having studied chemistry, i was already predisposed to write in the vein of philosophy, i could never manage to retain a pure humanism, of, say, a novel; how can one truly return to pure humanism of a novel once the shackles of science have been thrown onto a mind? at least philosophy allows a buffer zone between the sciences and the humanities; yet only in poetry is the most perfect depiction of man, in that poetry for all its woes, is but a pristine self-portrait of man: man, ex impromptu; and to add to this: lyricists are paupers in the poetry community, ever rigidity to write identifiable "poetry", as taught by english teachers, mindful of techniques and an arithmetic rigidity is a waste of time... a stake tartar is not a stake tartar if the meat has been cooked... the only poetry that is worth is seemingly mindless (madness, indeed, but there's method to it analogy), yet what it isn't is a rigid rubric; let us not be so predictable as to orientate our writing to be recited / studied in an english class, filled with 16 year olds.
it is strange to keep a memory of a thought,
but i have this most pristine bloom of
memory from a mere thought -
a question, what will be the last song i will
listen to, before i die?
it was autumn, i just returned from
Ypres, and had just finished reading
dostoevsky's crime & punishment -
it was autumn, the fallen leaves were
scribbling themselves onto the pavement
with a rustic shuffle, while the wind played
the hand holding a quill -
and that internalised question has
stuck with me, ever since,
i must have been in my teens.
it must be noted, though,
he was right... art is degraded
while science is overestimated -
which shows in pop culture -
the popularisation of science is
abhorring, it's actually sickly -
a ******* gangrene on common sense...
because these days,
no one will cite a milton, or an ezra pound,
what will be cited is
a theory, without a name of
origin. i fear that the people who cite science
the most, who have to lean on
the crutch of science, are the least read
people in the world, i.e.
pompous barons of reading a blank page,
and now they want applause and
the word: encore! encore!
sure, they'll get an encore,
a baboon's **** and a camel spitting in their
faces.
it would seem that when you
truly love, you only truly love:
because you hate, with a passion.
- and a catholic apostate i am,
a catholic apostate i am, i am...
given the bureaucracy of the religion,
i made my mind up,
confirmation? nope.
reading that book about
the gnostics (**** me i wish i stole that book
from the school library like i stole the quran)...
now we're into shrapnel talk, jiggy-jiggy,
random noise, don't ask, don't know
where it came from...
back in school we'd have trivia games,
who could name bands in rotation...
then one day i was playing some music
and a friend asked: who's that?
guess who.
deep purple.
no, guess who.
creedence clearwater revival.
no! guess who!
d'uh... american woman...
if there ever was a modern
movie i've fallen in with, it had to be
american beauty.
or take yesterday -
(by the way, i'm not in cabaret voltaire
pulling lines out of my *** and a white
rabbit from a top hat)
all i said was:
well, at least he had a conscience -
unlike some sociopaths
(cf. carl sargeant / weenershteen
an employer for former mossad spooks).
- see, i don't like this idea,
the idea of a res cogitans,
it's too mathematical for me,
it has a mathematician conceptualised
it, written all over it.
to me: that's a ****** coordinate!
- god? that's just a nudging to think...
i can't stress it enough,
praying feeds the vanity project of a god
in religion, his reply? probably a ****.
i rather think than pray,
less ornamental ******* and lying to yourself.
atheists? they prefer the talking version
of theism, whereby theism is the thinking
version of atheism.
me? can't be bothered to talk,
talking means i have to engage in the outside
world, where, in the outside world
i'm met cold-shouldered by a res per se
(thing in itself) -
or to put it technically in kantian
verbiage: noumenon.
which is like a noun but it's non
oscillating in M (sine)...
d'uh, W (cosine) -
allah hell almighty -
one apostle two apostle three apostle
neunzig-neun luftballoooons...
hey, the fetish remains;
so soft, ooh, so soft, the german tongue
is silk, mmmm... i could almost wipe my ***
with it!
(the degradation of art
and the over estimation of science?
heidegger, he was right)
so i propose an aversion of
the whole "thing" and "thought" -
i prefer the idea of movement, rather than
a cartesian fixation...
after all *sum and cogito are
quantum aspects,
one precipitates into an outside
world, the other is invited into an inside world -
i still fail to see how there's a ergo "continuum",
rainfall,
how one materialises from the nether regions
into a conversation about the weather
over coffee...
i simply can't see an ergo
connection, akin to a +, x -, ÷...
worded, that's what is implied...
ok, ok... let's go all fancy dress,
sleepover pyjama party mad: √.
i prefer the notion of
a continuum rather than a fixed posit,
a coordinate -
after all no man ever was
considering a genesis, original,
within an "unoriginal" continuum -
hey, buddy, you were born on a carousel,
it was moving before you were born,
it's going to move, and it will continue to
move after you're... what's that... "dead"?
talk to the gene therapist -
don't worry: you're recyclable material.
unless you have a different fetish
for a cul de sac existence?
i do mind the res cogitans approach,
of a graph representation with coordinates
(0, 0, 0) -
yes, i mind it...
it's a static point of reference -
it's a existentia in stasis -
an immovable "object" this cartesian
observation...
trust a frenchman to conjure
up an existential dead end trap...
banging my ******* head against the wall...
when i should be headbanging at a heavy
metal concert with all the other meat-heads!
how can cogito ergo sum ever reach
a stasis?
a static point where everything
is simply ergo?
ah... the merging point
of the triad continuum:
ergo = the world
cogito = -1
sum = +1
can't think of anything else,
the -1? ~catatonia.
+1?
the boring
necessity of the cordial affairs of
yap yap yap
in a supermarket.
