the want for peace is as enduring
as a want for war....
imitation of machine-gun firing
whole magazins into thin air,
and even more thin, fleeting
concepts of echo...
the world, as we make it, in
the given... that hasn't exactlty happened,
and will never happen...
"hypocrite" internet crusaders...
of that kind and of that demand....
the only undermining of man
is that he should become useless...
am i? am i? look here, a throng!
only satan borne from god asking a question,
only satan borne from god doing ? with i...
figuring it out...
only a satan borne from such: bemused
instance... and the following sentences...
women seem to only wish their men
are content in what they do...
id the men are not doing the thing intended
then they become unhappy...
i feel i need to state i was privileged...
if i ever had to wait for a huspand
and a bouquette of tulips...
how i will itemise, how i will check for faults,
how i'll lesion for minor errors...
and call to **** the basis for
1... or siamese, or why we say
very little for punctuation,
and comprehend much more above the status
of a punctuation mark...
so i am here, i have a purpose,
satan is man embedded in the world...
what the **** happened?
it is iota, i turned into ?, rather than !,
as if happens, every time i approach
a cinema or a movie...
what word could comfort one
when in tears, if not allah?
the jew knows the name of god,
and its comfortably too complex to blah out.
just about the time we first said
our ma-ma our pa-pa...
we might have said something
akin to al-lah...
and i'll twist and turn,
and "mould"my bodwith repeat
repeat repeat.... repeating
kiedy dzieci w świat wyrószą! -
and i, once listened to a recital,
a young german boy, of bilingual descent,
reading be a children's book...
on a train... there... what beauty
in lament, and the take to tear....
ah... that stance for: a man that wept...
what rarity, and what gravity,
and what number they have to argue back...
i've seen more metaphors and
indeed more rivers and waterfalls in
my tears, if i had unravelled
the said things and walked toward a mirror,
and spoke what they spoke...
and felt the imprint, and have seen
the reflection in such things...
i am shadow, i am hunch,
i am exile... what was once,
perhaps said...
that i gave up my left hand
for a labrador to knead into pet...
how i then put my right hand into
a fire and retracted it gleeful like
i might be a prometheus...
oh god, once the narratives from antiquity
are so well established, how cheap it all
seems, and looks, how we tire, how we try
to exhaust the cow's ****....
and how we make joke from farting...
or how i am prone to cry,
on a morning palette of having only drank....
and drinking with the morning
the throat is dry-cut sore, dry, sorry...
lao che's jinn...
nie chce boga
(i don't want god), bo szkoda
(because it's careless)....
how we mature into wanting so much
more than kettles, knives, and vacuum cleaners...
how we want spirit, ghost, and
then make adamant that there's a need for thought
and a need to disperse it...
how so much spirit went into crafting thought...
that thing though... it get's me...
that cry for a father... symbiotic with writing
a narrative in western culture...
odd, how a man capable of being reduced
to tears... can single-handed overcome, every, woman...
meaning he can't lie, meaning he can't believe
in the capacity to faint...
meaning that he needs no breathing ground
to encapsulate faith...
the only thing more dangerous than
a man crying when hearing some music
is a woman armed with a *****.
as i take my bow...
and duly give applause...
for that is certain... and i am bound in being
kept earnest...
on the basis: it's really how the whole point
moves forward... i can be the sieve,
or the activity making the sieve... well... sieve...
like akin to filter...
my native land of birth seems to mythical
counting the next minute to the next to make an
hour, that i almost lost thought to be anything
but.... thingy...
yeah... every time i travel to poland i''m
most alive when i step into a graveyard...
tombstones almost has the same sound
when stating the word people...
given the latter move, becomes butchers
and architects... while the latter nothing but
quasi trees, dates of contained yearning,
and sometimes the epitaph...
oh the swollen grounds of what
is kept, needlessly kept, and what ought to remain...
looking at our own morality,
i see a history of paupers...
we are only working from the street up...
poking the case of diogenes...
there i am sown, and there i sow the stubborn
calamity... who would care to manage
competition with the west,
given their sole grammatical competition
was based on the pronoun category?
i always thought they spoke more shrapnel
than sense...
big bang theory worth a vascuum...
like i'm yawning... the sound of...
it happens every time i travel back to poland...
i hear, life!
it's when i'm back in england
and i hear this journalistic dialogue about needing
to export it to remote areas of the world like
Moldovia...
are journalists that much necessary
if they happen to fake telling a story working from
a per se bias...
reading the thursday edition of a newspaper
i sorta lost the plot, or a need for a plot...
i could be offered a circumstance to re-read
that i cowered, that i shrivelled and went away...
it's only that i spent 3 weeks in Poland
and i really didn't see too much emphasis on journalism...
or really bother a need to know basis...
or have to entertain an opinion or to begin with, have one:
like when i didn't have a sparring
partner to create a dialectical outlet / punching bag...
3 weeks in Poland can cure a man living in the west,
you can automatically stop drinking, read a book
and never even care to write anything...
you come back west and you have this pathos for a need
to write... don't know...
i like how phonos (φoνoς) is so clearly proximate of
pathos (παθoς)...
when wasn't the statment: silence,
not a concern to say or identify a pathology?
just about when man said too much...
and the otherwise became inverted,
and man said too much,
and thought very little, and philosophy
came into existence much too late...
if it ever was worth a moral agency,
that thought could ever be inscribed as:
θ (ought, ought), like some coordinate,
definite... instead of the ******* between
θ (ought) and φ (narration)...
looks like you're asking for a
locksmith, for ****'s sake.
then they said: poseidon's trident...
let's resurrect symbols, the crucifix and ψ...
now i really lost the tail and injected
an upright spine into undertanding, what the hell
i was supposed to understand!
so yeah ψ (counter-narration)...
the actual need to overly psychologise
the people stems from, i dare say,
hyperventilating number of books
in libraries...
it's nice to see so much emphasis on a psyche...
poseidon's signature... ψ... trident?
no?
don't see it or can't see it?
sounds about the same when you
do it in french with another god name,
zeus, jesus, je suis... je sus... je ßaß
mohicans thereafter...
ah, yeah, that night in winter, in warsaw,
i could almost take to the moon, pick at it
and bite into it like i might inton a chocolate
bit biscuit...
and that's how i made the greek equivalent
of sigma...
with θ, φ, ψ....
a door... variantion of not
what's to be said, to be said,
but how there's a thought, a morality,
and something that attempts to understand sanity...
i just like to think of it as inserting
a key into a keyhole, and walking through
a door...
meaning the encoding would look like
φ, θ, φ, ψ...
now i was supposed to walk through a door...
all i have is a ******* acquarium
and a yawn...
my uncle owned an aquarium once,
lost a leg in a submarine accident...
huh?
me neither... i'm not that audacious
to state there was a big bang and keep
people motivated for the mission: let's get frisky!
