i read stories of angry drunks and wonder:
           why am i so "pathetic" reading into calm?
don't know... truths by a millionaire
might make more sense...
mix ***** with coke watch
the icecubes melt and then take another
sip and it's harsh, pinching like
a crab's signature...
         but then alcohol formulates
around me like a memory tool,
gone are the lessons of school,
      gone the need for arithmetics that
lead to no hoard of gold of erebor -
just that cinema and standstill -
   like my genesis of memory,
  with a great-grandfather in kindergarten
him playing the piano and me playing
a toy piano aged 4, and in my memory
he representing no clear image
but a mere shadow / merely a shadow...
               or laughing at my great-grandmother's
funeral, then sitting up at night
   gnashing my teeth so hard
until i managed to bite off a piece of my
left mandibular central incisor...
         and in the mourning crowd
  when close family members were throwing
flowers into the grave unearthed
and being asked to do likewise
i shouted no!...
                      and took the intended flower
to be thrown into the grave
   to my grandparent's home and sat there
with a candle, gently burning
     the petals with the flame until
the petals, originally red, turned purple;
it seems i can't forget my education in chemistry,
that's not me saying i prefer thought "experiments",
i find them abhorring,
             it's still perplexing how that rose
that was intended to be thrown into the grave of my
great-grandmother ceremoniously
     turned purple from red when gently
applying fire from wax...
        i'm sure a bunsen burner flame of blue
flame would have scortched it...
    as i'm sure you agree, there are hues
to fire, blue flames and very engaging chemical
experiments... in all honesty?
   i did the best chemical experiment in school
and not at university... thanks to mrs. khan...
it involved extracting polyethylyne
in an in vitro environment...
               what you might call an event horizon
akin to physics...
                    oh physics, and the fact that
it's focus on procuring adherents does not stand
within an in vivo environment they propose
to speak about it...
          oddly enough, chemistry does not
popularise itself, only biologists and physicists
popularise themselves,
         chemists usually turn into amphetamine
pushers...
  like: because it began with a ****** name
     and an even ******* primate, do i care?
no... i'm getting drunk!
  why do physicists and biologists get the *******
high-ground in culture and chemists get
the sub-culture? oh right... poetry and
the counter-culture...
      i own the literature:
a. atkins' physical chemistry
          b mcmurry's organic chemistry
c. shriver & atkins' inorganic chemistry...
   from experience though:
    organic chemistry is where you have fun...
it's almost culinary in nature,
   and the patience involved...
sometimes an experiment can last for days...
i find the other two environments too sterile,
well... inorganic chemistry is spectacular,
i'll just add that it's flamboyant...
             physical chemistry is a ******* graveyard,
that **** is so sterile that you don't
   even know whether it's physics or just
applied mathematics...
               but how electrons travel in
organic chemistry's textbooks?
            i could do that **** for ever -
                    the nearest thing to x-ray vision
of what is formed and how it all seems like
quasi-robotics of something taking off a faulty
limb and asking for a more manageable counterpart,
it's all metaphor though, evidently not literally
applicable...    but that doesn't say it's not similar
in the case of having such a point of view...
  but yeah... why do biologists and physicists
think they can speak about their theories
  as populists might speak their political agenda
when they're forgotten the principum in vitro?
                 what they are doing is what
current right-wing political movements are doing,
giving them a platform akin to populism
     i.e. via the principum in vivo...
                    i mean it's there, including chemists
running amok shoving toothpaste and petrol down
peoples' lifestyles... and sure, pills...
    but i find that less demeaning than showing
ideas into peoples' heads... like it might
       change their narrative skills for the better...
still...
        now i'm tempted to find the third alternative
to vitro / vivo...
                               in mirror, a replica,
    something that can compensate the phenomenological
groundwork for, say, the punk or goth movement...
     trouble is, what could be resurrected from latin
to derive the word mirror...
     mercury?                           it has to be,
given in silico, so there must be a counter-elemental
derivative working from that...
thus -                                             in mercurius,
     that ought to prescribe the x            definiton
     to a situation                  where + is rarely
                       attributed to the movement of the canvas;
and yes, writing can also imply
serving the dish neglect to all wordly affairs.

Solving for the x. Step by step
Time is clocking theres no time for any misstep
Thought I had been getting ready for these arithmetics
But now I feel like in anesthetics. Maybe it aint in my genetics

These mathematics got me feelin dumb
Aint got energy to solve. Ive been feeding myself of crumbs, been livin in a slum
Aint easy to have the mind in the equations when everything else is off
Balancing these numbers dont go so peasy when all I want to do is tell the world to *******

Because who cares about this x when theres no money in the checkbook
I got more problems than the chapters in this textbook
Hoping all this senseless calculations will improve my situation
But waiting for the future is hard when Im living on a ration

Been working all my hours in exchange for some dollars
All of this cause my momma said the only ones that make it are the scholars
But the work I put in seems to be less than the money I receive.
And it all goes away to the bills. Got barely any left to live.

Divide the provisions and multiply the meals
Make sure that tonights dinner is a bit more than beans
Hope that my body has had enough proteins to keep all this going on
Because it seems my mind is about to shut down.  Dont know if I can find the answer you were hoping for.

Persephone runs amok, her hair caught on tendrils of wind,
eyes lucid as emeralds; aware, alive.
Hope is sketched on her face as if drawn by whoever paints the sunset,
pulsating with the reflection of neon cities, rolling countryside,
the adrenaline-pumping moment before a rollercoaster’s descent.
She is high on happiness, running across her plane of existence
with only her converse sneakers and extraordinary ambitions.

Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to Demeter.
Demeter, who is stern but unconditionally loving,
selfless, for when she hears her daughter’s plea for food she stops
her spoon midway through a bite.
When Persephone struggles with the perpetual torture of arithmetics,
Demeter’s sheer intelligence is astonishing, the iridescent reflection of
Persephone’s aspirations, for a problem to Demeter is merely
a hidden solution, a failure only a victory in waiting.

If only Demeter knew how her words are of the highest value,
her pleased smile the only affirmation to a job well done.
Her love cradled in the nook of Persephone memories,
every moment she is infinitely grateful to co-exist,
grateful for the Universe to award her the simple pleasure
of loving her parent with purity and stripped of conditions.

As Persephone runs, she glances back for a mere second,
in her smile is the mirror of her naivety,
she still believes that her Gods will save her from being a slave to
the inevitable corruption on Earth and Olympus,
for she is sure her untarnishable love for Demeter is her protector.

Yet, you know how the story goes.
In an instant, Persephone is falling into the Underworld, on the back of a beautiful monster into inescapable darkness.
But even then, she holds on to Demeter in thought and in prayer.
After adulthood, marriage, queenship, a childhood gone in a flash,
after her hands become worn with calluses, her face a series of rivers,
her mind expansive, her goals reached, Persephone knows she owes her unbridled youthfulness to the first person she ever loved.

I love you Dad, Happy Father’s Day.

We are existing
You & I are but
The numerator
And denominator
Or vice versa
As per whims and fancies

Let us break
That diabolic dividing line
And multiply our lullable love
To reduce worldly woes
And add life to the yearning years
By the joy and jubilation
Embedded in our hearts

or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah
this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.

Divide your heart
Multiply my love
Add my life
Deduct your strife

and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y

The crystal structures that shape

tears of Joy are not the same

as tears of Sorrow;

Peace glides gently through

veins of an uplifted Spirit, a corrected

perception! Virtuous

steps of shedding and unpacking,

ascending on ladders built from

everlasting arithmetics.

Driven consciously by the heart,

as the mind smiles and takes

a break from its usual dance.

No need for measure,

simply present within the

strands of silk,

strengthened by the agreement

to let it be.

when i see postmen delivering letters,
                                   i think they feel ashamed
of having a poet among them rise
to such global prominence,
i could end right now and have reached
an Urban II pulpit, just as he
was getting started...
  i used to admire Mr. Know-how for a time
out of sympathy... but then that slowly died,
only because i found people who
had some respect for learning to tie
their shoelaces, and spell words...
      it turned out to be the most abhorring
form of rebellion,
       i could have written all possible
synonyms of red in acronym, just to
make the use of the thesaurus made for
better use... or said ultra-acronym
variations or red, like: crying-mason...
and you would have hopefully said crimson...
  but let me be clear... he got my attention
in Glasgow... but after a while...
    even if i had a cradle of appeal
i might come off as lousy...
               but still, when i read him write
like this needed to be a dyslexic statement,
i thought he might write something illuminating
in hieroglyphics...
           i wish i had a respect for not spelling
words correctly... grammar **** or not...
                    there's no point playing with genes
if you're not creating a plateau on
the internal organs of fathomability...
  genese don't necessarily translate into memes...
     people with a perfect good set of genes
will only still be football players...
        just gagging for a concussion to show-off
their Achilles bravery... i have heroic
   drinking battles, no one bothers to celebrate
new year's day with me... i found out
the hard way: even the brothels aren't open
on new year's day these day, as Auden might
have predicted, all the lonely hearts go to...
oh right... perhaps it was the male-on-male
orientated brothels that worked throughout the year...
  after a while it's not that you despise the body
for all its necessarily purposes,
      but after a while, the body does so little
that the niqab does so much more,
    after a while the head wearing a kippah
does so little aisatsu, that you start to ridicule
the practice as an excuse to headbang at a rock
concert in a maggot pit...
after a while the hair does so little that the hijab does
so much more...
                  can you imagine a Mongol inventing
a hijab? horse-skin ****** wrapped around your
head... thank god for the silk road and the silkworm
produce from china, or wool from the shepherding
states...
             otherwise? a ******* tragedy...
    it's also true in reverse... buddha curled his
******* using the thumb... but he bluffed
the sign-language and necessarily pokered that one
into sign-language saying: down the middle!
           we had sundials and clepsydras for a reason,
as we also had libras, for a reason.
            should i fear a man with only one book?
or should i fear a beast with only one "word"?
  well, these days the former is true,
    but when lions said more than men in terms
of authority... could could complain it wasn't so?
  let's just imagine, that whatever we write today
will not reach a heritage status of the paintings
in the Lascaux caves.. well-brokered that statement...
since an african mask carved into an Baobab
by a shaman will fetch much more worth
at a tribal convention, than a african mask
enshrined into confusing a baobab with an Acacia
fetch at a gordon gekko's winning prize
for the most caviar rather than sushi being ate.
the point is... i was just thinking of writing a short
introduction to an actual poem i intended...
                   you never expect such things to happen,
esp. given you just escaped building the pyramids
safely rooted in masonry, and having to
     wield some Atlantean imagination
for the hanging gardens of Babylon...
to be later told: oh don't worry, we have people
to build as a colliseum, you stick you
to intellectualism of the four letters...
   and then jesus comes along and about a billion
people are rounded-up talking about salvation
by reading only one book, saved by complicating
only reading this one book, by stating
how many times certain words are used in them,
to ensure everyone after Moses can plagiarise
ancient Egyptian into contemporary Hebrew
(only when Charles II can speak Bulgarian or
Romanian)...            horrid numerology...
oh! oh! there are 20 references to the word pray
in the bible! it must mean something!
   how about? bla blah bla blah....
well... d'uh! blay and blaw: Otis Redding (doughnut /
       ice-cream man)
                               and        Sam Cooke
(don't know much about hissing tories)
    so true too, turns out Abel (blay) was also known
as clay.... even though Cain was the vegetarian...
   so that makes Cain (blaw) the god-wind when
Cain slaughtered Abel and the earth unearth
      a curse that made Cain into a nomad and less and less
into a vegetarian... ah, the Scoots buckled and backed me
up on whether blaw came with the lyrics
      son of a preacherman, and whether my
    rubric arithmetics of sentences could ever chirps
up that smokey blonde Dusty.
   hey man... sit up for 48 hours, write about
writing on napkins, and then have a whiskey,
and watch 2 gloomy days turn into clear-skies
  and a visible sun, setting.

/      are there any misnomers in the representation
of language, only, and only within the confines
of phonetics? sure... spelling is not exactly
arithmetics... but is it?

/                     trance

   as the "misnomer"

of the prefix         trans...

                        oh my god,
    current english -

   and the golden
                   age of chaos -

and that nashville twang
in an american blonde's
voice: like a banjo...

gott ist tot:
    kommen die titan, la(s)chend.
                                                     ­       /

involves little brain
just basic arithmetics
lots of gut feeling
and trained physical action

works for surviving
in the Hollywood Wild West

not recommended
for leaders of nations

The ancients put tremendous matters
On oracles and auguries.  
When godhood speaks, the priest agrees.
Glib cunning fails when trouble batters.  
Calculations have a thousand ways
To err, while chance can cut the odds
To one in ten, or more if gods
Drop hints about our dossiers.  
Augurs read events to come
From entrails, bones, and scattered sticks.  
Their guesses are arithmetics
For problems reasoning can’t sum.

it really never remains in the hands of shakespeare, that's for schoolchildren ridiculed by rubrics of language arithmetics, the placebos of their day & age, transmuted into the current state of affairs... no, poetry properly recognised is what it always was, and i know mine will never be... i concede the inability to capture the hogmanay spirits (my new year always began with the ushering in of autumn anyway) - and that people will always congregate above all else, in pauper or kingly attire over a song like robert burn's auld lang syne than some pompous recitation of hamlet, and if i can be the person who peers into this vase of irritability made consummate in periodical fashion, i will be the first, if not the last, to make due, of the verses written for song, and verses written for the long: forgot. seems to me, that shakespeare is no match, however much his genius is ornamented with countless revisions and reinterpretations, for a single effort overshadows the man, and auld lang syne does just that: it credits the work, but by popular consensus, discredits the man, as is well known, that shakespeare "didn't exist"... which is what happens, when you leverage a perfection in a work, like a god's undertaking, who left no signature, with only his work being respected, the man behind it is left abandoned, history speaks nought of him, the work remains, but only as a remnants of a man... which is why it's hard to contend, for a verse of communal warmth that auld lang syne imbues... you will not find a crowd's worth of shakespearean recitations, no king nor pauper alike in the graft of song upon the harsh paved streets as the bell-tower strikes the hour count to pass midnight past eve into the day of: welcoming the end of yesteryear; for all the actors that have spoken, the people speak first, foremost, and they don't speak shakespeare first, they speak robert burns first; and no word of truth or lie, could ever turn into song, even if written by shakespeare or not... oh this mindless craft, from greece of said, to scotch of sang, there is barely a room for effort in mindlessly avoiding the two: make amends, take to choosing either plot, but choose either, than the meddling middle-man amends of the crude antics of keeping to rhyme!

i love 'em, esp. the natives born,
the jingle and the jive -
i love them because i love
their stale - their dublin burnt
amber of a pint's worth
of guinness - and yes:
i'm not a real shamrock fan,
neither are ye -
  hibernian can become siberia
for all i care...
  but i love them with a hint
of tease -
   their catholicism is like
greek orthodoxy -
  they have to stress their
irish in the plotline -
odd to see the nuance though,
that the transgender movement
accelerated into commotion
when the unearthing of
the *nag hammadi library happened
in 1945... suddenly every single
******* word is sacred...
    r. d. laing in his **** of paradise,
oh ****: bird of paradise
knew - turn the one inside out,
then turn the other inside out,
and attempt to meet in the middle -
what a, strange "coincidence"!
i'll have to r.e.m. this *******,
just to be sure...
  love the irish, but coming from
a ******* catholic background myself,
and not buying into the jesus
myth i'm starting to:
   i'll luv ya, as long as aye tease ya;
and so it was, a stalemate over
a pint of dublin's finest
                           charcoal amber lure.

toward the death trap of religion,
or the life unbecome
in act, whether with the existence
or the non-existence of a god;
justices upon the the
of judaism, equating itself within
atheism...
imagine the matter fathomable
and moveable -
yet uncertain -
or a centrity of the unfathomable,
and the unmoveable;
i tire either side of the argument,
i am simply exhausted minding both
stages with both the cares for actors
staged...
           i'm tired...
            please reducue wording to
the basics of arithmetics: i.e.
spelling.

you're still going to pay for something with a woman, so why skip paying for the dinner, and pay for the knitty-gritty?

which why why i don't understand
β-males,
  these highly evolved moralists...
i can understand an α- male strutting along
playing a miles davis track
with a trumpet, and a bob dylan
jingle with his has ushering the wind &
the willows via his ***...
   it's a simple question -
   do these males really feel so morally
superior, as to ostracise both the *****
and the pundit?
                   seems the men who sometimes
visit prostitutes, are worse than
the prostitutes themselves,
  they stink of: ******* should exist,
but only offer services to the disabled...
  oh they're not for "abolishing" prostitution,
they're for prostitution to be a medium
for: those poor ******* in wheelchairs...
  while stephen hawking spends a weekend
on *jeffrey epstein's island and gets
his brains ****** over twice without
thinking about the universe: and that slobbering
grin of his just enlarges into a supernova...
but hey... it's apparently the moral basis
for a β-male's pruning the rose bushes,
  because if he ever walked into a brothel
he'd run off having a wet *****'s worth
of premature *******, looking at a room
of 12 x 2 = 24 caterpillar of fleshy legs...
          intimidated, he couldn't even
get a hard-on drunk...
              i'm the last man "waiting"...
         i have no point to ostracise these women,
clearly ******* elevates their
moral "dilemma"...
   oh bad, not good, this can't go on!
     let me check with uncle richie my right
hand man on the topic: is it all bad?
            depends...
  you find a ***** in a *******'s room,
she spots you looking at it,
  and she asks: wanna use it?
  and you reply: not really -
or when she's exhausted for the day and
you tell her: i don't mind,
   and you snuggle up together for the rest
of the paid hour and just talk,
and then you kiss both her eyelids,
or you leave after an hour,
after she just told you: baby, you can *******
as many times as you like,
  but after that one hour: you haven't,
and she gives you the look of:
          i must be some sort of failure.
it's just a ****** shortcut!
      you end up paying for something,
  whatever it is, dinner, shoes, you name it!
but the β-male "morality" is about as gratifying
an argument as: excuse me, have to shoot
the sheriff off... because hands really are
the "moral" excuse for living the "pristine" life...
oh the shame, the guilt!
    how is that even a question of "morality"
when a ******* exclaims:
   aww... that's the second time on the job
                     (regarding her climaxing) -
ouch, kiss on the hand moments later and she's
still bewildered as to why it happened...
       that's why i don't believe in this
alphabetical psychologism derived from
the alpha-beta interaction,
after all, who the hell said -
        ego sum alpha et omega /
                         ἐγὼ τὸ Α καὶ τὸ Ω?
scrappy second pickings if you can't
identify that major woman in any man's life
that's sophia, that bride of ω-men...
and yes è (hold back) g' ò(h) -
other it would come out as    e'goo,
but the grave on the omicron is bewildering,
you already hold back from the ω,
i.e. ó, i.e. u - or too...
                as if the iota (ὶ) - which is what,
exactly?     you still cite j, which is
the iota acute (ί)... sure, it's not kay -
      but cayenne (pepper) - kai -
       what sort of withholding / drawing back
the slingshot of a tongue using this
diacritical distinction?
****, the greeks are just as bad as the inheritors
of latin (the english) -
   one has become too pedantic in their
written script, while the other has become
too lazy to even use it!
which means, by definition of applying
arithmetics to diacritical distinctions
   we receive the following clue:

omega acute (ώ) = oo'oo(h)
   omicron acute (ó) = ω = oo(h)
catcher in the rye, catcher in the tetragrammaton...
          omega grave (ὼ) = o               (oh,
pict for - oghhh **** - gurgle that one out)
                      omicron grave (ò) =
  ah, you see, only works in french,
   like the cédille, or sigma -

            even though there are no examples
of french with that letter -

the omicron grave is unfathomable to me...

       perhaps in spanish, in a bullring
where the matador would fling a pink cape
into the eyes of a gay bull and shout:

    olè!            i.e. ol'!
                      rather than....      olé! le le le! o(h).
      
in whatever french example there is...
after the grave accent on the vowel has been
indicted, the subsequent letters are surds...
i.e. silent... the best example i can give you
        is crème fraîche (crem)...
         ever wish you could have teased james
joyce to have written at least one diacritical
marked letter into finnegans wake?
   insert a single diacritical concern into that
work, and the whole work disintegrates into
a concern for his schizophrenic daughter's
ramblings...
     for all the concerns, there is not a single
diacritical mark in that book...
   not one!
                    must be an irish thing -
  ploom boom bam - 'ere comes the plum /
  plām...
               aah: just so you can imagine what
it would be like, had i pút an banana into
that sentence, instead.

and the three type of mustard: sarekpsa, dijon & bavarian.

i once offered a challenge,
   which wasn't much -
      never rhyme like a fool -
but narrate like horem -
   never rhyme like a "poet" -
rather, narrate like a virgil -
rhyme is dead,
   and the school of "poets"
obsessed, conscious of invoking
a pun metaphor whatever it
is they use to replace
craft of carpentry - nail
hammer etc. -
     and i was told:
  you want to make your writing
as rigid and bland as
an *ikea manual for putting
up some shelves?
        nothing spontaneous,
nothing nuanced,
  nothing of a cabaret voltaire
types of expression?
  fine by me,
mould me an effigy,
rather than, as a god,
an animate body of blood
**** and bones...
     and someone once said
of the porcelain ballerina
beauties: mandible on the stage,
but a necrophilic fest in
the bedroom...
          and yes, i have an answer
to nihilism...
like depression was once called
the romantic name
melancholy - this too was
once called by a romantic name...
someone once said:
there is nothing worse than
apathy -
   but as the name suggests:
a lack of pathology -
  and i bring into the chess match
a counter to nihilism -
apathy, or as it's known
in romantic terms:
                            nonchalance.
so i ask, are you dealing with
the "arithmetics" of poetry
i.e. metaphor + pun + simile = poem,
or, are you the classicist i take
you to be, enriching yourself
with the puritanical case of, narration?

surely thought is as much an obstruction
(a sūdokú, a chess-board equivalent)
as it is a narrative,
   as it might be a liberating "force" -
    however you might "think" about
it (thinking) -
                        you can't but comply to
thought as this tier-schematic -
    one way or the other...
                     thinking is a problem,
either a solution,
      or some sort of transient entity -
obviously thought does not ally itself
with a godly status -
    as man is mortal, so too is his thinking -
one man cannot hold sway of
an immortal thought...
                well... that's hardly true:
the tier of thinking where thought is
gratified the status of a problem:
     can reveal partial precipition into
an immortal status... some would cite
zeno's paradoxes... others grasp geometry
and the "alphabet" of pythagoras...
                   but no man deems himself
"athletic" enough to perpetuate thinking -
whether in problem, solution or narrative
form...
    we all know the guise of being
transient cognition - we already don it
in our crippled tomb of the mortal frame...
i always found that man is more afraid
of being mortal, than of death itself...
don't ask me how i made that conclusion:
and that fear is all apparent when it
comes to rebelling against the socio-political
plataeu of grey...
          man becomes so afraid of
mortality that he succumbs to the motto:
             yet another, brick in the wall...
oh death is very democratic,
   it's probably the only democracy in existence:
after all... everyone has to "vote",
or rather: veto his life... **** me, that's hilarious!
death the sole "democratic" vote:
  that ends up being a veto on life,
    that's also a doubled-up veto:
      insinuated by the **** of mortality by
                              madame fin.
talk geometry or implosive geometry of
the ten square riddle that's a sūdokú
and my thinking turns into custard,
or a brick-wall...
       i become so pensive so concentrated in
not thinking, that i'm still finding myself
"thinking"...
     well... custard means i'm lost in demanding
narration,
    for every alphabetical "arithmetic"
   to some stupid compliance for a "chronology"
i.e. a, b, c, d, e, f... g...
                i don't actual care for the alphabetical
"chronology", i prefer the "alphabet"
           of spelling, individual words...
  anyway...
         with numbers?
     not so easy... it doesn't arrise from
the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, (0) -
        it's usually 1 + 1 = 2, 1 x 5 = 5,
                                             9 ÷ 3 = 3...
amazing how you can explain quantum mechanics
with numbers on this, of all basic of levels...
a 9... "behaves" like a 3,
   given the observed-non-"observasble"
morphing via the medium of obelus (÷) -
and the tract of chi in reverse:
   so how do you know the electron is both
a particle, and a wave? hence the non-"observable"
demand being asked;
university mathematics?
   it was never about arithmetics...
   it was always going to be about punctuation...
and let me tell you,
when the humanities envision punctuation
mathematicians treat it as subtle form of
arithmetic...
  but when humanities come across
mathematical punctuation?
                  of those who digest albert camus:
glum looks, and french braids as
a hairstyle... and twiddling thumbs...
    after all... √ is a mathematical "punctuation"
mark.

0 0 7 1 0 9 3 8 2
0 0 0 2 0 3 0 4 0
0 3 0 7 0 5 0 9 6
4 1 5 6 3 8 2 7 9
0 0 0 9 2 7 0 5 0
7 2 9 4 5 1 8 6 3
0 7 0 5 0 6 0 3 8
0 0 0 8 0 4 6 2 0
0 0 6 3 0 2 0 1 0 there's more kant in me, than there ever would be nietzsche.

and yes, it's usually at these points where
my mind switches off, and crafts
a narrative of some sort,
  simply because i'm already past the linear
non-linear (square) associations of
the puzzle, and i'm just bored of looking
at it for too long, and sudoku is just that:
being patient with your eyes darting.

then again, something does come from
this prolonged custard moment...

is begins innocently,
   a simple contemplation:
   9 x 9 = 81...

but then the whole **** thing morphs...

out pops the word *onomatopoeia...

now, given the word, you have to sometimes
admire the linguistic "arithmetic"
for its quickened step,
        with words you're almost walking
in water, with numbers? in mud.

    the computational + is irrelevant at this
point, what is relevant is:
  
   the foundational fraction, i.e.?

     x
         /
           26      or the χ
                                      /
                                       βζ -

point being? it's called the alphabetical
fraction base...
           26 letters in the alphabet,
so? pretty much all english words are
contained within this fraction,
whereupon 26 / 26 = 1...
    or furthered: yes, ÷ is the other symbol
for the expression of the fractal medium.

obviously there are renegades of
this rule, obnoxious quasi-germanic compound
words that obliterate the hyphen basis
for english shrapnel... but mind you:
welsh is worse...

i was simply thinking about arithmetics
in linguistic terms,
given that letters are less visually based than
numbers in this realm,
   and how university level mathematics
is a "typo" of linguistic affairs
(as one mathematician said to me:
people assume that being a mathematician
is synonymous with being a good
arithmetician... we're not calculators!) -

just consider all the university level mathematics
abstracts...  can you see any numbers?
might as well stage them between 0 & ∞.

∀ and ∃: or? copernicus: at a ******* funfare.
i'm starting to suspect that it's not
exactly slanderous vocabulary,
   but the over-representation of the slur as
competing with the silk french way of saying
it once, and once being enough,
namely? that the english have to compete
with the silk, as if grating nutmeg for self-evident
reasons in the number of times: ditto.

so i did mention the fraction...
    there's also the "other" fraction, namely?

   χ≥
       /
         26               yes? more than, if χ is worth
more than the base number (of letters,
that constitute the alphabet)?
       honey bear, pooh bear, now you've entered
the mathematical sphere of language...

oh, i do have a few examples,
   which will probably be as difficult to remember
as 9 x 9 + 10 - 39 ÷ π...
   fancy that, only the welsh could be so *******
annoying...
   and this is a real word, i assure you...

   Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch
(Lla­nfair PG in "acronym" form)...
now... it's one thing reading james joyce's finnegans wake,
and quiet another trying to pronounce that,
thing.

get the point?
tongue to optics to arithmetic...
but there are contenders for the fraction principle
that states: language reaches mathematical
complexity, when    χ≥
                                        /
                                         26  is breached,
personally though? i'd put the notion a bit lower
in terms of linguistic computation...

but a 26er? pneumo-physico-therapeutics
     (i was going cross eyed, hence the hyphen scalpel)...
a 28er? antidisestablishmentarianism
     (opposition to the disestablishment of
the church of england) -
    as you can see, the english ponces had to frustrate
themselves over their cadillac owning neighbours,
the welsh, but would only muster a fathomable
prefix borrowing from either greek or latin...
then again, compared to the welsh,
              the english own a mini cooper;

now, this verse, really, really deserves a celebratory
beer; so i'm off! mind you, on a ******:
off my rockers.

Its past midnight here
Don't know what it is there
All I know is that you're probably up
With a cup of coffee on your desk
While you flip through the same pages I passed through, with you reading arithmetics just like a novel while I gnash while solving mine

Guess who I thought of today
During our unprecedented girls night out
.........You
Its been long I did though
Times I'm on my Instagram and some emotional post defines you broadly
I smile, wishing we still talk

Wishing we still spend time on our late night video calls,, voice calls,,,chatting,,,, smiling,,,, caring,,,,,probably loving too
Or was it just me making love up

I could have swore you loved me
Now you've left me, not so sure
You were dug up tonight
A short love story I'd never want to happen
No,
Not anymore
Twas too hurtful

Lasted barely weeks
Yet love felt forever
Oh well, we could have been a thing,
But then you said
"I love you a little bit more than I should"
Uhnn
I smiled,
You know,
The sad smile that pops up when you are certain that this can't work
No matter how hard you try
Or pray
Or cry
It just WON'T
Yeah, I had it on and all I could say?
I can't remember

You probably go months without having the slightest thought of me
I maybe go weeks without thinking of you,
And when I do?
My ***** start raining,
Cloudy
So stay safe TREASURED,
By now you should be chatting with some girl
Spilling the same, sweet words you (once) told me,
Leaving your coffee cold

The meeting.
We toyed with the idea,
Non injurious jabs we threw at each other,
Harmless winks, innocent laughters, truly uplifting.
A date in a swamp, sugarcane mangoes made the day.

Her mind was like a shopping mall,
Great ideas apon shelves of greater ideas.
Clarity of vision her demeanor,
As bright as her lovely eyes.
Purpose and intent clear,
mirrored by her gorgeous lips on a perfect face.
From her recess of thoughts came forth money makers.
Like an architect blue print, and  with steps of execution.
Arithmetics simplified, foggy haze cleared.
Truly I saw a  star 🌟 during the meeting.

i love that, somehow, sometimes,
words allow a sublayer of arithmetic
simplicity in their construct of worth
in sentence -
   that somehow there's this
1 + 1 = 2 moment in writing -
          and not in a crude sense
to say: whatever must be said
in deviation of red into: crimson,
burgundy, pink reddened clue...
              but sometimes language can
emerge as puritanical as
mathematics emerges in arithmetics...
undeserving the higher tier
of orthodoxical job stabilising "rules"
of "proper" conduct...
       i truly can't identify the 1, nor the +
or the = to give you 2...
    we're dealing in the ratio of 26:10
         or 13:5 - 26 letters, 10 digits -
      hey, turn it all biblical and you might
get some hidden mystery and
                    a career in charlatanism.

to borrow from laissez-faire... permettre d'être... in terms of "god" and "soul"... for the latter i have the scientific conversion to Sigma: sum+... or what is that animates... but doesn't give purpose or meaning, while "god" is what inhibits animation and for that reason, gives reason, purpose and meaning... just to establish something beyond the socially-scientific sniffing and self- prefix automation spaghetti monstrosity... or as the Beatles sung (I ******* hate the Beatles, more an ABBA fan)... let it be... minimal scientific interference in the cognitive development of an "individual"... so scoffing and toy-bluffing at someone becoming whole... and perhaps good... without a need or desire to explain the world scientifically... maybe a cave dweller, a Sunday worshipper at church... but certainly not hindrance to me... ergo... the improvised term on laissez-faire.

Surely, outside the realm
of trajectory,
algebra, "comcerns"
for arithmetics...
geometry... an association
of the birth of number
from letter by
equivalent denotation:
chicken... letter...
egg... number...
what came first?
the letter, then? the word...
subsequently:
a number and a sum:
equivalent of a word...
although numbers that enjoy
the functionsbility of:
    ÷
+     -
    ×             cannot be applied
to words; are vowels odd "numbers"
while consonants are even?

Summary of listening to:
HG Moeller
with Robert Sapolsky...
determinism...
whatever the scientific argument
is... no... we never had
free will...
since before the scientific
entanglement... there was the will
of god... and people
were o.k. with that...

free will must have come about
circa the time of abolishing
slavery...
god willing, god binding...
freedom has no surveyonce
of symbiosis
at best: a most tactful approach
to reciprocating concerns.

So if there is metaphysics...
and physics is what best undermines
thr complexity of biology
and chemistry...
then there surely must
               be a metamathematics...
to underpin philological
stability for intellectual thirst...
interest: virility of vivo per se.