the mystery of lawlessness is bound to the "transcendence" of phonetic application of phonetic encoding... some call it the whirlwind of confusion, but somes also call it E-près and then write Ypres... well, the confusion is all but apparent... i left that in "     " to stress the ambiguity... yes, the -s is optional... it's neither possessive or plural... that, i could have learned in prison, had i ever been a Becontree purple (bishop)... dictionary moment: cranium, crimson, cradle... cardinal... but all these positions of power are on their knees (there's me trying in vain to underline that), they gobble-quote what they quack... which ends up being a circumflex and a wanking hand, embedded with "touching" Adam. oh sure they bypassed the contemporary-of-contemporaries... it was never a grey-matter affair... it was always a gangster's drill-to-the-bone moment... wait till he squeems! i don't mind ******, given the person is dead, i just hate half-asked half-baked half-bollocked Dr. Dre attempts and then failing and then, like a whining dog with its tail between its legs going back to the mantra of mother fiction... i ******* hate it... i start looking like a ******* ******! i hate it... mutter fiktion... all i'll say of a Jew: don't ******* bring an argument against the Palatine Schting right now... i have as much abhorrence against all things Egyptian as i do about English tea, which i deemed liquidated Werther's Original... and then there's this Russian ***** i'd like to the village bicycle... she's had more spare parts done unto her than the working limbs ever gave her the tilt... feminism and the sacredness of all women... name that movie quiz show... charlize theron... aileen wuornos! woo-or-nose? never mind...
   a 1K spectacle at Hastings... that's invoking quid...
and you'll feel more tonguing mollusks than
                          touching a frightened ****** quill-thread's
worth of deer with that lingo, had you ever had one...
              MONSTER!      yes, they all dream of a breakfast
at tiffany's... and i'm john paul the 2nd, and
     henry viii was a joke nursery rhyme
  when charlie bid farewell to diana...
there was no:
         divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived...
there was only a car-crash... you can't make
    a king out of swine... well... you can... Sweyn...
                  but **** me... and i thought i was naive...
guess the ***** didn't kick in when it was supposed
to; once true journalism became the ****** of what
was once the ****** of the people...
             religion... journalism these days is rotten,
it's an Aristophanes to what's really happening
defined by Socrates... it's a schoolyard...
  journalism these days is best defined by Aristophanes;
and who's the globe-trotting-gobbler of all misfits
is not the would-be diarist of returning back to
the local, the usual, the sanctimonious mundaneness
of it all; you **** only once in your life,
you end up having a **** the rest of the time,
either with your hand, or with another body.

oh i'm not bothered about the "perverts"
(funny how only men are concerned with
being named that) -
                               that are watching you,
those third party incisors of
             the bony-**** (hey, you
could be yodeling **** by now) -
                          what i'm
worried about are the perverts that provide
the "perverts" with material,
it's all very much a Turning test...
               that robotics testing ground
of: i can't keep eye contact...
   the lesser privy of psychiatry?
eye contact and biting your nails...
if that can be engaged with and subsequently
avoided:
you're as chirp as chips! honey b.
          can anyone white
feel glamorous using language in order
to tell a joke?
   that's not the question, the question is:
why call it witty comedy...
     but still employ canned laughter?
it's discouraging, i don't know when the joke comes,
all i know is that the editor finds it funny
as that particular time,
                    and that's when he inserts canned
laughter... you can get it with the most
"witty" comedies there are...
  a bit like black girls trying to be white without
the frizz of afro curbing the afro with vaseline...
i've seen catfights over this "third limb"
scenario... afro is no go in catholic schools...
you have to... yum... cow lick that ****
into place... use vaseline...
      and that's an advert-and-a-half.
but you know what really ****** me off?
philosophers... they attacked poetry because
they couldn't care two-****'s worth about
whether language could be musical
or simply communicative... they're the ones
that wrote books without using
grammatical words such as verb, or noun,
because they made them excuses to
their muddles when hoarding from poetry
words of equivalent categorical weight
such as metaphor... so attacking the practice
of poetry, but then encouraging
the categorisation of the spoke
with poetic categories rather than grammatical
categories? can i see Hegel use a noun?
no... but i can see Heidegger using
  the metaphor with two labourers utilising
a hammer... that's the thing concerning
a building site: you either pass the time
tellings jokes... or you don't work
on a building site and hold a hammer
  and question whether someone else might need it...
philosophy is not about the existential dittoing
of the i...
    it's a book, but there's a new category of pronoun
due to universal bewilderment once childhood
finishes... ? opened the door, in stepped !
and said:
     shouldn't we make the stillness of the lake
into a mirror to banish but at the same time
          domesticate narcissus -
yes, replied ?, i'm glad you thought of it...
               domesticating demigods...
                    narcissus was a stillness of a lake,
sisyphus was a stone,
    hercules was bicep,
              achilles was a tendon...
                                       our current affairs are far
from democratic, but at least our history is,
  you get ******... you get protractor...
you get mona lisa... you get 'let 'em eat croissant!',
       too many points of divergence
  in a democracy to craft a convergent "democracy",
what the politics says is that we are all
slaves to what's called a *status quo,
  i hate the fact that western "democracies" are
no longer tagged as merely status quo...
abuse of nouns... or how philosophy attacked poetry
and never spoke a theory concerned with
language per se being evidently categorised...
     how status quo is actually a -nomer without a mis-
of democracy...
  funny, the spanish... i have no idea
why can i have some ice-cream?
      has to become ?can i have some ice-cream¿
           i guess it's like the english " and '...
  who said what, and who said what for whom?
    is there a narrator?
      is that " + 1 people speaking, or quoting a quote?
or is that direct convo... '   ',
later retelling the tale "     ",
and after that it's all but an urban myth
akin to the kentucky fried mouse...
                the French that blè blé blé blé....
and somewhere in between was the Transylvanian comma...
hmm...
                             i mean... the perverts...
   thanks for the invitation, r.s.v.p.; of sure, great mixtape...
funny thing is... i never filmed myself jerking off...
        i do a 3-in-1... take a ****, take a ****... and
clean the ****-talk ducts of banal sprechen while
      watching a monkey strutting down memory lane
of when i had a girlfriend... and had to juggle,
and go for lunch, and this that and the other,
and a dalmation... or the reflection: but i had a mother...
huh?     i never felt this much ingratitude
for occupying the premises of the oval chamber
as i did creating a signature or inserting
  myself into the least convenient space to have
later come out off using only one digit's worth of
accountability... but hey... that's life.
          are you feeling the guilt trip drug pushed
by your mother from Syria, or Somalia?
     you owe her! you parasite... makes easier argument
for the billion Blue Indians and Chinese to get on
with it and eradicate the over-sensitive ivory dodo;
or at least in Siberia with the mongols...
              so i'm guessing eskimo is the new
                        squint to what's butchery ethics in Kosovo
as: look away... nothing to see.
               still... why call it a witty comedy when
you nonetheless have to utilise canned laughter?
             and that's a novel in itself...
? went up the stairs and ? met ! questioning <
whether ? should be questioning <... instead ! suggested
that ? should be questioned by >, since ? was already
on the 1st floor, having ascended the stairs from
the ground floor...         can you write me
     a novel... replacing all the correct pronoun usage
with mathematical ambivalence structured toward
a mostly unread existential dogmatism using
  mathematical punctuation?
no one will read it...but hey... either you do something
like that... or own a dog or a cat...
           and yes, they call them diacritical marks
when they're within letters... but in between letters?
they call them punctuation marks within words...
or the microcosm of punctuation: syllabification...
          the French just gobble down a lot of
  deviation... mon fhhhhhhhhhhhhré!
don't ask me how they do it... ask Nápŏlyon,
yes, the half-wit from Li-ą... oh no... not
                                               Monsieur Dynamite.

I sit outside and ponder
What a life it must be
For that little bird up there
Perched high up in that tree

I would fly so high
To float with the sun and stars
So I could enjoy a view far greater
Than that of any of ours

I’d abandon all my problems
Totally lose them in flight
Then sing songs of happiness
With all the lovebirds in sight

I’d think little birdy thoughts
Of worms and nests and things
And I wouldn’t think of bills or my job
Nor my reputation or fancy diamond rings

Catfights would be another story
An otherwise life without any worry
No stress, no hustle-bustle, or hurry
I’d lose myself in birdy-ness and all its glory

I’d wake up the sun
And flutter joyously in play
Then that big yellow ball
Would put me to bed at the end of the day

Up is up, so down is down.

Red and green means Christmas, obviously.

Birds singing? Happiness.

Rumors equal catfights.

Cheating leads to divorces. Multiple.

And this poem is about you. Duh.

Volatile Voltaire
once said something I believed,
but I've forgotten what it used to be.
Some candide (candied?) little thing,
sweet and soft spoken, recited it to me
like a national anthem without the music
I wasn't up to facing, anyways.
An influx of responses filled the dashboard
of my fighter phone as I wove among
dogfights, catfights over who's in the right
and who he was in that first that night.
He just stands like a complacent general
off to one side, directing troops of decision.
He didn't want a D-Day.
There's so much more to life than
brass ranking you earn by not taking a brass bullet.
Let your best friend do that.
He had no aspirations.
(Cleopatra had aspirations.)

All the swaying bright green grass
And all the tender fruits
And every brilliant butterfly
With golden wings spotted with dew
Every single kitten's purr
And fluffy tail of squirrel
And hot, yellow summer sun
Make nature horrible.

Now, it sounds like I'm depressed
Emo, you cloud say.
But believe me, I am not
I just see things as they are.

The itchy grass gives me a rash
Fruit rots,
bringing fruit flies,
buzzing and nasty.
A single butterfly can move a single wing
And miles away,
that tiny puff of air
Turns into a hurricane,
destroying lives and homes.
And that kitten?
Well, it grows up,
it scratches you,
The cat gets into catfights,
scratched and scarred forever
In this horrible world.
And squirrels are easy prey
for viscous dogs and beasts alike
Ripping entrails
all over your porch,
****** and furry.
And that crippling sun!
It burns my very flesh!
It stings with a scarring pain.
And it doesn't stop when I leave the wrath of the blistering ball of fire,
I have this burn
For weeks and weeks,
all over my body!
What a cruel reality!
I'm staying inside.
Nature is horrible.

(or swing sets and monkey bars)

A pitch perfect spring day
such as today April 8th, 2022
within quaint hamlet
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
in close proximity within mind's eye
to Lake Wobegon, Minnesota
finds me reminiscing...

When, scads of light years ago
(half life of mein kampf),
while yours truly,
at that time a father linkedin
emotionally, mentally and socially
kibitzing with his two young adorable girls,
ah charming children indeed
(totally unbiased opinion that)
both sweet lassies to boot
figuratively got their daddy
tightly wrapped around all four

of their middle fingers,
matter of fact coercive Munchkin,
and her younger sibling Shayna Punim
both whose playful rebukes
courtesy daughters role playing
stern yet affectionate “mama,”
this papa feigned not to heed,
maybe begetting a boy
(cuz I ofttimes then
envisioned being pro creative
regarding bequeathing XY chromosomes

which engendered gifting us a son;
i.e. ideally conceived male child -
obviously at mercy
of biological random chance
genetic material receiving
proper allotment to garner
personal pronoun predicated
upon strict binary addressable as he/him),
when reproductive gamble roulette
never did yield nor diploid offspring
to carry forth Harris surname

constituting for good measure
genetic qua mixed breed,
would have elicited contrary response,
when playing reversed roles
whereby Matthew Scott the kid
(Billy me) not docile like his real self
and his imaginary male progeny
aplomb (fig your at Tivoli) found me
taking his fruitful lead
apple lee going bananas acceptable
make believe games regarding

above named adult playing
mischievous, innocuous, harmless
behavior committing neither
illegal transgression nor misdeed
from this grown man,
Sir Wren during self to architect
landing flat on me then
palm pilot sized ***
(measured by Andre the Giant)
as if drunk from mead,
where playfulness my creed

those were the days my friend...
years ago that streamed
flicked across thee ethereal net
at lightspeed, I experienced
manifest destiny nsync
with government assigned
mummy dearest head shrinker
taking eminent domain freed
Aladdin side me, those decades,
sans long gone fatherhood
plus roles he learned to succeed

recalling catfights ('twixt
daughters) he assertively refereed,
who cherished those
offspring, he did seed -
reckons adult opportunity
gifted yours truly mentoring
with excellence they did exceed
unlike yours truly
he rarely ever let loose maybe once,
the scairt (of his own shadow) boy inside
subsequently cowering frightened lad,

healthy development anxiety did impede
his spontaneity ****** and leveed,
thus renaissance awoke
to travel back in time
reliving boyhood non disrupted,
and prior to parenthood,
would be less apt to concede
how natural to bond with progeny
fostered by being keyed
into esprit de corps of biological charges,
now grown without need,

nor want of his company (halt)
sudden embarrassment that person,
whose absence in
“My Struggle” did bleed
unstaunched sadness till affixing
available spare time with books to read,
and poems to write attempting to feed
an errant stray tear every now and again,
more pronounced as father time guaranteed
begetting precious bundles of joy,
how pedestrian days

of yore like a tumbleweed
(think T.S. Elliot)
rocketed them thru preschool, kindergarten...
high school, college now this doddering
doth oft attempt (with futility) to reach them...
even cherished memories insync
with Jack and Jill Truck klaxon dost recede.