirlwind, and we decide to delve
on the sacred destructive element, via fifth namely electric
(what element beyond the candle if not the light-bulb?)
into the sixth, and that being: a woman's heart -
for this is a heart that narrates the unspoken, un-thought,
a housewife's fable (why the y missing when clearly stated
fay babble? excess, true, but necessary), here the four letters
translate in our accenting to provide the basis for concerning
syllable scalpel incisions, toward the penultimate atoms
and the ultimate sub-atomic shrapnel (i've learned the heaving
and congesting difficulty that language can provide -
ponce off logos if you want toward the source that's Heraclitus -
via Heidegger); somewhere between the tick (grave stress-or)
and the tock (acute stress-or), less breve (˘) / or the pushing down
to concentrate - again: we are encoding merely approximates
and diverge into Glaswegian or Cockney accents,
or otherwise in Australia. so how to rewrite the already stressed
word in italics? oh please put us out of our misery!
how do you apply the syllable incision, herr doktor?
indeed: făble -         ˘     and |        and the y -
                                                Y - lazy ******* gits!
who? the now seemingly ancient red-coats!
        even the Greeks applied diacritical marking on their
beautiful alphabet - the English thought they were Latin
and didn't bother, they have absolutely no orthographic
rules... so here's my suggestion: before damning
all metaphysics, apply orthography -
                                 and then do something about that extra
limb para-     that you left unexplored when competing
for the benzene ring - now reality looks really 2-dimensional
to me... we have ortho-exploration via orthography,
and we have metaphysics, but para? evidently only toward
war, with the gloomy paratroopers... and excess political
jargon of neocon and what not.
i'll go as far as necessary and say: even the acute aversion
to fable suits the surgical procedure: fáble -
a Spartacus moment: people! oh people! do you not
see where the origin of dyslexia lies with you?!
and do you know why i'm referencing all this
(from one random word, to a less randomised word)?
dyslexia and asthma - learn to breath and syllable words,
you'd be in the Black Forest of Germany with their
chemistry aligned word compounding and banishment
of the Oxford hyphenation for constantly relegating
acceptance. i ref. to Aldous Huxley and the occult,
but less perverse and more pristine...
why do cats eat cobwebs and love to play with frogs?
Baal - or Bæl -
                              Siamese Adam and Eve -
   never the Siamese in reality, same-*** Siamese -
                                                 but now the cutting up -
variants: count two for the umlaut,
             or a heart-attack flat-line macron and out comes
             Bāl                    or            Bäl          -
but look at it, orthography has suddenly usurped
the Anglo aesthetic - it either looks less appealing...
or actually correct / necessary.
     after synthesising the English language for over
20 years, i finally get to analyse it
                                                 and ask a priori questions
in an eternal back-flip cartwheel censure;
     but back toward the original intent stemming from
fable - what if we're working from Bæl?
     evidently someone's going to don a diacritical crown...
just to ensure we are true linguists -
                               hmm -
                                                       i could
concern myself with a breve marking - but the graphic
suggests otherwise... let's simply say it as twin partnership
of incision, and mark the syllable cut
    via Báèl.                       that slimy duke of inferno
    appears whenever the cat, the frog and the spider
                   coagulate into a formidable dynamic -
                and i guess as being of the Taurus zodiac i can
simply say: i disregard the earthly months and seasons
and call upon the zodiac month divisions -
suiting to my personality; and i know this appeals to
women, who's reasoning is of the heart, rather than
of the abstract brain that's the mind of men;
     brain is fat anyway, but oh the eager thumping
             of a woman wanton in all the many possibilities
unexplored; plus the scientific discussion regarding
linguistics - to prove i'm not a hot-air balloon worth of crap.

12/30/2018

The eloquence of listless years is lost on heady overweening heels that submerge reality in a cavernous of oblique light shrouding the dark mysteries to come. Axiomatic but refractory we swim and tread danger and peril because the unsaid screams for awakening as the roosters outfox the owls and completely change history based on evil skullduggery that awaits the gainsay of titans compromised in security but elevated over the doldrums of quotidian thought. It is my solemn forbearance and consistent steadfast prayer for alacrity and industry to conquer the dudgeons of incurred opprobrium to clinch a beatific convivial festivity for a time-informed claque of leaders that delight in simplicity but dissemble their true disguise in open shark-infested waters. Salvage the impositions of the many and cull the best to anoint their favor on uncertainties improbable but likely as the discerning will master reality rather than be the dross of yesteryear. We swarm with importunate guilds of serfdom to surrender their edifice to the chiselers that operate and extravagate beyond bounds established by parochial priggishness that is a flagging patriotic insistence on drenched graft dank with the mildew of balkanization but not entirely as reproachable as some relics of the ancient law detest with misguided guile and paranoiac sophistry that is a precarious canker of otiose tastes drawling on with misinformed skepticism. The hounding gray in the pallor of alpenglow light ennobles the concatenations of wistful dread but at the same time esoteric flavor that enriches the emblazoned gallantry of the few to become the mainstay of all relevant considerations. Wish upon a coruscating menagerie of miscegenated aboriginal languages that have always abided in the shadows but exist in brevity among the elite coteries that coddle the world in its infancy away from the artifice of exegesis and the importunate placations of swarthy umbrageous shadows that exist apart from the factitious apartheid of race and gender. We must stand united as brethren enduring the tribulations of human vicissitude to abhor the diseased rhetoric of pandered puritanism amalgamated with aleatory financial alarmism calculated to swindle the dilapidation of penury that burns as a smoldering conflagration of concerted ignorance leading to ochlocratic determinism rather than a whispered percolated pedigree that drowns sorrows but simultaneously strands the pariahs of time in insular self-reflection unbecoming of an age that demands an importunate, ubiquitous and outspoken corporate altruism not superintended by a bloviated and tumescent dysnomy of congregated botched bureaucracies that encroach with a daunting donkey commandeered by headless horsemen who are only known by pennames and cognomens that flinch at the demise of their undeserved anonymity. We use valor as an instrument to prevent a scuttled vessel of a seaworthy humanity slinking along a very balmy coast as we await future instructions at the apropos time for a simpatico relegation of commercial collectivism. We expect instead a demassified world to enliven the dialectic of epistemology itself and renew covenants long ago moribund in their ragged and wretched desuetude that they may be vanquished as vestigial habiliments to the tatters of sloppy abnegation leading to a swollen piety that dares not to pretend but simultaneously believes so much in its pilloried hubris that it provides erasure for the secular enlightenment of a messianic time. Squalor and riddled eccentricity drive a brackish but saccharine attempt to homogenize the pastures that we graze upon but look no further than a bequeathed divine providence of smirks rather than the jibes of sneering ostentation. Whisper you fame rather than declaim against the arraignments of a scuttled pettifoggery of miscegenated justice that embroils foreign wineskins for domestic turmoil rather than the demotic enlightenment of the abrogation of inequitable laws that preserve the totemic dissolution of society rather than the prized ameliorative enlightenment of science informed by faith and faith beckoning the clerisy to seek supernal wisdom and furtive swank to reconnoiter the righteous and jettison renegades imploring for a piebald blinkered apostasy on a rudimentary subconscious level but never realizing their effrontery is gravid in a heedless ignorance interpolated by menacing secular hobgoblins that ransack barren treasure and cherish it as a trinket for a chrysocracy that is specious rather than veridical. Barnstorm for justice but appoint the abeyance of foolhardy prescience so that the enigmas of time can beckon their own deliverance through a culmination of waggish flickers rather than the kowtowed toadies of a quidnunc reality divorced from proper temperance outmoded but thriving among those that disavow newfangled foudroyant spectacles. Always and with alacrity indulge the gladiatorial sportsmanship of a zeitgeist beyond contention as the paragon for livid dreams and lurid imaginations to drive the mutiny against plebeian ears and purblind eyes. Live for the eternal present with providence and forswear the vestigial fossils of flippant eras domineered by dragooning fictitious sentiments buttressed by castles built against the encroachment of the imaginary foes of vassal states that submerged the world in a fideism that rejects too many axioms of modernity to vie for preponderance. The government is not irreproachable, but it is a primeval reflection of the propensities of an aggregated society flippant against choice wisdom of the ageless Constitution that is peremptory proof of the divine providence of sempiternal liberty. People that chide against liberty because they fear precarious cankers that endanger from a distance because of their swollen specters need to uphold a commitment to a wistful remembrance of tragedy but a sturdy ruddy optimism to perdure and prosper on this greenest of worlds for both the greenhorn and the expert alike. Never kowtow before the altar of avarice and always pilfer resourceful contemplation in the respite of quiet times that engage our best faculties to awaken rather than slumber. Recruit the collective imagination to superintend chaos and the leviathan becomes tamed because it requires human synergy in both prosperous times and desperate measures to foment the earth with the brontides of due warning simultaneously murky and misleading but always reflective of an irenic pasture of withering sheep and abundant shepherds. Regal promises have always loitered in the penumbras of the elite but now is the time for absolution rather than scattershot contumely. We believe in the federal way and the state farm system and we don’t believe in foreign monoliths becoming the pasquinade of slippery hebetude that ensnares the immobilized futilitarianism of ignorant creeds and divisive claptrap. Barnstorm together for God and liberty as those two principles-however squandered they might be by listless speculation that doesn’t hinge upon the concerted subaudition of the deeply fathomed sources glistening with profundity- will clinch a victory for the beatific future of a guided humanity rather than the guileless intemperance of choleric fools who wage conflagration against only their own plodding ignorance rather than reaching with outstretched hands and tenacious grasps to invent the future according to the helical perfection of the past. May God rule forever on earth! A prosperous earth! An Earth filled with pleasure and an Earth that approximates heaven more closely every day. Amen  



12/31/2018

Riddled by bewildering supernal designs of an ineffable splendor that drapes reality in iridescent cloaks of rigorous and strenuous limber we trounce through the effigies of a profaned pasquinade to gallop through the doldrums of time for the allocated investment in the refined human condition to exacerbate the declension of foes but link the Abrahamic faiths with taciturn reflections and wizened countenances beckoning a newfangled harmonious destiny. Livid are the naysayers who proffer gainsay with insouciance and flippant sorcery to denigrate sacrosanct axioms with persnickety maxims that are only auriferous when viewed through a refracted entropy of disdainful speculative mutiny against propriety in values and stances. I sidle through a refractory zeitgeist despised for my aureate temerities against the chided condemnation of those who flout so-called gobbledygook because they lack stringent acuity and pale to the polish of ennobled grace that anoints favor and felicity on the laurels of an age very intransigent against latitudinarian capriciousness that will one day ransack the world of its flickered graft and its paltry obsessions with quondam gaucheries. A house divided against itself will flounder because of titanic pressures of oblique balkanization that is opaque only to the hounded ignorance of wishful but labile people who wage acerbic gambles against the delegated authors of an aborning covenant for irenic reconciliation in a blinkered piebald world. I like to saunter in private with my insistent lucubrations because I know the majestic gestures of jest are more bountiful in their fecund harvest than any circumlocution of blunt poetasters who calumniate the verve of self-made upstart grandeur that I brandish at every opportune occasion to pilfer my due inheritance from the coffers of a self-fulfilling fatalism divorced from solipsistic monisms and the denigrations of the futilitarian quest to deprive sustenance in the exercise of deft skepticism disempowering the perspicacity of miserly mendicants who treasure their science but pale in their trepidatious momentary twinges of faith that are insincere and unctuous abominations against a steadfast God that wallops our misery with the lurched progress of human amelioration wrought by the succor of alien wizardry beyond even the most quixotic imaginations of people who in their prolixity miss the pithy glib sacraments of a terse and burlesque pragmatism. I simper because I know about carbon emissions statistics with hearty gusto and a convivial banquet of amalgamated personalities and wraiths that emanate from the ether of the 12th dimension of reality: transdimensional interspecies sentience. I wrangle on the outskirts of a bustled city embroiled in a relegated civil war entangling plebeians and plutocrats but not engorging any coffers in a zugzwang destined for pejorative scuffles rather than synergistic revivals of the human fraternity, a consensus about intellectual meliorism that will fossick with due efficiency cognitive resources frittered away in the respite of laziness and the abeyance of prospective diligence to conquer rather than waylay with furtive gambits of appeasement. Everyone need to leapfrog beyond the quotidian plane by indulging the oneiromancies of self-efficacy aggrandized by presidential favors and collective efforts to unite the 16th version of reality with the penultimate version of reality. For the ultimate version of reality is corporeal death upon which we are transplanted unto an ethereal dimension beyond contemplation without the horological diminishment of wizened age.  We trudge in the miserly conditions imposed by pharaohs of pettifoggery that swindles with blustery graft and strident intimidation of the audacity of hopes and dreams to foment the requisite fin de seicle zeitgeist that deserves more of a heyday with the revivalism of nostalgic entertainment against the opprobrium of inferior tastes facile in formulaic conformity but deficient in its nutritive enrichment of beatific festivities that traverse the earth at lightspeed because of the vehement energy of foudroyant amazement is beyond contagious when conveyed through the dexterous vehicles of more centralized rather than skeletonized organization. The bonhomie of a copacetic future demands the interpolation of scrupulous adherence to authoritative dictums but the laissez-faire demagoguery of titans trouncing the ragamuffins of cacestogenous upbringing in a miserly husbandry that stunts the stilted imaginations of formalism rather than bequeathing a seminal insemination of a future hybridized race mechanized but humanized simultaneously to accomplish what would once seem impossible that now looms considerable with the democratization of the furtive at a faucet’s trickling pace to empower the future to heed the past and the pastors to revere the eschatology of final conditions rather than a favoritism for aboriginal barbarisms created by the snare of hobgoblin phantasms that exist only to make us tremulous rather than swanky. May God bless this great green earth with many decades of prosperity to come and heap plaudits on the intellectuals fighting the fight against simpleton groupthink. Have a very festive New Year!

the point is: i don't want to write in the style of j. joyce's finnegans wake; but i am, and i feel terrible for doing it... so... m'eh?

you listen to these talks, like you might watch
a football match...
   the art of rhetoric - ars rhetoric(æ):
that isolation of the grapheme stresses the point
that homosexuals are better at talking
than men who consecrate themselves
on the bias that will probably lead to a widow.
they're better at it, and there's no argument
for it: it's a bit like passing the olympic torch
from ****-to-****-to-mouth-to-tongue-to-head-to-ego;
i'll come to the modern notation of that unit
in a minute...
  but oh so rare, walking from the supermarket
and finding a book propped on a... thing?
it's situated in essex, england, and in these parts
you can have this "garden" in-front of
your house, and there's this "hadrian's" wall
isolating this patch of green:
   that's why i said thing: because it's not a fence
in the traditional sense...
    so you're walking back from the supermarket
with a bottle of becks beer and a litre of *****
and mixer in your rucksack (5pence duty stamp
on using plastic bags, remember that)
  and you see a book propped on "hadrian's" wall
(because it is just that: a joke),
well not in this instance, this is a case of a semi-detached
outer-suburban household... and there's
  this book propped on a "fence"... and it's dark...
am i going to nick it / "steal" it?
last time i checked, i didn't believe in *hegel,
last time i checked: if i'm in a public place, i.e. a road,
i'm going to use the advantage of someone's mistake
(or intention?) and take possession of the thing;
a bit like... you find a 20quid banknote in a puddle...
are you going to wave it about and shout:
who does it belong to?     would you?
         well... hegel can go **** himself and his
philosophy of right... i can't believe that mere lecture
notes inspired communism, i simply can't believe it,
i mean: it's astouding that it ever occured,
but still... it's so rare to find books on the streets...
i've heard plenty about disowned dogs and that dog
shelter in Battersea... i ought to know, i was bound
to paving slabs on one of their roof extensions...
my grandfather told me this story about how he was
walking through a forest with my uncle (his son)
and found a hanged dog... someone thought it real
funny to tie the noose so the dog was tiptoeing
toward death while suffocating on the noose...
i've had worse trauma... like when walking my doberman
and he bit into **** and what was revealed was
a nest of parasites, at best described: wriggling...
clearly you can build-up a natural aversion to this world,
which is by no surprise the original source of
the concept of god... you start from there, and work
your way down.
    now i'm seriously digressing, ars rhetoric(æ)...
like ha ha crow's ca ca? or is that ka ka ka?
ku klux clan... mortal kombat... whatever.
                just about as much sense when listening
to classic.fm and hearing an "oohbow" concerto
in some minor or major key (i don't remember which
one it was)... but like a blind-man fiddling
with an elephant (the modern day version of
the male grææ... as seen in homer, as seen in macbeth...
but those were 3... i'm talking 5)...
  i also thought about fiddling with the "orthography"
(that term usually denotes the aesthetic practice
of adding diacritical marks, which english doesn't:
otherwise known as the **** of ιota)...
   i could see a clarinet perfectly, clear distinctions (i mean);
but an oh-bow?                    oboe?
    how can these two variations not yield the same
pronunciation if not via the tetragrammaton?
            clarinet in jazz     horns in ska-punk,
ladies to the left, gents to the right...
                     clearly my idea of **** schizoi creates
more competent understandings of a human,
who is insapiens...
                   ****, talk about libido, but to this extent?
hmm... so the ιota was ***** by a diacritical mark
that's practically disjoined from an umlaut...
   see the arithmetic ι i ï? otherwise known as the ee
in: i need to take a ****... or the boo-boo word of ***.
   the same thought approached me when
i contemplated the acute version of N (en) - ń,
variations include: close approximates of knee,
then vary through to: me me me expressed in a nagging
way...
                   oh right... words that have this acute:
     day... dzień...
then they'll call it cultural appropriation, and i'll
call it: cultural integration.
                  but ń did something, it revealed the **** of
ιota...  it's this enforced diacritical mark on the greek
letter (and j) that doesn't exist on other letters
as it sometimes should...
       but it all depends on the following rule

                            ae  i  ou
                     ­             x

x is treated as a consonant for it's own sake, i could have
inserted some other consonant, but the stress
is how and when you apply diacritical marks,
given the stated example of the diacritical mark hovering
over n.
               and really? the **** of ιota is involved, which
probably invoked the complexity of the anglo sprechen
to such an extent that it spread for far and wide...
    why would i even put a diacritical dot over s?
what would that represent, for ****'s sake?
                                                           ­               i!
in polish you'd say that as         e! oddly or not so
oddly enough.
           but there is a collision happening
   given the predestination concept of i (what culture
would appropriate that, if not the most hostile /
successive one?) -
                 the acute diacritical mark on the n
disappears depending where the (enforced half umlaut of)
i is placed...
     for example in the word        no....     nie...
that dot above the iota just ate the acute over the n...
    then back to the word for day           dzień....
it's at the back, so the aesthetic twists into an σς scenario...
(sigma sigma)...
                  nudzi (he bores people)...
        nagi (he's naked)...
                            i could really do with a macron on that a,
who knows, maybe language encoding really is
worth symphony complexity: or is that why i'm
jealous of music composers?
               i'm just trying to look for a word
that encompasses my concept of ń....
     a real kinder sprechen example as simple as 1 + 1 = 2,
evidently i will not find it and only come up with
something as "simple" as 1 + 1 = 3.
on one side the sensual beast,
on the other a reasoning ***** -
as you age the less you sense, but at the same time
the more you reason; in my case it happened exponentially
thanks to Chernobyll (it did begin with one of
the scandinavian countries being able to record
radiation... in poland you had a park, in a small town...
and half the trees were in summer and half
were in autumn):
   because if you **** things up on an atomic scale
you're not going to exactly see a tornado, in a specified
location for adrenaline junkies to go and film it!
then there was this idea that i had
               about certain layers of language,
   braille, sign-language, covert talk and open talk,
basically boiling down to honesty, and the latter to
dishonesty...
    so this book i found yesterday... about as rare as finding
a 20quid banknote...
             now i seriously believe this book is a pillar
to language... right up there with the dictionary and
the thesaurus...
            published by c collins (obviously)...
and its sole author: nigel rees (couldn't be bothered with
italics, so i used the colon)...
          ah **** it, it's only descriptions of the cover,
the book is paperback so it doesn't matter...
although what does is...
   the entry (to be) in the same boat (page 347)...
that's why i was sniffing the book up yesterday
(bibliophiles' prime fetish, after ******* the books)...
    the entry originated from cicero
in 53bc... in the original latin     in eadem es navi,
later used in 1941ad after pearl harbor
(funny u, look: harbour)    - of consequences
                                     roosevelt said, churchill quote(d).

concentrate on the symbols... the narrative style is that of being pedantically excited, it's put together haphazardly for a reason... the point being to concentrate on the symbols, most notably in the title, by suggesting that returning to letters, there's an opposite to Copernicus' compass, not regarding north and south, east and west... whether it's heliocentric of geocentric, the compass concerning letters and how they revolve and transform, akin to the later stages of summer and the earliest signs of autumn - or the nomadic paths of man, but simply, on a page.

indeed mathematics breeds a different
type of genius,
                                                  as i already said
mathematicians resound to agree:
we're not drafted to do arithmetic -
                we're not sprinters
   or the world's fastest at: 1 + 2 + 47 - 90 + 1056...
because our phonetic encoding
is overburdening and too much
akin to mathematical symbols -
              B and 8
                                     l or I and 1
             6 and b
                                            3 and E
              S and 5
                                           0 and O
   if the Greeks built and Empire
that spanned into England
                               the Barbarians
would have never adopted the Greek
alphabet -
                          but since it was the Romans
that did so... the Barbarians exploited
the latin alphabet -
      as they did...
                                    it takes a different
way of thinking, we're not talking
etymology, we're talking things like:
organic chemistry's electron movement
   diagrams... what is positive in Latin
  and negative in Rune? or... what is missing
in Latin and necessary to remember Rune?
             in between the disparity between
  >                     and                )
or (                    and              >
               we have the resurrected sharpening
of encoding reminders: accents,
              namely called diacritical marks...
         or a game of matchsticks...
from the barbarian crude or chequered
flints in terms of chipped away curving-edges
into talking smoothed-marble buttocks of statues...
   Bukowski was wrong... Caesar won
in the end...
                     Caesar cared less for world
power, his ultimate maxim was:
a sudden death...
                              and he won... he got
the sudden death...
                                 he didn't say: death in
my sleep, but: sudden death...
                  he won, in the end.
         i never stick to rules, me? a minor
anarchist, in terms of the Nato alphabet,
it's Rome rather than Romeo,
perhaps even Rodeo...
             and it's Jules instead of Juliet...
   Aardvark rather than Alpha
         etc.,
                                 or like refining crude oil...
the crude version is written as
     ᚱ but the civilisation of the times wrote
R...                 odd.. they kept only
               U    in crude form          , they actually invited these
northern conquerors because, as one
chisel-labourer said:
                           the elder alchemist
seeking a golden fern leaf
             to turn stone into papyrus
and a chisel into a quill...
              for all the shortcuts i could
have written, i was told that only U as in V
                      was the only available
aesthetic pardon...
                                      thanks to bureaucracy
so many wars were waged,
because they were expected to not be
overly-eager in their duty,
   but make shortcuts, which they didn't exhibit
because they ****** the thumb of power
till the bones appeared... bones i.e. runes...
    all but a little empowerment
                            and the dictator complex
              comes without armies
but pages of paper, and filofax dilemmas
              of schedule;
             and what became a revelation
of excess shortcuts: ᚱ into R
                    ᚹ into P
              ᚾ into ł (orthodox Christians
make the sign of the cross: forehead,
           chest, right shoulder, left shoulder
amen, or: the glue of the trinity -
         liberal Christians make the sing of
the cross: forehead, chest, left shoulder,
right shoulder, amen; the orthodox
wear their marriage ring on their right hand
the liberal on the left hand, as with the
wristwatch... monogamy is so time consuming)
           nonetheless adapting shortcut
chiselling in either stone or wood
                     and the need for the Roman term
beauty: curvature... invited
                       the barbarian adaptation
to the alphabet... as i already said,
had the Greeks moved that far north,
the Greek alphabet would have been erased...
            primarily the problem of ᚦ  and  θ
          ᚠ and φ         (or the liturgy behind
           the silent twins of the tetragrammaton)
                                                 cut each letter
open... entry point of later adaptation of
what the barbarians said: but we also have
crude elementary accenting of the approximates...
   evolving the > into a ) will not do enough
justice!             how easily F can be translated
   and poured into the eyes...
the mystery lies in something that has no
archaeological prospect of artefact...
            mentality lost in how phonetic encoding
evolved is what modernity calls:
                  concerns for mental health...
we can't simply resurrect the mentalities of
the fathers who revised runes into
                                 Latin appropriation
                 by saying: we're ill because this
was never recorded, or that they were ill
because they were ferocious at the time
   and spilt blood...
                                 these hysterics trying
to see how one came into being from the other
is impossible... i just know that
    it took a lot of straight lines
                       curvatures of similarity in Latin
and the ****** of chisel-worked in Rome
who said: quicker zigzag the runic R like
our pedantic variation of U in V
                    but what if i had to chisel in
the word pulverise? V L V?
                                            comes out in
arithmetic - there are idiots either side:
    I + IV + V = X...
                                   i.e. ᛞ, Norse for day,
    or simply d.
                           idiots either side...
oh just because the Arabs gave us numbers
we have saintly camel jockeys?
                                       idiots either side...
some things correlate, some things don't...
             but nonetheless Greek empire building
would have failed had it reached even Gaul...
        let alone Britain...
     i start my history here...
not with the big bang, not with Darwinism and
the monkey... here... among *these skeletons...
                           it was always going to be a collective
project...
                          which resulted in
revising the Rune ᛟ                         from the Latin o
                         but also adding the marriage
with ö...                  among other examples
come to think of it... looks like a crude upside-down
version of ω                       - of north
             and the hardened determination
(in intellectual pursuits) -
          of the south and beauty, of papyrus
                                   and the awe-ratio
                                                                    composed
of ?                                   as that case
              for democratically asking,
democratically not solving, and passing on
              intellectual inspiration
                        &n

Almost like a conversation,
trees come into leaf.
Last year gone, time to move on.
Time to tumble soft flower explosions
into imperatives driven by the wind
that approximates a song.
Let light fall in thick drops,
entering through perfumed windows
and silken doors, fragrant with love.
Let there be a daily siesta of green
solitudes, a sigh light as a feather,
stillness reovered. Let this season’s
world become a dream, a ceaseless
burgeoning of seraphic joy,
an elevation of oneness .

back in the days.....
when i was youthful
bright longing in my eyes.

when life was
a desperate struggle
based on a whim....

i found myself at a place
edge of a valley
start of a mountain
holding back ,
whilst ....
looking forward,
balanced on the rim....
of a new horizons skin.
what to do....... what....

dive
back into the shadow
climb
up into the light.

walking...
on a tightrope
of fraying indecision
circling...
round and round.

years of making myself
dizzy...
with fury
and  
rebounded thought
pinging,slinging, stinging
doubt....
about which way
back...
forth...
back
(g)round....and (g)round
wore myself a groove,
with witless, wistful pacing.

a grave slowly shuffled out,
deeper, darker...
valley dark,
mountain light,
grey grave groove...
on the cusp between.....

mental twilight...........
had me enthralled,
everday shufflin...
till,
when...then.. somehow...
i...
ceased ......
to be me,
frightened to decide....

.........epiphany........

any whichway
was better than this.....
grinding, ground down
groove worn grave.

small steps, giant leaps.
i found grace was in
believing.....
found was in the looking,
laughter in the smiling
life was in the living.
direction was merely mindful
deception....
coralling random disposition.

for one
up
for another.....
down

purpose is a delicate
preponent,
in decsion making choices
attitude the fulcrum
on which it all approximates.......

valley dark
mountain light
both wrong
both right
take .....
a step,
a leap,
a bound,
a flight,
of fortunate fancy....
........or petulant plight.

Being perfectly honest, I have no one to blame but myself.

Right now I sit, fingers bleeding and raw from too much picking, biting, scratching, pinching my face and holding or wrenching my head and hair all because of me.  There is no answer, no burden relief…. just the truth.  And maybe that’s too much for one person to bear.

This has been going on for a long, long time.  Personally, I think it all started with diversity.  We all know energy cannot be created or destroyed; it just changes from one form to the next.  Everything goes back to that and this godforsaken planet.  Why did our god-consciousness devise a physical realm through which to express itself?  Why did our god-spirit, a universal entity ‘spinning in infinity’ choose to become man, and experience a life of restriction and decay?  Out there we were…. pre-conception, unlimited by time, space and biology.  All sensation was total; arguably far more real and tangible than anything we have experienced since.  We were intrinsically one, not a part of the universal whole, for we, together, constituted the whole.  There was no you or me – we just were.  When the first chemical isomerised, or the first whatever polarised, a self destructive chain reaction set up an evolutionary time bomb that would ultimately(?) produce organic form ‘sophisticated’ enough for our god-consciousness to parasitise and torment.  Well brother, sister, hold on tight ‘cause that’s you and me.  We are all experimentations of our divine selves in a game to see how we would cope without our god-knowledge and god-experience and god-perception.

And I wonder why I’m going nuts.


Day Zero. . . . Day Zero. . . . Day Zero. . . . Day Zero.


‘In the Beginning’ there was no time.  Nowadays there’s still no time, although nowadays it’s more no-time-for-anything; whereas way back then there was no time for anything, but time for everything…. if you see what I mean.

On the one level (or dimension if you like) there was the god-consciousness – the zone of ephemera that just was.  A heavenly realm where all spirit dwelt in total communion.  As I sat in her presence she took me within herself and my physicality exploded; every building block of my familiar self was phased, so I could become one with the entity.  This transportation facilitated communication with the Other that I had now morphed with; a communication so basal and profound but so simple and totally gratifying the remnant of me that I could still perceive wept openly and eternally.
At the moment of initiation I became aware of so many secrets that had for so long troubled my man-self, and wanted to comfort the weeping of my dormant spirit but had now way of communicating these inhuman messages.
A few things that underpin the whole event of understanding was the knowledge that all these thoughts were based in eternity.  Like I said, timeless, but that’s just one factor.  It is impossible to answer questions of eternity with a finite brain but (thankfully) not impossible to kick a few of these questions around (which we have been avoiding like dog-****) and come up with some interesting ideas.  It was in this way I was able to communicate these ideas from my god-consciousness to my man self, and thus take a few philoso-theologic steps.  I was willing to learn how to walk again slowly, and to be honest would have been overjoyed if I was ever able to walk without the steadying hand of the god-consciousness.  But little did I know it would send me to the edge of destruction - on the shore of the real fiery pit.
Perhaps this was why, theologically, man could never see god and live.  For to see god is to know god, and the very being of man is not designed to deal with godly things…. If too much comprehension is taken on board, the mind ‘short-circuits’, and fails to deal with the most basic of functions.  We’re not meant to know that much.  It’s as simple as that.
So while my man-self mourned the loss of innocence, the god-consciousness that I was now part of continued our holy communion.  I became an integral part of a vision: ideas, concepts, images flew around and through ‘me’, no language was spoken, no stimulus triggered these responses, but I understood all and roamed the universe in spirit.

We have been so repressed for years – not by a dictator, or a society, but at a basic level, by language and communication.  Our brains are so finite and discrete (or at least that portion that we employ seems to be) that when we try and relate even the simplest notion, we have to select a word, phrase or image that at best approximates what we are thinking.  Even art and literature, when descriptive powers are maximised, are still only pointing to the feelings, the motives that made us create.  In the god-consciousness, all language filters and communication barriers were gone; thought drifted in purity and totality from originator to recipient, for we were all part of the Whole.  This is the (sadly limited) translation.

you have caught up to my drift, dear unicorn... i've been elsewhere the past few days... perhaps i drank too much... perhaps... but then cycling into central London feels surreal every time things fall off from the everyday in the vicinity of Bow, Stratford and Mile End... and i enter... tourist brick-on-bricks... it's surreal that... once upon a time the whole affair of taking a bus, the tube... while cycling to those desired destinations is... well... surreal... you can't even begin to fathom how much i appreciate this little dialectical corner we have started... for ourselves... how little we know of each other yet still pursue... you know... i wanted to write something before i wrote my little tirade... oral traditions... passing on the tongue... i was going to suggest: not everyone can be a Julien Sorel... or... hafiz... my scatter brain also suggested noting a need to denounce onomatopoeia: should we even allow encoding a woof or a meow... unless it's a noun denotation of... what a dog / cat does when prescribing us with seeking attention? a wolf doesn't woof woof: it howls... a lion doesn't meow... i could "understand" barking... then again: what's not to understand? true: i have those drowning thoughts... none of them are concerns for moral ought-i-have(?) though... then again... being impregnated with a gravity that allows me to stand: firm-rooted... and still persist in falling...if we only have sounds: touch wood... who's: one of those knock-knock: who's there, lineage of joke-chokes... i figured... no one remembers how certain places give off this particular whiff... this "accent"... like Barkingside still has a whiff of old Jewish ladies... Ilford is lost from having any Hebrew influence... the Jewish flight is in plain sight... how the synagogue on Coventry St. was dismantled... yet here i am: still... cycling through little Bengal...i hope i'm not too imposing giving both of us coordinates that we are engaged in a dialectic... cult-convincing fabric: how crude mere sounds... ą: is? you said you love sounds... what's ą? i'll be surprised whether your defence of sounds allows you to make this phonetic encoding resound... it's somewhere lodged between a: moan & an oh...Ą... in defence of sounds... so when written? not much... to look at? almost cubist takes on the aesthetic of spelling... no? hell... that's not even cubist... it's dada... do people still read newspapers? i was going to stash this reply until tomorrow having reread it sober... but then again i like taking the most *******-whipping sort of chances out of good-luck-stupidity because: tomorrow i'll be... like i am today come 12am: sooner dead than living in my prime... of course i love your poem... the superiority of sounds... i am a most probably a male and as a stereotypical male i find closure in using my eyes to their fulll potential... your sounds look b'ah b'ah as words... you can't exactly call them aesthetically appealing? perhaps if they were written in braille... or in katakana... let's see.. well... i can't conjoin two consonants together... there's this XOXO rule in speaking ***., while only N is allowed free-reign and an almost unique status... バ (ba): but here's laughter, i suppose laughter is ha, ha... ha ha, ha (ハ)... you tell me sounds are superior: i abhor rap... how freely sounds trickle forth from the fountain of rap... nonsense at the end of the spectrum of: the sound a door performs when not propaerly oiled: creaking... but i'm too much of a visual creature... i like to see what will prompt me: almost like a thespian... how else, would you ever convene to come together with all resourcefulness, in being so convincing... without an otherwise worth of: predictable script? i like seeing what i'll say... are sounds superior because... they are? undecipherable? close  approximates... there is not infinity of sounds that can't be congested into an encoding... to allow a free-roaming of the cinema of memory to take fold... to be allowed...  ha is a definite article in hebrew: so... depicting laughter in hebrew is like writing: thethethethe... point? the spaniards have it just as bad: jajaja... a pronoun to some: a yes to others... laughter is hardly a mere sound... it's a ****** expression to boot... no?  you know why you're so adamantly in my focus? after this coleslaw of verbiage... i've just spewed... you will return without much: "concern"... after all... you won't be reading a spew... a ****-piece of... tabloid opinion-pressuring... this is a self-critical scoop of observation, though: i know i can write *******-riddled amnesiac squat too... oh look... it TAP... became... TAN... タン... we'd be in on pinched mongol *****... ******* parties and white women ***** guilt reprise... no? gloat as i might: i've heard that... come the 2nd / 3rd generation of interracial breeding? the original "sin" is diluted... that i am drunk and writing this... but... best this tired, old soak... of... ripe... raw. onion... it's not like the Russians would mind... mind you: i once dated a Russian girl who... swear to god... thought it was of being a lesser social class if one donned a suntan... you were a serf for having a suntan... that's the whole lot of 'er... to have this onion turn copper turn auburn... no... suntans were not aligned with her thinking of being of the tsarist Russia.... she also adored petting spiders... and serpents... i was more into... foxes... deer... cats....herding heaps of dung: because: there's no better whiff of air than the scent of a refreshing attire of horseshit, in the morning... now... i've written this much... your "superiority" of sounds still stands... but.. on what? write me smash smash... write me Ao (/) アオ blue... sky then 空 (ソラ).... how feeble sounds are... when staged in the theatre of lettering...  you know how pointless a mandarin sounds? as pointless as... until... the point of revealing his phonetic encoding technique... a sound is a sound is perhaps an echo... i'll end there: i don't need to **** further.

hence yours truly (me)
seeks mental health services
without any luck
even after reading Scripture
from my namesake who exuded pluck
after paging thru
the AETNA Medicare directory,
whether a group practice or individual,
I expended energy and precious time today
June sixth two thousand and twenty four

hoping to get linkedin and truck
with a suitable therapist,
cuz various and sundry issues
such as chronic anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and panic attacks plagues
sexagenarian old body electric
matter of fact mein kampf
and hard times reducible
to four letter description
conveyed by the word yuck.

Exhaustion prevails courtesy emotional distress
self evident to any anonymous reader
predicated on morose poetry of mine
invariably discouraging positive ambitions
for friendship receiving,
yet I experienced
unexpected welcome response
from over the hills and far away
where Teletubbies come to play with me,
whose fealty being a ***** buddy
gratitude sexagenarian does express
and so what if three score
plus five year old does regress.

Once upon a time
more than half century ago,
in a faraway galaxy
this second born and singular son
of Harriet and Boyce Harris
(mother and father since passed away
May third two thousand and fifteen,
and October seventh
two thousand and twenty respectively) though
both parents during their lifetime
beset with impossible mission
to administer to my psychological woe
and actually unwittingly exacerbated

dysfunctional behavior of mine
exhibited, jump/kick started,
and witnessed videre licet
courtesy their verbal
browbeating with ultimatums
aghast at irregular impulsive decisions
to attend this, that or another institution
of higher learning
post high school graduation
psyche subjected to actions experienced
being whipped back and forth,
to and fro, hither and yon
analogous to ma yo-yo.

Scads of irrational thought processes
bombard nooks and crannies
within me swiftly tailored
harried styled noggin
sense and sensibility
doth create veritable boondoggle
stumping psychological masterminds
even Sigmund Freud himself if alive
would be mystified and ask ghost writer
of Mary Shelley to craft sequel,

where Doctor Victor Frankenstein
rids trademark neurosis of mine
shape shifting Matthew Scott Harris'
witnessed when whirled
wide web of electrodes
activated courtesy toggle
subsequently flash brilliant lightning bolts
in tandem with deafening booming thunder
reconfiguring bitta bing bitta
chitty chitty bang bang switch  

rendering corporeal cerebral flesh
truly significantly reconstituting
dogma, enigma variations, karma,
and persona of aforementioned
poet of Perkiomen Valley into altered state,
whose psychological state now mimics,
dovetails, and approximates
that of Neanderthal man
forever linkedin to seventh heaven.

“Love is simply the name for the desire and pursuit of the whole."
- Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium*

We take gashes within ourselves
to be a symptom of us halves,
unwholed. Tending towards completion,
Plato made the diagnosis, prescribed
the solution. We are agreeable patients,
building marriages like altars to Eros,
a religion given public space for practice.
Bus-seats, cafés and amusement rides
become two-seated observances,
and the streets are sized like wedding aisles.
The private pain of lovelessness
approximates to a phantom limb, presumably,
six inches too short. We perform penance,
making grand, untenable promises of eternity.
In return for our piousness, we ask
to find wholeness, but find only our selves
in some stranger's bed.

                                          Some share these beds
for life, attend them like churches,
find no answers in two arms cleaving two arms,
two legs cleaving two legs.