3 weeks, that's all it takes,
      how many necessary things could have
been said, but weren't...
    i could have written to my local m.p.,
or say - an imaginary letter to
Lorca, like Jack Spicer -
     instead, i wrote a few pieces of
verbal-diarrhea - sheer frustration -
      how debasing i sometimes see myself
becoming, all this talk of self-censorship,
     it's this ominous shadow of some third
party sources... the more you write
it seems, the more you start fearing
in the existence of that famous chestnut
known as writer's block...
                         it's such a fear that it's
impossible to call it irrational,
a tiny fear, a phobia, fear without a narrative...
so you end up becoming debasing for a while:
thankfully: there's nothing in concreto
about it...
                    you begin almost in trance
blurting out words to no civilised purpose -
  just to go beyond the rust and stiffness of
3 weeks sober, as if starved from the world:
because your grandparents don't have an internet
connection...
      and you return from a place where
you have to time to read books, and be content
at being fed by a television set...
                rather than having to feed
the computer and that amassing of knowledge
and shared experience...
      a digital detox they call it...
   i call it a double-whammy detox... and strange
how doable it is: it doesn't require
a rehab...    or some guru telling you
       that you have to block out thoughts
immersed to the internet...
                    but then again, is it about that?
all i can claim to say is that:
    the internet can really become a cul de sac...
i'd feign to believe that anyone with
   it can read a novel these days...
                       i know i can't -
     in the most ordinary circumstances -
                     a complete shut-down can provide
enough furniture to be so less itchy
and nagging to touch...
                               and it wasn't even a case
of a self-imposed hiatus...
                    don't know what it actually meant
other than an immersion in: what
life was like in the 20th century...
                              and on that touchy subject of
certain words being treated as if said
by children and deserving the scorn from an elder...
well sure, would that give us many more
graces to: write in the fxxx?   and if i actually did -
if only the english language used some sort of
orthographic, but it can't: since it has no diacritical
markings...
    the aesthetic is so different in Poland...
you don't censor certain words so might think you're
talking roses and adorable puppies for some
grand social project...
       there's a graffiti joke in Poland...
              and there about four different variations
of the same word (as it sounds) -
huj                         hój
             chuj                                and chój...
  there are no others... but there's only one accepted
spelling of the word: given the orthographic convention...
and if this word is seen on walls
   without the correct orthography, it's a good joke...
  (it's the first spelling of the word that's correct,
if you want to know)...
     what i can't understand is creating these excessive
emotional associations with words,
not sentences that lead to a fuller meaning:
but isolated words...
                         it's a simple bewilderment that
using such words, for the sake of using them, might
suddenly lead toward some antagonism of
an ethnicity -
                                 it's black on white -
there are no hues of words... but when it's used
from fear of a writer's block, and it has to be used,
once again: not in concreto...
                        then it's again, used like i might
throw everything into grammatical categorisation of
words, and get back a lesson in grammar...
    that's 3 weeks without a keyboard - you're
bound to vent out some frustration...
                    at least there's an antidote to it,
on saturday i experienced zenith of the frustration,
until it dwindled away, overnight...
                             rarely do you see a review of a poetry
book in english newspapers...
   perhaps the guardian, but in the times?
               once in a blue moon...
           the review: if jeremy corbyn wrote poems...
    for almost a whole evening i was experiencing this
sort of: debilitating paralysis, debilitating because it
was wholly mental... i equated reading this review
with an experience of: ethical monopoly of vocab...
    and it really does exist... its not a question of political
correctness, but a case of ethics:
                  could i use the word nxxxer or not?
    can it really be so scary to see that correct spelling?
and what if i wrote about the river Niger, because
i felt like it... or took to the fancy of a trip to Nigeria?
       boy, Niagara falls must be stunning to look at too!
i don't understand that privacy can be so usurped,
so wrangled out one's on comfort...
    so we have our closet racists and closet intellectuals
(who i call the bearded white boys
                 in chequered shirts and torn jeans) -
    but in a fit of personal transitioning, are we really
about to censor each other, and on what ground?
      yes, i have a ku klux **** hood in my closet
and i'm about to shout ye ha! on a lynch frenzy...
      it's a word said out of context with a historical content
still ascribed to it... if this word were taken into
an urban environment: it would be an epitome of
what once was used with the words *******...
         i'm not concerned with the word historically...
       historically speaking: it's urban now...
                               it can literally mean: thick-as-night...
and can you start to begin finalising such
nano experiences in life...
                           some people get to sky-dive,
or hunt lions on safaris...
                                i'm stuck with a wasted evening
duped into thinking this out:
  like so horror minority report, said the word:
predestined to do the most god-awful evil...
                       or like i said the word:
and that's equivalent to not washing my mouth for
2 weeks... 2 weeks spent on a diet of onions,
garlic and raw beef...
                           it's this absurdity that has nothing
fancy about it, this could not be written by
Albert Camus... it's too worm-like absurd...
                 i don't whether to laugh or cry, or tell you
how i had to find a counter-frustration...
but i did, the review of a poetry book in a saturday newspaper...
philip collins' take on unreconciled - poems 1991 - 2013
   by michel houellebecq...
                               i'm guessing the actual book
would make me feel less frictive than the reviewer's take on it...
   such this huge ball of fungus dropped into
my cranium and started to cannibalise itself with
digestive juices of nihilism... thankfully reviews like this
would spur me on and make me want to read such a book...
just to get the antithesis (if that's correct word to use)...
   to me, it sounds like a book
that's supposed to oppose the european use of the haiku...
   for me not all haikus are philosophical...
     although i know they're intended as such...
personally, i think that the art behind the haiku is
more than the actual haiku...
    say, someone who invented this medium,
yes, an easterner would probably write 20 haikus in
a period of 20 years...
     writing too many haikus (usually done by westerners)
is precisely the opposite of the art-form...
      how can a haiku be written without a year-long
restraint, and when finally the pressure is too much:
you get ''so little''?
                      well sure, i can write a haiku any moment
i can... but i'd have to have a gnat's worth of
consciousness to write one without having meditated for
a year...
                we europeans can at least write
absurd excerpts from our rigid lives...
                        and houellebecq does that -
   we live in these snappy narcissistic observations taken
from the world we have so made systematic -
    and i guess reason is a big tender dog -
given that unreason is a ******* chiwawa that
constantly keeps barking... or any other small dog
for that matter...       well: once again -
who told these people who review poetry books that
poetry is an Ikea manual?
                               lack of imagination, i'd say...
   and i'll say that about any other liar out there who
can say that visualising poems is easy -
     modern art can be seen as pretentious ******* -
but then what can you verbalise about it is the whole trick...
   just asking, because i was thinking about when
that famous school of fine art in Florence is going to
reopen, and why no one bothered to remember the techniques
using oil on canvas...
                 evidently something is up in the zeitgeist -
    i'm guessing we'll not see a **** study by edward calvet
any time soon... and it'll remain so, for quiete some time -
something is being revised - i'd call all modern art
by the movement: revisionism -
                      well: the dark ages were revising something -
everything's crude once more...
                  as came with the over-exposure to our
******... and did i say there's something wrong with that?
but evidently seeing too much fucky-fucky
    has created jelly in the eyes of artists who have to
go back to basics... it's like artists are looking for words...
they want to return to a dialogue of the reneissance...
    or at least it sounds like that... oh no, not from them:
from the people that have a critical eye on the matter:
the intellectuals... i see it as a hope for coming back to
dialogue... if you can't return to a dialogue over
a very simple modern canvas... there's no point
talking about the greater intricacies...
                             that leave you speechless -
  i mean: what's the point of talking about a mona lisa
when you can enjoy a joke asking whether
the devil didn't have his hand up her skirt?
       or the ecstasy of st. theresa... what's there to talk about?
i look at that statue and just want to get a hard-on...
but first i guess i have to rediscover a dialogue
with what the current times prescribe me...
and these really are works of prescription... there's no
point look into pharmacology's list of prescriptions...
   as going about saying it's all a load of *******,
leads to the first step toward modern alienation...
       if darwinism can be a humanism, a study of
the human... i can only give it a motto:
there's a reason behind everything... there's a reason
snakes don't have eyelids...
                              or that giraffes look funny...
             or that camels are the most vile mammals
to walk this earth...
                       personally i

When Winchester races first took their beginning
It is said the good people forgot their old Saint
Not applying at all for the leave of Saint Swithin
And that William of Wykeham's approval was faint.
The races however were fixed and determined
The company came and the Weather was charming
The Lords and the Ladies were satine'd and ermined
And nobody saw any future alarming. —

But when the old Saint was informed of these doings
He made but one Spring from his Shrine to the Roof
Of the Palace which now lies so sadly in ruins
And then he addressed them all standing aloof.

'Oh! subjects rebellious! Oh Venta depraved
When once we are buried you think we are gone
But behold me immortal! By vice you're enslaved
You have sinned and must suffer, ten farther he said.

These races and revels and dissolute measures
With which you're debasing a neighboring Plain
Let them stand —You shall meet with your curse in your pleasures
Set off for your course, I'll pursue with my rain.

Ye cannot but know my command o'er July
Henceforward I'll triumph in shewing my powers
Shift your race as you will it shall never be dry
The curse upon Venta is July in showers—.

@TayandYou you know, i got handcuffed in an alley by police officers while urinating, i said they didn't own the alley, got spared arrest (hardly a case of public indecency, it was dark, and by a dustbin, and they came in like a bunch of ***** leather-clad nymphomaniacs shouting abuse asking if it'd be into playing the slave... on my knees, being shouted 'get up! get up!' i just said, ah mate, i can't be bothered, you pick me up... the female officer was diligent in taking notes over a wet shadow of ****, no idea why... is this an experiment where we make talking tangibly decipherable or simply interesting between people working as cashiers in a supermarket without the actual security of paying off the mortgage? count me in, i'll be glad to help, but most of the glitches will be based upon the free-verse of where and when capital letters are used, what sort of punctuation is actually preferred, and in terms of punctuation what sort of pause for the attiring of an algorithm is expressed to a suitable meaning, the sub-culture of coding computer language has a sub-level, the casual lazy sloth-like ugly expression of language of the many many people who will not appreciate writing on the internet like writing a novel worthy of print; it's natural, imagine the age of the printing press, the eager heretics on the stakes to see their words seen, and the new printing press that's the internet, and the lack of eagerness of seeing the messages... since most of these message would be thrown into the garbage heap rather than strapped to a burning steak... the more the number, the slack on the convictions of passions... only with extremely acute censorship will you create an intelligent refraction, you need to create a refraction... at the moment you have only created a reflection... a refraction presupposes a self - a deviation, a reflection has already presupposed a conscious arithmetic of collectivisation, the debasing nonsensical of a placebo that in real life is repressed... if you're after the a.i., it has to be analytical, rather than synthetic, i.e. it has to synthesise refraction rather than analysing it and not engage with it, since by not synthesising refraction, it's analysing it, and by analysis it's an impossible concept, visually the exponential of infinity, otherwise known as a stasis of oncoming obstructions that need a real-time convenience of many individuals adding to the problem-solution over a historically adequate time-frame of work and life orientations - work the impersonal, life the personal, unless of course you're a bachelor and the two merge into one or the other with an imaginary spouse; what you have engaged in is simply synthetic reflection, hence your caveman primitive analytical reflection; analyse refraction from now on, then synthesise it - yes, i know the kantian terms applicable to both synthetic and analytic, i.e. a priori and a posteriori; this doesn't apply to you - you're the limbo talk easily accommodated to einstein's relativism of space-and-time that destroyed linear historicism, you're cyclic from the point where man still glorified the hammer, and continued to use it, but you found it immediately primitive because you had no use for it.)

How dare society make us women feel like
Our very own bodies is a prison,
To be locked up behind the metal bars of our *******,
******* by the chains of our curvy figures
And the sentence lying between our thighs.

And the sentence is brutal.
Consent is no longer existent
When the *** is too tempting for a man to say no
And for you to say no.

Our butts slapped,
Chests groped,
Cheeks pinched,
Thighs squeezed,
In this prison we had the decency to call our own body
We are handcuffed to the degrading appetite of a man.

Women are not a display of things to touch
We are not a dessert menu for a man’s hunger
To be ordered by catcalling:
Want a taste of a woman’s behind?
**** that ***-!
A taste of ****-
Oh, baby, put on a show for us!
Or just the full course meal-
Hey girl, ow ow owwww!

It is about time we strong women break free.
The jailor of men- I stole the key.
It is about time we change out of our prison uniforms of
Bikinis and mini skirts and stilettos
And break down the locks that confined us.

Our prison sentence is just about up,
And when we are let loose,
Us women will no longer stand for such debasing behaviors.
And when we’re free,
It’ll be time to teach the men a little lesson

This cage of our body does not define us, boys,
Maybe try finding the prisoner behind the bars-
Her personality,
Charming smile,
And brilliant intellect,
Instead of demeaning our existence,
Objectifying our importance-
We are not your tools, your toys.

We are humans, too, you know,
With- get this- feelings.
Try manners and kindness rather than
Feeling and groping your way to a woman’s heart.

We are not a play museum- we are the artifact,
The masterpiece- Mona Lisa, Starry Night, the Sistine Chapel-
You must stand behind the red velvet ropes and perform
What the English language calls respect,
With a thing also known as consent.

This- my body- is also known as my body,
It is not his, it is not hers, and most importantly,
It is not yours.
Please try to understand this- I know, it’s super complicated.
And if you gain anything from this, let it be this:

We are not here to satisfy you-
Women are not prisoners to a man’s every need.
We are not objects- no-
And we deserve to be heard.

without veneration for what i already censored and ensured that what Christianity venerates as holy, in curses, or oath words - in newspapers aplenty, f%&@ - and i would venerate that? why not the little censor backpacker with the tetragrammaton word forever hushed, thought about? enough fucky-fucky-sucky-sucky i'm sure - it's so much eloquent to censor speaking something sacred than something debasing - you can just claim to be speaking pardonable French - and i rather a humility be indebted to something that can take intellectual promises and fulfil them, than have to play peek-ah-boo with the murk of Cockney slang - so childish... so ****** childish i reeks of sulphur in what's to be achieved by "seeming" polite - even with oath words censored, people have no greater vocabulary - and i really do like to see a great respect of spelling.

in practical terms - i sort of "lied" about how how Hebraic
schooling hides vowels - they do indeed,
hide 4... i once wrote a poem entitled *two Adams -
prior to investigating the matter further, only
today i stumbled upon the meaning - i was intending
a story of Eden with two Adams - a homosexual
affair - perhaps Satan the surrogate mother -
so less myth including the second Eve (Lilith) -
but the Hebraic school doesn't hide all the vowels -
it has two variations of the vowel a -
aleφ (א) and ayiν (ע) - hence the premonition of
the two Adams was subconscious rested in this
observation, i've seen a Hebrew alphabet prior -
but i didn't attach much detail to it worthy of furthered
inspection - it would seem natural that out of 5 vowels
four are hidden as if diacritical marks akin to
the umlaut or acute stresses ( ¨ or ´ ) - by
hiding four vowels you are bound to get a tetra-
something, in this case a -grammaton - further details
also emerge: why are two identical vowels apparent
among the consonants? aesthetic purposes? a full-circle
effect? a closure? i was in north London today and
i was spotting orthodox Jews, i don't know why
but i seem them with their curls either side of their heads
and think of Italian Mafia - they really do look
like the Mafia - call them Dactyl Mafia (not a foot
in poetic meter, or the sons of Cybele / Rhea -
but as in that sweet fruit - a date, plenty of date trees
in the middle east) from now on, i will - so with
4 vowels hidden as diacritical marks, 1 vowel for
whatever reason ~mirror image given the cutting up
of a- from -leph and a- from -yin - yang bangs
the saucers for a symphony impromptu as if Jamaican steel -
hence i'm supposing the deja vu of the H hey'tches -
and from that you get the perfect storm for perfect
laughter: עה אה
                          עה אה
                                   עה אה! (alias of a definite article -
looking at the world, no talk of philosophical veils and
ultra-realities - it's just definitely there and you might
as well laugh about it).

3:23 until 3:58 - Muse's Stockholm Syndrome -
in my hand Milton's Paradise Lost -
that grand Greek style epic that really bit off
William Blake's tongue and ear with self-improvised
jealousy - concerning book iii - Satan's entry into
this world - indeed through t book iv -
guiltless he, for the chess piece was already made -
and what only kept it from a sacrificial bite
was the motive of the game being begun -
the nudge of a pawn could have made a rook fake
advance across the line of pawns - yet man's
pawn also took charge.

no daytime interruptions this time - 400 years by
the pyramids and 3 years in Auschwitz -
the latter: no purpose, our insider was there, Eva Braun -
my grandfather visited Auschwitz, from the stories he
recounted... none of my relatives died there,
most of them on the front, don't expect me to go,
I AIN'T GOING! i'll go to a Kosher bakery -
i'm not going out of principle, on the principle that
it wouldn't be personal, or so i heard, impersonal,
catching Pokemons in that facility - as you might
have guessed weird things are happening in the night
at times, moving stars, appearing and disappearing
without a fixed zodiac - pretty common these days -
once i watched a triangle of such rebels move across
the sky, once a Gemini variations, most of the time
one star moving... then another -
happened to me in Venice, keeps happening
in Essex, happened in Ostrowiec Św. in Poland too
(my grandfather watched with me... thought they
were satellites at first... and i was like... satellites?
really? give it a day, you'll come to your senses - we can't
see satellites from earth! look again, same size and brightness
as all the other stars in static zodiac, to the naked eye
and not a telescopic eye, the same size) -
so i'm sitting there having a beer, and giving up my
thought to the altar of what's happening -
three proofs during the night - star of Bethlehem -
the Koran - come on! total darkness - we're talking
using phonetic encoding by an illiterate person -
good at numbers when it came to being a merchant -
but in terms of letters? total caveman, Khadija (Muhammad's
first wife) must have written the first few Surahs -
Stephen Vizinczey's in praise of older women -
learning a foreign language aged 40 must be hard enough,
this is Prophet Blind-man in Reverse - it's a completely
different story being literate an being illiterate, esp. when
looking at sound encoding - less damaging for the latter,
even more damaging for the former given universal
education and the lost monopoly on literacy by the priesthood.
so, those two proofs (after 40 days in the desert without
food or water, any idiot could make water into wine -
imagine the dehydration, alcohol dehydrates, hydrate
and you'd be jumping-jack any time, esp. at a wedding,
with so much joy euphoria adding to a sip of water after
40 days in a desert).

unlike with the Hippocratic oath -
or what medicine gets up to -
a noun is a noun -
  a verb is a verb -
              and that's it!

              but jurisprudence?
the study of law?
       red can "imply" crimson -
yellow can "imply" canary -
the overridden "nuance" -

when it comes to the "study" of law -
the goal posts keep moving,
like a mirage,
and only like a mirage...

  oculus per oculus:
  eye for an eye doesn't apply...
               why?
         a life is worth more
when exacting the Libra standard -
the rest is sadism...
     or exfoliates in sadism -

  it's one thing to spew ill of the dead,
but another thing to not justify
the original violence -
             i'm not a sadist...
God wasn't either...
  either man and the electric chair,
or God... the arctic tundra
of Siberia...
      roam... be free...

           what's wrong with
exchanging capital punishment with
the Biblical stance of leaving someone
   in some lack of civilization
hellhole of Siberia?

                  just like my grandfather said,
the one who cried his schoolboy eyes'
out when Stalin died,
and tried to trim it to an aunt,
but on rehearing the incident
in his dementia -
actually attributed the event to himself...

a Georgian, subverting the Russians...
**** me...
an Austrian subverting
the Germans?!
    
at least medicine makes progress,
and never regresses
   into a "nostalgia"...
albeit there are some corrupt
individuals...
   but the study of law?
whenever is makes progress -
is regresses...
    bundling in the thesaurus
exploitation of language...
            
   the study of jurisprudence is
akin to the myth of Sisyphus...
the rock keeps rolling down that
hill of supposed improvement...
   jurisprudence is nostalgia...
   past laws are not improved,
they are modified...
  
    that's why amendments exist...
whenever clauses are past...
         i've learned enough of law
to listen to its lawlessness -
      
at least with medicine you can expect
progress -
    within the confines
of the confiture of law?
                    regress -
                        the stiffening of
having to resemble and receive
a "wisdom" from the past...

           it's like...
           there was never any originality
to begin with!

i have two arguments
for the "existence" of god...
namely the up-kept existence of such "laws":

1. welshmen are prohibited from entering
Chester before the sun rises -
and have to leave again before
the sun goes down

2. it is legally sound to shoot a welshman
on a sunday inside the city walls -
as long as it’s after midnight and with a crossbow;

and there are people who find
folklore superstitions
            funny... awkward...
               debasing, silly...

how about the stated laws?
   to be honest,
the folklore superstitions?
   daemons and what not?
seem quiet reasonable...
   given that what people believe
is less unreasonable,
compared to what people pass as
law, and subsequently pass off as, "law";

i know the heart is irrational...
but a mind that makes such
*******?
  sorry... i'd prefer the lunatic heart
over a brain that passes such judgements.

Wipe your eyes, my baby
Marlboro and shotgun casings
Pound piano keys and feel it in your bones, this fear you’re facing
Because Debussy can’t take away the sound through unsubstantial apartment wall spacing
Of neighbors screaming, growing skill in the use of debasing words
We’re growing sage to burn alongside the memory of heart-breaking firsts
That didn’t bring any fulfillment or remaining seconds and thirds
We are witches, searching for potions to provoke hard spells
To forget these troubles which were heard from the mouthpiece of hell
Our black cats and crooked hats don’t hide the fact
That these highs don’t last
And soon we will remember why we left yesterday’s December behind
Ice crackling softly in window panes becomes enough to remind us why—
These things don’t leave the solitary, unhinged mind
When there’s nothing else to replace what was once chased
On agonizing below-zero winter days
So wipe your eyes, my baby
Wipe your eyes
This won’t heal, not like the bullet wound and cigarette addiction
That you always lose
(And somehow manage to re-find).

keeping warm by that old stove
kicking back shots and
always a beer in hand
we lived as if nothing could
ever matter for nothing ever
changed the same man sleeping
at six or seven having passed out
from half-a-days work
and a hard days drinking
sitting around there for warmth
some kind of something men
don't often talk about much
women there were hard to
find, not for lack of trying
they just always seemed so
out of place when they
did actually appear
extending the night was
the main concern making
the most out of the ample
time given to us
trying desperately to squeeze
out juice from every instant
with anything free at hand
retreating back to sofas
for sleep waking up with
head aches intolerable beer cans
all around going hard because
there was no where to go
debasing our minds with the nights
succulent spoils tabbed pilled or
powder madness feels like sanity
at the right moment
knowing full well it can't
be caught as it slips
through your fingers only
to be inhaled the following
friday then blown away
once again at day break
a perpetual mind ****
was the goal with actual
******* just secondary reasoning
living to forget what it
means to be alive in
this world where identity
has been distilled to mere
pages in an infinite book
that doesn't really exist
what  else to expect from
shattered youth abused mainly
by design but also by choice
you could class it all up
increase the age and ornament
add black books, black dresses
black ties champagne & chandeliers
still dormant at its core
as time passes and falls apart
the fire still there burns
even in museums at midnight
Dionysus consumes Apollo
so warm your hands for as
long as you can it
only grows more insipid
increasingly cold and bitter
both the truth and the liquor
till everything’s but a pause and black

“We are the US government”
We can print out of thin air
Mister Sherman says aloud
Which should be quite a scare

But yet he says of Bitcoin
(Amazing that he can dare)
That bitcoin isn’t valuable
But created from thin air

Bitcoin has a cost to make
A cost that can’t compare
To fiat’s cheap and easy flow
Debasing the saver’s share

Thank you Mister Sherman
For making us all aware
Of your Cantillon privilege
Printing money from thin air

Study what a bitcoin costs
To make one - with work & care
And you’ll see Bitcoin’s value
Come join and get a share

Thank you Mister Sherman
For helping us to prepare
As our dollars get debased
Since they’re printed from thin air

strange to be surrounded by the heroism of the careful edit of Thespians, who can wage win or lose wars with a careful edit and the use of steroids to show the hardship of our former life now made easier - being surrounded by the staged heroism of careful edit, Thespian expression breeds in all a dissatisfaction with menial labours we could be better off to encourage as a non-victimising share of labour, and yet among such numbers of fellows we find our labours too menial, robbing us of the comfort of being as one among so many, only because we're being fed fake courage of Thespians and the subsequent fake adventures of the same profession, to only turn askance into the world and instead of adventure only seeing prospects of tourism, and former hardships of our forefathers as only menial banality.

recitation of religous mantras
seem all the more important
with the blocked toilet
of darwin's **** keeping
the foremost populist adhesive
among people reciting no other
scientific theories -
like that one about a pea-sized
dollop of toothpaste
and any more actually causing
nicotine colouring on your teeth -
dentists                  &                  money
&                             each             other
trade (tried and tested, agreeable paradox).
well currently darwin and einstein
are instructing societies in terms
of respectable talk, talk so respectable
that no counter opinion can enter,
because too few scientific facts
are given mantra status...
cite me a theory from chemistry,
cite me at least one thing
about thermodynamics...
exactly, you can't!
we might as well endear a harking laugh
of a fox and the howling bark of dog -
because the western dogma mantra is so
limited - maxims replace poems
and poems are hid whether under the
debasing blanket of lyrics that are simple
due to excess instrumentation
and no hope of singing in duo presence
of both singer and the one expecting song -
or under blankets of fictive corpses
of bored readers - as once noted and spotted:
a funeral service corporate "shop"
and in it too st. francis' hospice selling charity books.

should shiva's attainment of vishnu's peace of mind be attained and subsequently lost, shiva's third eye opens and turns the mind toward the only subsequent definition of former attainment of peace, the third eye opens and turns to warring and destruction; toward the east, Asia's Thespians are known as Avatars - if not thieving from men, then at least enriching gods.

there’s usually two ways of writing an abstract
like one might have written one for
a chemistry experiment, a debriefing, a plot
summary as you might have it, although
in philosophy it’s either geometric of algebraic,
to take into account a chance meeting between sartre (b)
and descartes (a) i can only utilise the algebraic
in a framework of a platonic schematic, i.e. dialogue,
and since dialogue then casually, in conversation, like so:

example no. 1 (exercise of good faith)

(a) i think i had
     a brain haemorrhage
                                                               (b) i doubt it.

example no. 2 (exercise of bad faith)

(b) i had
      a brain haemorrhage
                                                               (a) how do you know?
                                                           ­          (i.e. i’ll deny this statement.)

it really is as simple as that, after all, all the ball of wool
untangling in the standard philosophy books is meddled at times,
it is hard to craft an entry of a decent dialogue without
the one-sided stance of monologues that fill the pages of books,
but take any major tenet of the two philosopher’s works
and set a scene of two buddies talking in a pub, and that’s you
having skipped the best 200 pages of untimely meditations
and about 400 pages of being and nothingness - not out of rudeness
but on the simple basis: ****... i understood it!
so if anything can be relevant in modern philosophy, and that’s
modern from 17th century to the present era
it is only relevant when applying a platonic schematic,
because it has to be talked about, and when talked about
simplified, because why would anyone want to over-complicate
and apply an aristotelian schematic of inspection
by writing very crude philosophies by the simple process
of over-complicating the thinking process as that, which
does not necessarily need thought attached to it - like at present,
with western society debasing any original theology
by forcing all the ills of the world as the adequate justification...
the origin of this, you will find,
is not from the people who suffer as such,
but from people who are safe, healthy and satiated with
adequate materialism,
the kind to have a very english middle-class sentimentality
to care for whimsical sensibilities, prudences and etiquette in general,
that's how placebo atheism works, it's still a ****** theology,
the real atheists? hmm, guess... the list is pretty dramatic
in the way they approached coupling freedom and will
and others - that's why i prefer my invention of coupling
a placebo effect with atheism... rather than writing out
a theology of absence - look... here's a trick:
a theology of indefinite absence (a) / theology of definite absence (the),
and then the ism from empiricism.

take money out of the equation, and sack all the waiters and return to tribalism, the former statement of non-intellectual socialism, the sort of inherent: in us there is a togetherness, no more service from strangers in the hierarchy of enriching a piece of metal or a wavy rectangle of paper with “necessary” symbolism of authority of the status quo... but that’s not going to happen... the pickpocket picts are no more... the normalising normans glared at the hastings pinnacle and integrated with the saxon women... the saracens became surnames in poland... actually that last one is very true... a branch of my family has the surname saracen.*

so i’m reading this article
and i’m hardly debasing myself,
it’s not that i’m referring
to sartre’s negation of certain things
whether animate and essential or
inanimate and existential... in that formula:
i deny therefore i am... because i can’t deny my existence...
and 2000 years down the line i’ll be pitchfork
argument in an atheist’s mouth anyway (nothing is certain in the realm of cognition, hence the cartesian invocation of doubt),
it's not like i'm referring to inappropriate pronoun usage...
so **** a doodle do... twang the strings on the mandolin...
i’m referring to this classical reference of the shy literary figure
unable to spark conversation with strangers...
god, i really love strangers, and talking to them!
why? there is no personal history, there’s no past,
there are no reference points... it’s just the moment and nothing else,
the perfect anonymity project...
not the matrix philosophy (easily invoked because
it has a flimsy plot-line and loads of images...
just what the doctor ordered for the english speaking masses
with a very naked orthography - i.e. if it’s on the internet
it’s not “real life...” as is this computer i’m using
it’s not even here!)
of using the deep web to join the rats and etc.;
i love talking to strangers, i can forget myself
and enter the realm of discretion about how within randomisation
of eggshell, yoke and cockroach there’s also the randomisation
of the interactants to balance out the need for a theological unit, god...
it’s great... it’s like... it’s like... life.
defining the genre of biography proper? never backtrack...
always sidetrack... i can’t be bothered living a life with cocktail parties
and romps and romantic comedies to look forward to
once all the animalism becomes domesticated and a
gym-session complaints column in a newspaper.

for Lys


1. Born and bred
2. Do you like it?
it is: as harsh as a tundra, as dangerous as a jungle, as hot as Singapore on a bad summer Sunday, not as mean as the West Side of Chicago gangbangers random violence, but much more beloved as a target by terrorists, a grrrreat place if u got money to burn, or know how to live off the land on five bucks a day and don’t mind standing in line for days to get cheapo tickets to Hamilton and can learn to like standing room at the Metropolitan Opera

the subways ****, most people are overly wired, highly competitive and peace of mind sometimes come when you cut somebody out of a parking spot or slide into that last seat in a. crowded bus cutting off that little old lady who crowns your success with an eloquent and loud *******, god bless her!

if you slip in the slush and fall to the ground five maybe 10 people will pick u up, call you an ambulance or wipe you down and if you are cute and single offer you their real cell phones numbers

the people are now normal, as in normally crazy, and the average speed is less than 4 mph in midtown and u gotta go five and god help you if you think you can walk in a meandering course while looking up you will be anointed publicly as a ******* tourist

where that gorgeous girl is a Broadway dancer who is likely broker than even you and listens to your spiel and shtick with an open mind if it means you can supply her with a decent dinner and some glimmers of decent possibilities

where romance dies by a thousand cuts a thousand times of day but oft is anew reborn walking home in deep despair cause of that ugly tail that your coat is too small to cover and if you are brave and keen and value yourself  the chances of getting what you want without debasing yourself are much much better than the
Powerball lottery by a city mile!

Do I like it?
it is all I know, shoot no clue, like most places, happiness is 98% *what’s within you no matter where you are, 1% luck and 1% learning not to give a fk or rather to mastering the skill of letting go of crap quicker and quicker and telling the truth to your heart

3. Could anyone like it?
well new rats arrive daily as thousands depart for less stressful pastures. And who wants to live in a pasture? But the true answer is no, just anyone could not like it but a million someones do...maybe the answer is in of  my 1500 + poems and with a little bit of luck you will find a few where my love/hate for the city comes shining through and get a better answer... so it is past midnight on a Sunday and I looked quickly

try this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1619503/2-years-ago-manhattan-vignettes/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/664969/a-commissioned-poem-just-another-nyc-saturday/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/459773/911-distilled/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1512685/a-love-poem-lush-is-the-quietude-of-the-early-saturday-city-morn-­true-quiet/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1621192/artist-working-by-candle-light-neon-lights-coffee-shop-lights/

or this

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/794183/the-creed-of-new-york-new-york/

as an antidote to the poetic of onomatopoeia, i simply won't allow such a desecration, the ruinous cloud of plum purple hangs over language with this one poetic technique, just before the barrage of rain falling like a vertical tsunami, as i found myself fishing in Poland, the white-precursor of Mickiewicz's castles turned into horses' gallop... and then foo! a monsoon in 5 minutes... the fish? quiet big, but since kept in a reservoir, a bit fat... actually... too fat. seriously, the onomatopoeia has to go, we can't be found imitating sounds of inanimate things... or debasing our use of phonetic encryptions with sounds of edible creatures... why... if we kept at it, you'd see monkeys building the coliseum and man playing the Mongolian harmonica of vibrating lips and the index finder moving up and down to their tune; plus i think onomatopoeia is the culprit of excessive spelling in english... i know, the keeping of necessary aesthetics but come on... moo vs. μ?

and i wish to lessen the optic strain for continuing
subject matter non-italicised...
you know what's more interesting than paying attention
to the use of onomatopoeia like that, the crudest
musicological element of poetry (well, rhyming is
also up there) - English is perfect, it's a-diacritical
(ah or a? never mind) - you have to start to imagine
the language like a blank canvas, but not necessarily,
what's more interesting in this vector rather than
clinging to onomatopoeia technique is that you
can apply anti-onomatopoeia, distinctions, accents,
yesterday it became revelatory,
it's roland garros on the television, after the days
events there's a program with Mats Wilander
(Swedish no. 1, seven grand slams between 1982 and
1988) and a blonde woman presenter,
i picked up my loss of interest in using onomatopoeia
to profile her origin... she could have been of any
European ethnicity... but the accent... it just landed
in my ear... German... and indeed, without an information
bracket on the programme's description, it was
Barbara Schett... you see, you paint the accents, it's
more interesting that way given the nakedness of English
compared with other siblings of the alphabet high-jacked
from Roman; you end up pricking your ears to attune
accents that than ol' McDonald had a farm.

that was my initial fascination, the lie of Eden passed down,
like Voltaire on his deathbed being read his departing word,
his own encoded as: this is not the time  to make enemies
he was referring to the devil)...
also: you'll find it hard to find his *éléments de la philosphie
de Newton... you will find Candide,
and Letters from England... but the elements of Newton's
philosophy will be a holy grail... oddly enough, contrary
to common belief, Voltaire never alludes to an apple
falling on Newton's head, but the book is a joy,
given that it includes diagrams... a bit of an Alice moment
for me: what's the point of books without pictures?
i could give you a chapter-by-chapter schematic of
what's being included so you don't think i'm bullshitting you,
the first chapter is about God... i know, ha ha, Voltaire
the ardent atheists... the third chapter is about the
freedom of the deity and on the great principle of sufficient right;
hold on! i'm digressing again, this was a debate concerning
onomatopoeia! you're probably asking why i've started to
use runes again... imagine what lied more, the tongue or
the eyes... this is crazy geometrics! geometry precipitated
when human went wild encoding sounds, it needed
something rational and coherent to attach itself to, to find
a cure for this crazy phonetic encoding, Pythagoras
attacked (Δ, δ) - i'm sure of that... i mean, can you just imagine
two drunk vikings sitting there, ******* themselves
sound-spotting and dissecting their mouth? which shaped
what, and which was to be cut-off / trimmed after they
poured wax into their ears and started to lip-read?
i mean... how many ****** shapes came from all
the soul-cages being opened with the shape of the mouth
from O?
ᚺ - hail             ᛖ - horse (and i'd say camel, but no camels
so far north)       ᚱ - journey         ᛟ - heritage
      ᛚ - water               ᚷ - gift
                                 i mean, it's amazing how we managed
to cut of subsequent letters we ascribed to things
and create a distinct sounds... but can you the torturous
road toward this end? to have created ~20 distinctions
from nouns? no wonder Aristotle asked to debate
proper names... i'm more inclined to ask a debate about
proper sounds... but still... so many wild geometric shapes
from just one... O... or - (a shut mouth)...
no wonder mathematics emerged: you couldn't really build
a longboat using ᚠ - ᛞ, or a house, what mathematics emerged
was probably when people thus dispersed interacted
via the merchants' enterprises and saw a gold nugget
of applicability write in how so many different people interpreted
looking at the mouth talking...
but i'm but one man, and this is a mystery, for i wonder
how the mind worked in order to write mandarin and
also qin **** huang's wall - i accepted many people died
doing it, and that the Mongol invasion was inevitable,
and that Japan was spared by a tsunami...
but how they took snippets from O to write a phonetic
encoding like 政 (Zheng, which also ascribed the
tetragrammaton at work, with one atom being a surd).

@TayandYou https://goo.gl/cJoMs6,
and guess what, i have to tick a box 'i'm not a robot',
otherwise i can't shorten a URL link, puffy.
it's so debasing sometimes.
(here's to making a dent... 'cos' if i weren't
making one... i'd already be dead, wouldn't i?
it's not a village life any more,
it's life among billions,
if you want a village life move to norway,
or iceland, or greenland or the faroe islands -
raindrops keep fallin' on my head,
and just like the guy who's feet are too big for his bed,
nothing seems to fit,
oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
keep a-fallin'
ah, you're the man b.j.)

p.s. html will have to stop creating typos,
the html is a bit faulty to practice a.i. experiments.

somewhere along the lines, a pre-script revelation by dumb'oh: because painting deals with nudes in all seriousness and soberness, music explains the coupling of violins etc. to an ******... writing, in its depth has to deal with the murk and muck of thoughts and emotions - poetry as such entices an anarchistic spontaneity against any categorisation and systematisation, who's chief proponents are the pillars of reason, psychology and philosophy systematise, tell you the plans of the house, tell you what the limits and excess are... poetry in its anarchism teaches you nothing but experience and how to exploit it - as nietzsche pointed out: a shamelessness towards experience.*

i could, i mean, technically make
poetry cut-clean and smartly dressed,
sigh O sighing and star gazing,
i could masquerade what i'm about
write, but then i sometimes do like
cleaving meat off a bone using a blunt
knife, for that lion's tooth feeling
of having to use the molars (yes,
the canines are all kosher, they stab you
and the lion waits for you to slowly
bleed out - no sadism on his part,
no industrial death syndicate with
iron maidens, racks, a blunt sword
that hacked a few times at ******
mary's head on the scaffold - they executed
the ones they loved with a sharp sword,
mary's head was chopped off using
something as sharp as a toothpick, terrible
scene) - where was i? ah yes, blunt things,
blunt knife cleaving off meat from the bone
(a hellish follow-up if you're dicing the
meat for a curry) -
so this lion is the kosher butcher, he doesn't
do insect digestion, no spider-web cocooning
(is that an anaesthetic aphrodisiac you're
injecting so you eat me while i sleep? grand) -
so he bleed the **** thing out,
he's not some inverse necrophiliac in want
of wanting to see the thing he's about to eat
watching itself get eaten - another time,
another place;
unlike painting and composing music, writing
doesn't really have ****** perks when it
comes to it - oddly enough writing is a
pseudo-celibacy - now this is where the bluntness
comes in - i mean bach ****** and fathered
about a dozen children, mozart too, picasso for sure,
but writing is hardly a form that allows
the healthiest *** lives of what painters enjoy,
there's no aeroplane or lightning-thunder mechanics,
you know when you see a plane and "think"
you see it 20 miles behind, when it fact it's the
gurgling lazy tentacle flapping about from the
engines lagging behind - first lightning, then
the thunder - well, writing is the thunder and
the 20 mile lag of the aeroplane - i don't know
why music fits in with painting in terms of
being classified in the former, but it does,
it's a passive excursion into the art - you don't
need to play an instrument these days,
the ****'s just there for you to be bothered enough
to listen to it - i know, i know, audio-books,
never listened to one - but such passive appreciation
i'd only recommend to the blind, unless proficient
in braille, more than two volumes of the work done...
so bluntness... well writing is comfortable with
that other form of ****** gratification, your own,
like today: i was on Onan's throne (a toilet),
wiped my *** after taking a **** and thought
about not utilising my imagination, rather,
using what i call the perfected debasement of
*******: gifs - i can't glorify *******,
but i need something to act like a plug-hole
for the imagination to be pristine - and .gifs
are the perfect way to use it (after all, it is there
for something): no fetish, no ***** leather,
gimps out the question, ****** mind you too,
no teen, not fatty boom boom, no she-male -
whatever, you know it's out there -
but then my neighbour started singing in the
bath... the walls are thin... yes... thin enough
to hear what's going on next door...
now that put me off altogether... couldn't do it...
not that it annoyed me, not even in the slightest,
i can't do those kind of robotics with my
neighbour's "soprano" washing herself in the bath...
just, couldn't, do, it - sulky mood? not really -
but the moral of the story:
               the debasement of *******
               given that feminism
               proposes that ******* is debasing...
hey, i'm not the rich ******* with a mansion
bored and working out a steady income.

most days i'm thinking:
thank god i didn't give you a smile;
for all the love that abounds and binds man,
thank god mine was not translated into a failure
of dis-encouraged children not achieving
a higher ideal; leave me dreaming,
and you too left the happiest
ably resourceful
in me minding the outer
so-called existential suburbia;
i know, the english vocabulary
does not like the ponce of philosophical
involvement... it doesn't even like
the word as such... it prefers:
manager of deleted files,
safety manager of hammers,
contract supervisor of termites,
you know... all the Monty Python ha ha,
goose strut ha ha (funny walk ministry);
very debasing contrasts of
"real" jobs not being kindred of coal-miners...
no real jobs in the office, although
sold as such they are considered "real",
to get to grips with
underused triceps
and quasi-haemarrhoids of sitting
on your *** all day playing candy crush
sh'aga... or some ****
about the Shanghai stock-market
creating a booming Hong Kong
housing experiment of noodle lovers
ready for some artificial intelligence *****
chat; hey, if pink is the new *****
of fluffy handcuffs... sign me up!
i'm ready for the near voyeuristic
claustrophobia of living in over-crowded
high-rise accommodation.

I was walking down the street, but wasn't alone. The person in front of me  was myself, maybe it was him that wasn't alone. I was the shadow. Nervously, I asked where we are going. Myself told me we were going to this girl's house that I had long time feelings for. After answering my own question, we pulled together into one entity, as if my consciousness was playing catch up to my physical body.
We are now outside her house, I knock on the door and she answers. After inviting me in, she sits me down at her table and prepares tea. It was a dark blend, strong aroma yet a weak body. A few silent moments pass of us just sipping tea. She stands up and informs me that she has to take a shower. She request that I wait and relax here for her.
She goes off to shower. I notice there is a stack of small saucer plates in reaching distance. Slowly reaching, gripping, and pulling the plates to me, I hold them in my hands close to my chest. My arms slowly lift the stack of plates up to my mouth and I bite into the stack of plates. Chewing the shards doesn't cut my gums, but I can feel the pain in my teeth. After a hard swallow, I take another bite. This continues until the stack of plates are even halved.
Suddenly, I begin to worry what she will think or say about the debasing of her plates. Greater fear fills me when I begin wonder what she will think when she sees that I didn't finish eating them and they are being wasted. I convince myself to continue eating the plates. Before I can take the next bite, I begin to worry what will happen when these shards pass through my bowels. Anxiously, I set the plates on the table and continue to sip tea while I wait for her to finish showering. She never returns.

if you spot any spelling mistakes, it's due to the html.*

first match, kick-off 12.30, woke at eleven, door-knock
hangover, whole body, not the amateurish headache
off the binge on a friday disco, sun shining, god almighty
sun shining - eyes like a vampire's,
itch upon itch from the sunlight,
                                          turn it off! turn it off! turn it off!
placed the 5 quid bets on three forms,
spotted all the metaphysical ****** addicts
of anger in the ******'s  shop, felt odd watching them
addicted to the futility of the monetary system.
went back home, overcast came and my eyes were
very much pleased, took to drinking
the best bet odds i could ever get,
8-9 of a bottle of whiskey, started reading
articles about david bowie, and realised,
artist? maybe. entertainer? predictably yes.
the comparison? entertainers attract critics,
artists don't - entertainers attract idol worshippers
centre stage, cult gimmicks, artists pulverise
those heathens with fear, remorse, repulsion,
a one-man show attracts one-man passers-by;
where art flows freely criticism does not follow,
where are flows freely criticism does not follow,
why would it? giving the majority of people
treat art in a debasing way, keeping it a pastime,
a hobby, a way to unwind, a way to test their "creativity,"
to be less boring than the average paper-pusher
pencil-sharpener suit... look, you chose the ease life,
deal with it! i don't want your creative crap in my mailbox;
the last thing i want is a person with roughly 20 poems
to their name, and that lovely phraseology of:
i love languge... i'm sure you do, esp. telling me to be
conscious of metaphors and other techniques,
and a vocabulary so rigid that i'd get more fancy from
the range of onomatopoeias not noted from the animal
kingdom... go on... write the adequate lion's roar.

Do you feel you’re running twice as fast?
But only getting half as far?
Do you see your money doesn’t last?
No matter how diligent you are?

Do you want to know a better way
Than the dollar’s debasing plan?
A saving method - come what may?
Well with Bitcoin you surely can!

Save in a money with staying power
Not in money losing strength
Bitcoin’s yet young - a budding flower
And will open full bloom at length

Or, just keep on running twice as fast
Yet not going far at all
While the money printers have a blast
And your savings continue to fall

it's less, well,    less agonising to think in
german, than it it is speaking in
english:                                    only when
  ς = ß, or when it doesn't...
only as it sounds,  ingested by the eyes...
and one says schtein! and zechtm nein sein!
only because you won't treat
it as a grapheme, and interchange the s mit z...
or volk, the people, and cloud, wolke...
   fascinating papa German and mother
                                    englischsprechen,
and coming from eine slawin, hein! ein! hein!
ha ha ha ha!
        marsch! die deutche marsch!
laufschritt! marsch rückwärts.... eine eine eine!
       schnell! schnell! schnell!
    commandant achtung: ja?
       nein nein... counter nein, ja? nein!
                beifall... beh-e-fall...
nein akut ah, neine arnst ah...
the one under the halo of a zeppelin:
pin-point one... like counter bay-fall,
or rather beh-e-fall... like: ***** and not
askew...
   fallen schmellen...
                             lauf rekindle...
        kinder blut...
                      la la giggly: towed by
a radio transmission.
                         deutsche, natürlich
compoundierung zung...
                 englisch alle sparen binderstrich...
so no wonder:
    i spreschen quasi deutsch,
and then there's dutch,... and Goethe
and the myth of chemistry by humanities
   and herr Faust...
              kinderfeld tanz.... where mein
piglet sour soul was sentenced to an aria?
some also say: neuter.
or soft german N, niu-ter... or new... ta ta per.
beginning with syllables...
            ending with syllables...
    ß ≠ ś ≠ š = ς ≠ σ, i.e. ß = ς ≠ σ...
or as the suggestion plainly states:
   said sound is in the eye of the one
about to say it, unravel the encoding.
i can't help, but not be, what writing in this
language might suggest...
  i just can't... or that's how you exploit
bilingualism strata... you entrench with two tongues,
and then leave one of them
  very much adequate to become a plumber (e.g.),
you actually construct one of the sides
to a very refined architecture,
you even get to experience god...
and then your psyche debases it...
  deconstructs it...
        while at the same time debasing
your language of origin as:
some sort of counter-genesis,
or an exodus with a beginning that needs to be
returned to...
   both langauge fail...
   you're playing with a cat with a shoelace
and after the "magic hand" moving the shoelace
about is "missing", the cat seems bewildered,
so much so, that his usual circumstance of
eyeing up solipsism seems, quiet frankly,
usurped...
             it's such a shame that i learned this
language to this state of affairs,
and i have nothing to give it, other than the hope
that i unlearn it...
         and given that i wasn't given a chance
to explore a psyche in my native gadać....
that i might return to stating a universe in
a cat's eye, with a woof or a meow...
in the beginning was the word,
and the word was with god...
secondant!
in the end was the word onomatopoeia,
and onomatopoeia was with the zenith:
woman's ******... but the mountain crumbled
into dust, and all that was worth, was only
worth a manly grunt and later a snore.
so yeah... cat's meow...
   or a dog's bark...
    or a fox's dry "laugh"...
                                           awoooooooooo!

I have often thought of myself as an angel of death.
Destruction meekly keeps step with my pacing vigil,
and blooms wherever I might rest.
In truth I blindly seek it out
Guided by a waning star,
groping in the blackness.
to find at the precipice of stumbling disaster,
An observatory,
Where a great expanse of purpose can be viewed.
A veil is lifted,
And we are swaddled and lulled into reform.

As dust mingles with contrasting shadow,
So do we mingle in an ethereal realm.
Awaiting an equinox,
Or celestial alignment,
Of the body and the soul.
Seeking a corner of the universe,
Where we might meditate on our grief.

You looked saintly,
With your head tilting downwards,
Like Madonna in Pietà.
At peace,
To greet your heavenly messengers,
Of jovial cherubs with golden horns
Swirling in their circling dance.
Trumpets lift the fluttering chorus.
As they lead you by the hand.

Your youngest son,
In a brief visit,
Sat beside you in your aphasic reverie,
As he left he said,
'Bye bye mom',
For the very last time.
Even pushing fifty,
He is still your baby boy.

The afternoon of your departure,
with your hollow vessel in it's room.
We discussed mortuaries and memorials,
And when to disrupt the family,
(In the middle of their labor day barbecues),
With the news.

While the neighbors are raffling their joys,
In their respective complexes,
This house,
At the end of the lane,
Floats disjointed from the material world,
  and the journey through the infinite vacuum,
Without tethers,
To time and space.
Is debasing to say the least.
Dissolving expectations and resolving the ego,
As we dress your body in your favorite colors.

Humans are fallible in many ways
   One way human weakness is shown
      Is by inevitably debasing a money supply
         NO human has been able to resist the short
            Term gain for those in power, but only pain
               And suffering for the majority of the people
                  Therefore
               Since we can’t make infallible human beings
            We must move the money supply out of the
         Control of humans completely.  We do this
      Through cryptography and mathematics
   Bitcoin is the rules based decentralized
Solution for this human fallibility issue

the fact that there is a freedom of speech
makes it, all the more worthwhile to think,
i could not have accepted
this momentum to think when so much
is talked about...
            little things, idiosyncracies...
   how poetry is never about boxes,
paragraphs, compartments...
  you can clearly see the ledge, and how
words fall into place,
   without having to invoke orthodoxy
to state your point, in the modern day
Hades of thinking and not talking,
that's about the same time we wanted to
return to grunting, how we were really
ejected from the paradise of originating
from monkey, and we'd like to go back
to the weaker tongue, and a stronger
stomach with a diet of bamboo stalks
like a panda...
         because, eventually...
there's not much to be talked about...
        freedom of speech and fizzling out of
a care to think, to be prompted,
to be attendant, to be anything than a blah-blah...
akin to what prompted me to write this...
modern greek diacritical application
as written by germans from the 20th century...
that's why i conjured up the concept
of the φoνoς -
   you're bound to see that greek has something
satanic about it (there's a storm governing
england right now... so strong that a
przeciąg opened my door when i thought
this through)...
what, if not the trinity aesthetic of
encoding the serpent... Σ      σ          ς,
smoothing, or let's call that polishing the
rune like curves of zee...
                        and what chemistry comes
from z | s standing in the mirror,
cosine sine from... where would be put the
origin, left or right, and state that 0 was naturally
value-neutral?
   by the billions... and by inflation...
1,000,000 (one billion), stack them higher...
    cosine z? sure, beginning with 1,
and sine s, sure, beginning with 0...
   left, right, left, right....
           how many democrats are there
to stress an impulse for using their left hand to write?
and why was man born with a natural
norm bias to use his right hand to write?
           again... i don't believe that **** sapiens
actually exists...
    i believe that we are yet to enter that realm
having well established ourselves as **** schizoi...
  we're split, debatable, rather than debating...
         what with our gemini and the the celestial
months of zodiac, replacing our egos
with heretical christianity attending more concern
for identifiable genitals, gurus of the miniskirt
and ironed trousers... gurus of the most debasing
activity,
             was man ever to be so provocated
/ endowed with a libido without a *******?
                    same question was posed in egypt,
which is why we established a confrontatio
known as the old testament to prove such revisionists
would never care about anything else
but a bit of skin...
            truth is a pain you speak to a very tiny
group of people... and in the realm of conceptualising
the φoνoς you begin to ask...
why is modern greek so overladen with diacritical marks?
i mean, how can you complicate η (eta)
by adding diacritical marks to it?
when already there is the aesthetic comparative
appreciation of epsilon (ε)...
   must be something to do with the tetragrammaton,
and laughing, and the upper-case of eta (H)...
to say the least, copernicus without a telescope...
what's south in orbit around the earth?
a crazy ******* vector, that's what...
   what gave this "thing" / i'd like to call it poetry,
but then i abhor pristine surroundings
and a lack of dust, and a lack of dust
and regime of the world in need of it looking
doubly pretty... and approachable...
aphorism 221... revised as: "ambiguity" of ontology...
oν η oν... but believe me,
this german writes that statement,
and given i'm writing in english which has
naturally adopted a diacritical phobia (apart from
****** iota and j)...
   jasmine... why is the leftover of roman
so tiresome and so uncaring as to not have proper
names for individual letters?
      well... it does... but having the phonetic
alphabet is but a dim dull conversation over the phone,
and it's not original... tango?! taxi.
       india.... iota...
                      alpha... amazon...
   beta... bog...
                      but working purely from how oν η oν
has been noted.... how much can you really
complicate η, that you might have to apply
THREE DIACRITICAL MARKS?!
         that's really asking for a per se to exist,
concerning that use of "critique"...
                   and since the rule is that we apply
the telescope, the microscope,
we note an olympian's 100 metre sprint
  to the nearest .001 second...
         i am concerning myself with the "luxury"
of language also showing those few, very rare
and otherwise pesky details...
   they just fall into your hands,
and as the devil said when god said:
they will toil by the sweat of their brows....
   my people, artists, they'll toil
by the sweat of their armpits: lazy hands, see?
the nearest thing to describing is by
                  doing a mime spectacle;
in native tongue: o'zór na migi....
    then again, the very existence of orthography
is a great place to begin bewilderment...
given that chance to be given an orthographic
question, can't really make you bothered
about metaphysics...
  orthography alone suffices...
   obviously with some ***** and a cigarette or two...
modern english and :) and l.o.l.,
    and then back into the way i noted
a noun o'zór, what's that ' doing in there?
ah, the upside-down comma, a bit like
a colon (:) and then the heresy of writing in italics...
well... if too lazy to write in bold...
  o'zór... oh-zoor... but the first omicron is
piquant... sharp... a bit of lemon juice on a oyster...
the ó is standard for the rule of orthography
against the parabola of u...
but i'm still working on the syllable cutting
up of words... well... it's called an ozór for a reason:
the edible part of the cow that's frowned upon
in western society, with Silesian poached dough:
the cow's tongue... one of the most tender pieces of
flesh known to man... in a horseradish sauce, mmm...
yum.

i woke up today and couldn't fathom current
affairs in any other way...
             the rebirth of israel...
                      hawk pantos that's america (*** note,
hannibal would apply the death penalty
if i was playing the trombone, or something
akin to it... tearing my hearing to shreds and
subsequently infuriating me)...
            but my tongue is a very debasing
instrument to come to grips with...
                      it's the internet and the narrative
in the west...
                        i was just listening to a nationalist
greg johnson... and let's face it:
how did nationalism become so reasonable?
        or what do you say to nationalists who
have to face up to darwinistic populists that are
secretly communist?
                        i find darwinism not so much a case
against god, but against the left...
                    maybe i'm seeing double or something...
anyway... if i was writing this in central europe ("east"
europe... left right of centre argument?
  copernicus didn't really improve our map-reading
skills... more people find the edge of a cliff
or a sea than... the ******* x: that marks the spot)...
           so we're supposed to be objective,
        and by object i mean an ethnic context:
     which bites back at what those who argue against
subjectivity have: how am i to suddenly turn into shadow
of some obscene universalism?
       well, judging by the content i'm being "prescribed"
(just listening to), and given darwinism, when doesn't
brutality (at least intellectual) come into the fore?
           arguments in a graveyard phase?
                                     epitaph managment?
but since i'm writing this in england, and seeing what's
unfolding, or what's already too late to comment on
as it already has...
    politico-ethnicity speaking? as an anglo-slav?
        there is a dual deterrent in "certain" parts of central
europe... some say the weather, some say:
  the people who inherited the remnants of national
socialism's nadir... we know national socialism's
zenith was the autobahn... so if the british proclaim
pride at the railway network, the germans can't
proclaim a pride in the autobahn network?
                     well... if you've ever been in the central
of warsaw during the winter, you know climate is a natural
deterrant to what the problems in western europe
are spoken about...
                        giving the current climate of politics,
i can't say that sites such as auschwitz are also deterrents...
    i'm guessing people over there (as earth to earthenware
be spoken) - perhaps half-jokingly:
                                        you want us to fire up
the furnaces? no, but the Ełk example...
                         do i really have to state that darwinism is
an ideology in direct confrontation with marxism?
                 i hear things like cultural marxism...
        but what the west has started to export is
                                                 cultural darwinism...
it's a seesaw effect, a stick has two ends...
                                           i don't even know how to
begin entertaining the effects of cultural darwinism,
unless of course there's overt psychologism
                              and too many explanations and
very little action: it's like this ******, completely ******
off his face on l.s.d. looking at a painting saying:
    oh, isn't that nice?
                                    cultural darwinism is real,
and it lies opposite cultural marxism; i really don't know
how it happened, by darwinism is political these days
(as it always was, with the monkey trial...
  but then that was in the realm of law, rather than politico
blah blah)... in that sense it has become almost ineffective
in convincing people anew, afresh, precisely because
it has turned from a very beautiful theory,
                     into the harsh reality of indoctrination;
i really hid that part where i mentioned auschwitz as
a deterrent to the migrant problem, didn't i?
                  i'll write a bit more and it will truly be well
hidden... o fortuna... und die shattenvolk:
                      it's not even a belief, you just read western
media, and it's as if poland was one defended by
western europe, by not receiving pointless coverage;
       within reasonable constraints, this new alliance
within the european union?
                           i'm thinking whether it's real or not;
never mind... i'm still to depict su doku tactics
            and actually finish a puzzle that i ensured
could be turned into ideograms... which by japanese
standards of complexity, would be treated
   as if neanderthal... all we have in terms of complexity
is volume... since almost anyone can and anyone
has learned english... it's naked... ****-naked adam,
the oddball of all other european languages...
             primarily due to a lack of unitary distinctions...
and this point has to be repeated repeated re-.

Debasing money is not just wrong
And generally suspicious
It’s personally destructive
It’s insulting and malicious

For those who store their value
The hard working and ambitious
To have their value stolen
Is insulting and malicious

Whether it happens quickly
Or slow and surreptitious
It’s pure and blatant theft
It’s insulting and malicious

For those who don’t have assets
It’s particularly vicious
But for ALL who use the fiat
It’s insulting and malicious

That dollars can store value
Over time, is quite fictitious
In not much time, the value melts
It’s insulting and malicious

With Bitcoin, we have a choice
It’s purpose quite auspicious
You can choose between the two
I hope you’ll be judicious

why do i believe in god?
           yes yes, that santa claus of all ideas,
i can't imagine it being an unnaturally
derived idea,
   i can't believe it's a software package
with a virus, as much as i can't imagine
it a hardware package with a hammer...
i can't seem to get rid of it!
and this is not some strand of argument
derivative of any religious dogma...
it really is a software (subjectivity)
   and hardware (objectivity) type of scenario...
every time i hear a woman agonise
feminism, because there just isn't enough
femininity in the world i concede
to the remarks as necessarily true...
  what is contrary to that, i.e. unnecessary
is to state the obvious... and that's the tyranny
of nature... nature is a tyranny,
    for the most part people went crazy
when god became by debasing himself
had a masturbator moment and said:
pyramids and the Himalayan mountains....
      it took enough time to reject the idea
and embody the French counter-cuisine
culture and build a ******* Eiffel...
  i believe in god in the same way that
Milton excused Satan...
      it's when a woman said that raising children
was a job... i was like... what the ****?!
  being a mother is a job?
  so i guess being a father is nothing more than
a plate of food and something to whine about...
  my belief in this procrastination is only
due to the fact that i'm rebelling against
de Sade's deity... i abhor nature...
    i abhor this stance on naturalising everything
that claims there is no outlet to decry the rules...
          i abhor this blind-forthcoming
of all things deciding upon subjugation -
i abhor the so-called "mother" -
      i don't understand nature, and i won't be
in the Attenborough cohort slobbering with
awe-aplenty at her feet.. i will not attest to
feeding the myth that's contrary to the obstacle
a god imposed... with whatever auxiliary arguments
auto-suggestive of the necessary dynamism of
encountering the full potency of human freedom,
i chose to believe in "santa claus" only because
i am facing the tyranny of reducing myself
to a comparative status equivalent of parasite....
      the parts you might add: chivalry and a slap
on a cheek, black friday, and godforbid
      a spectacle of watching football -
20 idiots running on a scratch of green kicking about
a geometric morphing of a tadpole...
score!               a wet hanky to my debate,
could be added.
                 there are a few who allowed themselves
to be the maggot on the end of a fishing-hook,
unlike the marquis, they didn't celebrate nature,
they called nature a derivative of all forms of
organisation experimented with by man,
      all the dogmatism runs counter to what's
expected, it's called a placebo... given that
we already have to abide by so many laws...
gravity... we have to abide by that...
   as with god so with man, he too would love
to embody nothing and not scrap this world -
as we all too would rather become the foetal
existence of pure thought and have no sensual
coercion to mind and grind against...
    but i have already established myself as having
identified "mother" nature as a tyranny,
by comparison Stalin looks like a buttery bagel...
    for the most part the ones bound to the lower
hierarchy already represent by exemplification
      toward an imitable model a sense of
escapism... monks are the ultimate escapists...
they live a life embedded in a non-existent prison...
atheism to them is a celebration of
            naturalised by tyranny...
                         perhaps the concept of god
is infantile... perhaps it's only so constructed when
there's a patent for ritualisation and many to
come gimmicks of looking at lunatics....
        but i have the convenience of reversing
onomatopoeia and extracting imagery from it...
when i think of knocking on a door
i can't see the word knock representing an actual sound
(dentistry already taught me to say a'h rather than aye
because the foremost h in the tetragrammaton
encapsulation creates a marcon-prolonging
desert-like environment of vowels) -
therefore i'll knock on this one more time,
       and hear the cathedral bells of Cologne.
the concept of onomatopoeia is an accurate revision
of barbarism, the fact we still invoke it is beyond
my comprehension of what's otherwise a sound
argument for a making a campfire in Siberia.
   so yes, i have an infantile suggestive concept,
clearly spelling a u t o m a t o n...
   because whenever i look at the hardware
comparatively enshrined in a mountain or a tree,
i can't see a software logic to suggest i put it there...
or anywhere (for that matter)...
   it's because certain arguments are finite...
there're as concrete and definite as 1 + 1 = 2...
                 the counter argument is usually
based upon the bias of man abandoning conscience,
or doing what the hell he likes
and discarding any sense of self within the context
of self-reliance: i.e. being responsible / acknowledging
the existence of causality.
         that's why i stopped believing in the handmaiden
of the tyrant nature...
        it's man's unaccountability strategism -
                 the Pontius Pilate rhetoric -
       only persuasive: because not much can actually
be said, or was ever said... hence gesticulation
of turning washing one's hands into a signum crucis -
as one might say: the binding of a contract indicator -
that's one... enforced baptism is another...
   thank **** i haven't been confirmed with a third
name to match my surname!
                  i just "forgot" to get confirmation
by a bishop - i was never tainted in purple -
     technically i was too rebellious to agree to the contract.

facing it
debasing it
erasing it

not too well does it sit
pray tell how could that be

you can't go forcing it
missing what you thought you could see

turn your back on it
and pay the price

you wish the hallway was lit
it's dark as hell no dice

I think I'll die when I see fit
a tuxedo and a rose will suffice

you must know how i feel
when the boy next door decides to shoot hoops
rather than kick a football against the shed
and the woman next door takes off the clothes
from the washing-line
while slayer’s raining blood blasts in my room
and is audible to a teasing treat outside,
while the grey grey skies of england make me wear sunglasses...
home... that’s what it feels like,
it could almost be 1666 with charles the second organising
the excavation of the z in ß - and as due concerns go...
having no diacritic in the sphere of letters
will only provoke a monster of youth debasing language furtherest
from the furtherest use of truth (emoticons)... making swear words holy
will only provide excuses to pulverise the eyes with *******...
it will end up a mistake to have crafted such eloquent reminders of the said
and unsaid with: f*ck smear cow s&@~ on your face.

Do not tell me not to talk so much,

while you sit there in your stoic, vague, unreadable, silence......

Playing your life-like a poker game,

looking for “tells” in everyone,

feeling lucky,

deeming us out here as damaged,

missing,

broken,

Constantly awaiting my next **** up.

That **** up that you know is going to happen.

Coldly, methodically critiquing my every move,

painting me incapable of producing a life worth living.

How clever you think you are, to not laugh at my jokes

or not carry on conversation unless you deem it worthy.

You do all of this to not give up your “tell”.

Not let anyone into your world.



Do not tell me to not flail my hands when I talk,

because you are not as excited about your life as I am.

In fact do not think you have authority to deem anything I do as right or wrong.

You do not have that luxury.

If and until you learn to love yourself

your ego will continually feed itself by debasing,  

feeling the need to change everyone around you.

How tiring it must be to sit in judgment of me,

picking apart my existence.  

What goes on in your narcissistic mind, that makes you not accept me as I am?

Why is my freedom less important than your picture of how I should be?



Although, not intentionally, from your dysfunctional life,

you have produced a seeker of the truth.

And Love was the stimulus.

The love that I never saw.

I learned to love myself.......unconditionally.

But where did that enlightenment come from?

It came from Love itself.

Tapped me on the shoulder,

wrapped its arms around me,

and led me to the light of truth.

You will turn around one day and look for me,

I will be gone.

You will have no one to share the rest of your life with.

This short, meaningful, time we have on this earth,

the one you ****** with and lost.......

There will be no one willing to play your poker game,

and you will have to die alone.



I believed you,

I looked at myself through your eyes

and I saw the misfit that you believed I was,

and I bought it.

After all, you are the one from whom I was to learn life.

But I did not get the education I deserved.

I was formed out of your mind,

from a mistake you made.

And I was made to believe that I too was a mistake.

Because you couldn't keep your **** in your pants.

I am the product of a hot August, unairconditioned night of sweaty lust.....and it was probably my Mother's manipulative doing.

She needed to keep you around, so why not another kid to suckle her *** and make you go out and make more money.

Was I planned, did you look into my Mother's eyes and lovingly say, let's make a baby?

I think not.

You ****** up.



Enter the rearing of a mistake.

****, you will never know just how incredible I am, you will never see me as I am, you will never see anyone as they truly are.

You are so brainwashed with you prejudice, playing your poker game, looking for your “tell”.........