by simply watching 'don't call me crazy'
with regards to mental health... a bbc3 documentary.

i find a few pointers, apart from the fact that i've learned
English to a standard that i could
be misjudged as a native, what with african psychiatrists
   and the history of England as  a postcolonial nation...
     the problems of premature depression
and other divergences from the "norm"
  (or is that a tu-dum tss... "the norm"?
i never know how to tell the joke a proper
way, so many jokes are mothered
by punctuation, i don't know
how many there are that aren't) -
so aside from that... the fact that i'm
faking being British... if you have any grievances
against me: you'd better me Ukranian
or Lithuanian... otherwise? *******.
yes, i know the Poles did terrible things,
Vlad wasn't the only person ready to
do sadistic **** on people by impaling them
on sharpened-wooden poles...
   and you thought the crucifix was bad...
but oh look... the artists inserted a peddle-stool
so he could stand while on the cross...
rather than actually: hang from it.
talk about a woman faking an ******.
then again: he was all kissy-kissy with
a centurion having cured the ravaging libido
of his "demon possessed" daughter who
had a hot bagel flirt under her skirt for him...
or as i say: **** a prostitutes
           **** for an extra ten quid: the sigma
of how many ***** that thing has seen
turns your tongue into a dagger...
that's where i have seen my salvation:
   not in the eucharist or degrading symbols
of a godly stature.
       no, the point is:
this misapprehension of where the origin of
thinking resides...
  the true materialists posit the origin of thought
in the brain... but, honey-bee, the brain
is preoccupied with its materialistic responsibilities...
to shoot adrenaline when bungee jumping...
why think it isn't already preoccupied with anything
but thought? the brain doesn't think
no more than the heart might... or your *******
wetted or your phallus becoming *****...
there's no point in ascribing thought to the brain,
even if you abstract the source of thinking
toward the brain as a *mind,
     the suggestion parallels what the brain does,
and what the brain isn't...
   as with the notion of god...
          ridiculous for most people:
or also ridiculous when man is taught to stress
his "individuality"...
                               both seem on equal footing
to be considered phantoms, but the individual is
more of a phantom than god...
                             and as Diogenes of Sinope found out:
you'll find god and the Archimedean eureka
quicker than finding an honest man -
who takes a candle at noon into a market square?
     ah: that famous lunacy...
but in the beginning the word was with god,
       yes, because when we started we only said ooh ooh!
and made those frightening monkey faces to
war off evil spirits and the Arabic third eye, evil.
   Darwinism created historical fiction...
           a bit like science fiction, but instead of looking
forward, historical fiction is looking back,
toward a time when people struggled against
the elements, and had no sense of having to think
given their actual pentagram equilibrium was tuned
into what was around them...
                   the senses could never deviate from
the world of shouting down a cave and hearing echo,
it's only when thought emerged and conceived words
   that the dubiousness of simple musing:
chicken or egg first? created auxiliary sense perceptions...
   we have left the sensual world...
           for we have "enriched" our lives with
thinking, the byproduct of which is what scared me
about this bbc3 documentary... that all mental
illness stems from allow thought to automate itself...
      in other words having no moral compass...
in other words: not having read a single book
   and learned a process of equating thinking with
narrating... as a sensible option to what others tend
to do (the innovators), and allow narration to be a void...
into which they pour all their thinking to
fill that void... with, say, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb...
Isaac Newton and gravity...
it's just scary that people can allow automated thinking,
     made even more evident that counters
the punitive transgender pronoun scenario
   that only focuses on the pronouns: he, it, she.
these youngsters in the documentary are dealing with
submitting to a pronoun focus of: i, it, you.
                      in some vague sense of a religiosity,
that they cannot allow cogito ergo sum into their minds,
a possessiveness of body, that later translates
into an identification with the mind: which is -
well, if you're going to posit the origin of thinking
in your brain, which isn't even there - you mind
as well posit the mind, seeing how the soul
is argued against primarily through our mortal condition.
   is the eye the window to the soul?
  and the brain merely a paraphrasing of that statement?
perhaps...
              but i wouldn't be too worried
             as Walter Benjamin was about art in the age
of mechanical reproduction... i'd be worried
that art is bound to the morgue of psychiatric institutions...
that art is not a term that suggest the origins of
   such ailments:
due the original lack of it in such places:
  but that that it was never there... and that finding
art can be therapeutic is why art can be scolded
               and establishment art is nothing more
than the pinnacle of us, having abused words,
waging fewer and fewer words, can't produce
    a work of beauty... merely a work that occupies
a space.
                art = space...
          that's the statement these days...
being oversaturated with scientific assurances has created
this insurgence of over-competence or making
art not art in a sense timelessness, as in Dante's
comedy isn't equal to space,
            but that it's equal to timelessness...
    or a statue by Donatello...
                          these days art = space...
because it's not going to be timeless... it was once
the iconoclasm in metaphor of: the lion of Judea...
          Lucifer as the morning star...
                         it will not be timeless because it
has been reduced to the establishment's aesthetic
of tracey emins' unmade bed... or
       damien hirst's the physical impossibility
of death in the mind of someone living -
i never said these things aren't art... some people
said cubism would never be art compared to
surrealism... but shove a triangle into Pythagoras'
head and you get some sort of mathematics...
              it's based on that principle...
what wouldn't work in the case of hirst would be
to put a cancerous tumour into a plastic cage...
people would associate it as some sort of atomist
representation of a nanometre worth's of some
larger thing... i do appreciate the fact that big
art works... it needs so much face to embody
the fact that you are to think about it...
                         and not to have a **** over it:
it's art that's anti-arousal and more and more
and more about how to juxtapose it in your mind,
always to abstract the brain as the mind
   and to never appreciate the idea of having
to source thinking as solely endemic to the brain...
the brain is busy, the heart is busy...
            we have perpetuated an outer-body
experience throughout our time since the time when
we first acquired the phonos of thought...
                 and it is a peculiar "sound", thought...
a dance memorable to actually having a hope in
possessing a soul... even after all sturdy things
shrink into the obsolete, and even vegetable.
but the piece i'm referring to?
     kinda paradoxical... given that a shark would
probably eat you... but then again counter-paradoxical
given the fact that most shark-attacks
     make the shark refrain from eating you,
but merely nibbling on you and leaving you alive
albeit nibbled on... maned... with scars...
so i get the part where the shark is in fact:
an impossible death to conceive... only for the lucky few.
  apart from the fact that the shark is caged
like a prehistoric mosquito lodged in amber...
              woodland gold, amber...
  that's the literal interpretation...
                                 but it's still a moving piece,
modern art isn't crap at all... it's just something you
don't get an ******* over...
            take any still life and apply a cognitively
based chemical reaction: stimulate a narrative...
in that famous phrasing, connect the: dot dot dot(s).
    become, in that almost ridiculous sense:
     a Sherlock Holmes... but all that died was about
a minute's worth of your attention...
this is what's fuelling revising a need for television,
big static things... my personal favourite?
that Tate Modern installation by richard holt -
hand on heart: about 3 times...
              i felt like a mosquito drawn into that:
ah the bright shiny light... 180º and a glass ceiling...
that's all it was...
                   art in the age of mechanical reproduction
has to almost ridicule man, or at least ridicule
the idea that he can become an individual,
    as was the ridicule of man that he could become
a god...
               sooner or later any attempt at individualism
becomes trendy, vogue, and magnetises and
monetises a need to mimic, replicate... one punk today:
20,000 punks tomorrow...
       /
           but that sort of mincing is mostly associated
by the bewilderment of our own success...
                           it's almost like a we're engaging with
a sabotage process: deliberately trying to undermine
ourselves by staging a variety of "anti-social" endeavours
we promised ourselves upon a belief in the "individual"...
      modern pieces of art debunk that myth,
it's that modern art pieces require so much space that
gave them the most adaptation prowess over, say,
a puritan's concept of art, as in a Turner painting...
           classical art can be put into a Florentine market
square and be passed by quiet casually,
because it provides an assurance - it forbids engaging
in an iconoclastic vigil, it's an assurance of the past
and how golden it was... but a modern sculpture
in a busy place where many people congregate
without first allowing it the asylum of an art gallery
and people will treat it as a chance to hone on it,
vandalise it, or steal it and sell it from scrap metal...
       modern art requires an asylum to be accepted,
an art gallery is an asylum where people with
good intentions enter and leave appreciating something
that, to the pleb, would get a rotten egg thrown at it.
    and as with regards to how i phrased something
earlier? how philosophy talks of the logos
     that doesn't see the phonos: or the dichotomy
between actual sound, and sound ascribed a
optically-phonetic disparity encryption:
deepened by a self-styled aesthetic of the "ruling elites"...
          and in the beginning the word was with god...
we're merely licking the toes of such a possibility...
         and just you try to bypass the orthodoxy of
encoding sounds with queer spelling...
                     you, in a sense, learn two-languages
with every single one you learn...
   how to say it and how to write it...
                              and then there the how you hear it
and how sometimes you hear different lyrics to
the ones sang...
                         a bit like the Chinese,
who, upon reading the English translation were
bothersome to get rich quickly after seeing
too many matchsticks in ideogram translated as merely
Li Po; i'd too go bananas and become frustrated
and retaliated by getting to Einsteinian grips with
the mathematical alphabet that bore Li Po... i.e. 1, 0
through to 9.
      ah yes... philosophy that doesn't appreciate
grammatical words, or in that sense credible for a biologist
not necessitating a genus to ease any argument,
to actually further it... or to play ping-pong...
   grammatical words are equivalent to the subconscious
given we tend to write some a sense of fluidity...
the unconscious? schematics akin to triangles...
  "images" or rather shapes...
                             beginning with Δ: isosceles...
later varied to the Γ triangle of Pythagoras...
          and as far as we got, a respectability to
not conjure up a square as worthy of encoding a sound...
nearest being the H... and that turned out to
be much ha ha ha.
                   still... i can't come to grips with these teenagers
in the bbc3 documentary talking about
automated thinking! i'm not denying it, i'm not
doubting it... it's just a question:
          how could such a pronoun muddle come about
that you discourage ownership of all your mental
activity? and instead leave a rampant kindred of an
abandoned snail's shell body to wreck havoc?
   it's almost like a a want to refuse to use words...
or encode words... rarely are people told
that the eyes are used as encoding organs...
                   but that the tongue knows no filters...
what the eye ingests... the tongue sometimes can't
digest... and vice-versus... that what the eyes digest
the tongue can't ingest: hence the rebellion
against contrary political ambitions -
   the ears? well: the ears are allocated the heart as
a partner... the tongue and eyes are entwined...
but the ears are allocated the heart...
                     you tend to feel words more than
hear them... because by the time the tongue
represses combining itself with the eyes to
that elevation of thought... your body becomes
autocratically synchronised to a sort of music
of heightened of unanimous response...
             well, it's not exactly a fetish watching such
documentaries.. iconoclasm in metaphor...
  i swear i wrote this before... how philosophy avoids
grammatical genuses... and how all too
ambivalent poetically equivalent nouns and verbs
are to hide our imperfections that precipitate from
art... iconoclasm / anamorphosis in metaphors...
                         camaïeu in allegory...
                   divisionism in pun...
                                       chiaroscuro in imagery...
gestural abstraction in onomatopoeia...
                     just some examples, and none necessarily
     convincing - as ever... this is my excuse
for i am always bound to say language is Alcatraz
   and my escape from Alcatraz is bound to metaphors,
fo

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

I will contemplate my boredom today, it's terrible,
I must dedicate my actions to something ethical,
So I'll go agitate all the photo chemicals,
It won't automate, it's not a technical miracle,
I will be the chaser of an adventure to set out,
To steal a stack of photo paper someone had left out,
Took it from "The Enticing Taylor", stole his photo clout,
I'm no hater but you better remember to take out,
Your **** when you are done in the dark room...

and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
                    the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
                        she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
                        without thunder.....
                shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
                  i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
       the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
                               sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
                           which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
                                     s and r
           are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
                the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e.                    γλωßα -
                                         to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
           yes, sroka / magpie...
                                crow / kruk             / crux
                      or the shadow of Golgotha...
                                     toward us: the darkened hour...
                           to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
                 sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.

Please re-read as I will be making changes to this poem over and over

I want to tell you something
I am a man who loves changes

Changes of everything

You will see me suggest
A change in every retrospect

This morning I was re-reading
my own HP site and I was impressed

by my choices and how I ended up
With 3 different reposts of "My Fears"

from 3 different poets
that I reposted without me knowing

It's amazing how I am amazed
of my choices and have read them
like as if I am choosing them again

Now hear out my new suggestion
To HP and if you do like
Please make your voice be heard

It goes as follows:

If you like to relive the poetry
and you like to re-read your choices

and you like to reread the poems
you chose before once more

and get surprised while reading them
as if you did not choose them before

Then, we either need a second love button!  Or

we need to automate the love button
and every time we reread it knows

and the love gets even stronger
and somehow it grows

Another suggestion that hit me in the head while I was re-writing my poem

"The new suggestion is to give a comeback wink
to the previous folks who just read my poem
and ping them of my new important fix
To invite them to re-taste the cake that I just re-cooked

Or the cooking does not get posted
Until I feel its real good

and I press the release button
Before I let it go like I should

And may be we need to check our poem button with people that we trust

Before we embarrass ourselves badly
with a poem that may bust"

The problem with this is honesty
That we don't do it for just the fame

So for this I need your opinion to fix
my suggestion in playing the game

and make HP an even a better place
and enjoy it again and again!

Additional suggestions to HP:

please fix the current suggestions which is still lit even when I fixed my suggested misspellings. .. Call it repair
* a suggestion button to HP in the menu
* a share with others button that can grow .. You can click and see who I shared it with ... it can also be private
* a playback button ... Reads out loud
* a favorite button .. Quickly adds it to your favorites
* a read later button
* by double clicking a word you can ping the poet for a misspelling or a suggestion of a new word or love that word
* a unite with another poet button
* Go Interactive button .. Others can re-write your poetry!
* a challenge button .. Encourage challenge with another poet
* a marry me button .. which starts with an enragement ring ..
*friends .. siblings and brothers and family button ... they have to accept you as a family member!

I don't see kids get excited anymore
Emotions confined to the definition of what's cool.
Conversations limited to replies,
Thier words uncertain, and lack conviction.
Excitement caged behind paraphrases like "oh ok", "cool" and "for real".

I see the light of a childs spark diminished, there beautiful flame extinguished by words like;
"Calm down""Relax" and "Chill out"

I'M TIRED of seeing a childs expression voiced through texts, instead of emotion
I'M TIRED of seeing acronyms convey action and supress expression
I'M TIRED of seeing children automate experience through technology instead of life
I'm saddened.....
I'm saddened to see children trying to play adult, instead of just being children

poetry, oddly enough, falls the easiest as pray to that beast plagiarism; now all the more easier, like loving the sort of poetry that's not easily inspiring is to me what generic poetry, the sort of material for occasions and birthday cards and anniversary rhymes that's blatantly reproducible, is to invoking "inspiration." did anyone say the word peacock? no? good: here's a whiff of my skunk and sailors' socks lettering.*

what i know of poetry i use from the lack of knowledge i have of life,
so why would i suddenly follow suit with metaphor
and other tools so blatantly, so consciously, as to write
for an essayist or a critic? why? i have no need for that sort
of nit & pick approach, just so i can have someone say
something about it: easily recognise the alkalis and acids
and yeasts and the final product of dried brains and sugars stored
in liver. i heard a poet talk once about how drinking and
blasting music made him write the most terrible poetry,
a generational gap it would seem prompted me to say:
it's music, it hushes my thought to such a measure that i automate
my writing - hardly a thought concerns the writing - it's
impulse, instinct, impulse, instinct - the unknown river winding -
until i reach the other side of this styx - it's sometimes a sober
journey, but it's never a journey where the river is as if the hush
lullabying mute lake - and i even manage to strain music,
never allow it a completion, and thus the chaos of intro, a part,
no song entering its crescendo - sometimes just the mundane
bits of it, and that's it! i also heard the same poet talk about
the writing ethos: three hours in the morning, one at night...
why would i also do that, stand in the iron maiden of "professionalism"
and rigid matchstick packaging into specified slots of the everyday?
as i heard the same poet speak about practicing, comparing
the poet not to a composer, always adrift on the blanks with
spores against blinking and seeing blanks without inky caterpillar winding,
i'm not a ****** pianist, i'm chopin, there's a difference,
i'm not competing for laureate laurels, i'm competing for the
emperor's clothes: and in the realm of my ever expanding empirical
vocabulary, i'm the sole provider of such similarities to imagine
myself in toga and sandal drinking wine with bacchus and molesting
the nymphs with drunken song - as once in craze on a birthday,
making such cocktails and providing such crazy muses due from
music by cedric 'im' brooks that i swooned into lust and power,
taking a girl to my room and doing her all over in pitched pleasures
of darkness while the modest celebrations continued - the guests
didn't seem interested in helping themselves to barbecue or
the cocktails as much as this one girl - who noticed i was educated
in her own leather contrast with me: so let me tell you,
girls of such countenance enrage heaven with you and solomon and sheba,
for a girl who sees you take interest in her cultural output
is marked to take interest in anything else by you, esp. if it's
after a cosmopolitan, or that cocktail with galliano, or cointreau;
hmm, that last line about "cultural output" sounds hypocritically leftwing
stiff... well i know that something was... stiff... ah crap, now it
sounds all too very much carry on movie giggles; feet ashore!

fidelity, understanding
empathy, caring unconditionally
failing descriptors of life's most sought feeling
reason, felt as purpose for existence—love
time spent seeking, sadness at depriving
either youthful bliss or aged wisdom
emotion's hold unconstrained by seniority
consuming our hopes and dreams
those which drive drawn breath

found true amongst family
in peer only seldom
never a nation, only the few
love guiding all, the
key to a perfect civilization

to create a people of programmed emotion
woven strands
DNA's complex beauty
reduced to binary code's rigidity
heartstring circuit wiring
free will replaced by java script exception
not soul but operating system's disaffection
mechanical allegiance
an imperfect love found in robotic adherence

fealty unfettered
good intention forced subjection
creation resultant a society hollow in perfection
an empty hull of truth
love lacking substance, fictitious in merit
absent the tribulation
the moon by which the sun's effect strengthened

loyalty absolute the greater plan
stalwart and without grievance
love free of expectation
a golden emotion impossible to automate
true love organic by nature
fluid in its implementation
dynamic and unpredictable

to understand the value of light
a man must lose himself in the night
a hard road to learn the better way
by the world's cold we might
know a Kingly castle's warmth
the answer to evil's allowance
free will to choose our citizenship
a nation whose flag represents
the most excellent way
meaningless without choice
left led by our own feeble perception
too oft to misunderstand His intention
a perfect love made perfect by imperfection

i only watch documentaries about geographical regions, makes sense, seward's folly, about 70,000 inhabitants in that state, half of them living in the capital Anchorage, the rest scattered with huskies - not one car was built keeping this in mind, horsepower yes, but huskypower? no... they can eat 10,000 calories of fish-head soup a day and never tire... blessed companions.*

mind you it was a terrific trip,
the only tour guide being a fine television edit;
the squirrel without trees
and a hole, adding to the hibernating comfort
with grizzly bear fur shed -
we're so poorly evolved to fit the theory
of darwinism - so poorly evolved -
no theologian in me to quantify an existence
of something, but quality-wise,
we're so poorly evolved,
no fur, no hibernating system to automate
a shaking to feed the brain from time to time
a rise of body temperature from -3°C...
out of 6 months of winter and 65 days of perpetual
darkness at the zenith, the omen of
oncoming spring with the northern lights...
we're so poorly adapted in comparison -
i too wish for the Arctic fox's fur rather than Gucci,
hence i wear tracksuit bottoms and find it
easier to scratch my groin of ***** hair whereabouts
and my ***... no fancies beyond -
it makes sense to do these seemingly "caveman"
antics walking the english labyrinth of suburbia
at night, having a few beers and smoking
cigarettes... no guilt, no point of fancy...
so this alaskan gerbil survives the winter because
of the highly evolutionary coping mechanism,
man doesn't have that by-product of evolution,
man is actually the loser in the whole dynamic,
he needs to chop wood, breed huskies for the
sledge joyride, actually use inanimate objects to
sustain himself for the core: warmth, and not wetted...
we haven't really evolved, we simply devolved...
i'm telling you this isn't a theological argument,
it's an argument from observation...
remember the imposition of aesthetics
on the Doberman Pinscher and the Rottweiler,
the "circumcision" of the tail, cutting them short
to speed up the emergence of man's coccyx?
no one played "eugenics" with that -
well, the lynx looks like that, tail cut short
by nature... the king of a decaying moose carcass:
first the ravens came, then the bald-headed eagle,
then the coyote, last the lynx...
the victors of the fight? the ravens, they nibbled
bits of the carcass and hid them in shallow snow
that acted like refrigerators, and ate their investment...
only the intelligent scavengers...
prior to a wolf came in the night and did
a dietary autopsy of opening the carcass up -
up here no parasites, no insects... too cold...
the uppermost town?
i can't remember, extraction of oil bound to be there,
polar foxes and the usual gingers who
moved with men and found the atmosphere pleasing -
but still the fancy of the Chilkat river,
where bald eagles congregate to become fishermen
of salmon, which congregate to swarm and lay caviar...
sitting ducks, the salmon swim upstream,
lay the caviar, become favourable for the bald eagle palette;
but we're so poorly evolved,
we have no fur, no hibernation tactic to sleep
through the harsh winters...
we only have each other - and that doesn't really help
having evolved to be so selfish -
if man evolved he's become too parasitic -
so many dependencies - whether that be from
a herd of grazing cows or organic chickens -
to the excavation of crude materials for warmth -
we're so poorly evolved - it's almost sad -
biology and photosynthesis, chemistry
and hydrochloric acid, physics and gravity -
indeed excuse the gods from poetry and you're
altogether excused from writing it.

among the people that i hold accountable to suggest
someone has lost touch with reality:
    well, apologies for not engaging in your
  cinnamon-laced *** life - i sought other spices:
as in chilli for the tongue, and salt for my eyes,
and pepper for my nose - because that's what's
being debated: when philosophers come back
from their adventure i'll let you know what reality
actually is - then the cathedrals will crumble,
   then the neo-Babylonian extracts from modern
architectural preferences will become less neo-Babylonian
English and more: Glaswegian dialects
surrounded by Croat diacritical markings -
    as if drawing hunting antelopes in caves
   giving us "more" clues about the one inhospitable earth:
or are we truly surrendering to Darwinism
rather than carpe diem? i'm i'll ******* chirpy
given a dinosaur bone, and the timescale -
             and given that we turned Cartesian duality into
a dichotomy, everyday seems challenging:
a blimmin' boxing match 'n' all...
                                    i can't remember how many times
i've been k.o'ed (knocked out) in my waking moments
(conscious or, rather mourning? don't know).
      i still find it staggering they (no paranoia collective:
simply scientists) came up with the fact that the sun
(or any star) is a reaction of helium and hydrogen:
do people really explode into chipmunk joviality when
   doing a b.b.q. of their bodies on a beach?
             (asking questions becomes a ****** syringe
after a while) - and yes, use the term joviality before it
becomes archaic, you never know when it might
unearth a wormhole of Hades and **** the fact out
and flush it into oblivion.
              and some don bowler hats and use folded
umbrellas as walking sticks, perhaps the monocle,
but definitely the bow-tie: and make rhetoric of language:
airs, courtesy (court-t'eh-c vs. curt-see): herr chirurg!
how do you insert the scalpel into the rhythmic expression
of dribbling that kauczuk? (rubber ball).
      (cow- -chook).
           i mean in Cockney: how do you juggle that word
properly while balancing an oyster on your tongue?
and yes, i'm starting to believe Polish (as a language)
borrows too much from German - of the few slavic languages
i also say Kaiser bun -          she's called a variant of
antoinette, i.e., a kajzerka, or Wilhelm (dressed as a little
girl, all hurly burly) akin to philippe duke of orléans;
someone say lace stockings?
      i could write out this ******* in chauvinistic bravado
aesthetic: or i could smoke a cigar...
     and sooner we realised that crows never prayed
but croaked -
        that pigs grunted and never prayed -
that pigeons cooed, and never prayed,
       that monkeys did the mambo knock-knock joke -
that woodpeckers were the original carpenters and
                invoked the existence of the machinegun
and the rattler.
so there are people (sophists) who wear
bowler-hats, smocking, monocles and disdain:
rather ardently -
                 and then there are those that spontaneously
explode, from out of nowhere,
and dress themselves in rags and never rags to riches
sort of attitude - because appearances are deceptive
and too can be gambled with and neglected and seeing
a decay of a royal house: is much fancier than seeing
autumn...     because aren't the Windsors
                                         vacating Buckingham?
as in: from rot -                 apple and pear sweetness.
(at this point the poem should end) -
       not always the case of: less is more...
speaking on behalf the man who read the karamazov
brothers and stuck a leaflet on the back
of the book that read: the hash marihuana & hemp
museum - oudezijds achterburgwal 130 amsterdam
                    (next to the 'sensi seed bank' grow shop
   www.hashmuseum.com).
i mean you have read something equivalent of a brick
these days, at least one brick within that distractive
paradise of poetry - either the already mentioned book,
or war and peace, or in search of lost time,
or bolwesław prus' the doll - and they said
that life's short... not with these books being read it is...
life becomes a snail-paced traffic jam -
            it's what mystics aim at, across all religions:
the carpe diem momentum.
            it's not even boring, it's just a tedium-ladden
misanthropy: that suggestion is mainly aimed at seeing
an afternoon sitcom about 0-hour contract jobs...
       which is applauded by the terminally ill who
might say: thank **** it's not me.
            so we're all agreed - what the collapse of
communism left behind was a chance of a pension,
        given that all the western countries sold their remnant
versions of tribalism to stealth upper-tier formulations
         of "we're in this together" as otherwise know: companies...
we're not accompanied -
                   cold and wet and ***** -
                            which is odd why we'd think it
necessary to cause upheaval in iRaq...
                           given that the origins of communism were
in England, tested in Mongolia and then ingrained elsewhere...
ah, but of course, the profit margin: it's hard to
automate people surrounded by machines
        it's like olympians competing with para-olympians
where's talk of golf and the handicap?
              not here...
                       but i'm wondering, how can i redeem myself
after having stretched the poem for too long?
     point being: i can't change the status quo, and don't
intend to - and is that hypocritical or simply being
honest? well: if i managed to fit the concept of the big bang
into my little head: i'd choose the bullet every single time -
   we've established a majority, we've become as deluded
in our hopes for individuality: as was once deemed worthy
of the idea of god; we simply have established a constant
supply & demand parameters;
or what Heidegger calls: the perpetuated "ineffectual"
(well, not really him, my wording) -
                  basically a state of panic and
how different does concern compare with anxiety?
   a woman would tell a man that crimson is very different
from burgundy, as man would use the crude sigma:
red, red. n'es pas?

*i wish i could write something within the framework
of universal appeal; something simple
   and easily digested: like baby pulp, or simple
pulp of any fruit, mashed up and regurgitated
as if a seagull feeding its chicks... alas! not to be.

THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT |
THE GULF WAR DID NOT

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Staid quanta of individuality. Phenom asks if they can go. The Big Mouth replies, babble babble. In a fit of rage, Phenom shouts, I’ve had enough of this. They wrench themselves off the dissection table, fetters flying into the air, but a sudden bout of vertigo sets in. They lie back down. The Big Mouth sticks a thermometer into their mouth and begins heating a can of corn soup.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Professor Kippotkin takes the stage. She coughs into the mic to quiet the audience, but they are caught in sordid *******. She coughs again, managing only to project a trail of spit onto the shoulder of the nearest security guard. He turns immediately, a perfect ninety-degrees spin, automatically signalling the first in command. He has been trained since seventeen for this one task of momentous disciplinary precision. The first in command bellows, Let her speak! a phrase his colleagues repeat in serial down the chain of command.

The crowd soon catches on. An isolated few nod in consternation. Let her speak! they yell from the pits of their lungs, Let her speak!

Thank you, thank you all, Professor Karlpoppins exclaims, cheeks flush with amazement. More and more of the crowd join in. It is a rousing spectacle, a poignant display of human decency. But something is awry. The professor’s gratitude is swallowed into a cacophonous whole. Let her speak! The carnal grip of the big Other’s command unleashes the crowd’s jouissance. United in the master discourse, the crowd fragments into a bewildered totality. Let her speak! they scream at one another, arms jostling, heads tilting back, necks bared to the beating pulse of the earth-sky. LET HER SPEAK! Their combined blows begin to generate an ominous om.

Pl-please, Professor Kibbiezsche sputters, please, everyone! but the crowd have already forgotten her existence. Reams of toilet paper fly through the air. A crashing plane sounds in the distance. Crops burn.

The security team are forced to intervene. They close in from the sides, wielding riot shields and tear gas. HYPOCRITES! one of the members of the crowd screams. OPPRESSORS OF THE WORD! another follows. Footage of security guards flailing on the ground circulate on social media, tagged with the phrase WHO SPEAKS MY SPEAK?

Within twenty four hours, the whole country is ablaze with media coverage. Political scientists gather with literary scholars to speak the unspeakable into commercially-viable forms. Semiotext(e) sign a deal with Hollywood to write a docudrama about Baudrillard’s turbid *** life. Professor Kubblebutts is flown to Hawaii to give a speech on combine harvesters.

WHY WE OPPOSE:
I desire, therefore I am not. Incantation of the other spills through my greasy fingers as I fumble towards the hot sauce, dollop dollop, chicken salt strewn across the nommy wedges. That’ll be $4.50. They have already handed me the note. Our fingers touched for the briefest second, an anointment of the greasy chicken, the wedge fingers, the have a good night mister gurgle bop.

The taxi man sits outside in the cold, back heated by the friction of the smoothie machine, an indefinite spin, western civilisation’s meltdown. The turgid heat breezes past my neck and I sigh, almost in delight, but mostly out of convention and solidarity with the other workers. I hear the pitter pat of my shiftpanion as she scoops hot chips into the fresh night; it is so fresh, there is still so much night, why are you giving me $5 dollars, there is a bug on your face.

I take a break. The cool taxi man glances over just as I put my hands down my pants to shift my boxers into a more comfortable why is it always like this.

Everyone blames Foucault for destroying agency, but agency only arises in the gap between discourses, which is never a gap in power, but rather, the transversal of one power relation into the discursive matrix of another; what appears original is merely the same performance in the wrong site, that’ll be $24 for your **** and condoms.

The crumbled fish is shrinking with each passing day, little gasping body beneath the heat lamp, waffle waffle, waffle waffle, I am suffocating :)

WHY WE OPPOSE:
|||||FEeling BOLD? FeEL BOldbous ;;;; new Paracetamol Jelly and the KINK-CATS tour out the last week—
Thank you for holding. Please note this conversation may be recorded.
To continue, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
and again, please state: 'my voice confirms my identity'
||"my voice confirms my identity"
Please note that this conversation is being recorded for the purposes of confirming your identity.
||"thanks"

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Slowly, slowly, Juniper sinks into the bed frame, the draughty window, the rotting sink. Hibiscus coveted for its prophetic dreams, pale steam smites nostalgia for a vision of the beyond. Streamlined entry into New World, an endless reshelving of family-value Mi Goreng, stormwater through the hollow vessels that twist beneath Juniper’s soles.

Juniper climbs the Garden steps. Pale trace of past motions set to automate at the slightest incline. The cloying rot beneath the pines pulls her closer and closer to the vital cache, the hidden excess. Another hedgehog climbs the mound; it admits its body, it expands in putrefaction.

Exiting onto the street, Juniper is greeted by a sign that reads “Caution. Night Shooting. Stay Out.”

WHY WE OPPOSE:
Steam creeps the mouth of the lid. Pallid flesh of yesterday’s body, settles the kitchen table, the hand, as motes crumple beneath gravity’s well. Mottled refuse, tied with a plastic ribbon, thrown into the street. Keys digging trenches, grandfather, the hollow behind my knee.

Last summer I waited for the rain in the dry concrete channel of the Leith. I was alone with the kayaks and the road cones and the fish, holes festering, showing their ribs in the walls of our flat, legs spread wearing high school sweaters, unable to breathe through cling wrap.

The summer before that, I watched films of myself bashing in the heads of strangers. Every night the ceiling of my mouth would transfigure into a doorway and I’d force my tongue through its serrated edges, waking with a new face. The cassettes would arrive soon after, testimonies of a brute physicality I could not remember enacting.

Earth grins, death strides. Hydraulic incisors pry the dead awake. At the smallest unit of life: phones, condoms, water bottles.

i don't understand the seeking of the vantage point in poetry,
as i never did in prose, this shadowy sociably acceptable
voyeurism, this need to weave a spiderweb, and all you're
weaving is a trap that isn't yours... now seeking a vantage point
from a prosaic perspective makes sense, because you're akin
to someone working in a factory or being the lumberjack...
oddly enough the phrase: jack of all trades doesn't fit the best
description of the job entitled: chopping wood jack.
but when i see poetry i see it, people establishing the voyeurism,
the need to pretend to be spies... that's what countering spying
involves: writing fiction: writing fiction isn't about elaborating
lying... it's about solidifying it, perpetuating it... after a while
the stamina asks: how many more to come? i don't have it in me...
stop treating me like a hot-rod **** english gentleman,
i'm slouched in a room and tired, *******. but you see these
unnatural poems, where people write on purpose,
they haven't made the grade to automate voyeurism,
they're still at the stage of wanting the gift of narration,
but they can't get it up to the heights of an air balloon...
it's there for the grasping, but that would mean something
more difficult than relinquishing abstract narration,
it would involve giving up their characteristics
to make characters, and they as such have very lessened
probing mechanisms to create artefacts: they have
a generic beauty about them... no hook nose, no BFG ears.
- just like Malachi wrote to only later plagiarise Moses...
in the end it just became a plagiarism:
a cat in the box, Schrödinger is expected:
but never the bunny and the top-hat and the magician;
so you see these poems, these contemporary efforts,
and you start thinking: why all this
voyeurism intention in the background? why are they trying to
purposively stage  a voyeurism? is there any decency left in man?
poets don't perform the art of voyeurism, in that they don't even
have the tact / capacity to create the actual ****** / narrator /
puppeteer... at least my attention span ascribes a care
for punctuation marks... as it turns out, the righteous
psychiatrists plagued the poets rightfully: too much emotion gave
birth to the miscarriage of a lack of decency when respectable
attire was necessary, or one's own interpretation on how
comma, dot, hyphen, semi-colon and colon
ought to be allocated timing
     1mm,     1cm,     1km,    1nm          1Ly respectively?
sophism should be teaching us this prop...
sophism should be teaching us this attire, but it isn't.
as along with English slang from Latin: (verb) to grass, rat out,
alt. voyeurism: de anabaptismo grassante adhuc in multis
germaniae, poloniae, etc. variably: to spread the word / truth...
to rat on the Nazarene... preserve unholy things, and make attempts
at missionary positioning, weak knees, lacking the bendy parts
on the church floor; 21st century Russia? orthodoxy still teaches
the priest: face toward the altar, *** to the throng... keep them
dim-witted... 50% of Bangladeshis are  illiterate in Dhaka...
and even if they taught them this sound-encoding, they'd
never prosper given the established powers...
they're bankers in the realm of sun and moon,
tide and mountain and the unexplained joy of
a life in urban slums that's deemed monastic by
those glorifying the mysteries of EL LE PHU THU TUTU P PI POO E -
and look where we have literacy in western society?
game shows... obscure knowledge lessons, crosswords...
anyone mention spelling tests? let me just tell you, i've found
a new way of banking, i've seen the paupers, i've
seen the riches from nought to bought to not bought to nine,
might as well let the priests take the Sunday
off from Monday to Saturday and leave us
with the dyslexic investors to mind how they
didn't plainly explain the dividends...
still, the lack of decency of poets to put on clothes
in the guise of a narrator; some say indecency, some would then
argue: abstract! abstract! cleaner manoeuvre from neither narrator
nor a character... poet: chandelier... just hanging in
the air. in the end... ars poetica (art of poetry)? ars voyeurism.

well...
                                  the bonus points
concerning keeping
                                                       cats?

you can best pet them...
but / by ignoring them...

i like thinking of...
keeping crazies on the lose end
of the, "spectrum"...

nouns, oh so, misnomer prone...
and we keep the freaks
on leashes,
  mad bank barking saliva riddled
fiddles of
        that, obnoxious rabies scandal...

life, love, and the closed closet...
skeletons do the dance?
sure as hell whittle Woger...

             Ranger..
crazies on the loose /
freaks on leashes...
which barks first,
   and... which bites first?

i said:
which barks first,
     and which... bites first?!

last time i "heard", or rather, saw...
the little pooch does all the barking...
but the big dog?
the big dog does all the biting...

little dog barks,
big dog bites...

       and why would my neighbor
knock on my door, asking...
'i'm going round the corner
for some fish... would you like
some extra chips?'

a kind reply of: no...

      i'm still apprehensive about
the normy routine surrounding
the misunderstood status of
a revised cartesian duality,
moprhed into a dichotomy...

sure, once upon a time,
you cloud cure both the mind utilizing
the body, and both the body
utilizing the mind...
but... those days are over...

you can't translate the mind to a body,
while pivoting on a mind-body duality...
you can translate the mind to a body,
while pivoting on,
                    a mind-body dichotomy...
which gives you the focus on
the physicality of the mind,
i.e. brain...

                and what the 20th century
scientists call:
the chemo-soup...
    or... what's that? chemical "imbalance"?
i've heard that... i've heard that
my brain is a chemo-soup...
        
    no... because if you can take cheap-stabs
at some of the mental illnesses...
i can do the same... right?
                   cancer?          ah ha ha!
this really ****** me off...

         if you've never been to Disney La-La-Land...
how do you know what is,
and what isn't, what ought to be,
or rather not ought to be?!

current medicine borrowed from
philosophy the unhinged performance act
of treating the mind as not unison
with the body... into...

the mind is of its own accord...
the body is of its own "self"...
   the brain is the current dualism of
convening to marry the two
with a relation of, shared, "interests"...

but cognition is unrelated to the body,
or aa part of the body, namely
the congregational ***** of the brain...
thinking is not related to
the unconscious automation
of the heart's heartbeat...
i don't exactly think by automation...
i can't automate thinking,
i can subvert it and create a subconscious
narrative...
   the... lost voice of consciousness...
the, unapparent narrator...

but mind cannot replicate an
unconscious-consciousness of function,
comparable to the unconscious
function of the automated heartbeat
of a heart...
              
given the "fact" that the brain...
as a "source" of cognition,
    is given into the same alive-dead matter
status of every other *****...
the brain might have an inbuilt
concept of orientating consciousness...
but...

   last time i checked...
does consciousness precursor the need
for the existence of, thought?!
i'm not here to prove anything,
in terms of the utility of using
language, proofs are like...
do i believe in Darwinism?
is... is that really an argument
to finalize itself with a, belief?
i don't require a belief in Darwinism,
what i require a denial of Darwinism,
to juggle the other-timelines
and keep myself orientated within
the macrocosm mesh of
seen bodies...

             a belief in Darwinism is on
par... with the negation of God...
both observations seem to borrow something
from your, atypical take on
the infancy of atheism...
just about hitting the hip-majority
expression status...

i know what the problem is...
the proximity of words...
built upon a close relativism of synonyms /
antonyms...
   and the whole... prefix jargon...
even i'm fooled...

self-conscious...
                but the brain must be conscious
of itself on some level...
the heart is...
             if the heart was not conscious of
itself, it would have the free-will
to suddenly stop working as a blood-pump...

of i'm pretty sure the brain is
conscious of itself,
  i'm starting to see this whole
existential conundrum as...
consistent of being combined of
unitates per se:
         units in themselves...

i can classify a consciousness as the, unison,
but... i can't classify a unison of
consciousness, given my split orientation
regarding the, unison of the unitary per se,
somehow segregated, yet placed
together...

               the brain has a per se membrane...
the heart has a per se membrane,
hence anatomy,
cardiology, neurology, psychiatry...
the mind has a membrane...       thought...
the cancerous growth of ego,
whatever...

                and as the microscope proved to
the telescope...
  both extension of interest seemed to
be looking at some variant of an adhesive /
glue... sniffing it to boot?
perhaps...
                                unless i'm mistaken...
gravity is pretty much non-existent on
the microscope level of...

matter... anti-matter...
there's a second type of gravity...
i'm sure of it...
         gravity might be a grand force on
the macro-sized events of observation...
but... what force is keeping the atoms
in line?
        just... magnetism,
the proton +, the neutron 0, the electron -?
i'm starting to find
the neutron suspicious...
really suspicious...

                      if i had the money,
i'd study the neutron...
so "simple" magnetism explains the counter
force of macro-objects that's gravity,
within the confines of atoms?!

sure... gravity explains the interaction
of macro-objects...
but sure as **** gravity doesn't
explain the interaction of micro-"objects"
(micro-nouns)...

i'm not buying it...
atoms do not know what becomes
the Copernican post-script
of n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south)...
finding those coordinates
in the universe? good luck.

  i'm still thinking that the neutron
is suspicious...
i'd bank on finding something
suspicious about it,
a sort of +/-              -/+
                       enzyme mechanism of
quantum *******...
between the proton and the electron...
something that encompasses
a variant of the sort of gravity
observed in readily observable objects...

the neutron...
   when observing a neutrino star...
there must be something quantum about
the atomic neutron...
that converts with contradictory
   parameters,
the           proton / electron base for
existence being observed,
and not being observed / automated -

         there must be something
akin to this...
     how... the proton contradicts the + charge
and is negatively charged when
unobserved...

                   and the whole disappearing
act of electrons?
how they behave like magicians...
whatever the hell that was,
clouds rather than orbitals?
if that's the case?
isn't that due to them exchanging
handshakes with + / - charges?

let's just say...
theoretical science, while drinking?
no chance in hell in me reading
science fiction.

Her eyes stare into my soul
My heart beats like a drum
The next action could toll
My hand reaches to her thigh to strum

Her head and mine gravitate close
Our lips puckered to prep
They dance to music they chose
Our bodies automate for the next step

Her warmth embodies me
Two heartbeats resonate to one
Brushing her lushness more is the key
Her beauty curses my body in a stun

Our clothes shed from wildfire
Luscious mountains appear
My airplane flows between like a frequent flyer
While she cries joyfully into next year

My key ripens for action
Her lock primes to be touched
The key struggles through with heavy traction
The lock finally opens in a clutch

A white surrender flag in fanfare
My soul glistened with the new world
She smiles seductively in the same flair
As if our dreams together swirled

well, if you look up a recipe from a page like bawarchi, it has to be good.

aside making the chapatis,
the turmeric infused rice,
and the kashmiri chilly curry
(oh **** me, bring
the cuisine, curries are great
contenders of the goulash...
ha ha... goulash in a gulag:
possibly a great title for
a book... that will never be
written)...
there was this little curiosity
to add on today's menu...
i realised that:
   i've never used mint in a curry
recipe...
luckily i have a lovely beu of
a mint "shrub" in the garden:
why?
   well, the people i'm living
with love their mojitos...
so there is was, staring back
at me: mint chicken curry...
i've never used so little spices
in all the curries i've made...
plus, i do like my peshwari naans...
all it took was mint (which you
rarely see)... fresh coriander...
a quarter inch of cinnamon,
    three legs of a star anise
  a bay leaf, and some chilli powder...
evidently blitzed into a paste
with some water...
   but **** me... turmeric?
(i had to add it in the end) -
cardamon pods? cloves?
        the rest of the jazz band?
but you know what...
         it didn't matter,
         it came out in the end,
pretty as a *paul gaugin -
weird radioactive green at first,
then, over a period, a nice pale
vindaloo brown... who would have
thought: mint, cinnamon, coriander...
i guess the anise too...
but that's beside the point,
as the title suggests...
this really is: a culinary conundrum
for me...
    you know how when you
cook an italian dish,
  you can still pick up the texture of
diced onions?
   well... when making a curry...
the onions? "magically" disappear...
every, single, curry, i've made
has the ability to: literally dissolve
the onions, so the diced onion tecture
apparent in italian dishes: vanishes!
into thin air! well, more like vanishes
into: a rich sauce.
how? good question: i, don't, know.

p.s. i can't believe i sat for two hours
worth of film,
   watching clive owen be this model
father, carpenter and even a car mechanic,
looking for this missing tool-box,
which was stolen, from his truck...
i mean some people started looking
for the holy grail, the ark of the covenant,
no, this was just a movie about
a man on a mission: to find his missing tools...
hollywood can really provide some
funny-eerie movies sometimes,
   this was one of them; which brings
me to:

p.p.s. i really don't know how to write
poetry -
   i'm stuck wavering on the thin line
between mushy-mushy ooh la la love
me tender, my love's so perfect
or the macho stuff...
          i like neither, it's easy to make
a clear enough distinction,
but harder to write a down-the-middle
types...
       i mean: the guy is a carpenter,
and he can fix a car...
     what do i have to offer,
        a few words on a **** of paper -
mind you, i do get to retain a laugh about it,
but the manual aspect of labour is very much
   the most masculine command of the world...
this? incy-wincy spider labour,
  itchy fingers,
  more importantly: an itchy ego -
can't scratch it, like i might scratch
my head my *** or my *****...
     hence the translation into writing;
jealous? a little bit...
            i mean... try justifying writing
"poetry" when you could have been
    an understudy for the profession of industrial
scale roofing with your father...
  but i have to admit,
   that scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's?
               a **** fine summer that was,
even though rolls of felt weight around 40kg...
and bags of gravel a nice 25kg,
    and doughnuts of permaquic around 30kg...
and the heat from the boiler...
   and the annoying finishing touches of
laying insulation...
     but a **** great site...
   and the rewards of a shade, and a bottle
of water, and a sandwich...
        and the cigarettes...
                 i still believe the motto
   arbeit macht frei -
              you are able to forget, stop thinking,
automate yourself to perfection
  within a certain skills criterium -
        apparently mine translated into a fluidity
of language (plus the itchy ego,
that i keep scratching / writing about) -
oh no, i don't mean that phrase in the ****
sense of doing pointless tasks...
translate that into the world outside that
very bad joke...
          even the russians with their gulags
made work authentic,
   i guess they were, or maybe that documentary
on the black eagle penal colony
was fake? i'm guessing the failings of that
statement in its original zeitgeist context
translates into: never under-estimate
the power of arbeit - lounging on a beach
and getting a suntan never provides
   the same sort of mental labyrinth,
                counter to a day's worth of
                          "menial" exertion.

i don't really question the existence of god;
i also read
a very pop poem by a maya angelou -
the phenomenal woman -
what's great about pop poetry:
unlike pop music - yes...
these are the lyrics and also:
thank god there is no music to accompany
it...
i might just like it...
   then again: Wagner... a rarity -
in that he also wrote the libretto for the operas...
perhaps that's why the music feels
a tad bit as an indigestion -
         heavy on the germanic side...
but pop poetry: well...
it's for people who probably wouldn't
want to experience a democracy
of the whole "affair"...
who's a jack spicer or an al purdy in this:
teasing of leashes to tug at
the greatest number of acolytes -
           words although once: written
with a blood of pigeons - this diluted
ink from flight -
                     and on some variation
of flimsy paper -
           maya angelou doesn't resonate
with me like: hell...
even walt whitman doesn't resonate
with me... what resonates with me
is the english...
tongue of many abodes:
i feel sluggish and shy to have to burrow in
this tongue for:
no reasons really given...
i'm not running off to claim a reading
of louis zukofsky or a delmore schwarz...
i like how the hebrews can retain
status of missing the stereotype galore
of: become lumber-mill owners having
started off selling toothpicks...
   i don't question the existence of god in as
much: i am a fiction nugget in what's
already an apparent: loss of sensibility -
that i imagine a grave and the shallow warmth
of a shadow marrying itself to night:
how the shadow has married itself
to the sea of night and how i have:
only bare minimum inclinations for the project
with a thought: here and there...
i have come to distrust the faculty of
memory: in that... i am also purely
unimaginative...
   i couldn't conjure you a Dumbo even if i tried...
content on the restraints given:
i do imagine myself in two ways:
a breaking of the neck when falling
on the gallows...
or turning into a pickled cucumber stashed
away in some obscurity... like a prison cell:
even though i have done nothing so wrong
as to give me justification for enduring
such squalor...
but that's that... in a prison cell
i can imagine myself staging a coup d'etat of
lying back and watching a memory cinema
like "something new"...

jude law: the third day...
the music hones in on the project -
alias? the wicker man...
so nothing new: but a welcome reinvention...
i'm just wondering whether or not
demdyke stair provided the music...
probably not...
            it's the wicker man through and
through...

  as i sometimes digest culture:
i can find a canvas to meet an outlet and
it's hardly a critique:
oh i'm not that rich to hold
a sensible job at a newspaper
where i am paid to watch television
and make critique of it...
                would i?
                what a formidable platitude
of expectations...
  
             why don't i question the existence
of god: teasing at a gnosticism... perhaps...
at judaic phoneticism: obviously...
but no...
some ruth Ginsberg dies...
a supreme judge...
i have had one notable experience
of man made law: a revision of thou
shall not steal in my life...
i was a witness of a theft...
   i was on the team of the grieved party...
a witness accuser -

      we were walking a car pulled up
my fwend's phone was ripped from
his hands: i asked for the number plates
to be noted...
they were... due process was furthered
and i was summoned to look
at mugshots...
i summoned the little gremlin to court...
the incident happened in the night
but for lack of imagination:
my memory is furnace -

               in his (the gremlins') defence
a photograph was used to debase my assurance
from leaving pristine confrontation
against the use of a mugshot...
the year was: when england won
the ashes...
     the defence presented a photograph:
and argument: can you recognise this face -
the picture was dated:
in the days when photographs still
had a vivid neon crayon of red
imprinted on them: as i pointed out -
two years from now i hope to be sporting
a missing chin... i.e. a beard...

i don't think there was any weight to
my argument...
after all: the injured party didn't recognise
the mugshot - i did...
i don't actually know whether
the drive-by phone-jacker was convicted...
it's beside the point:

gravity - an unquestionable law...
gravity and death -
     the film moon starring sam rockwell:
and there i was thinking that
clones would only be used to further
the projects of centaurs and caesars...
i was so ******* wrong...
the soul destroying project of:
only one authenticity left to deal with...
this clone is a machine deposit...
it's not a would be: futuristic project
to keep death at bay...
anyway...

    i am sooner to find myself in
the "supreme court" of a law that states
itself paramount and unbiased -
adjective adjective adjectives...
       that sort of law i can stand...
   but to come across... nuances...
man's inhibitions...
man's jurisprudence jargon of synonyms
to lessen the blow:
something less hoisin comforting
in a marinade and: peppery / itchy /
sneeze conjurer...

          i will sooner come across a law
of a deity: like gravity - mortality
is itself a bundle of tenure possibilities /
day-dreams -
i will sooner come across that:
yes... deism and that's because...
a theist would want gravity to be bulldozered
for an interlude in miracles...
but i will sooner come across
these laws...
than... confined to a court...
have to stand sober and marionette-esque
pretty to specify all the plethoras
of nuance... that man ordeals himself
with...
i.e. a theft is not a theft when...
the third party recognises the culprit
but the injured party doesn't...
at least that's what it felt like from
my experience: i didn't hear a follow up
on the passing of judgement -

           well... at this point i am not surprised
that everything i write has a tinge
of juvenilia - it's the same base project
of 1 + 1 = 2 and: god exists or doesn't...
i'm so far beside myself:
the demiurge as a bad joke for the greek
polytheists -
       is or isn't: question or no question:
fundamentally fudge-packing
and custard goo ruining a smile -
best looking toward those serious
orthodox closures from the russians
on the topic...

  arbeit macht frei: would be a question
imposed by the workaholics -
which is never a never real question...
to write toward a tongue that
will never be spoken that only eyes
will decipher...
i never read what i write...
as i write what i see i automate
on the basic principle of: extending
beyond the friction of the digits -
fugazi *******!
fugazi jackson *******...
a half smoked cigarette in my lips
starting to draw ms. amber's wetting -
nothing like smoking tobacco
via a soaked filter stinking of
                       maple syrup of a bourbon...

but that the topic remains:
the laws of men and all of man's nuances...
at least there was something akin
to keeping sanity with:
all are equal before death
and a ledge...
             aren't all... equal?
      all are equal before death:
death the court jester of the versailles
of heavens...
   death the joker death cry me a clown...
cry me ****** frictions that
can become an eternal smile!
death no bomb death the joke
death of deaths and death's ashore
sunbathing on the tide
of the Styx with imitation of Thames...

      evelyn waugh's gilbert pinfold's ordeal...
pushed to the limits of
a stress membrane being breached:
a claustrophobia of any and all ego projects:
akin to egoism -
my metaphor for the schizoid "adventure":
or what it was first:
a promising future via bilingualism...

but that man has these laws...
his own graces and his own demises -
the hindering bias for:
money juggling and monkey rendering
the concept of honest work:
in the service sector can there be
an authenticity of work?
with all the loitering and keeping up
appearances "in between"...

i bellow with a mule's agony of a last
breathable breath to source
the vanity of cyclopses -
   i no longer can hear anything for
the worth of these letters and these words
just automate themselves:
i see auroras of a congestion that
allows me to escape this poorly lit
night sky...
a moonless night promenade...

                i hyperventilate with
a purpose to only pursue a vanity that's
the least: that it doesn't rhyme and
propose a fire for the invitation
of stressor memory bundles...
my little corner of impatience becomes:
a penitent proof of...
worthless unimaginative spell-binding...
but at the same time i am lost
should i come across a formal lingo...

                       a language of translation
or a language of: feral and honest locality -
that which has to be preserved for
some ulterior this that and the other...
it's no surprise that charles dickens
isn't celebrated on the continent...
should he be?
   i'd like for him to be celebrated:
don pickwick...
                
               just how man passes laws...
this jury on the possible
irregularities of the heavenly spheres...
the arthritis of the glue
that stands firmest when
the moon swallows a shower
of meteors...
gobbles them down with
a pauper's glee...
              that there must be a dinosaur
graveyard and: no-brainer explanation
for the meteor -
how an why this meteor that
killed off the dinosaurs hasn't
been romanticised and given a name...

hell: call a ***** a ***** a screwdriver
a camel jockey...
even if the name for earth:
is this same blunt: earth...
that the moon is still a bland scythe...
bleeding gums murphy...
but it would be nice to have a name
for such an event -
Mr. Oppenheimer -
the meteor that killed off the dinosaurs...
how's that?
there's a mt. everest...
there's a name for a turtle of a rock
that's Ayrs in How-Stray-La-La....
             i can call an atom a proton a neutron
and an electron...
there's hydrogen and there's helium...
i can give names to:
even though my authentic
materialistic atheism sensibility doesn't permit
me like some vanguard vegan / jacobin
mention... Kronos or Hyperion...

          **** for thought:
big bang... is pristine in it being:
so uninviting to resonate with:
well... it does... all murders of the modern...
i'd like to call the meteor that killed
off the dinosaurs and ushered in
the advent of the spider monkeys:
the **** simils and the **** sepia and
the **** sapiens as...
  
same old same old variation
of caucasian in mishaps -
  some grandfather mandarin -
some father mongol -
   some turk of a son...
           whittle ******* of brides that's
part Viennese pastry
   and part London gluttonies of the broken
bones pie...

i'm here for the party: are you here
for the party? we're here for the party!
i couldn't imagine myself as anything
more than an extension
of the primo party project:
eating the culinary half-oyster of an
egg that's a poultry-abortion...
i love it!
   i love it so much i scramble it...
i poach it... i soft and hard boil it...
i even add a scallion from time to time...
i'm here for the party...
here's to... still using language that
never bothered to settle down to tow
a mute... buttonz of galore...

                well... it could have helped
to conjure up a parthenon of sorts...
a get-together of imaginary side projects -
but the modern sensible man
this highly elevated man wrestling
with some also unseen
microscopic and tuning his worth
to an argument for: more more more...
i'm actually devastated by this new guise
of atheistically prone materialistic
sensibility: a word salad or just
some forever golgotha custard come about
from crushing bones...

i was sensible once... when i knew of
joseph stalin: the little georgian that
hijacked the russians...
or adolph ******: the austrian that
hijacked the germans...
  i was sensible once...
this is no time to be sensible...
this is a time to be: wholly pointless and
incessant!
why wait?!

Make yourself at home
In my abode of humble origins
Where I define my peace of mind
With words that rhyme with oranges
And anything but ordinary
Heroism hieroglyphs
Encoded in my incomplete
Non-existential manuscript
Of daily raving lunacies
In patient anger wallowing
In lack of understanding
Why the leaders teach us following
A standard protocol away
From complicated formulas
That normalize us pay to play
Their game of life monopoly
For property and shopping sprees
And dollar trees they’re chopping down
To automate humanities

But they got’chu quiet
They program your voice
Automate your decisions
And tell you it’s choice
You can go to the store
Or just one click away
But it’s they who decide
Whose to die on D-Day
And it’s war that they want
So the fear sells consent
Then they bury your rights
In 4 walls of demented cemented lament
With their power, their privilege
Their laws they’re above
So I write like a hawk
And I speak like a dove
In service to causes
Too hard to believe
For a thoughtless prayer nation
Still bending the knee

Trump has accused Hillary Clinton
Of having practiced pay-to-play;
Once again, he's taking advantage
Of his supporters' naïveté.

So far, he has appointed SIX
Campaign donors to top positions--
A telling move that ought to cause
Many people to have suspicions.

He took on Wall Street during his campaign,
Which would be a major feat.
Now he is offering Cabinet
Jobs to the economic elite!

Millions of dollars will go to Carrier
To save jobs. But did you hear?
The company wants to automate,
So many jobs will disappear.

The "blue-collar billionaire"
Role of Trump is a scam.
He says he's fighting for workers, but
He doesn't give a tinker's ****.

- by Bob B (12-10-16)

Now In All Honesty...
I’m NOT Pleased Easily...
Or Yes... Easily Pleased... !!!

Cos' I Really Don’t Think...
Or Believe It’s A Sin..
To Get What You Want...
When You Have Paid For Stuff...
That’s Said To Hang Tough...
Or To... “ Be The Business “...

So Will Give You What’s Best... !!!

Which Is Why Governments...
Have NEVER Pleased Me... !!!

When What They Represent...
Tends To Be Policies...
That Do NOT Set Us Free... !!!

They Just Bring Us Disease...
And New... AUTONOMIES... !!!

That Aren’t Likely To Please...
People In... Poverty... !!!

And What About Those...
Who AREN’T New Tech Savvy... ?

Will They Just Become Broke...
Or Be Pleased Easily...
By Online Currencies...
And Tech... Economies...
Where There Is No Money... ?!?

... CASHLESS Societies... !?!

Will They Easily Please... ?!?
Or Just Automate Dreams...
Like Some Sci-Fi Movie...
And Make New Age Tech Thieves...
Who Do... CLICK Robberies... !!!

... Am I Being CRAZY... ?!?

Or Just Painting A Scene...
Where New Technology...
Will NOT Easily Please... !?!
These Heads Who Believe...
That New Tech Is The Key...
To A Future Where We...
Are Free of Disease...
And Things Like Poverty...

Cos They’ve...

... WOKE From Their Sleep...
That’s Lasted CENTURIES... !?!

That’s Right These SHEOPLE’ Breeds... ?!?
Who Stand Up For FRONTIN’...
About... Less Corruption... !!!

So Fall For... ANYTHING...
That They’re Told To Now Think... !?!

And That DOESN’T Please Me...
Not Even... REMOTELY... !!!

And This Clearly Is Why...
I’m A DIFFICULT Guy...
To Deal With At Times...
Which I DO Recognise... !!!

I Just Like Things Done Right...
Is That Really A CRIME... ?!?
To These People Who TRY...
To PLEASE But DISPLEASE... !!!

Because of Their TRICKS...
Falseness And FAST LIPS...

That Prove That Ships SINK...
And Will DISPLEASE You QUICK...
If You Don’t Challenge Things...
BEFORE Lockdowns Begin... !!!

And What of... VIRUSES... ?!?
Seen In Twenty Twenty...

They’ve Done MORE Than Displease... !!!
And Brought MORE Than DISEASE... !!!

Ask These Drug Companies...
What Money They’ve Brought... ?
To Their Corporate Boards... !?!

And Now What of VACCINES...
Have They... Easily Pleased...
Or Will They Prove To Be...
What Feed Nightmarish Scenes...
That Aren’t Conspiracies... !?!

Now I Really Don’t Know...
But I’ll Tell You This Though... ?!?

I’m NOT Easily Pleased...
So Am Not Prone To Joke...
About Peoples... “ Quotes “...
And Their Talk About HOPE...

ENOUGH With The Talk... !!!

Start Walking Some Walks...
That Prove We Are Better...
Than Waging Vendettas...
And Using Agendas...
Like Man With Berettas... !!!

I’m Just An Upsetter...
Who’s Good With These Letters... !!!

Because I Believe...
In Giving Your Best...
And The Best Qualities...
In The Things You Express...

Which Is Why...
When It Comes To...
... Women And Men...
And ESPECIALLY When...
It Comes To The Talents...
Who Claim To Be BEST...

I’m A SERIOUS Guy...
Who They Do NOT Impress... !!!

Because Just Like This Piece...
of... Big Virge Poetry...

I Won’t Be Shy To Speak...
If Your Movements Are Weak...
And Your Work Is Shoddy... !!!

You’ll Be Shown REAL QUICKLY...
That The... Brother Big V...

Is NOT...

..... “ Easily Pleased “.....

this is my maths strategy learn it automate it a.s.a.p and  move on

if i were to write any autobiography
i'd like,
   i'd write the one,
that begins with a biographer that knew
no first person sources,
including mine...
              but i'd also like to learn
a mourning of some sort, that didn't
have to be expected of me,
cheap like a tattoo...
                  it would be nice to not have
blamed for certain things;
namely?
the more apparent my dead twin
becomes, through
what's called a proverb:
lies have short legs...
                up to and including turning 30,
and still the ******* taboo!!!!!!!!!!!!
      talk now is impossible among the slavs,
just, gestures...
        postulates or
hierarchal studies that 200+ years from
now will not allow:
why?!
          if labour jobs will be gone,
who says these people have soul /
any impeding argument worth hearing,
let alone a soul?
   automate them!
           spew the same old load of *******...
can you imagine,
i beat the a.i. plagiarism bot
in a sociology example,
by using thesaurus better than the
programmers could have envisioned?
i had the human capacity to use
a thesaurus with more ingenuity...
   too bad for the programmers...
no good for me...
in my 2nd year, you could live
a good lot for 30 quid a week....
             oh i still have a 10+K
        debt...
  but the rule is:
you only start paying it back
once you earn 15+K a year...
                    no offer... no dividends...
or as i like to call it:
can you, really, really, really, doubly
really: complicate confiscating meaning
with the simple artefact of making
a coin flip?

igloo:
me-glue,
# @ ~sick ice     seems like bypassing the 502 bad gateway is getting trickier and trickier... no problem: where there's a will, there's a way (however cliche that sounds)...

i still can't believe that i've managed to study myself
ergonomically - i'm like: wow...
i have literally perfected the art of ironing shirts...
i used to hate ironing, now i get a little tipsy
and i'm like: shoom! the iron sort of glides of its
own accord... first the collar,
then the yoke, then the cuffs, then the sleeves...
then the front without buttons, then the front with
buttons, then the back... bam wham: thank you ma'am!
it is truly sinister that my modus operandi
is stressed with the infamous: arbeit mach frei...
i know it, everyone else should also know it...
but under the banner people were given
pointless tasks... concentrations camps made a joke
of work while beneath the "veneer" they were simply
utilised to slaughter people...
but even doing menial work: chores is releaving
as a release... i can automate my body...
i don't have to watch t.v. (or Plato's cave)
or for that matter fall into the Cartesian cognitive
"insomnia": am i really a "thinking" thing?
sure, i once had this pristine narrative in my head...
now i just comes across shrapnel pieces
of "narrative": mostly just... oh, right, i...

my to be father-in-law... the ****** that messed up
my guitar.... my acoustic Martin & Co.:
she was a stunner... anyway...
he called me a charmer...
   i like him... i was truly fond of him... up to a point...
later... well that diabetic fat **** get eat his
pudding while i spray dust into the atmosphere...
again: what is wrong with me?
oh Gemma, Gemma, Gemma...
a single mum, a boy in the background,
9K in debt... and i'm flirting with her...
as subtle to the best of my abilities...
what, is wrong, with me?!
perhaps i've had too many roller-coaster rides
of thrills in the ******* brothel...
but she's petite and that special hue of ginger...
might as well lodge a ***** onto my forehead...

point being...
apparently women still listen to astrological
demands... like there were any to begin with...
zodiac signs...
zodiac signs "tell the truth"... next time i work with
her i'll ask... if she's a Libra: no...
if she's an Aquarius... no... if she's a Cancer: YES!
if she's a Gemini: no...
                     i am yet to meet a Leo...
if she's a Sagittarius, YES...
                             being a Taurus etc.

but if women are so concerned with these matters
i figured... beside the showcasing of history...
construction of the pyramids,
the Mongol sacking of Moscow,
the ****** sacking of Moscow...
the burning of the great library of Alexandria
by the Christian in-breeders...
whatever the hell happened with the Mongols in
Baghdad...
the defeat of the Mongols
at the hands of the Mamluks...
the battle of Lepanto
that gave us Don Quixote...
      the twilight of the Aztecs...
             how ancient Greeks became rigid
Byzantines... etc.

o.k. so that's a sample of history...
me? well if i'd really want to experience everything /
understand everything or anything through
the lense of Darwinism... i could, but... no...
i can't be bothered going that far back...
Jung's ideas were always more concise
for me and the lived experience...
English thinking is not for me,
whether it be Darwin or whether it be Hobbes or Locke...

sure... the Englishmen can sing...
Milton... Shakespeare... but please don't give me any
English ideas... they run on objectivism for
the most part and i don't deal with
objective language... with "fact checking"...
i need language to be nuanced...

history through the lens of etymology:
the origin of words...
or, rather... to live in accordance to the meaning
of one's name...
Matthew: gift of god (from the Hebrew Matisyahu)
Conrad: wise counsel (Germanic)...
this ******-all of the question that's:
what's the meaning of life...
well, live... and find out along the way...
but primarily... live up to your name's meaning...
not everyone can live up to the meaning
behind the name akin to Alexander
or Xerxes...

                        i'm literally surprised that there might
have been a Peaches Geldof...
but not a Gomorrah Smith...
          fitting to the times... but even i'm not immune...
pronoun-bollocking and all that
reincarnation pillage of a blocked toilet...

i'm going to pursue charming her...
even though: it's certainly not good for me...
why? oh, you know... the thrill...
and the disillusionment that comes with it...
even though i have a phallus and a pair of *****
between my legs i need to feed into the tingling
sensation that i have a ******,
or that she's thinking about me while i'm thinking
about her and she might be *******...

as weird as that might sound: at least when growing up:
when a grew his hair long he was most likely
into metal / rock music... it would never *******
stick / translate as taking up a transgender
offensive!

what the hell happened to metaphysics in western culture?
i'm starting to doubt whether it ever existed
in the first place, then again; if a language
has no study of orthography... Charlie, ****-squat-ens...
perhaps in the 19th century you could
elevate calling a spelling mistake an orthographic
mistake... no! that's not how orthography works...
for orthography you require diacritical marks!
English doesn't have any!
little and litle is hardly an orthographic mistake:
it's just a spelling mistake:
English is almost a phonetic arithmetic...

    let me show you how an orthography looks like:
gówno     & not guwno... i.e. ****...
chudy - thin (masculine) chuda (feminine)
    that's CH as X - i.e. ha...
but then the oddity of a X without a C...
heroizm - heroism...

maybe that's why i never heard of anyone with
dyslexia in Poland... i've heard of a bad orthographical
aesthetic but never about someone with
dyslexia... after all: dyslexia isn't a complete and utter
illiteracy... it's the end result of the language
being written one way, while spoken another...
because if you were to write English as it's spoken...
well... it wouldn't be aesthetically pleasing to the eye,
would it?

the supposed argument "against" ******,
i.e. "there are too many consonants jumbled together"...
if you know how to divide a word
into prescribed sounds that correlate to the letters....
akin to the English SH and CH
     it is a language gifted with the trait of:
written as it is spoken.

coming back to Gemma... i'm about to launch a full-on
charm offensive, only yesterday i sent her a link
to what i was listening to (with a photograph of my perched
on the windowsill with Quorus - the maine **** -
sitting with me) - the prophecy theme from Dune
by Brian Eno...
she's looking for meditative music... well then...
i'll give her meditative music, medieval music...
i'm going to charm the pants off of her...
i know she's a single mum... i know that there are too
many pitfalls...
                              but i can't get rid of the butterflies in
my stomach when i think about her....
i might as well shoot myself in the foot...
no matter... this was going to happen, anyway,
i'm a fatalist after all: i know i will come off disappointed,
hurt should i fail or for that matter: not have any success...

but i like the way she smiles like a matriarch...
what links will i send her?
well... the obvious... chants of the Templars...
some Jordi Savall - stella splendens in monte,
    laudemus virginem mater est...
hammock's ketonic album...
godspeed you! black emperor's - F# A# ∞

oh for ****'s sake, why am i in love?!
   why now, why with her...
                 i've seen what love does to me...
it's hardly pretty... but i have in me the sort of
"thinking" process best associated with
creatures at the lowest point of an existential
hierarchy... after all: even tapeworms and viruses
are charged with a will to preserve their
existence without question...
     it might be morally apprehensible to want to sleep
with her given the fact that i might
**** up her boy a little bit more...
then again: what am i? i don't have the sort of income
that might pay off the debt her ex left her with...

at the end of the day: it's what i feel that is more important
than who i know or, for that matter: what i know...
i need to feel this... i need to feel more of this!

/far from being smart, i'm playing: dumb-honest: because why would you automate diacritical distinctions, pretend it's orthography when it turns out it's a dyslexic protocol, and leave the rest to advert script of wriggly lines akin to the coca-cola script? english, with its lack of diacritical application, doesn't need the use of diacritical markings on top of ιota and ȷade... hardly a mishandling of writing 1; or the lower-case form of the corner stone, i.e. l.

far beyond the reaches of man's comfort
with the tri-
                          or rather: the watcher's angle...
there, is, no, objective experience...
    the argument for objecitivty is
like an engineering prospect for a dam,
(mind you, architecture
is not exactly exactly engineering
when it comes to building thresholds,
akin to dams, rather than buildings
worthy of an argument for a replica
continuum - the usual journalistic
       bravado: type ****, think later):
there are but two outlets for a use of
language, (a) using it,
or (b) asking technical questions
       in terms, rather on the basis of
usage...
              as a non-native speaker
(as one french undergraduate psychology
major pointed out): you're not,
a native speaker...
               fine...
                             but let's hear
what the "natives" of the anglosphere
talk about in america, or australia...
                 ****, me, are these natives?!
diversity is our conundrum,
    notably the variety of orthography
application in the english-speaking world,
without it raining down onto
the surd speech of writing...
           naked Adam!
                 just recently, or rather,
today... a girl writes to a mainstream
article about i wish i hadn't laughed
at him in bed, i.e.:
         i made a joke about the impact
of the cold weather...
       you know where this is going...
infertile *****?
        at the brothel one bulgarian *******
demanded my "castration"
leaving a comment
                    about the african phallus
being, on average, bigger than mine...
did i lose a hard-on?
              not really...
               this is how deep the freudian
madonna-***** complex goes...
    it's fair game when you're paying for
an hour... but having to invest in
a life, and hear this sort of *******?
sorry... no.
(italics, because i didn't want to end
                  it on an exclamation mark).
odd...
                sniff sniff...
                                          you smell that?
how can people talk during ***?
          i put on an imaginary gag during
*******...
                it's the monk's daily bread
to not talk...
                    how do people even manage
talking during ***?
      do the same ******* think
it worthwhile to talk while jogging
on a treadmill?!
                            or lifting weights?
talking is taboo in ***!
                   and that is the only taboo!
do you hear that?
           is that a woman moaning
and balancing on an onomatopoeia
   of (i feel pleased) when drinking a cup
of tea?!
                is there, really, a need to talk
while having ***?
              hour in a brothel and
then, you can tell all your secrets...
             to a ******* mallet's worth of latex.
i love ballet, but the audience just put me off,
that insatiable "need" to clap...
               upon every grand example
is like feeding off of a leech "prescribed"
                       to allow you comfort when
bleeding...
                    mind you, the royal albert hall
has terrible acoustics when it comes
to ballet...
                  am i watching a *******
ballet, or a tap-dance?
                       the floor is too hard...
           ponder, and hear a centipede...
            while the bucks fly off the astroturf
into the silent night, encouraged,
               by the coliseum mob...
                  and that is what has remained
of rome... the coliseum...
                             what was this
originally?
                    ah...
         as descartes reduced a person
                                             to a φ- / Θing,
well...  there is no objective experience,
only an observation...
                         but then again, there is,
a man holding a cup of tea, or a pain brush,
or typing on a keyboard,
  that is, an objective experience...
          the animated concerned with
   the inanimate...
                               but with regards to people?
when there are two animate examples
making the universe, finally, concise?
         reductionism to a punch?
subjectivity is the only medium that allows
experience to make firm rooting,
          of experience per se,
       noumenon, per se, jack in a box...
     hide & seek...
                          alternatively the phenomenon
and subsequent mimic / multiplication / χ  (chi)...
just collateral...
              passing by...
                             because why would
you apply orthography, i.e. diacritical marks
on only two letters, i.e. i and j?
                 the turks managed iota
like the greeks, i.e.            ι,
      so you could, technically, write j, as ȷ.
hey, pedantry of the use of language
          is my tux and bow-tie's worth of gala.

What haven't I added yet
To my collection
What shapes have I not taken
Form of a question?
Incarnate my presence
Needs none to acknowledge
And far from the world
And its wars
I seek solace
To soldier along
To a song of disharmony
Weapons continue to prosper
Disarming me
Warming the globe
To a strobe-litter grave
That my cosmic illogical
Alien probe
Does not know
How to save
Droves of people
Enslaved
Driven on to
A critical
Mass-approach grave
Such a craving to sate
For what we automate
To replace us, supplant
And depose
So it goes
And what grows
From the dust
And the ashes
Disowns
Any trace of us lost to
The space in between
What is you?
What is me?
What is life?
But a dream

toil, foil, toil, foil: fold

      stacked them high toward
a shadow of a commitment to say
likewise

like for like
eye for an eye
that is some bearing
to this current: simple un-gratified
loss of prayer

in a vague entrance to sight
from sigh
or the entrance to thought
through: perhaps a hum of om

the Hum of Om
like that fabled: research, please!
the Hum of Om
like Ayat
like Aql

                 i know an hour will pass
and i will think that i have written so much
but instead i'll realize
that i'm readjusting
to the hermit me
who would spend his time writing
and drinking

i just finished the first book of Dune
and unlike the film:
i'm trying to un-see the film
because in the film you only learn
of Paul Harkonnen
at the end of the movie with:
grandfather...
but in the book that is already realised
in the tent
while Paul and Jessica
are waiting for Idaho
or not waiting for Idaho

before Jessica drinks the water of life
the worm ***** or whatever
juice
of the ******* wriggling
to the death by water:
point being beside the noble worms
as perhaps whales
whales yes
because that's the mammalian aquatic
threshold

     and i mean:
i will not have written much but left enough space






      to look through...                from
the perspective of writing and living out the mundane
without Edie...
the time that is required...
all the fears and dictates of my mother
and father
are nothing
that i spent the day cleaning
the house
to only have mother come back from
hospital and reflexology session
with "Auntie Rajama"
well... sliding doors ahead of you...
i too live under a matriarchal oppression
mental gym-bro that's a girl
in the public square burning her bra
and competing with men
in the construction industry
or the security sector...

we had guys known as KLAWISZE
former prison guards
operate this sector...
now comes the time of the ex-military
brigade
but still so many loopholes
with the mass exodus from India to
the Crown...

             yes: some pause is a must right now
when i think about the length of
the task and all the curvature that
might come
not even asking: who is the thinker of thoughts
and the dreamer of dreams

perhaps ask, specifically for who is i
if i were, that is, asking myself with a hypnotic
hypothesis of pathology
and lack of pathology in the confines
of apathy:

      climbing the ladder of grammar i see something
of myself that requires a reminder
that is my selfish life
this bookworm this caricature
of man who elsewhere shine in glistening
a muscular
   a weird attentiveness to the sea
a local fisherman with no rod
but a hook and line
standing in the open Pacific
like this is my Dune not Dune
this glass ripple and all the salt
to juice the carnal feast in **** and bear
and ox tail and yummy yummy
some heroic end to my struggles
i thought not like but
heard all those warnings by men for men
and all that talk
i wonder could i end up like
a proverbial Friday,
  
        Friday the Idiot from London
shackled to Kauai...
           forgot his library...
what one book would i bring to have with me?

when i was younger i asked myself
the question:
what is the last music track that i will hear
before i die?
back then i was a Intrinsic:
the equivalent to a Mentat -
i would obviously not know the last track
of music i would have heard
unless i armed myself with
continually wearing headphones -
a commuter's hell and paradise
not exactly thinking machines
as automated beings,

thinking machines exist, but require
a thinker's input to be animate
otherwise thinking machines are inanimate
and therefore not a hazard,
threat... no...
they require input...
but... automate beings...
automated beings automated humans...
that's android territory of psychopathic
dolls and reels of cheese bad cheese good
melting canvas for:
silicone but what if moved the cellulite from
buttocks to the *******
give god his female rearing, fearing: form
of enough breast to *** ratio
and thighs and a very thin face
with no dub dub my own double chin
that i hide using a beard...

i heard of the toad neck
the toad neck of living outside of salt water...
the toad-neck is caused
by the Thyroid Gland...

        Thyroiditis:
all subjective experiences of each individual
body parts
is bound to the subjectivity of horror
without experience
the sheering horror of Sigma the All Encompassing
ego to letter focus
suggesting the ego-parasite will not wriggle
out somehow still not aware
but this symbiosis of ego as incorporating self
and other
and the plurality of us and them
and all that weaves itself into the earth of politics:

but at least i paid my dues
wit enough reading to writing ratio:
i always: feel: guilty: if: i: have: written:
more: than: i: have: read...

              made an old endorsement for paging
mr telegraph, paging mr telegraph
see the colon punctuation system
for the digital telegraph

             no STOP            for              .dot

i.e. words separated by colon
and finish would be a              sweet wipe
of the lips or lipstick off
or perhaps just finished a greasy meal therefore with ;
a semi-colon of             .
                                     ,

(enlarged)
                                   .
                                   .               (colon, enlarged)

or least there's the thought:
why the sudden conversion or what is this
even mean?

without knowledge
have sent astray?
so set your
man by nature u/p
which He has creat-
Allah's creation. T-
know not --
Turning unto
duty unto Him, and e/s-
who ascribe partners (u
of those who spli/
matics, each sect exulting
And when harm
Lord, turning to Him in/
tasted of His mercy, behol/d
to their Lord

those torn pages of the Quran
by my mother
when i was exploring different thresholds
of understanding
by no obscure way
i was going to depict the tares
at the Romans and ending at Luqman...

then i saw the tare and the following
sentence emerge:

WITHOUT KNOWLEDGE AND THOUGH IT BE IN A ROCK

i stand to poise, i do wonder whether
that means anything
perhaps to ants it does
but to humans?

without knowledge
and though it be in
a rock...

expand: i am not really prone to saying things
prophetically or pro-wisely
what what?
   man without knowledge
is...
           and even though
it be in a rock:                    knowledge?

no: fascination?
admiration for life and life-intellect
say god is of life
and no god is of death
and both are right
whether by sooth
to tooth to soothe and however i word
it there's this second parting
heavier than the first
but also lighter
because now i just realised
that it was a second parting
and i'm not too sure where she is on
this page
finally realizing that perhaps
i'm not for her
and perhaps she loves me enough
to leave me alone
that i might refocus on this cascades
these blues in wine
and tokes with starlight and friendly
neighborly conversations...
which might be not to ms claustrophobia's suiting
should that be a chasm a biological
fear a sudden
terrible monstrosity
given that she's not my daughter
and there would be to mention of ******
and inbreeding
for some Heb Gazzarye beast of the falcon
and the lizard and the clue as to how
gizzards became a sweet meat special...

         timely: onion gravy and mash p'oh
tatties...
the idea is timely and still refreshing
to think 38 oh 38
come my 60th i'll have
a wife aged 77
and a mother aged 86
and a father probably dead
and i will be renting a property on an island
a Pacific *** *** hello venture
like
there is no nothing zilch of me here
in the London Obscurity Digital Zoo Central

you have to live these parts girl
from text to text from whim to whim
on whimsical tides
arguing not arguing
not really a part of some collective
narrative but instead imploding to home
and to the maturity of manners
i just like m in that sentence
a letter a mem
        a mem is for example a maturity of manners
or for example the tinker tailor triad
a mem is a particular punishment opposing
             punishment itself
yet riddling the punished a punishment-in-itself
punishment itself is no punishment
without a punishment-in-itself

i think best exemplified by how abstract
German became
and not really read in popular circles
would never amount to unfolding the abstract
fabric of the simple change of wording
to gravitate toward the laissez-faire
of meaning in that: nothing is really just a pronoun
thing as in: a thing-in-itself
is almost like my questioning
the authenticity of having
a subjectivity of a thyroid gland?
apart from having been subjected to a body
in total by what comes after seeing
namely thinking or subtle-thinking
before the ego creates hatchlin' hooks of
parasitic symbiosis devoid of a name given
as responsive:
the ego responds to it's "ego"...
                i'm currently subject to:

no no... the thing-in-itself...
but if explored outside of the realm of "things"...
then a blueprint analysis
of say: heartbreak and heartache and
love and 3 years: what down what drain?
not against the waves of the sea
not against the river?
down the river? who knows?!

but these are my supposed days off
but they aren't so much days
off like days in between
where there is a glimmer of science-fiction
escapism but
a crashing crescendo reality licking check
for friction akin
to frost on a metal pole
like i know certainly realities
but i still want to be the ball-breaker
qureysh:         Qureysh                     winter...

metabolism sloth and fire breathing
bear... somewhere in a cave in a forest
centuries ago:
i too was teased by the fate of
Nebuchadnezzar -

my 20s are a vagueness but not born
a king could not have wed my feeding to grass...
Samyaza: Nephilim -
apocryphal Christianity -
in the old saying:
the books kept to be read in private
to children
as bedtime stories about Noah
and the giants and Angels...
not the protestant revamp
of the word: apocryphal...
not heretical no just obscure i.e. to be literature
for families to form outside
of the synoptic canonical text
spoken of in the church with authority

well if you want a functional christianity
you will have to allow the apocryphal library
to be reintroduced into the family
environment -
if you're serious...
if you want to go down the Quran Avenue
of having a sacred text:
you have texts!
not belonging to a single individual but many!
on account of that...

the apocryphal library needs to be released
for the understudy of family life
and myth formation
no other books outside of the apocryphal
HERESY segment are allowed
in the house...
and there is no book of authority
except the books of the old and new testament
depending on the fervor one
is cited more than the other
the two are interchangeable...
i see the latter as a greco-hebrew
conspiracy manual against the Roman Empire
and Jesus wasn't Jewish
he was probably Assyrian
or whatever and who knows
that trip to Egypt as a toddler
then returning back to Judea
because Joseph's carpentry shop wasn't
doing so well...
Africans love their stone and marbles...
who needs 'ud / wood in the desert?

but the apocryphal library will have to be
manifest...
in the houses of these christian families...
text that are obscure but
but... expansive...
you can't have: i appreciate the dedication
of the illiterate to the Quran
some reciting on trains as if literacy
is equivalent to learning how to ride
a bicycle or learning how to swim:
point being! once learned?! never forgotten!

there's an inseam to be found
when the galaxy bears its plump thigh
and moves around thousands of stars
as a result

there's something funny in the way
the skin folds over when the ocean frowns
because it can't seem to get
its catch of the day

there's an oddity amongst
the otters swimming in the arctic
like tiny, dotting buoys
showing a line that should not be crossed

there's something strange in the way
the valve in my
mechanically strung body
refuses to automate like everyone else's

He stomps around
In funny shoes
Maniacal tumults
Bemuse
Presuming his
Illusion’s
Charming
Alter-egos
Not self-harming
Nor alarming
His appearance
Law and order
No adherence
To the standard
Hold your tongue
The venom rhetorician’s
Gun
And still he wields the blade
At play
And shields his pain
So far away
From any castles
Long relinquished
Flames of war
Now long extinguished
Over all extinction
Reigns
Yet microcosmically
Campaigns
To win the favor
Of the haves,
The have-nots
And thee
Anti-class
And still makes time
To show the people
Rags to riches’
Glitchin’ eagle
Free to automate his nation’s
Technological contagion
Watch it promulgate the spaces
Thought once safe  
From other races
Then lay waste
To opposition
Let them live
On one condition
Kingdoms, queens
Must be the means
To mass produce
The God machines