today i learned that a friend of mine
was nearly tickled by death
in a terrorist excavation of bones
in Brussels, with jean-claude van damme
included in the action sequence -
although without stunt artists, by god,
that's the second ******* my list of near
encounters with death and a permanence of tombstones;
i took four beers for a walk
trying to gather dogs' tears along the way...
if she was only worth blowing myself up i would,
she wasn't - because, i mean,
is this a 72-get-together asking about circumcision
and contraception, and is the niqab an over-sized ******?!
in the supermarket jokes,
me with my long hair tied into
a samurai's bun of a seashell, she with her
hijab... i didn't get the joke either...
i said i wrote poetry for friends,
and yes, i've become a so-called milk carton
at the supermarket - the expected, shelved -
first they asked for my name, then what i did,
matthew, poet...
well you've got the cheapest bottles of whiskey
around here, of course i'll testify
to a religiosity of having to repeat purchase... d'uh!
still, jean-claude van damme and those
four cans of beer... the dogs salivated more
than wept: so i collected saliva rather than salt drops,
of what could have suckled dry a field
readied for a harvesting of potatoes.

.aye aye... trí turds... wha'? three turds... huh? tree thirds... oh paddy paddy paddy... τo 'ινκ ιτ θρoυ(γɥ)... you might 'ave even brought ubout a a taught - naught - a thought.

but but... but...
Poland is so unwelcoming?!

good...

   no attachments
of a post-colonial narrative...

oh... and the language
is hard to learn...

    by all means,
infiltrate...
            
  we've had the Nazis,
we've had the three-headed Hydra
of Prussia,
  Russia and Austro-Hungary...

we've had the Communists...
oh i'm pretty sure we
can accommodate Islam...
along with the scuttling
rats
of the gutter...

            we are a people,
and WE, as a people:
owe you nothing!
         nothing!
  take your British empire postscriptum
elsewhere, eat and ****
there, and don't come back...

i'll appropriate this native spreschen,
i'll speak it...
but don't you come around here
supposing i'll "think"
like you do...

      funny... well... not really...
Dublin was never to become the second
Edinburgh...

        but whenever I hear an Eire man
talk...
  there's that diacritical excuse of
repeating:
    paddy paddy paddy potato
pancake...
paddy paddy paddy mac (protestant)
mc (catholic) Doug -
      la la paddy paddy woo! wooooooo!

no, thank you...
  we've had the Nazis -
we've had the Communists -
thankfully all the Polish economic migrants
are returning home...
   thanks for being treated like
some sort of, quasi Roma...
              
   no problem... we can go back
to a homeland, given that we're actually
less victors, and more inheritors -
   the Marshall Plan...
well...
      if only the H'americans reached
Berlin first...
there would be no Warsaw pact...
by the way...
   i thought Sweden and Switzerland
remained neutral?
  so why pay them the Marshall Plan
funds?

       oh, but please...
move to Poland...
        see how long you'll survive...
         that feral land of lost
opportunity...
        i don't mind...
   language might be a problem...
given...
English isn't exactly pop
outside the confines of a
Jean Claude van Damme movie...

        but go on... try...
            you'd find more success in
catching a floater's worth of a ****
than exercising any
     chance to subvert the reigning
culture...

  bo? (because)?
   i'll integrate -
             (ja wtopie się w tą kulture) -
but - ale -
on one condition -
    w ramach jednej potrzzeby -
i'll retain my birth-tongue -
ja zachowam swój zór!

i'd never trust immigrants,
economic or refugee,
if they do not retain their mother tongue -
if they can't construct
bilingualism?
   they're rotten fruit...

   i'm not here to be nice -
zapomnienia mówienia po
   polszku...
   i forgot how to speak Polish...
  
rotten fruit,
attempting integration too hard...
you can't forget
your native tongue,
just like you can't forget
riding a bicycle or
swimming...

            the argument stinks of
****!
i hate it...
    i'd expect a jew to make
this sort of argument,
rightfully so...
     i can't imagine the heartache
of having invested so much
Hebrew in German to create
Yiddish...
   a Jew i can understand...
       but some ******* Pakistani
suggests he has, on "purpose"
forgotten Urdu,
and speaks only English?

   sum? terrorist...
     no man is born without either
a linguistic, or a cultural integrity -
prior to the cuisine,
the language dies...
but then the cuisine never dies...
neither does the language -
and if the language is "dead":
the mentality remains...

         you smell something?
skunk?
   hmm... i'll speak English, i'll write
English... but i'll think in my
Western Slavic guise...
ah... sorry i'm not copper-skinned
wishing for an Indian suntan
of the lower-caste...
  sorry...
          
you're standing ****-naked in terms
of orthography - as a language -
and you're over-laden with metaphysics...
sure as **** a satan will come around
dressed in either paupers' rags
or a gentleman's nightgown;

    as i still begin, persistent -
in telling you...
a man who does not have enough
ethnic pride, in retaining, and keeping,
a language his mother used to
lullaby by him to sleep,
into his later years?
   a person, who cannot accommodate
bilingualism?
        trust score? ZEE-RHO.

i much abhor the Scots and the Eire men,
as much as i admire the Welsh
for priding themselves on
retaining Cymru -
                      no Gaelic?
   no pass...
                 English is a mongrel language...
who gives a ****?
  some Shanghai
         half-wit economics student speaks
it...
    lingua franca...
                       thus that i have
to admire... the Welsh...
     and their version of YHWH:
                     CYMR...
that... takes *****...
         the Welsh could look into
Kashubian and Silesian Polish to boot.

it's not the case of irrationality with the usage of pronouns as a way of being assertive away from the existentialist dittoing of the pronouns; even if i utilise the pronoun to be a noun or a verb via dittoing, with the framework of an esp. exemplar "irrationality," i am still, after all, the speaker of the noun and verbs, and the keeper of them; i am not irrational to the extent that i ditto myself outside of other categorisations of words, since dittoing myself within the pronoun category opens the accusation that i use all other words with ambiguity while allowing no moral ambiguity into my actions - but there is a clear morality to the use of words as the worthwhile exchange of meaning, in newtonian sense in the least and foremost not going beyond the dropped stone or insinuation of passerby engagement into games - but clear crisp cut - silk scarf tagged twelve quid was sold on the haggle for ten quid - so that haggling wasn't an ambiguity, but the price of the scarf was! so how many sexualised insinuations have i heard with impromptu to no action?! too many! all of them declassified from furthering action because of too much innuendo and nuance of that famous disguised dialectics lost - known as the death of god. cartesian in existentialist terms, thinking presupposed as the notation via "i." thought no longer as an existential certainty... but because of the dittoing of pronouns... an... ambiguity! well it was originally an ambiguity, but why excess pausing to counter? the english are a nation of shopkeepers... yes... and the french are a bunch of nosy café patrons with rude lovers disguised as bartenders muscle aching to munch the next croissant in drag and feel sexed up gagging.

verum, ego scribere similis rumi*; scribbles and similitude -
worth an afghan worth of eyes in syria for an afghan girl
saying to her loved up something or other:
see it come back, god forbid you hear the calculative laugh
of augustus on the way back, just while europe resigns from involving
the remnant slavs like libyans or syrians or hebrews in the original format
of strength: let the hebrews deal with them
in their own vatican - we need to curb north africans
and the mid-middle-eastern olives
when taking over the northern peoples for economic harvests.
but then the madman laughed without ordinance and impunity -
he laughed augustus' rationalism into the grave of choking chock fudge brussels
with spare tonsils eating nothing but cauliflower and lard -
elsewhere in movie via ghent; or was it in bruges or
was it in brussels starring jean claude van damme?
i call it... writers went mad on excess phonetics never readied
or introduced - except with magritte wearing a diaper
rather than a full james bond when painting.
i heard it was a proper heist to keep the police numbers handy,
i had it all tanned in argumentation for hued brown in the nordic
special; oddly enough no nordic special sailed for a sinking of the vasa
with predestination - airport was nice - we argued then -
we're not a continent of north harmonicas with jokes
between mythological four lead clovers and oak real canada threesomes.
well i was a continent with croatian and scandinavian,
i'm not originally a mc donald continent - although that 'MADE IN CHINA'
helps to resolve all future wars with the silkworm beginning:
rodeo in the haven of horse's burp and fall of the cheap spain due to tourism -
old continental had corrida - new continent has rodeo -
somewhere between the ****** and maidens came oceans elves for a bet on
who could write a horse out from riding into a blunt metal clasp of stirrup eager sounds:
or a twenty aged colt sounding like an eighty year old nail wrinkled with rust hammered.
blunt metal won, horse gasped for air, the ***** was taken home with stitches,
the maiden was taken home with a groom in stitches also, although
stitches of old age prior asked for in her meringue dress to suit: wrinkles;
but hey! there's **** in between! who's the loser, the aviator or the aqua puncture of thought?
but still augustus laughed it off with nero on the waiting list of possible re-encounters;
israel received the southern cicero of the roman empire,
while the rekindled empire got the north-eastern and northern part of
the unexplored without saints travelling elsewhere,
and for that it got implosions, with the schengen approval reminded
to cloister the leftists eager to holiday in syria on unesco cruises in sand and sheep ****
of kept marble - for that cocktail party convo, and next day article in the new yorker;
shame on you for using children to ploy en masse morality of guilt
to later reproduce the hydra with so much racist cribbing
of a seahorse riddling perpetual dynamos
as to imagine the future cot rock-a-baby-jihadi saladin:
the fire is in his own house, runs with a
              flaming matchstick to his "neighbour's house"
to start the fire rather than trying to put the fire out in his own house.
honestly? sounds a bit binary in bangladeshi.

You're a Street Map that has to be believed.
George Street 1975 then a jewel in everybody's  Crown, Mister K too.
Croydon had it all, the weekly Safeway shopping -
Grants , North End, Greyhound and L & H Cloake,
even a Manhattan skyline -
Shop girls  I was too young to know
a la W.H Smith's Whitgift Centre
with a surfeit of ready Queen  albums!
even the YMCA  
would have done Disco
B.T Express's "do it till your satisfied"
I believe,
and the always evergreen
Van Damme Bar.
The Tavern in the Town
fondly recalled.

They came from the deep sky
with conquest in their eye
not content with the trees
they were here to squeeze
us
Drove us underground
put us in zoos
wailing and gnashing our only sound
hairy devils they ate Gary Neville..
tried to eat Vinnie Jones
He ate them, burped, and spat out all the bones
"Oi! monkey breath!" his battle cry
He rallied humanity he would not let us die...
Got riled up, called in his Hollywood pals
started kicking-*** and seducing gals
Rowdy Roddy Piper and Van-Damme
left those flying monkeys
looking like chewed ham
They released mankind from slavery
saving us from certain doom
The Fall of The Flying Monkeys
in a theatre near you soon.....

Non ci sono dubbi .questo matrimonio rocce.E non solo perché si è tenuto nel piccolo locale impressionante conosciuta come Sedona.No .succede anche per caratterizzare un duo seriamente adorabile ( innamorati liceo .non meno ) .lussureggianti.fiori colorati da Jazz Bouquet e un ambiente sorprendente ( Creekside Inn ) che sarà una sorta di toglierà il fiato .Vedi tutto catturato splendidamente da Cameron \u0026Kelly Studio proprio qui .

ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsAl FrescoInnStylesCasual EleganceRustic Elegance

Dal Cameron \u0026Kelly Studio .Samantha ha sempre voluto un matrimonio cortile e Creekside Inn è salito per l'occasione con i suoi prati ombreggiati .impetuoso torrente e opportunità per la famiglia di stare in una casa .Fratello Brenan ' più giovane abiti da sposa on line .Kyren ( QB corrente alla Northern Arizona University ) .citato durante il suo brindisi alla abiti da sposa corti coppia che sua Madre è sempreè eetting a luièperè ail suo o quello.èUn abiti da sposa corti giorno fece notare a lei cheèeRenan non è mai stato in difficoltà come questo quando aveva la mia età .èsua madre ha scherzato di nuovoè uUST gemmeèe in base a Samantha e quel soprannome è bloccato .Sam ha sorpreso anche il suo sposo con un segno per le ragazze di fiori per portare Detto quest

Sam aveva torte Bundt invece di torta nuziale regolare e Corn " Poe " per il dopo cena tratta .La cerimonia è stata accanto al torrente impetuoso e cocktail hour appena sopra il prato superiore.Gli ospiti assorbito un cocktail chiamato " Sedona Greyhound ".Mi è piaciuto molto il menu lavagna grande come ospiti camminavano attraverso un arco per entrare nella parte cena tenda della serata .Per i giudizi favori Sam aveva personalizzato coozies a ciascuna regolazione del posto .Tutti i



nomi delle tabelle sono da ristoranti dove la coppia aveva fatto la storia !
Da Sposa .Brenan e io siamo innamorati delle scuole superiori .Abbiamo cominciato ad uscire il nostro ultimo anno e siamo cresciuti insieme nel corso degli ultimi otto anni .Sono andato al UA e andò a ASU .in modo da poter dire che abbiamo una casa divisa e ancora discutiamo le nostre scuole .ma amiamo quando le nostre squadre giocano a vicenda .Abbastanza strano.ma noi chiamiamo a vicenda amici e nostri amici e parenti sanno questo soprannome .Quando mia madre mi chiedeva se eravamo fidanzati durante l'ultimo anno direi "No .siamo solo Budds . "Abbiamo fatto riferimento anche l'altro come Budd e si è bloccato con noi .Ci piace cavalcare le nostre biciclette insieme attorno a Tempe e andare in uno dei nostri posti preferiti Four Peaks per afferrare una birra .

Fotografo: Cameron \u0026 Kelly Studio | Dress : Monique Lhuillier | Catering : Dan Bistro | Coordinamento : Van Damme Matrimoni | Fiori : Jazz Bouquet | Tenda : Partito Classic Vacanze | Luogo : Creekside InnMonique Lhuillier è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui

i do a pretty good rendition of vader’s cover of mayhem’s track: freezing moon.

i tend to forget what it’s all about the minute i think of it,
obviously thinking about something can’t make you doubt it /
esp. if you think in a way to deny its existence:
if something is doubted it’s not thought about,
there can’t be a doubling of anything like that -
if it’s... it’s denied... pushed to the back of our minds:
theme park thrills to deny gangsters and terrorists -
there’s no such thing as a cartesian “chirality” - whereby
the thought attributed to something can work
in the classical sense of *i think, i doubt, therefore i am
(cartesian chirality exists on the doubt v. negation axis).
it’s not being that’s doubted, but the consequences of undoubted thought:
that abraham did right, for example...
but it’s not really about that...
i was reading a part of plato’s defence of poetry by julius a. elias
and i recognised, there and then: my aversion to christianity
is due to platonism... i’m from the root of artistotelian philosophising,
not the platonic root... i couldn’t go against nietzche’s rebellion -
plato the boor... plato the bore...
why did plato assume all poets are liars?
why is it necessary to reveal the real of a potter’s *** making as basis for lies
in poem... and excuse a crap bit of pottery as above a really good poem?
as in the language of roofing... someone does a **** job and it leaks...
kiszka panie picasso... kiszka! brussel’s pâté! van damme muscles no more!
there’s a great point being made right on page 12...
i don’t have the original but it sent shocks right through me,
it’s the old chair and table fascination...
should we **** on a chair or **** on the table?
that’s plato to me... more **** than yawn.
it’s not about representing the chair as it is... that would simply
be boring... it’s about distortion, it’s about finding the self
in such a way as to provide a “callous” interpretation...
what would be the point of originality in the creative process
if it was otherwise - the gods created, man interpreted, and only that to
harbour existence per se?
we’re standing on the membrane of originality, given this world,
why would we suddenly comply to it without a “delusional” distortion
to ensure the self is encrusted in it? there would be no point
in such an endeavour... we'd all comply to 90º of the angle
and 100ºc of boiling water and london would
be the capital of hawaii... i.e. i don't lie, i just read a lot - more so:
i guess you get to be a plato supporter if you study philosophy first...
and not science...
i guess you get to be a disciple of plato if you start sheering language
to the bare minimum - the theory of forms...
but i like the telescope and microscope (autism) of aristotle looking
into a bog with tadpoles for spiderweb niches...
so the god of the jews beamed corrupt because of the ******* snipping...
‘looks nothing like what we originally intended!
what metamorphosis of the sword of his will give to rust because
it’s missing a sheath...’
thoth interrupted him - ‘guess what my people have done...
they trim the girls’ *******...’
‘tell you what thoth... i’ll go down and sort it out...
i’ll disguise myself as a burning bush.’
‘ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! ***** on fire! ha ha ha ha ha!’
the god of abraham to abraham concerning isaac:
‘don’t circumcise him! there’s a massive empire in the right top
corner of africa that’ll marry you and prove
i’m a god jealous of the others gods with your warring phallus!
the other gods just don't get involved!
i didn’t want to be involved in the first place, for *******’s sake!’
abraham losing the plot: ‘you want me to **** isaac?!’
‘no, don’t circumcise him! ah ****... too late.’
the whole story loses the medial aesthetic after centuries of
religion / being squeamish / 9am to 5pm / 2000 years of sunday being the last supper:
which is more viper confusion venom injection than the planet’s orbit
provides already: stop the carousel... stop the carousel!

I used to look up to you.
In awe of your actions, in what you do.

Used to be happy with us around. Your hate was nowhere to be found.

I wanted to be like you. A superhero uncle, that’s what I knew.

But something wasn’t right. While I grew, you’re in a lot of fights.

You drank a lot and had no job. The missed opportunities you let others grab.

You’re full of flaws. Where was this superhero? He looks lost.

Your life’s still a mess. Whole life’s a mishap, old and stressed.

The hero I look up to is human. Full of flaws, does he do what he can?

I grew up idolizing you. Now I’m old enough to be grateful I didn’t become you.

so that men at work song
land down under
is about a bunch of australian
backpackers
looking for jean-claud van damme?
i thought so!

I packed up and went to Montana --
a place that I'd seen once before.
Then to New Orleans, Louisiana,
by way of 90 South and skipping tolls.

I lost my logic in their lingos --
from Back-country boys to French Creole.
This gypsy man, he needs no intro --
he arrives, and then, in time, he goes.

Drunk and ******, but still standing,
like Van Damme on death row.
This silence is a grave reminder,
that death will meet me down this road.

In time, I'll find I've made my sorrow,
but I still hear you crying close behind.
Since you're the reason for my roaming,
maybe you're what it is I need to find.

the magic of advertisement...
it's not like i would drink the beer being
advertißed...
beer sure... but what's being sold?

i could be drinking a really expensive
whiskey... an irish whiskey...
but... i'm no ******* connoisseur...
give me the base-bust of the cheap ****...
and i'll rap you the drunk's
rhapsody...

        closet skeleton and king rat
that i am... not sycophancy prone...
the bass! the horns!
and we have, 'ere... something better than any
thelonious monk's big band jazz:
& orchestra...
it worked pretty well with the quintet
and the quartet...
jazz would never be so limited
as the power-3 of guitar, bass and drums...
you need the piano at some point...
and if not the horn taking front-stage...
because saxophone jazz is more
difficult that you'd be led to believe...

i mean:
i can stomach *******' brew more than
i will ever entertain: a love supreme...

the first one was a hit: to begin with...
the syllables of the three prince charming(s)
the bud frog,
the wise frog,
the err frog...

wiseguys: say ooh la la... say so... c'mon
c'mon...

coupon brigade! the adversts didn't want me
to buy the beer...
sooner or later i'd be glugging down a kosher's
goat slit of: the cider bottle turned up...
and gravity: did what gravity did best...
making the equal playing field:
no better acorn from the bad tree...
still the plateau of the impeding fall...

why would i buy more...
budweiser? they brew... making *******
from what the europeans use
to compensate the bland rye or wheat...
they use hops...
not from rice we were ever to be born...
but the advert cleaved into my like a mantis...
perhaps not because of the song...
but the frogs of the three syllables:
bud-wise-err...

  ****** rice... bleach and other detergent
fermentor *****-whips of beijing...
scared city and... believe it or not...
the vatican library was treated as such...
before the nag hammadi library...
was a chimera doberman and rottweiler let
loose... without anyone minding...

henry westons' cider... my... point of docking
to: two solid feet about to make a tango
into a patchwork of a waffle....

i could drink really expensive alcohol...
i could... to tease the buds of: spring without spring...
but... i just care about drink
and in that: i bring spring with me!
because i'm quiet fond of the drunk qui: une...
je and moi...
i drink and the imaginary drum-kit comes
out as i wait to: pressure listening to a beat
with my idle hands that are still waiting
for the devil to wake up from a slumber
as i click-click-and-wait-for-maggot-bait...
it's no piano: this alphabet of:
shouldn't we blind-teach the alphabet
as not: a b c d e f g h i...
and more q w e r t y u i o p...
and how: if you're not going to become
a juggling schizoid bilingual...
you need one tongue to speak...
two eyes to see and read...
and, most effectively: two hands to write?
since we've abandoned the concept
of hand-writing?

the sinkin sensation of throwing a stone into a lake;
breaking the mirror -
unlike throwing a stone into a river:
completely uninterrupted -
or a the sea -
faking faking faking: if only it was about
putting on clown make-up...

the sensation of throwing a stone into a lake
with it skimming / skipping before the anchor moment
of the SINKing...
while you remained shackled to the shore...
and the sand doesn't eat you up...
the forever standing wishing to fall...
the stone the heart... if only it was that easy...
the labyrinth the straitjacket of the mind
grieving... what's to be expected:
mostly it isn't...

i won't be drinking the beer...
god forbid...
once upon a time it was... down to...
the muscles from brussels...
jean-claude van ****... ****: van damme...
salute to: coors light...
the magic of movies is...
well... long gone... when the editorial process
took over with its epileptic editing
of scenes - multitasking...
what of the ol' movies and the panoramic
stage: lasting at least a minute...
before the horses... came into contact
with cowboy hats, the reins and stirrups!

british *** bonanza on: ****** ibiza...
or some other island in the mediterranean:
i was never a part of...
i could be drinking expensive *****...
and... love the taste...
but i'm more of a co-op whiskey brand
leech... the threshold is passed
and i forget inhibited sober moi...
and the price is... pointless minding
the same bass beginning...
i quiet like the drunk me -
no amount of anorexic champagne will
bother me: to...
do whatever is not necessary...

a twist then...
the current song chosen by the coors light
advert?
swimming in snow? no jean-claude van damme?

FooR x Majestic x Dread MC - Fresh (Official Video)...
will i be buying some coors light beer?
when the wiseguys came out to support
the graeae frogs: the syllables bud-wise-err...
did i buy more budweiser?
i was a teen... i probably did...
but then... i read the label...
you're making ***** from rice and not
a note of hops?
***** ching and changer blood bribe...

if i'm not going to buy the beer...
because...
eh... 18.66 stones on 6ft2... doesn't look that
much walrus... as...
a fresh cucumber chinese soup that all i've eaten today...
the better excuse is: thick bones...
but alcohol is... or becomes:
lazy muscle... it's bloat: but it's not blubber...
fat...

apparently 18K people know this reference point...
me buying budweiser or coors light is like
me buying fat-free yogurt...
not going to happen...
thank god whiskey is not supposed to be
meddled with "light" alternatives...

to have found oneself curating for the most
fickle crowd - happily donning the solo project...
to drink without a self to drag along...
to "later mention":
to be a shadow boxer or a stair-chaser on
all fours...
to be a meddling cat owner...
whatever the name is deserved...
the tombstone silence: an expansion of
a yet to be written epitaph by a stranger...
i imagine... and there have been several
graveyards i've visited...
finding a grave with an epitaph...
is a bit like finding a unicorn...
then again... there was a nietzsche and his
book of aphorisms...
which probably exhausted the chance
for a many a people to gravestone gravity their
past and currency of a present "now"...
with a escape from both names
and dates of birth and blessed death-day...
an epitaph...
but not unless you are on a diet
of someone else's maxims...
truths that probably never come into a fruition...
as: foremostly observed... too...
and secondly... in concordance of agreed to.

it's gone way past the late 1980s concern for the typewriter...
like russell crowe in fathers & daughters...
i could say: luckily i'm a man,
but then i have to have this phobia
of "being" prone to enforced castration...
or however that theory goes...
      and however much i look at
free-expression outlets,
   i just see more and more of the cartesian
libra weighed down
(way   ga ga d, ed, edited... sure
english is complex weight sounds nothing like
weighed, to say, down boy! down!) -
there's more of the "i am" than
there is of the "i think"...
like walking to a speed-dating event
and having the label: hi, my name is Fred...
so whereas the one ascribed to history looked
like this:
                                           i am

                           Δ

i think

the modern day picture looks like:

i think

                          Δ

                                             i am...

and then apply copernicus to it...
left? right? left of right? right of left?
               that's just pointing at the world and saying:
i had so much narrative potential in me
that i actually liked the mundane aspects of it being there,
but then "i think" outweighed the stressors
for an "i am"... we live in a predominantly "i am"
culture... beginning with atheism...
    atheism is predominantly an "i am" base
for the cartesian seesaw... that noun alone does it for me:
present-past... 1945 evidently had to happen,
and since western society is quick to slurp
that magic juice so quickly it gives them a brain-freeze
is all the more evident...
        great cultural impetus though...
i mean, i could listen to certain music all day
and feel nothing related to the obnoxious sound
of knocking on a door...
     like: knock knock... who who? bye.
the best "christmas" present i ever received was
by going into a music store back in the 1990s...
          and buying a movie soundtrack for mortal
kombat... because that game tells you:
from the game? a great movie... and music esp.,
street fighter? what, jean claude van damme?
stroll through the kew gardens...
       or trying to catch a mosquito's testicles wearing
boxing gloves...
                  but back in the day when Ilford shopping
mall had an ourprice (that ***** of a daughter of
****** megastores)...
        this one salesperson asked me why i wanted
the classical score to batman forever,
rather than the movie soundtrack with
u2's hold me, thrill me, kiss me, **** me...
      and i was certain: i need to play with my G.I. Joes...
the 20th century... looks funny now,
how we played with those pieces of plastic...
   living in the aura of both the Chernobyll
aftermath, and the Chinese State one child policy...
oh i wouldn't dare to call my life fascinating,
thought provoking or in need of a book...
but then i also think that the biography of
Don Giovanni is a bit stupid... with a life like that?
please... why write a book?
  such are the times, the concerns for "i think"
are out... outdated... never to be seen ever again...
thinking has become less of an identity basis
for modern man... than what concerns "needing"
to stress the "i am"... of that cartesian seesaw...
i am: blah trans blah cis blah atheist blah blah, blah...
me? i'm working on surds...
try to catch me talking into the internet...
last time i was using this medium i was wondering
why a website doesn't have ctrl + c block parameters
to enforce, even by moderate hopes, a case
for ©...
              and why _ and the * could collide
when writing ex_machina...
                     or that chestnut of deus ex machina:
now is the time more than ever:
   we made it, we can state a **** ex machina
arguments given we have such technological
advances... oh look... hello woman in tokyo!
i'll probably see more of you than my neighbour...
one word why i chose the classical score
for batman forever over u2...
      fledermausmarschmusik:
what's that? fleeing mouse-march music...
    or marching mouse music, if you're going to
chop the hyphen off and rewrite german, in english
like you're write it from left to right (in grammatical
terms), rather than right to left;
yet this is precisely the point,
  the serious stuff goes into the music,
even if the project can only be seen as a cover
that's the basis for infantalism...
  ah... that word always gets me "dyslexic"...
infantilism... t tee tea?
       english for you, king crimson and
in the court of the crimson king... dance of
the vowels... ******* demonic entities, wry from
the divorce of the grapheme adam & eve (æ):
which is hardly an æsc / ash, given it could
just be given a treatment of -esque...
    surgeon! es kay? risky! ah.... ha ha ha ha!
so using this medium like i might use
hairs off a horse's mane to play the violin once
stretched and kept keen in a bow...
    and paper comes from trees and glass from sand:
the mad ingenuity that could ever be exploited...
which means this really isn't much:
i spent the past hour watching a double rainbow
appear, and then disappear...
come sunset i was trying to figure out what to
call the colour of clouds that allowed the rainbow to
appear... is that plums... or bruises?
then you open a monday newspaper and read the headlines
that the internet is making...
  and thinking... Alan Turing? they really shouldn't
have ****** with you;
unlike some of us, who thank you for creating a world
where capitalism stands on its head and
some of us don't care for provocation or
book-deals... and... well... just find the whole
endeavour into writing to be relaxing...
       given that talking was never really on the cards,
or needed; so yes, thank you for provoding
the skrót.

every revolution requires
                       a caste of butchers...
the men who would
      drop the guillotine blade
with a set of morals,
or bascially, without  qualms...
    me? i'm not so *******
jew-ridden sensitive regarding
words said, or unsaid...
                i'm not m.g.m.
ridden, i'm not thin-skinned
like the jews, ******* have been
whipping ***** juice
for some time... now the cream
has turned.... sour...
oh now they're bothered,
smoke-signalling from
north america,
ejected from europe,
now they're howdy-howdy
proud-e...
         kippah for
a chinese soup bowl...
manage that,        *******!
what, your payots
not the vogue dreadlocks you
expected?
   go on,
twirl for me,
      fork a tangle of spaghetti!
you can can call me ****,
given that my great-grandmother
fed my grandmother opiates
to shut her up
so the nazis wouldn't discover
them on the front...
hell... i'll even shake your
hands prior to giving the *******
salute!
  call it!                    call it!
            let's dodge ball...
                      hard to see
the butchers;
   easier spotting fictional wizards...
never mind the herd,
the herd will always object,
they always seem to do so...
the butchers are never far behind,
neither is the guillotine...
      if the luftwaffe were prescribed
pervitin...
            i'm starting to ensure
an image of the butchers...
                    it begins softly,
with words...
          after the words die off,
        the jean-claude van damme
action flicks pick up speed...
                    women... ah,
what a suckling weakness...
   they love the word troll,
even though they're allowed to use it,
only on the basis of it being
  a misnomer...
                                    she really wanted
to write a bestseller book
              aged 18, retired at 35...
   ****... life got in the way,
meaning: other people...
                       ****, maybe next time,
honey-bun-bun-annie...
                          maybe next time,
    hopefully
  the next-to-near-to-never... again;
                  einst sollte machen es;
once again,
pardon english grammar written
in german...
   i just had to make a joke
out of the:
            gootten ęglischen achçung...
               die gut akzenzé.

ha ha! white priv? what about these black girls blasting more sensual song than a fat girl might in opera? i.e. blasting out the sensual, soul-fathomable sounds? white privilege? the **** is that? what about black priv? no black priv? really? so why these black girls singing double the standard, solo, of a choir of white girls? blah-ha-ha-ha!

not that i get to excuse myself
                                          that often,
but if i did, it would begin with
i'm beezee....
no, i'm not selling
      fake *fabergé eggs or rolex
wristwatches...
     **** me, i could do a whiskey
or a beer commercial,
   but then i'm no
  jean-claude van damme,
jenny and clarra will sort you out,
and yes, to me sweden = roxette
minus abba...
although i could be doing
all these things,
     orio orio oi oi!
      kil'oh a'f a bannana bunch,
two kil'ohs fo' a fiver!
              i could be doing that...
but then i can't stop laughing
writing this *******,
  not that it's fake,
   it the fact that it actually is,
   it was a magnetic approach
to the late existentialism
    accent of heidegger's dasein...
it has a place...
        no matter what the being
is about...
     at least it conceptualises
a sense of gravity, a grounding...
       a drag to the source effect...
beginning with kant's concept of 0,
namely 0 = negation...
    and heidegger's
         fetish for dasein avoiding
a worldview...
       what dasein is, will always be
newtonian,
       a worldview? alway in the hands
of the einstein correction...
       newton could never be a globalist
that einstein became...
   but look at it this way...
  the re-emergence of israel is *******
fascinating...
          2000 years of there-abouts
of the "idea" of a state having a clearly
stated dynamic of government and borders...
  ******* lazy leftist donning
   a keffiyah / shemagh /
niqab / whatever party-dress
                         at the laundrette...
              my country was sold
by the aristocrats to three factions,
the prussians, the russians and
  the austro-hungarians...
         it wasn't invaded, it was sold,
thrice dissected... thrice!
                that disney movie about
a ugandan femme chess champion?
          **** me, i dig short hair on a girl...
          war dogs? great movie,
best movie i've seen in years.
        the last king of scotland?
tell me you wouldn't want that
   cadbury flesh in your bed at some
random point in your night?
   well **** me, if i were hanging on flesh
hooks from my **** up,
    sure, i'd call a scandinavian ******
                     working in saudi arabia;
yep, tears go into a bucket denoted by (a),
   and male arguments / words go
  into a bucket denoted by (b)...
       the rest?
   well **** me, hopefully a good pop
song.