close proximity word-compounds are sometimes the hardest to invert onto themselves, to craft a chiral pivot, notably due to the suffix-blindspot of the non-differentiated prefix antonym, even more so, when guarded by close proximity of words such as hubris / hiatus - esp. when was begins one's logical approach, inducing a misnomer tangle - due to the overtly laden verbum similis; and these little schematic squares of extremely confrontational, but also the more so extremely cohabitable ref. points, will always be harder to master, than say: a rigid rhyme schematic of a sonnet.

all this current talk of protecting free speech,
cf. with the writing i'll cite -
well, so much for a freedom that can
invite both the sophist and babbling of
slanging slurs -
      all in all, in defence of the "freedom" of
speech, is just as well, a: freedom for
idle talk - and if not idle talk, then simply
politicised intrigue, that once gained
the ears of salon ladies at liberty to an alt.
to ****** arousal.

and how did this come about?
   oh... well, what people talk about now,
is what people thought about in the 1920s
and the 1930s...
                  
as heidegger points out, regarding a herr
oswald spengler - der untergang das abendlandes
(1918 - 1922 vol. 1 & vol. 2 respectively):
the famous suggestion of a *decline of the west:
paragraph opening -
          why is herr spengler in noting
a decline? not because of the heroic optimists
being correct with regards to this apparent
decline - modernity as the unfathomable
stretch toward a status quo eternity -
and with darwinism, the theory of relativity,
the big bang, quantum physics -
there's about as much worth of a question-worthiness
these days, as there is a needle's worth
in a haystack of airy tumbleweed answer-unworthiness...
these former optimists of the decline
   have turned into ardent pessimists of
there even being a decline -
      
the oeuvre of psychology did the most damage
in the end -
   still mingling with an archaic sophistry of
astrology, tarot and the voting ballot -
       no shred of a doubt that we live in a one
way street of: answers & denials only, please,
questions & doubts, ooh noo noo noo!
         we do not live worthy of a question -
since by question we mean: ridicule being
the only appropriate answer deserved by
asking a question.
              
    it came with the change of hiatus between
   the two factions -
   once the optimists took to hubris -
                   the pessimists take to hiatus -
if we called them heroic optimists -
we now call them optimists in hubris -
  once we called them lunatic pessimists
and ultra-religious leash bearers -
     now we call them: young people who
forgot to take chances, risks, and thrills...
  cushion padded wet charcoals that
have as much potential to burn as -
                               a dolphin getting dry.

and aphorism 105 (VI) does just that,
   100 years ago by my circa approach -
'the west will not go down, primarily because
it is too weak for that, not because
it is still strong.'
  which is why i ask: is free speech anything
to defend these days, when free thought
echoes so many years later,
  and what is now considered "free" speech
is merely idle superstition regarding
a "revival", the last supposed push?

there's absolutely no honour in kicking
a maned dog,
                    and in that act: of kicking
a maned dog, or giving a bowlful of bones
for a toothless dog to nibble on
is just as well... might as well spoon out
the marrow and give the old hag of the west
a pâté to slurp...
        yes, orthographically speaking:
very pedantic of the french to bend the macron
into a circumflex -
sure, ain't pretty, but i can assure you:
i'll be technical;

what the west can be thankful of is that it's
the first culture in decline,
   and once a culture is in decline,
among so many others, the others follow suite -
like a spread of cancer,
or any other plague -
     it probably begins by the european
decadence in not respecting antibiotics -
  infesting themselves with superbugs -
or thereby managing to craft some sort of
immunity to them...
  and they say that ****** if baah baah baad...
big pharma never kills, does it?!

i'm still confused on a close proximity akin
to thesaurus logic of synonyms -
i.e. decline of the west = heroic optimists of the decline
        (it must surely happen!)
or is: decline of the west = pessimists on hiatus?
                  i.e. it will never happen!

ah! that's what it was: i was thinking of hiatus
but wrote hubris instead... d'uh dum dum...

  i.e. the roles have changed -
now the pessimists are engaged in hubris -
                      while the optimists are on a hiatus:
the whole - i told you so...
             the whole i told you so since the 1920s
is irrelevant these days,
   given the great america never again ended
at the beginning of the 21st century...
                    the monologue from the grand ***
degraded from the grand satan is hot puff and
cinnamon smoke...
          
       once more: what is relevant about what's
being said these days? as much as was a passing
observation in the 1920s?
          i hardly think so...
   the so-called freedom that only gravitates
to idle-chit-chat and poseur antics of bravado?

given that not much is questioned,
   and whatever is questioned has lost its allure
to be fresh, to be alarming,
   all the questions asked are plagiarisms,
a dead-end, in imagery: a library with only
one book in it (i mean, a library brimful with
books, but all these books are the same book);
which makes these times so
answer-unworthy - is that they come so
easily, and are usually borrowed from
the same anglophonic sets of ideas,
regurgitated chick food from the peckers of
their parental guardians.
            
         well, if you live in times when people
have that idiotic audacity to ask a question
like: what's the meaning of life,
  why are we here, how did we form, etc.:
   all these inessential "essence" questions -
          and about as many historicals gaps
of memory lapse as a drinking session with
oliver reed in between...
               the only question goes something
like this:
   and ? found myself walking around the house,
walking by a mirror, ? peered in,
   and without a narcissus to mind
to slowly build a curiosity that would turn
into self-love, ? exclaimed: !,
   after which ? steadied by pace of questioning
adding the much needed: ?!
                      
what's as good a questioning dynamic / schematic as
you're going to get, these days.

Roses are black,
Violets are white,
Sugar is bitter,
And so NOT are you!

That child,
seems to be reading to my old dog friend.

Can we teach a dog to read and see the significance
some men find in syllables unsaid?

In print,
Sibilant denture whistles, perk no ear
silent esses no ear can hear, un spoken esses essentially
signify nothing, simple noise.

But a good dog will respond to the slightest whistle, as if…
A sibyl said listen,
hear the wind enter the world once with
inspired expired whistling sound found in song

this way,
this is the way,

Say plain the sound of each sign.

Alpha Beta, Aleph Bet, Ayee Bee

See, these let words be saved as signals

Letters, let silent sounds hold meaning in

signs of sounds men can make,
Like
Ah. or baah, which certain ruminants make as well…

A man can say ah, and mean plain nothin'

and some dogs can too,
but when dogs say, ah, it's often

a yawn gone into a groan like a stretched out
awww as the back arches
backward and front paws stretch out.
Tail swishing slow sweeps
swirling dust mites in a shaft of morning light,

more wind than any butterfly wing or
humming bird wing could stir.

"Remember", his brown eyes say,
this posture always meant,
"let's do some fun,
go for a run,
follow a scent"

But then, another yawn
and a shake. a glance from those knowing eyes,

signifying, signing , if I am happy, he is, too.

A dog friend then punctuates, by curling down into
a black and white comma
with a bit of golden tail
covering the nose
twitiching ante

cipitating a chase that leads to this new place,
where new sounds can sound
insignificant,
dream time humms,
not worth the effort to hear,
since we are not going anywhere, today.

Ah, be, still.
Tomorrow is the myth.
My dog swears that's true.
Today, or never, and
never's fine. He Yawns.

and wouldn't literature suddenly change, you take the works from early 20th century, and further afield, and what you come across is the entry point of vulgarity... perhaps the unnecessary censorship of "pardon my french" stretched for too long, and became all too ridiculous, but, for some reason, vulgarity in literature is unavoidable, given the contradictory elements: you can see a gang ****, but can't see the word f&$@! it's almost sad that we have turned to vulgarity for some sort of cushioning of the falling emphasis, yes, it means us moderns can't contest with the squiggly-clean attempts prior, where no vulgarity was used, but there seems to be a reason as to why we're injecting vulgarity as being necessary, for whatever reason, it's there, and it will remain there, since we're asking the question: but why can he, and i can't?

i was never a fan of hegel,
   i doubt if i'll become acquainted with his writing
any time soon,
don't know, i feel awkward reading him,
and skim reading his *philosophy of right
that inspired a marxist critique,
to only find that the book are ****** "aphorisms"
that are nothing more than lecture notes,
i'd prefer poking a hippopotamus' ****
to be honest...
       i remember owning a doberman dog
that bit into a **** and inside were these crawling
parasite worms...
       traumatic? no, like any archetype
of a scientist i peered in to get a better look
at the kneading mass of worm...
          looked like, exactly that:
kneading dough...
                you choose sides, i chose hegel's
precursor, kant,
   and read him, read him good,
and i found that: well -
   apparently the bachelor saint of konigsberg
never left his routine: he married it!
and i have mine...
   can't complain...
                 and to "think" that germans were
once the thinking europeans...
       to think that the germans were once
great thinkers... looking at the germans now
is like watching sheep attempting to
stray from the sheep-cult baah baah matra...
              there's a sadistic pleasure i get from it...
don't ask me why, ask me how:
for the love of god whenever i read a philosophy
book in english i feel dumber than to begin
with...
         i can read only one philosopher in
english: heidegger, since he toys with language
to the point of insanity,
   and he'll never make it to the bestseller list
of books, language is too complex,
and the toying with "inverted" commas
(commas of enclosed ambiguity as i like to
call them), and the spontaneous italics once in
a while, has already made him a cultish figure...
mind you: the sunday i read the culture
magazine, and spot a book of poetry in
the bestseller list, i'll buy champagne...
     this is one of those "lazy" poems, in that:
i can't just imagine myself drinking,
  i have to write something, otherwise i'll just
end up drinking, and that's not good for anybody...
mind you, i picked something up from
that hegel book...
  the connection between the latin:
ibid. (ibidem) and the ditto...
              well?
     ibidem is a ditto in the footnote section...
again, the joys of paraphrasing /
          using the thesaurus...
            they're one and the same, although
not quite, although: a bit like -
although: not quite like - although almost certainly
quite like...
    although one being in a footnote expression,
and the other in a written section of any
said or unsaid text...
          ergo ibidem qua  ditto (therefore
in the same source as being the same thing
again) -
    mind you, that's copernican for:
     still need the n.e.w.s. to read a map -
  the **** will a 3D earth do to navigational
enterprises? nothing! it'll just stick the image
of an orange in your head, and make you
steer into a whirlpool!
            i guess the biggest mistake is to write
to your contemporaries, but have a stockpile
of books by dead writers...
   i mean: who on earth writes a modern novel,
having read don quixote? no, one!
              even nietzsche thought he was a hot
shot saying: no one in germany has read
stendhal, not even the german professors...
   *****, i read that on route 86 bus to school
when i was 15 / 16, the only book that i wanted
to read having watched a cinematic adaptation
starring ewan mcgregor & rachel weisz....
funny you should say, i have perhaps 3 / 4 books
by living authors, which is slightly
intimidating having to extend the claim for
necrophilia, i.e. i don't own a library,
i own a graveyard.
                 once more: i just can't ****** well read
philosophy in english, can't do it,
i tried reading a bit of the hegel i own in english
and i just cringe, i have enough nietzsche in
english to doubly cringe and mind what happened
to nietzsche: sycophancy.
            regurgitators of maxims - a very pop.
pastime in the anglophone world...
   but i wonder, in summary -
   is it better to tell a good joke,
                                       or to utter a wise saying?
i'm starting to think the former,
       all the tyrannical kings always spared
the court jester, but never the wiseguy...
                             plus the immediacy of returned
laughter, than the mud-thick waters of
ponderance that ensue from a wise saying...
  plus, at least the stupidest thing people can
do with a good joke is laugh...
when it comes to "wise" sayings -
                               genocides can ensue;
ah, right, hence the peppered punctuation for
double emphasis, and the all too necessary
vulgarity.
     p.s. uttering a wise saying only make them
wise: upon one's deathbed -
ergo, i don't believe in maxims,
   esp. nietzsche's style of bombardment
with maxims...
   it's like the modern version of internet spam...
in the end, the only wise saying a man
ever uttered: was his epitaph -
  and the irony being: someone else said it
for him.

Sheep do not Scratch
The Tup,
Painful Birth,
Brief Spring of Frolic
In Lush Grass,
Nor butchers Knife.

Precious Poets,
We Bleat and Baah
Our Small Woes,
Big Loves,
Insights and Dust.

Such small Season
And Gone Gone Gone

That child,
seems to be reading to my old dog friend.

Can we teach a dog to read and see the significance
some men find in syllables unsaid?

In print,
Sibilant denture whistles, perk no ear
silent esses no ear can hear, un spoken esses essentially
signify nothing, simple noise.

But a good dog will respond to the slightest whistle, as if…
A sibyl said listen,
hear the wind enter the world once with
inspired expired whistling sound found in song

this way,
this is the way,

Say plain the sound of each sign.

Alpha Beta, Aleph Bet, Ayee Bee

See, these let words be saved as signals

Letters, let silent sounds hold meaning in

signs of sounds men can make,
Like
Ah. or baah, which certain ruminants make as well…

A man can say ah, and mean plain nothin'

and some dogs can too,
but when dogs say, ah, it's often

a yawn gone into a groan like a stretched out
awww as the back arches
backward and front paws stretch out.
Tail swishing slow sweeps
swirling dust mites in a shaft of morning light,

more wind than any butterfly wing or
humming bird wing could stir.

"Remember", his brown eyes say,
this posture always meant,
"let's do some fun,
go for a run,
follow a scent"

But then, another yawn
and a shake. a glance from those knowing eyes,

signifying, signing , if I am happy, he is, too.

A dog friend then punctuates, by curling down into
a black and white comma
with a bit of golden tail
covering the nose
twitiching ante

cipitating a chase that leads a new place,
where new sounds can sound
insignificant,
dream time humms,
not worth the effort to hear,
since we are not going anywhere, today.

Ah, be, still.
Tomorrow is the myth.
My dog swears that's true.
Today, or never, and
never's fine. He Yawns.

If ever I start to baah and bleet
And start to turn into a sheep
Slap me good and slap me hard
Keep me out of the farm yard
Bring to light the mindless plight
And remind me that I howl at night.

two-faced-coy before god:
does god throw dice?
perchance the question might
be asked, if i had the most "mundane"
job of experiencing
the transit of humanity in its
fullest...
      some minor role,
like a road cleaner...
  oh hell, i could tell you about
the transit...
and the dead fox i dragged into
the minor wilderness
from saturday to sunday...
begging the onlookers to not
pry their eyes at my unfathomable
gesture of: "concern"
for the sanitary worker being given
a break from "duty"...
yes, i skinned and weight the
******... no!
i weight him though...
came to across nearing 10kg
worth of a mature maine coot
cat...
            and since:
  the fox-spirit has furthered my
allowance on the "poor"
sanitation worker not woken
to alleviate the "concern"
of the public...
           almost puked pushing
my snout into its roadkill...
but instead of blood...
        i attempted to make vague
the odd signature of:
iron...
            lost in gushing from
the fox snout...
     now... i'll write what i've
lived... since i'm not being
paid: **** ALL! for it...
                 does god toss dice?
depends... been meditating
the concept with nine "magic"
squares worth of, but one "random"
take on a kabbalistic thought...
and you know what i thought?
borrow the sorrows from
other tongues, and make them unz!
hell before heaven forgot
babylon, and the fate of man was
not so immediate akin
to the other "formalities":
i too might exhaust taking to
heaving, rather than minding a soul...
again... does god toss dice?
   by now the sudoku square
is already assertive of the power
of nine, and further,
to the power of six,
  with each side being made as
sacrificial torso of the former,
prime, power spectacle...
       indeed the q'ah'baah...
a ******* meteor shower...
and not one source of worship that
exhausted the lizards...
         seeking blame is so
autocratic...
  but the mea culpa plea?
          so *******... un-democratic...
      does god throw dice,
to explain the fate of a mortal gamble?
or rather...
   is there but a coin flipped that
is determinate,
in having two of the same
faces embedded in the deciding
                       "whim"?
a harem of more slaughter that could
make even Herod blush his
***** region,
had he the affairs of bleachings
the cranium hairs of his
                supposed, ancestry...
desire: and the fed lie...
          by no consent is an indulgence
to be punished: if it was fed
by a lie...
              and so:
   no truth entrenched be allowed
special assertion of compensation
be acknowledged:
  by merit, no merit alone,
        and if... be neither nor allowed:
a grievance...
      made ample when experienced
in tutoring youth...
to shame the grieving party,
  and make it distinguishable from
the gaining party...
      rule of adolescence...
             does god, throw dice to make
impetus over lordship of
the only gamble that's the gamble
"neglected" in nature?
       my: the reality of poor lamb...
coin flip...
             my...
       the metaphor of wolf, incarnate!
ego breeding / feeding grounds
of the loss of plagiarism of
                a willing man, impetus!
does god throw dice...
  or does the chance of the already
gambling god...
   make up for the barking dog
accomplished by either
        heads... or tails?
                            kings... or subjects?
the french revolution was
a stranger concer for
making gambles...
               given that the tails one
the argument... against the echo of
sobering heads
that envisioned horns being
attached to their bargaining: status...
rather than... limitless politico:
of gambling with it...
   avoiding the schema of ******...
now...
   tell me...
what will the tails say this time
round... if they hear that the whole
point of equilibrium and waterfall
is in exacting of the order of the tails
not breeding in the agony of
              arisotractic
disconcern, for...            trans-*******
growing limbs without
movement?
      oh i'm sure the ****** have all
the answers...
         which are worth an hour of body...
but only a second in
aritocratic cultivation of the moral
(th)ought...
               all other animals have
been bred upon the rigid dynamism of
the entertaining exposure of chance...
only man...
        transcended it...
          against god...
      and at the same time could not
                 consolidate it within himself...
at last... not mere egyptian...
    devoid of the biblical affair with twin
torn at birth Aztec...
        i hardly think the story would have not
been better with:
the Aztec gallows...
                and this, Egyptian: "tomb"...
but does god throw dice?
            as far as i am concerned...
he's certainly holding the qa'bah in his hand...
   heads of monarchs...
                                    or tails of plumbers?!
the concept of the devil
overthrowing my curiosity of wrath,
sitting upon the cranium-throne of creation
leave them to their own:
           slouching future...
   and what better way to guise the currently
apparent, than the remaining
"joy" of having gambled on an "existence":
with their, predictable...
                          self-flagellating
            tree-stump's-worth-of-"pardonable"
sense of exploration...
                         yes...
i can almost imagine the crucifix
slowly morphing into a budding tree,
with laurel leaves surrounding it...
                                        does god play dice?
perhaps we could make use of
a coin that only had a tier for the use
inter-monarchy: tails-tails...
and a coin that only had a tier for
the use of inter-populace:
                           ah... as we already have...
unless people forget...
     England owns the head of Elizabeth...
since the concept of monarchy
is unchanged...
                      while Poland has a currency
with several heads of the former state...
                     Jagiełło to name the least...
oh but the rosey future is
not the aim of this stalling reality,
   once all: are accounted for...
all and none, a future bound to one:
nonetheless...
          in accordance:
let joy not buckle,
           before the young buck's play...
all in good, and reverent time...
these times require more fervour!
     more!
                 more!
                        the plight of
the roman empire, was never nero's ploy!

Sheep graze the massive green meadows, wholly unaware
of the dilapidated barn I have come upon. Each rotting
plank a page of struggle, then failure, success and more failure.
Oblivious, the sheep have reached Nirvana: endless heaven of food.
I might envy them, except for their muddy, mixed colors of wool.
Paradise does not mean purity for these plump little herbivores.
They baah unknowingly, nature’s mystic vision: bliss of instinct.