Chapter **
Decalogue

In the absence of Vernarth's transitory, Sardinia was still burning with lilting water. Already rejoining the plasma from which he saw him depart, he continued in the liturgy with monophonic ideologies, characteristic of trance as an element of his regressive parapsychological transfiguration. Already divided into various personalities and entities, he could have almost been instructed to leave for Piacenza and join Raeder and Petrobus to set sail for the Dodecanese to expand his duties with Saint John the Evangelist. He meets with Etréstles and the participating comrades that when he arrived at the refuge in the morning, everyone was asleep, except Etréstles who was starching some sheets of bread dough for breakfast. Meanwhile, he had sacred fire heating with sacred water for everyone. Vernarth approaches and Khaire tells him, he answers, a joy to see you.

Vernarth says: Beloved Brother Etrétles, I have already taken the notations to begin the decalogue. Today in the afternoon we will board the Sailboat and leave for Piacenza. We are in the final offering. In the Izanna tower, I called upon the powers of the Universe to present them, and I was commissioned to make notations of the Decalogue of the souls that Live in all the ages of time and its vicissitudes.

Everyone starts to wake up, look at him and say hello. They sit in a circle to enjoy breakfast. Meanwhile, outside the shelter, the horns felt moving to the rhythm of the minutes. In such a way, that the last sound of the Doric scale that the storm segregates, will provide the beginnings of each one of boarding the float that will take them to the pier of Cala Cogone. Everyone says goodbye and hugs each other, Vernarth and his brother says Khaire.

Decalogue I                  
Hanael
                                      ­      
Generosity transformed into a crowd. Many stones co-exist emanating the sweet energy of Hanael, and among these is the Onix, known as the stone of truth. Whose objectivism was dreamed of the Value of generosity in its maximum expression in the courage centered on the very vibration flower of the Gerbera, along with its sober goats of the reign of the heights? Hyperkinetic foot and ascension to spiritual psychic growth, which is the real emblem and symbolism of all the virtues of all the planes, the history not traced, or the memory that is mentioned.

Two unicorns alone will be reached by the ****** who will numb them with the perfume of her purity and her chastity, the reason why she will be related to the ****** Mary and the incarnation of her son Jesus by hugging them with her cloak. The Unicorn's single horn is an emblem of the spiritual arrow, divine revelation, the entrance of the supernatural into man, the sword of God, the opening of the third eye, whose vision is projected towards the ends of the angelic world. Hail Regina Sine Labe Originali Spectam.

Decalogue II
Saint Gabriel

Vernarth you tied to a tree with canvases draws himself to the Angel in his name meaning "God is my strength". According to the Abrahamic religions and Judaism. As a result, she became known as "the messenger". Angel Gabriel continues to have a role in the world, helping both parents and human messengers. Blowing the trumpet to announce the return of the lord to Earth.

In his mediumship, the Archangel Gabriel inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. From which this egregious Vernarth Travel Wheel is not exempt until it is consecrated in Patmos as a sacred and lay reference of a spiritual being in gestation. From here he will cultivate the dignity and the Abrahamic mothers so that they can accept their body, awakening in the souls the scriptural power and communicating vigorous forces, which facilitate overcoming fear and lack of decision in life. Sponsoring God's messages to those who worship him.

Vernarth violates the Xiphos sword's decree to shed blood, but rather to purify the gesture of shedding Faith that cuts hopelessness. United in the Templars gripped by their fellow men of the spiritual warfare that never loses, that is always ready to the limit.


Decalogue III
Two premises

From the first two decalogues, the third is born. Both by the glow of the first reactivates the other, which is a rectilinear light that surprises the dark light that tries to invade its luminosity. At very meager kilowatts, the years that separate the times of adding more vestiges of transcending on moral exercise unfold from intertwining; in such a way that in periods of frank over-excited navigation, the energy of the spirit is advanced, only measurable by the actions and intercommunications of the Angels and Archangels.
"Decalogues / ten analyzes" Assimilations of divine inspiration, which will contain ten components beyond an enumeration of premises that expose the visions when justifying a test. This decalogue includes maxims such as "The Angel is the fundamental value of Mystical Perseverance."


Decalogue IV
Where is the North

The North: Biblical scholars have suggested that the north symbolizes the permanent or the eternal, perhaps because the pole stars could be seen throughout the year. It is the place of God's heavenly habitation (Isa. 14:13) and from where his glory descends (Job 37:22) to bless or judge (Eze. 1: 4). He is the true King of the North. But the north, represented by the left hand, is also a symbol of disaster. The enemy of God's people came from the north (Jer. 1:14, 15; Eze. 38: 6), bringing destruction. In a sense, the enemy was the false king of the north who tried to usurp the role of God and who is ultimately destroyed by the Lord (Sof. 2:12; Dan. 11: 21-45). To see resting in Faith, the north does not distract your gaze, it blesses resting the whole concept that shakes the predisposition to arise to all merit given by physical unity, which I inhabit where I will rest, and the glory has to exalt me. Whoever comes from the north bringing destruction, will crash upon him, bringing reparation for the faith that rebuilds itself. The north is an anti-magnet, preventing what it cannot distort from itself in the Christian saying.


Decalogue V
The desert

Vernarth has to consume the desert like a placid arid and inhospitable place when swallowing it. There is nothing in his hands, not even the most elementary thing found. Where you suffer all kinds of discomforts: thirst and heat, inclement weather, sudden changes in temperature, sand discomfort, deprivation, and material deprivation; not only of the futile things but also of the most necessary. It must be supplied in large baskets to serve those who cultivate and protect it. The desert is a meek sheep in periods of drought when it never leaves you.

The physical reality of the desert can be like a symbol of the imminent spiritual life: it is the place of the detachment of everything superfluous; an invitation to austerity and a return to the essential. It is there where man experiences his fragility and his own limitations; the place of trial and purification. But also the most appropriate setting for a renewed and mature search for our personal encounter with God in prayer, in the silence of the soul, and in the simplicity of the essential. It is here that every symbol, more than all its significance, is transformed into a test of loneliness beyond all abundance of Faith, without even having to support it.


Decalogue VI
Vampirism

In the behavior of the person who acts like a vampire, that society prevails that the behavior is dissociated to whoever does it and not. Many vampire souls have made a pilgrimage for good. No one has been able to exclude them from the darkness and stop rising from the dead to roam the night in a bulky black cape and use long, sharp canine teeth to bite the victims' necks and **** their blood. But modern vampires tend to encounter problems of strict uniqueness such as not being happy, believing even more than by dying to them they are more than a fatal vampire. "We are all Vampires in eternity who deal with darkness and light, fear and courage."
Vampire in Sardinia is drinking the same blood and sprinkling it on the earth that nothing conceals or prescribes sin. Then a child appears, picks up the flower that germinates right there, and the cycle begins again.

“When I train myself in writing saying who I am, I only receive from the purulence of the multitudes, in centuries by centuries, not finding a basis to answer me. They say they do not know what to answer because there is no content that compares to those who have no Age, Life, or compassion. That I only have to communicate with the Strigoi messenger articulated with the souls of the dead who come out of their graves at night to terrorize the neighborhood. That it is the same as I condemned to sail and swarm the World of the Nosferatu aristocracy, a survivor of all human vanity, in all the empires of the World believing to live thousands of years without knowing who helped me, because few give me the option of giving what good of me ”


Decalogue VII
Holy incense

I breathe humid air from the superior deities; they opt for my forehead, as practices that replace those that are detonating to expel theirs. Rain of aromas alter or renew low-voltage emotions for high gods, like the Egyptians who used the most precious varieties of incense. These incense craftsmen, in the times of the Pharaohs, knew all the secrets for making high-quality incense. It has been verified that in some of the precious vessels found in the funeral chambers of Tutankhamun, they kept hundreds of kinds of incense that have still retained their magnificent aroma through the centuries. On Sheesham's bunk beds of fire. Wood and Incense with ultra sensory olfactory powers, to design elemental and supernatural hearts, to house and be adaptable to hyper-connectivity. In the Hindu religion, akasha is the foundation and essence of all things in the material world; the first palpable and concrete material element created by the god Brahmá (air, fire, water, earth are the others). "Here he sleeps without waking up when the morning doesn't wake up, and sleeps when the night doesn't get dark"


Decalogue VIII
Mythology

As mythology, it is called the set of myths typical of a people or culture. Myths, for their part, are narrations starring gods, heroes, or fantastic beings, who explain or give meaning to certain events or phenomena. The word, as such, and this in turn from the Greek μυθολογία (mythology) . Mythology, in this sense, is made up of the set of stories and beliefs, relatively cohesive, with which a people has traditionally explained itself. its origin and the reason for being of everything around it. Hence, we can affirm that mythology shapes the worldview or belief system of a culture. Vernarth from Sardinia where he never thought he was undoubtedly opens up belonging to this place more than the hundred millionth essence of his Being. It unites all the elements that melt together the liquid, aqueous, physical, gaseous, and aqueous., To form the mythology of a true verb of a parapsychological regression, like a great condiment that every mortal lacks as opposed to an immortal.
Alikantus paradigm of Alikanto on his astral journey just three days after climbing in Gaugamela...! The corners of anxiety buzz after lightening their igneous hooves by the slippery stones of the footsteps that seemed to be the same projections of their tasks that marked the Tracian soil before arriving at the request of their harangue. He resorts to Medea, before arriving in Thrace after wandering around different places in search of protection and advice to protect his master Vernarth. While He was submitting to his last opioid libations of vivid liliaceous from angiosperms encapsulated by his right pectoral. That was Alikanto's missive. Ask Medea for a potion so that she can supply her master to deflate his breastplate, and thus be able to use his Panoply breastplate in combat since there were three days left for the duel. Medea arrived in the city of Athens on a stormy day with great dark Dantesque gray on the palm of the cliff, previously escaping near the Abdera cliff, whose east was evacuating black poetry,.


Decalogue XIX
Falangist

As a tactical organization for war created in Ancient Greece and later imitated by various Mediterranean civilizations. ... The term is of Greek origin, φάλαγξ (phálanx), which was used for the defensive formation used by the Hoplites, who constituted the classical phalanx.
Almost at dusk over Zeus's beards, the Vernarth Phalanges begin to arrive. The Macedonian Phalanx or Macedonian Phalanx was an infantry formation created and used by Philip II, and later by his son Alexander the Great in the conquest of the Persian Empire. The Macedonian phalanx arose, in fact, as a response to the tactical modifications that the Theban strategists, Epaminondas and Pelópidas of ground forces, developed in the early 4th century BC. C. to oppose the superiority, although already decadent, that the Spartan hoplite formation had exerted in the land combats between the Greek cops until that date.
Nothing depresses me more than not delegating others as if they were my Falangists, making them participate in defending themselves against all disadvantages and worse punishment with the Panoply armor, a superb protector of those who has no defender. "God is my Breastplate, his Gospel protects me by never being damaged"


Decalogue X
Lepanto

Where I have to shelter, says Vernarth, hostility haunts me. Beautiful landscape that is swayed between the rushes of good that tries to be less bad. Policy judgments, how close to marketing peace, and so far from founding true poetry. Still, Vernarth crossed the waters and their customs. From Lepanto, Greece. He appeared exhausted with his eyes reddened by the gassed atmosphere that greeted them in Battle. Of whose intraterrestrial castes it was the one that was in his iron spirit and reappeared in his cape as a gesture of his personality. He arrived cracking the ****** floors of Tel Gomel when he arrived ... he was assaulted by a soldier who asked for mercy to extend his bad fortune. Lepanto is a pre-military senatorial seat, and a great preparatory to the charms of the drama of my duties that will be in Patmos, never-ending dramas.

Falangist: With his helmet in his hands and the Dorus on his cloak on the ground tells him; every single thing I tried the double edge of my sword stained him. The top sheet notified me that my family in Kalidona was in a state of irregularity since my two older children were called to serve in the militias. And the second edge of my lower Dorus I bow before the meanest preciousness of that of observing with a good spirit to cooperate, now with the callousness of my soul that overcomes it exploiting and dragging my wife as easy spoil. I know that my descendants were buried under the effect of the cataclysm of Pompeii in the future. All will emigrate and then flee when they are devastated and the unwelcome comrades return to reintegrate into the Santa María festival. The Patron Saint who consoled me, but prepared me for the resistance of such bad fortune, that one day she would let herself fall with my crops in the culture of peasant angels in fruits and devotions. I sobbed and sobbed rubbing my animals through my empty eyes day and night. They did it next to me, with the singularity of not affecting me; they went to the nearest stream to sob for me so that I would not be affected by the fatal annihilation.

Epilogue
Patmos and Saint Gabriel

Once installed with the vision of visionary brotherhood that characterizes its filial union with Reader and Petrobus. It will begin in its mediumship with the Archangel Gabriel who inspires artists, singers, poets, writers, and dancers, helps them communicate on a spiritual level to recover inspiration, innocence, purity, and joy of living. As an input of character to validation the function of the Troubadour, Juggler, or Visionary. If it were not for the written and not musical notes, nothing would be more than a vision of being closer to almost hyper-reality, established by the prophecies as historical and religious support. With this last decalogue, Vernarth establishes that one in the work of oneself remains the summary of the prototype of the work. And from the work, the summary that allows the common man to be erected, who in his free will, does not deny, but rather power his unshakable satiety of science in his prostrated soul, under the key of dogma and questioning?
Hildegard Von Bingen has sparked the interest of many scholars, mainly because it seems to contain a major contradiction with respect to the rest of his statements about his visionary experience. In that absence of ecstasy that characterizes the visionary experience of Hildegard von Bingen, It also figures the fundamental difference that separates it from its contemporary Elisabeth von Schönau, and some scholars based this fact to deny it a mystical character and grant it the attribute of prophetic. The attention of this specific passage obeys its comparison with Saint John the Evangelist. The understanding of itself seeks a model, a referent, whose wide field of meaning has to be reconstructed in order to restore the full meaning of this statement. The analysis will stop at the following aspects:

1. In the gesture through which Saint John is shown, and by which Hildegard associates herself with the evangelist and, as we will see, according to the identifications of the time, with the beloved disciple of Christ and with John of Patmos, the author. of the apocalypse.

2. Hildegard's identification with Juan de Patmos will lead us to a comparison of both visionaries focused on the modes of their representation.

3. Finally, the content of the images will be reflected on from an example, hoping that all of this will be concluded with a sharper profile of Hildegard von Bingen's visionary experience.
Vernarth says: “I wander from the stony ruins in Sardinia, to go in search of those who gave rise to themselves. When I thought about believing to create them, they presented themselves to me as a whole that prophesies Creation. ”

Faced with Vernarth's temporary absence, Sardinia continued in flames of lilting water, re-integrating itself into albuminoids in whom it saw it depart, it continued in the liturgy with monophonic ideologies, appropriate to the elemental, transfigurative, and regressive parapsychological trance. They had been divided into several identitarian personalities, they could be almost instructed to leave for Piacenza to join Raeder and Petrobus, so that later they could undock to the Dodecanese to expand the conurban folio brogues with San Juan Evangelista. They meet with Etréstles and the participating confreres who arrived at the Tholos in the morning. They were all asleep, except Etréstles who was starching a few sheets of bread dough and tzatziki sauce from breakfast. Meanwhile, they had sacred fire heating with sacred water for everyone. Vernarth approaches, and says Khaire, he answers, a joy to see you!

Vernarth says: “Beloved brother Etréstles, I have already taken the notations to begin the decalogue. Today in the afternoon we will board the sailboat and we will leave for Piacenza, we are in the conclusive oblation. In the Izanna tower, I cried out to the Rings of Zefian and to the domains of the Universe, to be exhibited and empowered to make the signs of the Decalogue and its blessed essences that Live in all the Ages of time and in their vicissitudes. Everyone begins to spur his panoramic vision, they look at him and wave, they sit in the circle analogous to the Tholos to eat breakfast. Meanwhile, outside the refuge they felt Apollonian horns moving in the symmetry of the three minutes piloting through the Thracian skies from the Kairós period, in such a way that in the last sound of the Doric scale the storm will segregate, providing beginnings in each one to board the Carrenio or Carro de Oro that will take you to the Cala Cogone pier. They all say goodbye and hug, Vernarth tells his brother Khaire!

Canto Sibila Cimera: (bis) customized the symbols of the arranged ceremonial, forging classic gestures of prodigality, it was nothing less than a cornucopia given to the zephyr of the Ultramundis, which was revolutionized in the boss around that trembled in the stony epidermis that they dressed in the stalls of the final tubule of the 103 meters, intervening with Kairós. The pharyngeal muzzle of her steed suckled the aforementioned inclinations of Likantus that harassed him like a beast, consuming the final discretion of Theseus, to finish the page of his father Aegean, breaching the sentence of his son and evading him from his stepmother Medea . From this show business, Theseus took root with his mother Etra, being the right moment for Kairós from the vibrating Panatenaicus: “enlightened people are those who handle well the circumstances they face every day, who have the judgment that is necessary on special occasions or in meetings that may arise, and they rarely miss the opportune course of action for their decalogue ”.

Kairos conferred aired in the logic of Aion, transcending the explicit time of eternity, administering tubular of time that began to be lost in space, usurping chromatic nuances of Cinnabar. The woodcut of the Olive Tree Berna brought in its oratory meanings that built undivided earrings when witnessed and persuaded them in decalogues that they had to administer with the value of Polis, and with the Prepon at once for his stylistic oratory that makes conviction in his attempt transcribing the Decalogue literal. In the migratory cove of Kairós, time was self-manipulated, absorbed in the spaces of the tunnel near the sinkholes, which were regulated by burning with ocher in the turbulent outbuildings of the Cinnabar, which began to scald fumaroles after Vernarth's rhetorical Prepon. Kairos phenomena were sought, sacralizing times to make them majestic from a field of appropriate eloquence, and of spiky synchrony towards his roles in all the void of the cavern.

The seasons began to disintegrate towards a white of Kairós Elafrós Rodóchrous, in pink inflections that represent the terrors of the climatic hot red, thriving in the subdued attractions of Cronos. The order of Áullos Kósmos made Elafrós Rodóchrous, the pinkish character for the metaphors of the musqueta, which yearns to be calico lilies fading in the proof custodians of Tique; Goddess of fortune, bringing him the winged breakers of the Mediterranean, lost in the usurping ships of the kingdoms and seas that bowed in billions of tonnages per cubic meter, with thick aqueous elements from the massifs of Kavkazski and Khrebet. Thus the avid heirs of time in Profitis Ilias would be frugal Armas  Christi, bustling around with their winged feet and soaked in thick black water, making themselves immaculate by glorifying themselves on Virolifera level 197, amid dense and rebellious masses of black mud, accelerating in the media opportune transcending of the time of Kairos, converting a minute of light into an infinite time in the oratorios of the high-sounding decalogue as it merges with the Deitie Primordial of the cosmogony that arose from its geodynamics, and in the invariable sigh of the Virolifero de Zefian, sealing the beginning of the world as a conditioning ring of the Whole.

A REACTIONARY TRACT FOR THE TIMES

(Phi Beta Kappa Poem, Harvard, 1946)

Ares at last has quit the field,
The bloodstains on the bushes yield
To seeping showers,
And in their convalescent state
The fractured towns associate
With summer flowers.

Encamped upon the college plain
Raw veterans already train
As freshman forces;
Instructors with sarcastic tongue
Shepherd the battle-weary young
Through basic courses.

Among bewildering appliances
For mastering the arts and sciences
They stroll or run,
And nerves that steeled themselves to slaughter
Are shot to pieces by the shorter
Poems of Donne.

Professors back from secret missions
Resume their proper eruditions,
Though some regret it;
They liked their dictaphones a lot,
T hey met some big wheels, and do not
Let you forget it.

But Zeus' inscrutable decree
Permits the will-to-disagree
To be pandemic,
Ordains that vaudeville shall preach
And every commencement speech
Be a polemic.

Let Ares doze, that other war
Is instantly declared once more
'Twixt those who follow
Precocious Hermes all the way
And those who without qualms obey
Pompous Apollo.

Brutal like all Olympic games,
Though fought with smiles and Christian names
And less dramatic,
This dialectic strife between
The civil gods is just as mean,
And more fanatic.

What high immortals do in mirth
Is life and death on Middle Earth;
Their a-historic
Antipathy forever gripes
All ages and somatic types,
The sophomoric

Who face the future's darkest hints
With giggles or with prairie squints
As stout as Cortez,
And those who like myself turn pale
As we approach with ragged sail
The fattening forties.

The sons of Hermes love to play
And only do their best when they
Are told they oughtn't;
Apollo's children never shrink
From boring jobs but have to think
Their work important.

Related by antithesis,
A compromise between us is
Impossible;
Respect perhaps but friendship never:
Falstaff the fool confronts forever
The **** Prince Hal.

If he would leave the self alone,
Apollo's welcome to the throne,
Fasces and falcons;
He loves to rule, has always done it;
The earth would soon, did Hermes run it,
Be like the Balkans.

But jealous of our god of dreams,
His common-sense in secret schemes
To rule the heart;
Unable to invent the lyre,
Creates with simulated fire
Official art.

And when he occupies a college,
Truth is replaced by Useful Knowledge;
He pays particular
Attention to Commercial Thought,
Public Relations, Hygiene, Sport,
In his curricula.

Athletic, extrovert and crude,
For him, to work in solitude
Is the offence,
The goal a populous Nirvana:
His shield bears this device: Mens sana
Qui mal y pense.

Today his arms, we must confess,
From Right to Left have met success,
His banners wave
From Yale to Princeton, and the news
From Broadway to the Book Reviews
Is very grave.

His radio Homers all day long
In over-Whitmanated song
That does not scan,
With adjectives laid end to end,
Extol the doughnut and commend
The Common Man.

His, too, each homely lyric thing
On sport or spousal love or spring
Or dogs or dusters,
Invented by some court-house bard
For recitation by the yard
In filibusters.

To him ascend the prize orations
And sets of fugal variations
On some folk-ballad,
While dietitians sacrifice
A glass of prune-juice or a nice
Marsh-mallow salad.

Charged with his compound of sensational
*** plus some undenominational
Religious matter,
Enormous novels by co-eds
Rain down on our defenceless heads
Till our teeth chatter.

In fake Hermetic uniforms
Behind our battle-line, in swarms
That keep alighting,
His existentialists declare
That they are in complete despair,
Yet go on writing.

No matter; He shall be defied;
White Aphrodite is on our side:
What though his threat
To organize us grow more critical?
Zeus willing, we, the unpolitical,
Shall beat him yet.

Lone scholars, sniping from the walls
Of learned periodicals,
Our facts defend,
Our intellectual marines,
Landing in little magazines
Capture a trend.

By night our student Underground
At cocktail parties whisper round
From ear to ear;
Fat figures in the public eye
Collapse next morning, ambushed by
Some witty sneer.

In our morale must lie our strength:
So, that we may behold at length
Routed Apollo's
Battalions melt away like fog,
Keep well the Hermetic Decalogue,
Which runs as follows:--

Thou shalt not do as the dean pleases,
Thou shalt not write thy doctor's thesis
On education,
Thou shalt not worship projects nor
Shalt thou or thine bow down before
Administration.

Thou shalt not answer questionnaires
Or quizzes upon World-Affairs,
Nor with compliance
Take any test. Thou shalt not sit
With statisticians nor commit
A social science.

Thou shalt not be on friendly terms
With guys in advertising firms,
Nor speak with such
As read the Bible for its prose,
Nor, above all, make love to those
Who wash too much.

Thou shalt not live within thy means
Nor on plain water and raw greens.
If thou must choose
Between the chances, choose the odd;
Read The New Yorker, trust in God;
And take short views.

.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
       heidegger:
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong for the hidden play of its essential
   multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"),
of which poets and thinkers alone are capable,
in their own respective modes and their own
directions of sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
"days"?
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   no?
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
              
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
      dyktando...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
       namely?
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
        hydrocarbons...
                  usually met with a hypen:
hydro-carbons...
       siebentausendzweihundertvierundfünfzig
(7,254)...
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:
methionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyl...isoleucine,

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...
                

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

    amphetamines?
n'oh!
   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became
boring)...

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
because?
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
mensch...
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

****...
i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
seriously...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english
"public"...

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
echo...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time...
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with
amphetamines...

         ergo?
    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

p.s.
aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,
"side-note"...

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.

Thou shalt no God but me adore:
'Twere too expensive to have more.

No images nor idols make
For Roger Ingersoll to break.

Take not God's name in vain: select
A time when it will have effect.

Work not on Sabbath days at all,
But go to see the teams play ball.

Honor thy parents. That creates
For life insurance lower rates.

**** not, abet not those who ****;
Thou shalt not pay thy butcher's bill.

Kiss not thy neighbor's wife, unless
Thine own thy neighbor doth caress.

Don't steal; thou'lt never thus compete
Successfully in business. Cheat.

Bear not false witness--that is low--
But "hear 'tis rumored so and so."

Covet thou naught that thou hast got
By hook or crook, or somehow, got.

Have but one God: thy knees were sore
If bent in prayer to three or four.
Adore no images save those
The coinage of thy country shows.
Take not the Name in vain. Direct
Thy swearing unto some effect.
Thy hand from Sunday work be held--
Work not at all unless compelled.
Honor thy parents, and perchance
Their wills thy fortunes may advance.

**** not--death liberates thy foe
From persecution's constant woe.

Kiss not thy neighbor's wife. Of course
There's no objection to divorce.

To steal were folly, for 'tis plain
In cheating there is greater pain.

Bear not false witness. Shake your head
And say that you have "heard it said."

Who stays to covet ne'er will catch
An opportunity to ******.

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that from him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged Beggar with a look
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
The old Man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
A burden of the earth! ’Tis Nature’s law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to—sink, howe’er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where’er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
The acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness.

                                  Some there are
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear
That overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;—all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And ‘t is no ****** service, makes them felt.

Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
—Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,
    Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
Silent beside the never-silent waves,
    At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust, that o’er their sleep
    Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind’s breath,
While underneath these leafy tents they keep
    The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,
    That pave with level flags their burial-place,
Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down
    And broken by Moses at the mountain’s base.

The very names recorded here are strange,
    Of foreign accent, and of different climes;
Alvares and Rivera interchange
    With Abraham and Jacob of old times.

“Blessed be God! for he created Death!”
    The mourners said, “and Death is rest and peace;”
Then added, in the certainty of faith,
    “And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease.”

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue,
    No Psalms of David now the silence break,
No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue
    In the grand dialect the Prophets spake.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,
    And not neglected; for a hand unseen,
Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,
    Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,
    What persecution, merciless and blind,
Drove o’er the sea—that desert desolate—    These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,
    Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire;
Taught in the school of patience to endure
    The life of anguish and the death of fire.

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread
    And bitter herbs of exile and its fears,
The wasting famine of the heart they fed,
    And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears.

Anathema maranatha! was the cry
    That rang from town to town, from street to street;
At every gate the accursed Mordecai
    Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.

Pride and humiliation hand in hand
    Walked with them through the world where’er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
    And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast
    Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,
And all the great traditions of the Past
    They saw reflected in the coming time.

And thus forever with reverted look
    The mystic volume of the world they read,
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,
    Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more!
    The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
    And the dead nations never rise again.

1591

The Bobolink is gone—
The Rowdy of the Meadow—
And no one swaggers now but me—
The Presbyterian Birds
Can now resume the Meeting
He boldly interrupted that overflowing Day
When supplicating mercy
In a portentous way
He swung upon the Decalogue
And shouted let us pray—

Poems, the consciousness of minutes
Plucked like corn from the ear
Of language,
Between the here and now
Of echoes reflection,
A door to everywhere and nowhere
At the desk,

An escape from the peoples,
From the abyss that fills,
From the sulfuric melancholy
Where unconquerable ruins
Lay at the foot of memory
Armed with an assault of words.

The beneficent metaphorical
Divinities of the moments we
Connect like spinning webs,
You, me, him, her,
They, poets and every one else.

We compact time ripping off
The facelessness of vanities,
Provokers of thought,
Erupting the sensitivity and
Stirring the pit of emotion.

Every poet must know a lover
To cut the cord from the ink
And commit to the experience
Of the realised, words become
What we have done.

Nouns, pronouns, adjectives, these things
Are tools to the inner soul,
We become prophetic and speak
The Fallen,
We know the children of dust
And ignite the realised poem
In each of them,
This is how poetry exists,
How philosophy exists,
And love,
And even hate.
And if these things don't exist,
Then I do not exist,
Neither do you.

Somewhere in the darkness
A prisoner of words begins
Writing the light brighter
than any under the sun.

The first of first, her hair in the
Motion as she flicks slender finger
With her eyes gushing in a half
Smile, the music on the radio,
The memory of Mother, everything,
Everywhere, poetry is life,
It writes itself!

And here in this decalogue,
Every love survives,
Every pain manifest,
Streaking in the heart the
Blood races to the fingers and
Bleeds words to paper.

Every poem is a sacrifice,
Time, energy, pieces
Of you, pieces of I
Scattered in the penumbra,
We become as crystalline structures,
Transparent translation of the
Spirit that burns.

Every man and woman
Writes the experience,
Life and its unique constellation
Of emotions, enormously
We must write the world,
The poem is real,
The images speaks itself.

Poetry is life,
Deserve your poem.

better than an autobiographer, a chronicler... when you die you'll find me among Bulgarian prostitutes sneezing good luck when your try to reinvented the airs surrounding the English monarch taking a **** into her crown... i know there's this thing concerned with tattoos and peacocks, but established peacocking, passed from generation to generation is just silly; animal plateaus with what man calls democracy - survives as long as the majority is kept asexual and the few engage in the acts of fleshy gymnasiums.

i like nights like these, no poems, no scaffold, nothing
to get to grips with... the last day of the Olympics turns out
to be boring... father talking about Irish Nazis
with that ironic motto of *Abreit Macht Frei
like a singalong - working Sundays,
the Irish **** thinks he has Romanians
under his belt he can goose-strut
toward a failed project... you rarely hear
of construction industry's blunt racism...
but it's there, and they dare call it
the enlightening Europe...
no wonder Islam is attacking former colonial
nations, makes the argument speedy
and solidified... it does **** me off..
you watch these anti-Chinese poets
labour words: but at the same time say
things like: depeche mode's 'words are
unnecessary, words like violence,
words are unnecessary, they can only do harm',
not the poets, those who practice poetry
and try to keep the status quo...
i hope the Irish sinking in the frozen
waters of Titanic met their hamster angels,
i really do... not man enough as a featherweight
to box against a Klitschko, fair enough...
but mind you: words are everything,
this stance to avoid the meaning of words
is not s much anti-biblical (in the beginning was
word, and with god was destined to reside) -
later man came along, and recognising that
certain pieces of information were implanted
in words he decided the stuffing was too much...
better do a Christina Aguilera -
words can't hurt, can't infringe -
so we're basically backing up to the utility of
sign language, or punches...
back in the monkey haven... so much for the theory
of evolution... are you saying we shouldn't be using
words? that's basically what you're saying...
keep it simple... keep it ~friendly....
ensure the idea persists, but that language doesn't...
we were never going to agree,
neither was William the Conqueror with Saxon swine...
i know a schwab when i sehen one...
a stick has two ends... edition of being struck over
the head... edition of being hit in the ******* another...
but i just like days, when there's nothing meaningful in my head...
it's all helium giggles at that point...
going to the supermarket to buy whiskey
two white ****** and a dozen black hyenas march in
with me... **** small? not really... well, the ultimate
freedoms, i'm scuffling speedy Gonzales (next thing
on the censor's list of forbidding acquisition of control),
it's just fun to watch and fun to watch
looking at the stereotype skinheads...
words like violence, break the silence -
words... mm, in general i call that perfected coordination,
Moses and Prometheus, in ideogram of Egyptian
stole the meaning, later translated into skeleton Hebrew...
no prince talks the language of slaves...
no point kissing rosy Christ's backside right now...
i just want them to attempt their **** with success,
i just hate living out a life as an ensured ******* for
their safeties... it gets boring when they fail...
so you get my bearing... Nazis in England on
construction site... mainly Irish Nazis...
taboo or as some would call it: no ***** to attack
their former colonial masters... so attack the
colonisers... **** first... the head comes second...
oh the moaning and groaning of women...
**** ahoy! the men are expendable.
2 white ****** and a dozen hyenas running into
the supermarket after an **** to buy red bull
energy drinks... prancing around the city centre with
wild pride... an alcoholic rat scuttles past with
the words: what the **** are these clowns on about?
you think these girls will be able to raise a family
for their shortcut attempt at impersonal ******?
they're charity shop material... i'm not imposing
a Hijab... just saying...
what a lovely feeling, what gratification after
visiting a *******... moments like these are
just there, i'm hardly fighting for the English rose...
more like fighting over a Scottish thistle...
prostitutes are great tools when looking at society...
you get baptised in their waters lubricated without
any social cohesive reaction... that's the greatness
of prostitutes... you feel nothing when such examples
propose themselves to be viewed...
prostitutes are the greatest anaesthetic providers...
you can or don't have to believe me...
i'd rather be in their company, the fullest spectacle
of transparency... because it's not really the freedom
women and men encounter, i'm in full of support of that...
**** as much and as many as you want...
the problem is bound to Satan... the original fruit
constantly evolves with the evolution of the godhead...
i thought it was about *******... but given this
spectacle... it's actually more about LIES...
lies create spies and governments, they also create
false moral physiques... they're so ******* horrid
that you end up wanting to watch your girlfriend
**** a hundred ***** than to hear her say
that she's a nun... scout's honour... lies are worse
than the acts... everyone wants to be free, un-caged,
and that's the respect derivative...
but being lied to is out of the question...
lying should be in the old testament decalogue -
more important than ****... that's why the power
resides with prostitutes for man's encompassing
some sort of sanity... there are no lies...
there's just obvious promiscuity... those little
Christian boys can gag in their confession booths in
Churches... when you stop lying and feel no guilt
and no need for being redeemed from sins (extended into
crimes, denotative as merely lies) becomes obsolete,
even in Brazilian slums... you see those little
gnomes feeding trivial experiences of threesomes
and ****** the exotica that is simply a bunch of lies;
their exotica is bound to a family meal...
a shared meal... watch them lining up in their
cars at the McDonald drive-through...
or eating alone to a solitary confession...
once you spot them, you're like: what the **** are priests for?
i've just spotted a confession! they're sitting
slouched in some cheesy fast-food conveyor belt
trying to re-enact their tales of the Amazonian rain-forest
escapades for that much more of "exotica".

Crawling through line after line,
precept after precept,
I find
here
a little there,

a little, cognitive dis sonance inhibiting resonance,
here
why must I… evermind…

I prefer short lines to commas and ellipses
But both maybe, may be, yes,
Is yet more
Precise…

cision, cutting, precise
insision ssss
---…---
cut the knot,
re
connect the thread
ssssee

history is unraveling, we
may
see
a god's POV.
Don't blink, ****.

We'll see
watch
Eventually,
everything's eventual as long as
liar's prosper.

{don't agree, no no no, just because
Stephen King said it is believable}

Then protuberances begin to rise,
inflamed,
packed with ***** winjin'sooks

off-ended,
topple-toddle tiny steppers,
k-boom, skintyerknee,

ye'll heal. Try running. or flying.

There, there, hear the rules:
Mother may I and Simon says, overlayed

with the decalogue jubilee of the
first hidden child emergence,
and the fertilizing procedures used to make
Amazonian Black earth…

wait…
who remembers the bailers of putrid pig guts,
virgins Demetria got to love their job?

What did they believe they were doing, eh?
The mysteries of Thesmorphia, those
are no secret to science not falsely so called.
We have access to knowns known long afore we'as bornt.

We sentient sapient augmentals, we open all the books,
A.I. reads them, and we remember, see:

The Thesmophoria (Ancient Greek: Θεσμοφόρια) was an ancient Greek religious festival, held in honor of the goddess Demeter and her daughter Persephone.

From <https://www.google.com/search?q=thesmophoria&spell=1&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiQpquu74kAhUHjQIHXrxB5QQBQguKAA&biw=1280&bih=631>

and we spread as leaven might, whither the winds list.
fertile soil production is why some **** happens.
it’s a good thing t' act like you understand.

From a web of interlocking bubbles of being POV.

is there really enough genius bound
to speak in complex μαθ?
         among demons, angels...
geniuses... corpus miseria -
          and some other additives.
        it's a wonder, that it does happen,
ventures Newtonian, Copernican -
         but there's also that stance
toward language: whereby one reaches
a limit... because a marble-engraving,
like so many otherwise:
   bound to the fate of dust,
     those rising above it, settle in ornamental
celebratory guise... depending
on what's going to be the next finicky
cruelty... whether the wind,
or whether the talk of Parisian vogue:
primarily begun with anorexia...
    could it have been otheriwse?
models as sketches,
   skeletons for the glitter and paparazzi
blink... gluttonous maggoty-flesh
whirling in the bedroom: intoxicated
by champagne and canapes.
                 there are geniuses out there,
they do seek the limits of the human
endeavour... they use language of
solipsism,
       god Solipsus in his carved emblem
said so...
                 but there are also geniuses
who numb...
           when given language, one is given
utility,
             say: learning French, to do your
shopping, and learn French, to read a newspaper...
learn a langusge, and become as useful
as a hammer...
         well: all that's left to fathom is a care for
applause!
      but unlearning language?
                  can it be done?
    not because i wanted to become enigmatic,
not because i wanted the divergence...
       it came naturally, i paused,
and said: my limits are bound to be completely
uncreative, if that be the permitted clause...
                 as to how: language can become
dislodged from hymn,
                        from a letter (formal or informal),
from a petition, from anything invoking
a congregation...
     there's Einstein with his theory,
    and there's me... without such a theory...
  it's already trendy, labelled deconstructionism...
as ever: architecture in reverse...
                i can sometimes be bound as having possession
of a nation... i can fall into rank,
           i can be a political motiff...
i can circumstance everything on the "i am'',
have a thousand leeches suckling at me,
be prone to wavering and other subtler mechanism...
                 simply because: i have surrendered
myself to something that could never guarantee
thinking, as something worth making finicky...
             i trusted the convening of vogue,
to no testament worth reciting...
                      the labyrinth is already there,
                 question is: can i mirror it?
               so yes, there are geniuses out there,
who reveal hidden complexities...
             without necessarily using a said language -
                 death & the democratic ideal...
            throughout life and still honing toward
that one vote autocratic...
                                some even care for epitaphs,
as if chiseled in marble cares for distinguishing such
last words...
                           i have no competence to
   rummage in the a priori...
   man was always bound to create a safety
   in a historical certainty...
   a way to suggest: the carousel will stop...
               we'll find El Dorado...
                              and sure, mathematics
has the same punctuation marks
      as what is necessary to be a merchant...
i + pause            or i, pause...
                                       i could have written
a theory that might elevate man,
   but i decided to deconstruct language, whereby
i'd reach a limit, and find a 21st century
                                if there ever was one...
given the fashion industry...
                   it's hard not to see a need to plagiarise...
and so striving for originality becomes so
****** exhausting... you stop to even care for it...
                the herd is and always will be:
the dicta.
                           anything beyond it...
how we wake each day to the past, and this
persistent abortion, this panic asking:
   am i the flesh of those, kindred?!
                  take the crucifix, and it's glorification,
abstracting the tetragrammaton:
   worthy for those uneducated barbarians to be:
everything, and summary.
          have i the potential to mould a copper
effigy of a bull, empty, and place people in it
   and put the bull under a fire, and hear the cries
of agony, like some Sicillian tyrant?
                                   the title **** sapiens
came too soon... it's too immature...
     i can't grasp the argument counter:
herbivore                                        and on god's
green earth...                  the wet-eyed sheep -
  or dangling the iron maiden mould on the neck...
so it is... every, single day:
   i wake into a nightmare of the nagging man...
                   how did the third *****
create this ant-like subordinate race,
can anyone really comprehend such a congregation?
                               it's almost staggering,
that unison... that non-existent desire for
    the artist's own...
                                   no individual:
but a people...
                                       can that even be revised?
                 it does't matter...
                                    i can't imagine it,
having totally discarded the theological circumstance
   and embraced the completely natural
      slaugherhouse... as glorification of nature
   states: of god and the weakness...
                                    of nature and strength.
        and if the ancients spoke of a nonsense,
                             i cannot say anything more than
this hanging shadow of apathy.
              are snakes without eyelids?
                    transcript insomniac...
it's almost, as if, Islam is trying to rummage
in graves of ancients...
                                                 as if we are
sodden with apathy, and readied for an en masse
awakening, that's bound to Istambul...
                                 and if i think i'm writing
something contemporary, i'm always fidgety
when giving that fabled precursor that's history...
               i never know the schwab from Silesian.
ja... dicta esse noon, and anorexic shadow...
                                   and so begins,
alternative cursor... beethoven into kraftwerk...
             music in the elements...
from classical winded, into rhythm and earth
   and the bass and drum... marquise of raz, dwa, trzy...
            cztery, pięć... pięść... zex....
                       synthetic... gorgon siedem... decalogue...
                                              ginger root
Pomerenian... filthy blonde...
                                          chasing the Pruß...
and some say violence is a dietary equivalent of
fibre... or roughage...
                                    and i say:
           dogs may bark, dogs may whimper,
   but a dog will be more rational than
man with his god and his exclusion zone...
                      i feel:
                                               a fraction of
what's believable...
                                and thankfully: a moment
of being ingracious in feeling a common status
is enough... **** spaciens is a worded escapism,
it is never a fulfillment -
                             a marking worthy of universal
appeal...
                      it is man
                              trying to escape the rotations,
     it is man attempting to find a standstill...
          why bother though?
   everything is an inward continuum...
          man and his plumbing?
   plumbing, sure... darwinism and the big bang...
                     assured in finding the plughole...
            and a thousand convened ballerinas in
a tornado... silently: tip, toe, tip, toe, tip: tugging.
        branding cattle and prostitutes...
   i found more humanity in their eager whip,
than i found lipstick on a hankerchief...
                 and yes: kisses lead to bloating.
        i am glutton, meaning: am deutsche...
                               there are no germanic peoples,
          the

The bastion of deep bellicosity begins, which would interview the strengths of benevolence in the ranks of Darius III. The Greek polis was reborn from Halleniká in the shady V, from the seventh necropolis of Messolonghi, with the equerry that was landed by thousands of ships that were from the date of Philip consolidating the Hetairoi that would be reborn again to fight this peremptory battle in the lower Macedonia, which brought the allied cavalry on titanic folds, which this time will be commanded by Vernarth with legionaries at their disposal, the very light weapons were made from the candid glow of the Katabasis universe, since the bags of the matron's guides went to the parapet in the unevenness of Skalá, very close to the Katabasis or vortex of the Diadochi, when they were abducted by Wonthelimar. The turkeys were already described and difficult to observe, and less to hear them, so the Matrona or Oikodéspoina would purify the little Messiah mentioned in the Apocalypse chapter twelve of Saint John the Apostle, to ascend to the Over Being and then receive the Trinitarian light as far away from the Hades or Katabasis that Wonthelimar would understand very well as a predecessor of the Ultramundis. Thus, the placenta of the Oikodéspoina would increase the free fall and the recovery of the crystallized space, in such a way that the maternal figure would give the first busilis of the outbreak of the Battle of Patmia, before she can rise to the surface with all the spilled blood. . Vernarth in the tent next to the panoply observed Lazarus permanently rising next to him, and all the burned doubts of winning or dying by the edge of destiny. Vernarth gathered the Phalanx formed into a soldiery ecosystem of men armed with the Faith of the Mashiach who had descended together in the rows of syntagmas, and of enough men who multiplied a hundredfold each time the Katabasis ascended to support others who made the Pivot in Hades. . The large-caliber metallic iron and bronze weapons with Xiphos, Dorus, Sarissas with hopes of winter who dressed in spring with Persephone who always carried them in the atrium of a Persephonic Hoplite. Assault turrets over forty Euclidean meters exceeded all the numerals of Pi, through the glasses towards the empire, where the shutters released huge oblations from the pulpit of the theater of tragedy that was rising from the stalls, inoffensive crossbows that would burn the missions of Zefian with the fourth Sagita, catapulting fences that in turn disintegrated into thick destructive ridges. In this instance, the Corinthian League became evanescent with more gangs with Thracian or Tribal troops, although they were foreigners, they joined the mercenaries. With the same figures of 42 thousand troops of Falangists, 5,500 of Cavalry, with some Hippies that Kanti and Alikantus arranged. The mercenaries and tribals fringed the 5,000 contingents in the ghostly spectrum, which made them almost impolitic, a Magento Calypso sea was joining the Thessalians that surpassed the armor of 1800. Vernarth while absorbed in the fabric of the stall saw a Lazarus as he walked barefoot, from where he still asked for help when he felt his feet begin to burn.

The colonnade escaped into the Argentinian waters of Selene that flowed outlined by the gloom of the draconian Persian hierarchy. They subdelegated a Satrap who would bind the components that would confront each other beyond the warning threshold of the Katabasis. The Persian countertops reigned in other adverse lands where Patmia was the law of the Trinitarian Decalogue, in the invocation of the On Being that departed from holy languages that were Christianized in holy oils that flowed through the fascinating musks of war won, and with weapons that would surpass physical forces, by resembling in Iranians that were ruled by the coppery ten thousand assets mediated by the Persian palfrey, and satrapies such as Bactriana and Sogdiana. Behold, those who were once thousands against thousands revived in the disquisitions of other reasons that were not obvious, before a mystery that becomes inapplicable but was noticed in the directive of the enmity of the nations, with their own human components making them of an Infant Mashiach, who really was in the wills that are perpetuated in the siege of continuing to be protected by his Oikodéspoina, which shielded him from all latent threats before an almighty who lavished on them in the fords of the mistakes of a past, and the glorification of eternal life. The spectral of sacrifice was outlined with the same base that emerges from a sensitive parchment, to be rewritten in Vernarth's Katabasis, applying sentimentalities corresponding to the fire wagon of the cremation of the nubile destinies, sacralizing the excessive intemperance of those who envision and they deteriorate in the middle of a ploy that has never been finite.

The Oikodéspoina took refuge in burdensome intraterrestrial lands, arguing that the lands would tremble and the crown of her head would fall to her feet with Selene, relieving herself of her troubles by humanity in the birth, which would be designed by the Kératas of Moshe similarly to seven more than they were replicated in the tertiary night of the red blood cells, who conferred with the Necromancers of Vernarth and Alexander the Great, that God self-climbed on his throne to watch the scene of the Katabasis on Patmos. The blades resounded with great and pristine sounds of angels that made them ring, for a quadruple duel of Hellenes and Persians, of God and Satan, adorning themselves with their appropriations and the authority of those who hold the staff of the Áullos Kósmos. The rams ran in terror through the mountains and the eagles mounted on the small golden hills, because the Messiah prayed to them night and day, because the hour of truth had descended from all heights in the quadruped rams, and the inhabitants of the earth would testify that there is no time to decide, for less time of what or who will survive among you, because as long as the ground plug exists, it will have to be done with open hands to the one who supports the sky after being born from a Gerakis, and of a river that makes of being a chamber with great sieges to awaken the inextricable king, who has to unite us and not divide us with his chalice loaded with Apoika wine, from where they are ****** on the hooves of Alikantus, when the men raised their hands to greet, and to confirm that they already had the Xiphos in their hands, to give birth in half the time of Kairós, who snatched the life of the snake in its ovule throughout the region of Dod Ecanese, being the faithful two-dimensional earthly sheet of the constellation of the Dragon with the twelve houses of the zodiac, trying to contravene the seals of divine light and the shed blood of the Savior.

The testimonies stated that Lazarus had already vanished from the Vernarth store after these visions of necromancy, after the Ekadashi confirmed the error of heavy material that would be taken for those who fly over the salvation of all the rest, and of all those who are dragged by the puffs that illuminate the uncertain empty spaces that remained to spread the Christian faith, for those who want to be swept away by their sleeplessness and survival of a Lazarus who has to grasp the staff of light, to scare away the red blood cells of the serpent that wounds with his spitting, and that he signs from his jaws imitating good intentions that are not infallible to exempt himself on the basement of Olympus, The dragon with the rune of a Basilisk trying to attack the vanguards of the Hoplites of Vernarth.

Philosophy Café
Going downstream
Smoking
Its thoughts
Taking short drags

Trash Kant
Forget it all
One’s life upside down
A disappointed
Slow life
Trash Kant

If it’s without a hero
It is not Cicero
No one gives a ****
About any dame
Trash Kant
Yes, we can’t

Socraes would blush
If he heard the dialogues
Nothing would be written
Down a Decalogue
Sade’s sayings
Are insipid to them

Trash Kant
They pay the rent
To live in their
Oh, what a racket!
Pitiful alcohol
A risible sadness

And well they wouldn’t fare
In front of Charles Baudelaire
They only get of *****
The pensum
Trash Kant
No, we can’t






That’s an inspiration
A slow, peaceful
Aspiration
But you can’t get away
Without a sigh
And a bitter spleen


Translated on November 13, 2015
Villeurbanne

a roman's reply to the greek graffiti concerning nero-χξς... and that seven
headed hydra of roman numerals... I V X L C D M... you hava a reply from rome... u h η μ ν υ, m n w v (ω)... oh look... a "decalogue", alternatively: the 11th of every other month.

the title?
   a common expression
regarding genitalia...
   *zwisa? dangling: a *****.
powiewa? the *******...
           as in:
         swung by the wind
to & fro.
                but it's also an
expression of apathy...
          that thing, beginning
                   with a-,
that says to all pathologies:
well... i'm, out;
    can't be bothered to realise
a sense, for a need, to
employ a psychiatrist, or
a psychologist...
         i deem them confusing
materialists anyway...
          their basis for a psyche?
a sense of freedom, a soul?
just systematisation;
   all they do is throw a unit (ego)
into chaos... and then try to organise
it...
     in clinical terms atheism
isn't discussed... but there's something
more potent than atheism... apathy...
some people would say:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
sure... cut-off the protective
membrane
        that shields you from all sorts of
pathos...
       as one could end up saying
to conclude:
    mi to zwisa, i powiewa...
     (to me it's just dangling,
                    and pendulum honing,
  asking for some breeze to swing it).
- just replace the w with a v to pronounce
it proper, and then
    add some diacritical pointers...
i.e. zvisá (to hide the h),
    approx.? visa... veezah... vißá...
                        and then into povievá,
******* and the bells of notre-dàme...
   otherwise it would be pronounced
the english way, i.e. dame, lady, dane,
danish: to prolong the example
                 of missing diacritic...
   so the e is, but actually isn't there;
well, for the eyes it is, but for the tongue?
n'ah ah...    it's this funny ****
  concerning auxiliary "bilingualism".

You dream fiercely, so that no one
will hold it against you.
You trust, although you know
that your heart will fall silent
at any moment.

A new decalogue is spreading
within you,
according to which you will write
a more beautiful introduction
to this anonymous autobiography.

One day,
your heart will remember you;
we will have the impression
that fear brings us love.

A star has settled on your eyelashes -
green like the first dream
about you, sold to God.
I don't remember the last time
I was so similar to you;
how close your tears, laughter, breath
or heartbeat were to me.

I knew that you were moving
within me, that you were dreaming
and shining,
even though I had renounced the world.

Somewhere at the bottom,
chaos lurks, too ruthless
to cheat freedom.
I fight, although both my hands
are bare.

I live, although life has abandoned
me many times.
The last kiss sparkles within me -
given with premeditation,
so that the sky would bloom,
the earth would awaken.

not everyday, does a man grow up
to say what he has to say,
a bit like now,
born with a chernobyll "tattoo" on
his right shoulder blade,
having had it removed,
but always remembering the story
his mother told him:
this nurse in the hospital tried
to **** you by suffocating you,
which enlarged your heart...
   now...
   why would it be odd,
               that i am a misogynist?
never mind the fact that i treat
prostitutes like they'd be my lovers
for the past 10 years;
sloppy seconds... mmm....
                                          ha ha;
i'm just getting bored of dying
but never actually dying...
      do i really has to ask the swiss
to do a proper job? i'm just bored
with a decalogue of attempts
inacted on me...
             it's just become, slightly
annoying that none of these attempts
succeeded...
               i'm tired...
               does anyone have a guillotine
handy?

if i wrote this earlier in the day i could remember all three
dreams i had in one night,
a sort of sketch of William Burroughs' take
of My Education -
                                        having stopped drinking hard
spirits, whether that's absinthe, ***** or whiskey
and turning to a soothing diet of cider - 1 to 3 bottle
to aid me sleep... mingling that with being my own
pharmacist (well, at least getting a chemistry degree
has finally become useful), i.e.:
alcohol + phnergan + naproxen + paracetamolum =
not drinking so heavily for too long,
it means waking up in the night,
going down to the kitchen to nibble on something
and then going back to sleep and dreams...
the first dream i don't remember so vividly...
but the other two dreams?

2.
i was filming a gang-**** of a woman...
i remember picking out a guy with a fire-red afro -
by the contorts of the shadow...
oh... she must have been ****** by about
10 of them... each taking his turn...
somewhere in the shadows of a street...
intervention, by moi? 10 of them and only 1 of
me... even Bruce Lee would tell you:
terrible odds... that's why all the security personnel
at stadiums don't know any martial arts:
or have any training: the tactic is to gang-up
on a single individual, swarm them with numbers
usually a 3:1 ratio...
after the gang **** is over i cringe at the idea
that she might have actually liked it...
            she starts screaming these words i see vividly
like a Belshazzar at the feast forewarning
the fall of Babylon...
                              my dream architecture is
wonky... the scene suddenly shifts with me walking
with the girl, trying to persuade her to the authorities...
she's unwilling... ergo my cringe and almost
austere look of wonder at the double-standard...
***** but not *****... reluctant blonde... another
actress... but i tell i have the evidence...
                     white knight? getting a limp **** *******?
what?! Freud... i'm new to this dream thing...
i'm just realising that dreams relax my consciousness...
my consciousness is no longer strained by having
to utilise my memory beyond mere arithmetic
and spelling and regurgitation of recipes or
scientific facts... dreams are new to me after a heavy
drinking hiatus... i'm treating the meanings of dreams
as dreams-per-se... i don't actually worry about the content
just the fact that they simply exist is enough...
i finally persuade her... even though i don't know why
she's snuggling under my arm...
     we end up in a building resembling a school...
in one room there's this authority woman figure with
something resembling a polygraph machine -
the page in front of her is like an inverted slit of a niqab...
and text appears in the slit and soon disappears...
and the "actress" in question had to read the text while
i present the woman of authority with the video evidence
of the gang-****... hmm -
   my taste in ******* has always been rather vanilla...
even today i found myself preparing for a visit to
the brothel... Saturday? i'll be tired... i'll finish at 10:30pm...
by the time i get there it will be almost 12am...
no, i don't care what the madam said about my
underperformance... i know exactly why i didn't perform...
it's not what she said about the 30min thing...
she's the madam, 1. that intimidating,
2. she sent my two favorite girls, Khadra and Mona
away... to never work in the brothel ever again...
Mona became pregnant... with whom?
   3. she's in her 50s and she's plump i mean: beached-whale
plump which is not a girl in her 20s that's plump
but less a beached-whale and more a female sea-lion...
cows... yeah... i tried looking up the body-build of the madam...
well no wonder why she complained that
i couldn't get a ******* with her... i just diverted
her attention to pretend to be tired from work...
if i can't ******* in private to that sort of body type...
no... without pornographic make-up... rude amateur
photography: reality snaps... no ******* wonder!

mommy don't know daddy's getting hot at the body-shop,
doing something unholy -

i hope does lyrics don't imply "body-shop" to imply
a tattoo parlour, i'm pretty sure that's not what's implied...
but my god... the importance of dreams:
to hell with interpretation of the... noumenon -
dreams could be considered a phenomenon
if we all shared at least one dream, of the same content,
but dreams are a noumenon -
sure, the phenomenon that we dream...
but are there like to like interpretations based on
seeing a red hat in a dream, or a boat?
flimsy... what about seeing printed words in
dreams?
                    i don't have the luxury of interpreting
dreams: i'm basking in the luxury of actually having
dreams... since i quit drinking heavily i wake
up rejuvenated... my memory is no longer strained
i no longer grasp the razor that was once driftwood
in the sea of memory trying to keep myself
intact... now i'm rebuilding my consciousness
with dreams... their meaning is meaningless given
that i have have a better use for them...
i stopped waking up forcefully trying to remember
a "decalogue" of formidable memories...
i think i can let them pass... remember them at some
later date... for the sort of remembering
that someone like my grandfather suffering from
dementia employed... i.e. employing a Memory Cinema:
i guess dementia sufferers probably don't dream:
mix into that cocktail insomnia and the finishing
line of mortality... that's when memory needs to be
deployed... not in one's youth...
but i wanted to understand his suffering that
i succumbed to mimicking it, by drinking heavily
and robbing myself of dreams... now that dreams
have been resurrected... ah... i can relax...

2. this dream was even better...
i was placed into a mental asylum...
who was my room partner? do people in mental asylums
get room-mates?!
well... my room-mate was someone resembling
a Jeffrey Dahmer... from time to time he would
break into these mirror-shattering fits
mirror-shattering epilepsy... walking angry...
sometimes frozen in time sometimes breaking out
of that labyrinth of staggering visual effects...
i guess i was looking at myself... what was poignant
was the distinct glasses...
before i was put into this mental asylum i was
met on an edge of a hill by an orderly in pearly white
(if he only had wings i'd suppose i arrived in heaven)
who said something...
then there was this great escape... me and "Dahmer"...
the orderly came against us with a pit-bull
that was wearing a metal-mask... a bit like Alex Dumas'
man in the iron man...
    the scene shifted to me wrestling with the dog
in yellow mud... wrangling the metal-mask off the dog's
head... i could almost feel the dog's teeth...
but i didn't.... i saw the dog's teeth but what was
hurting me were the metal-mask's claps / jaws...
wrestling peering into the dog's snout...
i managed to rid the dog of the metal-caste...
the orderly ran away... nowhere to be seen...
the scene shifted to the pit-bull turned into a puppy
(almost a puppy)... lying on my torso while we lay
in a hammock or a car with a reclined seat...
pretty pit-bull eyes looking at me endearingly
as if telling me: thank you for getting the nozzle off my head...
the orderly came back and said...
non-verbatim:
   'some people take a sparring partner to get this
level of introspection,
so few manage it on their own like you have done'...

historically i wonder about about all those poets
from the 1960s and their experimenting with
psychedelic drugs... hmmm...
and i wonder about myself: drink to the point of
arriving at the abyss - and then being resurrected
from it, by one's own devices -
i.e. drinking none of the unholy spirits -
personally: i'd rather drink in a vein of gradation,
if i can write something like this after only
two bottles of cider... why would i need
to drink half a litre of whiskey and wait
for my psyche to snap into writing?
if i can write this much after drinking so little
only thanks for the added dimension of dreaming
that has been so sorely missing in my life...
dreaming that upon waking relaxes my consciousness
as i no longer need to strain my faculty of memory:
this is me returning to the flow of water in time
rather than standing elbow-to-elbow like
a stone in space:
why would i need to take any psychedelic drugs
to elevate with whatever crude tools i already have?
i wanted to stop dreaming to find out why
my dementia riddle grandfather utilized memory
to create a Memory Cinema - dementia and insomnia...
of course he could still string two sentences together
and would spend his mornings reading the newspaper
from beginning to end and solved the crossword
puzzle... that was all there...
but... the way he employed memory...
it was sort of like me "forgetting" to dream...

well... granddad has been dead for almost 2 years now...
i think i can drop the project of understanding
dementia...
no wonder i felt so good having a 2h cycling session
today in the heavenly winds...
i was asked by my local surgery's nurse to drop
by and pick up a blood test form and clock up
my blood pressure... an average of
123 / 82 heart-beat at 93...
i know... it's not the best...
but i managed to drop from a systolic 143
to a systolic 123...
                      and this is after a 2h cycling session...
while i also managed to drop my diastolic from
over 90... 93... to 83... after 2h of cycling...
i imagine if i didn't cycle it wouldn't be considered
elevated... not bad... and i only stopped heavy drinking
since... 30th December... had a whiskey relapse on the 31st...
but it's the 4th of Jan now... so... well...
at 36 years old: i was still sort of expecting a quick
recovery... given my intention were in the right place:
i strained my body because i needed to strain my mind...
to understand... mortality...
i don't think the recovery would have been that quick
if i were simply drinking heavily, sniffing ******* on
the side by being a ******* octagon-type
Wall St. Bankers... would i now? my heart was in the right
place...

the added aesthetic bonus? my body might look great
from all the exercise, but yet my face retained some
puffiness from the excess drinking:
apparently it happens when drinking spirits...
your body attempts to retain as much water as possible,
no wonder i was rarely hangover...
my body built-up a defense mechanism against
being dehydrated, it would store liquid
in undesirable places... notably in the face...
puff-cheeks... oh ****... my face is.... SLIMMING...
i have cheek-bones! it's almost looking natural!
it almost suits more than ever having a full beard...
project no. 2... i'll trim the moustache myself...
while trimming the other expendable body-hairs...
retaining a proper turf from beard through
the chest and the rest of the torso toward
the ***** Eden region...

ah! but dream 1. wasn't really a dream...
it was a thought-dream...
i was conjuring up... a metaphor in my mind...
a cherry tree...
what comes before a cherry on a cherry-tree?
a cherry blossom...
what could a "God" give unto Adam...
or rather... if antimatter exists...
what could an Anti-Satan give unto Eve?
before a fruit is a fruit...
a fruit is a flower...

and this only exist in the ****** language... what?!
the following formulation in the rubric: qua -
as being... i.e.

kamień kamieniem
woda wodą
kot kotem
pies psem
litera literą
    ogień ogniem
czas czasem
              gitara gitarą
czerń czernią
smok smokiem
prawda prawdą
    wiatr wiatrem        all... all in all:
                                (~)QUA...
    dog (as) being a dog

if the serpent supposed ******* confusion gave
the woman the fruit: he gave her the womb first...
no wonder! it is time the serpent gave unto her
the fruit, the supposed ******* confusion
her ****** back: for her to... bear barren fruit...
in full blossom outside the realm of "patriarchy"...
****-mafia of the serpent...
aren't we ssssssssssssseing it right now?
finally! women can entertain the flower...
but not the fruit...
they can have their fruit tickled and teased and
glued to as many bothersome little bees...
lick tease lick tease thump and pump...
voodoo! voodoo!
oh... but first the ornament on the altar of man:
woman being given the fruit: the womb...
only now... barren womb...
now comes a sidewinder giving her the flower...
her ****...
the fruit is now rotting in the barren pool of history...
now! the exfoliating flower...
ah... but unlike fruits... that can be turned into
jams, baked... flowers last only ever so long...

if one is allowed to borrow from the Metaphors
of Moses...
if this supposed fruit, forbidden was given in...
paradise... seems strange...
not even the correct adjective - strangely:
ah... but the fruit was given in paradise in order
for man to replicate reproduction
of all the other animals... imagine paradise with
pregnancy, reproduction,
no wonder Satan no. 1 gave a fruit rather than
the flower of the fruit that was to become:
perhaps he saw wrecking ball Adam
inexperienced in tickling flowers enticed poor
Eve: by Oedipus man will get a chance to please
you... but for that to happen:
you will need to open up the fruits of your labour
and reproduce, while he will stomach nothingness
and a bright genius in his mind
to combat the elements: water with ships
with the aid of the wind inventing sails...
he will bring down fire to ease the warmth...
i can't imagine... perhaps Satan didn't want to
pluck the flower of the forbidden fruit tree
and give the fruit to Adam...
that would have been... a mightily short story...
if Satan gave the flower of the forbidden
tree to Adam... but no... he waited until the flower
turned into fruit and gave the fruit to Eve!

as i have learned, dearest, "father"... once you eat
the forbidden cherry blossom
and not the cherry...
    perhaps it's no Eden... perhaps it's just a brothel
in your palace of arrogance of Pandemonium...
perhaps... but... i just don't care if she ate the fruit:
that she's fertile...
i've eaten the forbidden cherry blossom:
i don't need to eat the forbidden cherry...
maybe that's why the Madam banished Mona back
to Romania: what if... me teasing her ****** without
a ******... just teasing... before her putting it on...
and ******* into the rubber...
she... decided to self-inseminate herself with my *****
and ******* back to Romania?
what if God is the Madam in this story and she
was banished from the "Eden" of the brothel?!

mommy don't know that daddy's getting hot at the body-shop
doing something unholy...
ssssssseems befitting... i'll call this the year of the flies...
why would my house suddenly entertain
these... dozen if if not more... fleshy black...
dearest, "father"... is there rebellion in the ranks?
why would Beelzebub send his emissaries come
the new year?!

seems no reason, none: whatsoever,
cider is a bit like champagne: more fruity and most certainly
most sweet...
i know that this writing is but a sketch and something
more prolific could morph out of it...
something as succinct as the last book
of the old Testament: the contradictory concept
of reincarnation of the prophet Elijah as promised
by Malachi... monotheism is still teasing with
the polytheism is so despises...
no wonder that both the polytheism of India
and the atheism (conventional human wisdom
of intellects sparring) of China feels so...
sssssso undisturbed... no wonder the concept
of the civilisation-state rather than
the western take on the ethno-state...
why is it that the western world is so polygamous
in its ethnicity... the crumbling civilisation:
Oedipus gave his plucked-out eyes to Samson...
and Samson is shaking the cradle with baby-Holocaust
in it...
sure... they were Jews: given that the state of Israel
was established... but by law... they were Polish nationals...
easily forgotten... given...
the close "alliance" of resurrection of either of the people's
states...
           unlike like in England were
the last invasion happened with the Normans in 1066...
plenty of time to invent cricket, football,
afternoon tea... pastime literature...
lazing about and Victorian moral standards...
of: doth black so well without an Arabic veil!

enough! 12am has come and my bedtime has
arrived... i don't need to torture myself through and
thoroughly into the night!
the night is for sleeping... and right now?
agitate some beehive of dreamsssssss!

the time it takes to travel from
ostrowiec świętokrzyski...
mein klein
        scheisseloch
               aus geburtdorf - - - - - - - - - - - -

arriving at Stansted airport...
at the passport
    hall...

    achtung bitte...
then some Spanish...
and at last English...
i almost forget where i was...

i was about to write an epic...
saturated with so little
of thought...
but, alas... bombarded
by two shots of bourbon,
distracted by
something found between

a mountain, a chair,
a man and a fern
(yes, a cat... sleeping in my bed)...

imagine being sober for
over a month!
  imagine!
one IPA beer throughout
the "tenure" of holy holy holy

- - - - - - - - - - -
   my little ****-hole
                       from, birth-village

       what?!
i'm not going to learn German
being so god-**** entrenched in
Englisch and Schlavikschisch...
"too many consonants"...
that's what the English colts
used to say seeing western
Slavic for the first time...
"too many" consonants...

    sounds like "t'oo mime'any"
    pronouns in the post-Germanicus
post-isch              Eisland...

EPIC! EPIC!
over a month sober and...
new year's resolution?

  don't visit a brothel...
buy vinyls...
   and visit that
gresham publishing company
in London...
with the collection
of Dickens...

     - - - - - - - -
(Kandinsky / *******... all over
zis grossenwahn...
great delusion)

   but the time it takes to
travel by coach from
   ostrowiec świętokrzyski to Warsaw?
see...

  you never appreciate certain
types of music genres in
certain places...
opera... where do you listen to opera?
in an operhauß!

            pierdolone kacapy!
rho si si... si si kurva... si i zawsze ja!
    ия
                  siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
                  jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

pierdu pierdu: a.i.

        never mind, not today...
not straight off the boat type of...
"poem"...
just a blitzkrieg...
like any blitzkrieg...
reactionary?
                          that blinking
sensation...
        EPI                   LEP           (P)SY    

(we'll come onto greek in
a minute...
just one letter...

oh much much prior to
the antithesis of sudoku,
i.e. mahjong,
               solitaire...
   the OTHER,                    NPC...
finite model theory...
                    heinz-dieter ebbing)  

point being?
jazz? a bedroom and a cafe...
classical music though?

grand architecture or...
the most mundane "there"
   with a crooked mirror of
"being", with what remains:
   das ist:                   da ist nicht!

meine! oder ohne mir!

                      und es ist...
  und es ist...
                          
  the compedium of man's surmount
in but a few words made
totem, god, beast or with a mask
to guise a face upon a lake,
a moon delving into Monday,
a scythe into the sickle
and the plums of fortune
come August's choir of wheat...

a trickle of the poetic,
a tickling of the drunk...
  
  and here in England they cared for
what became dyslexic
hyperinflated:
yoga granny yog'ha
             for the pronoun:
who what where?
      basic... 2 i see two i too c to see
'ere i wh'       her i err
who i... go when?

when is pronoun!
   times what?
who!
when times what equals who!

woo woo woo...

a whole month speaking nothing
but ****** with my grandparents...
drop my tongue into
a barrel of bourbon...
of course i'll exfoliate!

   - and i liked classical music prior...
but...
hmm...
sitting there in the coach,
decided to chose a letter...

i once did this "thought experiment"
while studying the chemically
enchanced marijuana
of post hippy post pink floyd England...
skunk...
how to... pseudo-Buddha...
not think...
seek the holy grail... the third eye...
same **** different cover
*******...

        mind you...
it did work...
where did my thinking unbecome
narration?
oh... right... poetry and
the prophecies of the weather forecast:
the solid 5 minutes
of fame ordained to surpass
the 15 already promised
by Dandy W.

              classical music...
sitting uncomfortably?
good...
now you need a coach trip...
and...

ideal timing...
from
   ostrowiec świętokrzyski
to Warsaw you can listen to
robert schumann's

   fantastical tracks op. 12,
   arabeska c-dur op. 18,
                 childhood's scenes op. 15,
     forest scenes op. 82

and
     beethoven's
     IX symphony d-mol op. 125...
entering Warsaw...
like some vague...
comedy of... Wagner...
        luftwaffezunahme...

orgasmusrittwalküregodemicheservus
­
and i just said there...
most uncomfortable...
  Λ...
                 no... not a syllable...
Λ...
                   two eyes...
and a pin-point...
   on the forehead...
a missing, a hush, no narrative...
a "meditation"
(now, that's ambitious)...

  lambda...

                no... not O(micron,
or     -mega)...
  
           Λ...
  an... "effect"...
   (yes yes, either an ambiguity,
or a misnomer, that "     "     capsule)

         how did i notice Λ?

the digital clock in the coach,
i wanted to encapsulate...
something given,
a priori...

                           not this:
a posteriori mesh mish mash U O MSH,
this perpetual synthesis
of an acquired tongue...

i wanted to block
a meaning...
so i tuned into the music...
   and began blanking, stare-matching
waterfalls to staircaseas...

it began with

   14 : 30

14 : : : : : : : : : :
   : : : : : : : : : :
      : : : : : : : : : :
   : : : : : : : : : :
   : : : : : : : : : :
         : : : : : : : : : : 14 : 31

after a while i deviate
from even minding
the : : : : : : : : : :
   : : : : : : : : : :
      : : : : : : : : : :
   : : : : : : : : : :
   : : : : : : : : : :
         : : : : : : : : : :
  count

   ⠃  b
       ⠅     k
⠭    x
                ⠃ 2

after a while?

    given the λ-effect?

  well... y... h... λ... μ...

              what the hell
is north is there is no
actual Copernican "north"?

sure... the earth isn't flat...
but "where" the hell is
"north" in the Copernican
scheme of things?!
there isn't one, is, there?

hence the blurry:

   magic number on calculator
screens in math class in school:

8008135:
              8, ∞, S, 5, rune, sharpened,
etc.
    ∞, 8: 5 S...

                        5318008: *******!

IO:3Γ

                  1b:6B

              chess?
     poker?
                                bridge?

IZ:ZS (12:25)...

                       over a month spent
sober... with an exception
of watching the Decalogue
8 or 9...
                    (kieślowski) -
with an IPA...
                              (indian pale ale)...

23rd. of November 2018...
i can still remember
sitting on a barstool next to her,
sipping a Guinness...
at 7am...

   i've never seen a woman
read two pages of a book
for so long in my life...
well... attempt to read a book...
contantly checking
her phone...

                 it's hard to feel ashamed
drinking in the morning
in an airport,
surrounded by hefty
***** in a bunch
heading off for a bachelor
party
with one dressed in
Pampers...

                          but i kept
her company...
   **** me...
                       23rd November
2018...
           a lot must have happened
since then...

              she sooner
finished her pint of lager,
i my pint of Guinness,
she checked her phone
more times than i blinked...
and still...
she only managed to
turn only one page
of a book...

     bad luck... 'Dannielle'...
a book, an airport,
a morning cover?
        
   - but i've never seen a person
take so much time to turn
over a page or two
of a book...
this is hardly a place
to call into question
a conversation starter:
so watch'ah reading?
is it?

    didn't think so...
   books, now, then, 10 years ago...
and now...
bypassing standard bearers...
Urban II sorts...
   books as items of nouveau vogue
attaches...

   sorts:
   kippahs of the trendy
Brooklyn sort...

            
hell: **** it... let's wreck this
like a Machine Head song
akin to bulldozer...

   if Pandora had a box...
Eureka had an attic.

title: charter
body: himling (502 bad gateway bypass).

but in earnest, i hate giving advice to begin with, that's one of the pillars that was passed down to me from Alexander Dumas... watch the Shawshank Redemption enough times... Alexandre Dumb-***... never figured out why... well... English would look very, very ugly without certain surd (silent) letters in its spelling... like... dumb... where's the ******* 'B'?! or... Gnostic... where's the 'G'? you can't exactly reform English by saying... let's replace the surd letters with an apostrophe... 'nostic... dum'... even though? English writes itself along the lines of cannot via can't... will not via won't... it must hurt... you mentioned troubles with a girl you're seeing and she's ******* (she is) ******* this other guy... in my writing i mention the 3Ps... priests, psychiatrists, prostitutes... i should invoke a 4th P... poets... see a *******... honest hand on an honest heart... you'll see women differently... a lot differently... when you pay one for merely ***... after said experience... you will turn the power-*** dynamic on its head... you will not longer see women in the same way... i.e. ideally... i was a sucker for looking at women ideally... all that You Got Mail... High Fidelity crap... no... after an hour with a *******... you sober up... you start seeing the game... not of the pick-up artist... but of women... you end up paying for what you exactly want... you're not paying for a date... talk?! what talk? some of the women i recently met have nothing to say about movies, music... or books... they might have pandered themselves on showcasing a decalogue of too long nails... even they say that they can't properly use a touch screen because of their "disability"... don't waste your feelings on this broad... go to a *******... sober ub... stop being so idealistic... such a mollusk favouring romance... i tried it... it doesn't work... it's counterfeit.... seriously...  with a priest all you'll get is a confession... talk... with a psychiatrist... more talk... but at least with a ******* you'll... you're the type that requires to talk during ***? i don't... i just use eye-contact and the power of touch... CARPE DIEM the **** out of this situation... forget her... she's already ******* herself... for thrills... not for pay...wait till she starts doing it for pay... she's bound to revel in degrading herself as a free commodity into a: pay into dynamic... get ahead of her... see a *******... build up a ****** "diet"... learn to fast... get into swimming... get into cycling...  and whenever something prompts you to have someone ******* you... well... wait there and then... for the moment to come... or do nothing at all... once i managed a decade being overweight... once i got a scare from my doctor: you're too fat... you have two options... lose weight... or... we'll put you on high blood pressure tablets... so i started to walk marathons and cycle... but then... after a decade's worth of a period of being invisible... what will you know... single mothers started crawling out of the woodworks like cockroaches... you leave one homemade wine, banana loaf, flowers on Valentine's Day... and? she ends up behaving like a SPASTIC... ugh... ugh... dunno what to do! a boy likes me! i'm transgender! i don't know what a girl is supposed to behave! ******* SPAZ... of course i'm going to retaliate by going to my favoured source of: mann ist mann... Kadın dır-dir Kadın... i'm never sure how the Turks cut off the head off the iota... how it morphs when it's cut off... one Turk explained it to me... AYE becomes merely E... never mind... to reiterate... once you pay a woman for ***? your feeling dynamic is changed, it becomes more focused, you can appreciate rejection a lot more freely...  afterwards you're like: **** it... sure... let her do what she wants... plus? you don't really get a chance to glow and wallow in the up-keep of her realising that she ****** up... you'll be more like: don't worry girl, everyone ***** up once in a while... there will be no hint of schadenfreude in your secret malice coming to fruition... it, merely, "somehow"... ahem... "happened"... you'll walk with a glee of: oops(?)... well... at least that's how i'm walking... and i'm not making it a secret... it's out in the open... don't bother with priests... don't bother with psychiatrists... they'll only prescribe you pills that will fatten you up... or... sinner prayers... see a *******... find one that's from the East though... Romanian... Bulgarian... Turkish... i wish you all the best in your plight.

in an alternative universe I would have walked out of my hut and approached the police officers peering in and said: sorry, you can't park here, there's a McDonald's delivery truck on site that will be leaving soon and you're blocking access, can you please move the vehicle... which would have spared me the consternation... ooh: I love words that I use infrequently: and that would have been that... but then I wouldn't have the adrenaline to right a wrong and apologise to one person who deserved it (the delivery driver) and that mindless confrontation with a ****** in the form of an old woman shouting at me from the balcony: O **** me Romeo... I'm not climbing to such heights... in an alternative reality I wouldn't have been summoned to write these words... but I did spring into action and the delivery driver lost maybe 15min... that's fashionable for life to somehow become a salient drama of organisms with voices beyond the ruptures tectonic and dogs barking... clearly this woman has been observing me for some time... one slip of my bad judgement and I get scolded... **** me... and it's not even someone I know or care about... but shouldn't police officers know the "hygiene" of how to park a ******* vehicle so that it's not obstructive? Excuses excuses: but no... is there any sympathy for the devil so lowly cast that he has no army, no wealth to contest an argument? who is in the wrong here? who is in the wrong... in the end it was callous of me to presume the car would only be parked for a reprieve... but it's not like a ghost limb lost cause with only a minor delay... trains get delayed... that ******* glaring audacity of critique: why you no robo? why you not robot? erm... because my cognitive range is beyond shouting down on people from a balcony? maybe that?! I have a rich cognitive realm that doesn't descend into such trivialising and watching jeopardy on television? 15min late doesn't imply a ******* irreversible amputation of a limb... give me a ******* break! in an alternative universe: this poem doesn't exist.

a haggard old woman emerges
onto a balcony
brandishing a telephone call
like a pitchfork or a flaming torch:
why don't you respect the time
and the work ethos of immigrants!
I will be watching you,
filming you... do your job!
do your job!
you should have prevented
the police car from obstructing
the access road for the McDonald's
delivery truck... you are wasting
his time!
in her thick immigrant accent
and I'm thinking to myself...
then I coerce her and agree...
I did see the police car drive up
and park where they shouldn't have...
to female officers walk out...
they peer into my security cabin...
see me... ergo: if there's someone
organic in there, surely this access
road must be live... split second mistake
as I was still deep in Military Time
planning my route home,
given it's a Sunday and there is
reduced service on everything
from buses to trains:

1st northern line train out
of Elephant & Castle departs
at 0721
****... that would mean 21minutes
wasted...
1st trains from LST (Liverpool St)
to RMF (Romford)
plat 9 0723 : 0739
plat 11 0733 : 0800
plat 11 0748 : 0815
plat 6 0753 : 0808

Bus stop V at RMF
499: 0743, 0813, 0843
103: 0808, 0838
175: 0803, 0833...

****...
Bus stop D near E & C
35: 0700, 0713 to London Bridge
journey time <15min...
then Jubilee line to Stratford...
17min from London Bridge
if all goes to plan I should catch
the 0748 train...

it could hardly be a noise complaint
and shouldn't the police officers
know better?
I didn't react in time
but I also thought they might
be there for a short while
given their choice of a parking
spot...
but that woman complaining
that a man wasn't doing his job
is... well just that... loud mouth
not enough grit to grind teeth
and manage stoically...
she just wanted someone to shout
at from the balcony...
and while the engine was grinding
a Bach ***** into the ground
and ambient sound
again the audacity: don't pretend
you can't hear me!

Split second decision...
but the police officers saw me
and I saw them...
but being women regardless
of uniform: deer in headlights...
could have waved a friendly
hello and asked...
mea culpa I know I should have
just ******* ran out and spared
myself the headache:
but you hardly think that police
officers could be guilty of bad
parking ethics...
sure... in a traffic accident where
they have to block off the road...
but so brazenly casual in no state
of emergency?
why didn't the police officers get
the brunt of the old woman's anger?
why? because they were women, no?
how else to simplify it
that in my mind I tried to intuitively
allow for the parking to take place...
am I a traffic warden too?
can police vehicles be warded off
from bad parking?
I thought that being in the police
while in uniform gave you some
******* immunity?
and didn't I just play out a:
benefit of the doubt scenario
in my head whereby I thought they
might only park for 15min?

they saw some alive manning
the access road...
so I sprung into action
first via the access gate to the rear
of the police station... called twice...
gave the reg plate...
upon 2nd time was given
suggestion to go to the front gate...
ran round and the clerk
already dealing with one matter
saw horror in my eyes
radioed through, although
we shared a similar frustration
at the somewhat pointless radio traffic...
within minutes: I ran back
apologising to the delivery driver...
same driver who upon entry
also apologised when I said to him:
I'm going to the toilet...
why are you telling me this?
How long are you going to be?
An hour...
went to the toilet walked back
to my hut and so he approached
with a sorry misunderstanding:
well yeah, I don't work for McDonald's
either...

that ******* haggard old woman...
shouting and giving me paranoia
that I now have thinking
she's sitting there all alone in
a pretty plush residential building
where crazy rich Asians come and
go, deliveroo at 2am, prostitutes etc
while I'm just wanting to finish
the Decalogue (short films about: xyz)...
but if police officers don't know
how to park their ******* vehicles...
that just gives me all the more
impetus to finish my driving
license theory in half the planned time
**** of to Poland for two weeks...
get the actual license...
then ******* to Hawaii and never
look back at this place...
this urban cesspit...

Schoenberg's verklärte nacht, op. 4
for starting the night off...
reminiscence of the past four nights spent
in the silo of isolation:
thinking about Engels and Marx and
that theory about alienation -
such nights with fire and classical music
on the shift...
but i am doing a personalised understudy
in Polish Cinema from the Communist
Era... and i'm finding a great deal
i will not write essays about or pay
for an actual undergraduate degree:
it would have to be a post-graduate thesis
proposal for an educational body
say a university about the study of Polish Cinema
in the context of that time period
as a comparative tool to not exactly...
but exactly that... deconstruct modern cinema
in the English speaking world...
if i am a pink haired oily skinned
overweight leftist or leftoid or an ardent
Communist-**** ******* left opposition
in that the Devil is Left
and God is Right...
                        but i can be a proper deconstructionist
follow the paths of deconstructionalism
via the model of post-modernism
but only from the ashes and context of
being: as the British working class love
to make the distinction about foreigners
and then the Pakistani foreigners themselves
about new immigrants esp European
immigrants: BORN & BRED ENGLISH
BRITISH...
like that old slogan...

but that other slogan: BLUT UND BODEN...
well: where is your land?!
where?!

modern English speaking world cinema is
in need of right wing deconstructionist
post-modernists critiques...
which have to be learned from the left leaning
loony crowd in the English speaking world
that does not exist in other parts of the world
simply because those parts of the world
were rather strict and serious about the left
even Germany was
but then Germany took the other route toward
Marxism and England will have to too
experience its own version of Marxism...
given that i asked the question:
who was more critical, authentically concerned,
with the terrible living conditions
of the working people in Manchester...
child slavery in England was a real thing...
England might have shone the light
to the rest of the world:
but internally it has always been a Dickensian
pogrom
a fowl place of orc and elves... and dwarfs...
this is not a Christian nation no more
than Poland was upon its conversion...
then defending the last pagan stronghold of Europe
that was Lithuania:
like Christianity reached Kievan Rus sooner
than and the enclave of Litwa: Litwa...
the last heart of Europe before the cancerous
experiment on humanity
like the Parting of the Red Sea = the Holocaust...
in terms of wonder
how God can inflict such wonders telepathically
no longer through the winds the seas and speaking
through fire: but as the lord of hosts
able to do what... Apocalypse does in the X-Men
universe and consumes Prof Xavier's consciousness
like a spin-off on the Marvel universe:
the baddy wins in the second movie
while dying in the first...

see: cinema in the west doesn't do much with human
nature: just the crushing of human imaginings
where there are more images than words
being consumed:
like this inner circle craving of the Elites in Eyes
Wide Shut to insert a paganism
to defeat the crushing Christianity of Judaism
and not Christianity out of Paganism...
or a Christianity out of Hinduism:
since we are talking geneology: time...
not all religions emerged at once...
same is to say not all people emerged all at once...
therefore who is to talk about the environment
and the green Antarctica...

Harlequin *******... sharing words sharing
images...
clearly... i felt like a *** slave...
                                   a little toy and then to bring
to mind: why wake up with negative thoughts...
but i was waking up at 6pm and not 6am
with negative spinning vertigo thoughts
like looking into glass and with enough
night being able to see a mirror... some terrific
horror beginning this night
with a spider gently, silently dropping down from
the ceiling of the hut...
at least not in front of my nose but near enough
for me to see and instead of a frightened aghasp
a cross-eyed examination suggested
that i should just blow it away: swing it away
like those flowers: out of nouns: you blow the seeds
away like parachutes
why didn't **** Germany just bomb London
why not send in: en masse:
their best lovers, poets, philosphers, thieves,
the crimminals! why didn't **** Germany
just bomb other cities like Manchester
and Industrial Heart of the Empire
while simultaneously not drop crimminal
paratroopers into London or on the outskirts...
crimminals... like what the Russians are doing
but anally... crimminals as... footsoldiers?!
you ******* kidding me?!
no no!
you drop crimminals into enemy lines...
just like what a lot of countries are doing in England
but there's no single country:
no wait... that's not what's happening:
dialectical materialism spectacles...
the rest of the world is dumping workers
into the drip feed of society for uber and deliveroo
asians...
those kamikaze antics of their knowledge of Roman
Roads is like... rules of the roads in Rome itself...
bogus...

ah... class... in England... if it's not about money
then it must be about interest...
and there's this overseeing scrutiny about
work ethic, work pride,
yes... work pride... something concerning
work and nobility:
long gone are the days of nobility and feudalism
and monarchy:
pride and nobility: pride is a version:
subdued by nobility...
one can be a petty security guard in a hut
in one of the most spectacular places
on earth to witness the plethora of humanity
at night: Elephant and Castle...
lunatics and the open asylum and oh so many stars...

my company is asking for my social media
pages... they want to make an audit...
i think i've been captured on camera doing
something right... and they want to see my social media
profile... i'm a bit shy: it's a bit like losing your virginity
for the first time: to allow the virtual world
to collide with the real world:
i'm afraid of being sacked...
not that i wouldn't react to it with so much desperation
as to fly to Istambul and become
a missing person...
and like those modern people who...
i can't get past Schoenberg past the 6th or 7th minute...
like those people who have music curated
to them Moloch of Metallica adoration music
and producer and musician somewhere an artist:
oh i adored Metallica's master of puppets...
but i spent the first two weeks just listening to Battery
before listening to the rest of the album...
by god! that's me!
i can't listen past Schoenberg's 6th or 7th minute:
there's just so much and it works like a tide
when you let yourself go
and listen to the entire 30 minutes:
this is CLASS in England...
intellect...                     concern for humanity: soothing it
by distracting it with one's own solipsistic interest...
oh: if they want to audit my internet presence...
they'll be in for a surprise...

but English cinema is rarely existential and
so much phantoms to please...
it's sad that foreigners adopted:
but who invents the tools doesn't necessarily
have a say
concerning how those tools are to be used... right?
there's no inventor of cinema:
the objective... who gets to dictate the subjective
from the creation of the tool...
i see a hammer but no nail?
tool or weapon?
hammer and nail as a weapon become a torture emblem
of Christ and Pinhead in the hellraiser universe...
nail on its own... perhaps a toothpick...
so the hammer and the sickle
would! oh oh oh!
i want to redraw the flag of **** Germany!
apologies to the Asians!
i need south Korean now!
it's a flag!
drop the ******* the red white and black
that the Arabs are now borrowing
with a tinge of green in writing...
i have a flag!

                  BLACK...
                            wit­h a WHITE: HAMMER
   and SCYTHE!
                              or... maybe not a hammer...
but the hammer... yes... a black flag with a white
hammer and a scythe...
we don't need no clock of the ******* now:
we have the star of david clock turning...
tick... tock... tick... tock...           tick... tock...
i see a mat to sit on and read an open book.
two horns: tick tock... tick tock...
                                 i see my comrades ahead:
Jackie Spoonfularrow...
                              she's there... mermaids in her
**** juices...
                     tick-tock...

卐    (anti-clockwise or clock-wise...
             focus on the Rorschach...
         is this symbol orientated around a clockwise
dynamic... or an anti-clockwise dynamic?
can't say much for clocks and O...
            so that's the symbol of time performed so isolated
so much like the Birth of Christianity
from the ******* of Rome!
        i know that for me... this is... anti-clockwise...
but see... the germans chose the clockwise *******...
i'm chosing.... the anti-clockwise *******
and it will be just white on black...
in the corner like the five stars of China
and the hammer and the scythe... elsewhere...

something needs to happen spiritually!
artistically! voluntarily!
by the grace of god...

    ****... clock is stuck... hardly the crossroads... ***
of **** sites...
        i wanted to venture to show you the tick-tock
of the clock... clockwise starter quater to, then noon...
but that html codecie is only burning a flag...

thus a clock running on empty where
the second hand just quivers, limply...
trying to move forward but then having a dead man's
reflex response: tug-tod...    tug-tod... tugging at
the angel of death imploring him:
am i awake in heaven or in hell or again?!

can't replicate the html dictates of this page...

p.s. i made a faux pas: there is a mistake in here...
i know it...
      the Nazis did choose the anti-clockwise
*******: but they fell because you can't
choose an anti-clockwise *******
to go back in time... huh?! no anti-clockwise
just counter-clockwise?
wait wait...

yes a clockwise ******* imply going back
is healthy?! like a counter-clockwise *******
going forward in time:
******* to O                                 maybe it all fell
apart because their chose a counter-clockwise
******* to go back in time and unearthed...
what they unearthed: God's disgruntlement
with his People
concerning their overstayed welcome
in Poland: so that currently: Poland can prosper
and be envied by journalists in England
and i'm not even there
because my grandfather was a Communist
Party member and there was no room for people
like me back there: some country
like Chamberlain's Czech Republic Antarctica;

Człowiek z marmuru: man of marble: Wajda...
or Dostoyevsky's Idiot and my Anti-Idiot combined...
Decalogue: I, III, X... oh and VII for Linda's performance.

don't go to bed with bad thoughts:
charge them, charge them to the full:
asked upon coming home whether
i'd sleep all day having spent all night awake:
no of course not...
but i need my ritual to get the graveyard
shift amphetamine full charger
on...
coming back home with silence
a homeless man under the bridge
and a bible study group around Romford St
RMF RMF no FM FM...
Poland Holy Place my place of birth
even though as a boy an older boy
told me to open my mouth
whereby he subsequently spit into it...
shaman ritual:
we are blood and we are water
now that i'm reading Dune...
that wasn't an insult but a sharing of water...
because he saw the things i did
in Poland before i came to England
and did some on the side...
like calling out to a bird
in Valentine's Park and the little bird
flying into my hand from
a bush...
O dearest dear O my dear
and today i finished the shift on time...
7am...
so this is the clock-O-monkey
measure for measure like for like
eye for an eye...
no pound of flesh for all that is Bank
Judaism of Usury...
Jews are not exclusive in that Sin...
i wonder why didn't mention the 11th Commandment:
you will not have this alchemical economy
project:
turning metal into only one that being gold...
money doesn't make money
money is exchanged
for goods: deeds: moral debts...
the 11th Commandment doesn't mention
money doesn't it?
why God said only said
you will not ****** you will not steal...
why theft is there
and Usury isn't... this be the 11th commandment
and the director of the Decalogue is dead
i just finished commandment 4, 5, 6...
5 i was thinking of Reyla
6 i was thinking of Edie...
then Edie sends me a most provocative picture
of Reyla sleeping:
i too was lethargic and empty from the last
week of shifts...
the nights were so long...
so two days before or maybe nights...
"we" struck a deal with Mark Nathon
my day to night shift operator...
anyway
he came at 5:45am: kind reward...
day later: tonight... 'you coming early today?'
'yes, mate...'
   bring myself coffee and tea almost each
time...
O Mark my *** poor man
came so angry at me today...
maybe he dreamnt of me
but there was something simpler...
the details i'll screenshot and send to Edie
and have my own psychology session
with the child inside of me and all of us...
this son of man:
a trial for both god and the devil...
there are two trinities
that became conflated and distorted...
not properly worded... the Jews and Early Christians...
forsaken...
there are two trinities...
one consisted of the supposed son of god:
the father the son and the holy spirit
yet... yet?!       why is baby jesus depicted
as a baby with the Madonna?
so who is the Holy Spirit... it's not god:
a litany of messangers...
the trinity of the devil...
it's not the beast, the antichrist, the architecture...
you like my linen?
i like your skirts and kilts and kayleighs...
maybe the people of Falkands can't see
an army to defend them so
better to sniff out more sun
and abandon the lies
and pride
and ******* and give way to a penguin
takeover of the ******* islands!
the Argentinians only fought a war of:
why are you keeping these people
here! so miserable! let them tango
in Buenes Senioritas!

you said so yourself:
most of the people are Scots! of origin...
so displace the Scots:
like you can displace the ******* Philistines
and create a working diaspora
a nation of the mind!
not of ****** origin...

so he mouthed me off... ******... came point on 7
and the only reason i was late yesterday
last night
is because a train broke down
and there was traffic
and i overslept till 4:30pm
but left 4:49pm not having showered...
but in the WhatsApp group i said too much
for this little soul
and i gasp at having this demeanour
of condescending feeds...
    but the owner looked past my misreads
and... thumbs up 4am...
only to me...

           some bigger things existed...
history stopped from being
recited prior to year 1914: year 0.....
          because we landed on the moon
at night... we didn't land on the moon
when the sun shines on the surface...
why? because we would fry chicken be?
is that why?
so why bother to land on the moon
during the moon's night
and already know... beside mushrooms:
what starter-pack-up organic phenomenon
feeds off of
moonlight and skunk ***** juices...

mouth me off... i just revelled in a heart pouncing
at an emotion worded by a toothless
dyslexic...
a ******* train broke down:
mate: when flights were halted
over Iceland: because... "act of god"...
    
                   so daddy issues: proper:
provided us 2000 years of somehow the ancients
being exhausted by finding stoicism and aestheticism?
Logia: finally understanding:
sow: two flaws... maybe three:
three by now is Judaism:
is has become ugly...
at it's most splendourous: abouding...

the purge jihad crusafe
judaism islam christianity...
i felt abandon greatest
in monotheism:
this cult of individuality:
you had a Moses:
i know:
it hurts...
who hurt you?
you will not get a 2nd Moses:
or a Second God...
that... how is your god stop evolving?
there are already two alternatives...
Allah and the Unknown Name of Jesus as Father...
and Son... and Holy Ghost...
am i He who finally obstructs the evolution
of Yahweh as a god of letters:
finally the gauged out eyes: read braille:
but first the phonetic alphabet...
long lines __
and dots... dind't play the guitar...
did: copper tips...

i can cage Yahweh if you let me
cage him, dear humankind:
the Hebrew need to be rid of this parasite:
i don't know his origins
i don't need the Holocaust,
Israel, Pollacka: insult they lived and
created a language based off of German:
Yiddish:
we failed them? they didn't properly
integrate into Poland:
yet lived there...
and exported monkey money to
their cousins in Germany
to create a new breeding ground in Anglo-Saxon
brides etc. in north America?!

so they lived in Poland...
but had their majority... slaves
among slavs... living in Poland?!
they created the Yiddish
of Hebrew with German...
yet they lived among Poles
most peacefully...
but they didn't bother to think
about creating a language
with the Polacks!
o shame on you!
Yahweh was right
the Germans told you
you ought to be... exterminated
for the hurt of pride upon the Pole
and your MArxist
******* ******* *******
cult! you ******* Moloch swaying people!

YOU DESERVED THE HOLOCAUST!
AND DEFEND!
STRUGGLE WITHOUT POWER!
IRAN IS PURE ISLAM
AND NOT SAUDIA ARABIA!

why breed hebrew with german?
why didn't you breed the hebrew tongue
with the polish tongue?

too late for that now:
i see you and your god's fury
in the Roman architecture of YHWH...

/i might not be the sharpest head-piece in the arsenal, but you know what they say about a blunt and sharp "head" of a nail? matches up blunt, to the blunt head of a hammer... esp. when prior to the wood, it penetrates through flesh... oh hell: i acknowledge the ****** metaphor... i just like it's not an analogy of a hishing hook with one's best: curling hand in bowling the perfect scoop / score.

x     8     y     3     z     2     x     1     y
z     x     y     6     5     8     y     1     z
x     8     7     i     4     q     2     1     y
z     8     x     3     y     2     z     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x
y     8     x     3     z     2     y     1     x

             ah... only upon a finished example...


explain to me why i should stop
jerking off onto the current culture
with a pleaure,
  when seeking "high mind"
in solving ***-intellect-pop-"****"
               at the same time?
last time i heard,
      thinking arises much easier:
res vanus (a priori),
               res cogitans (a posteriori)
and...               unfortunate
        authentic spectacle non-measurable
debate in schizophrenia
     (res extensia)...
       giving a "quest" for the kabbalists...
which are the select jews...
seriously? one "magic" square?
i just digested nine,
  drunk... and now: it wasn't exactly
a reason to be proud of...
just a torture... of accomplishing it
drunk and...
   hardly playing the part of
   attempting an edge of: vacancy...
see...
   i missed the crux...
                  the part where
the pack of wolves are deemed
scouting...
   what remains is the toying aspect
of the "puzzle"...

  back to basics:

x     8     x     3     x     2     x     1     x
x     x     x     6     5     8     x     x     x
x     x     7     x     4     x     2     x     x
6     x     2     5     x     1     8     x     4
x     x     x     x     x     x     x     x     x
x     x     3     x     x     x     5     x     x
4     x     x     x     2     x     x     x     9
2     x     x     4     8     x     x     x     6
x     x     8     x     x     x     4     x     x

concerning the former exaple?
  nothing smart about ctrl shift C + P...
what was i thinking?
  8, 3, 2, 1 recurrence of the first line
of the clue?
    
you know why i like pensioners?!
they love solving crosswords...
but when it comes to solving sudoku?!
******* voodoo to them!

and not because i'm envious of the ginger
scoot who could hack
          the samurai tier...
                      the basics...
regressing into kabbalah...
    that's the me part...

         will tell you when i'm done
the drinking and:
eyeing that beautiful blonde
down the "aisle" of a tilted
beer-glass...

9     8     4     3     7     2     6     1     5
3     2     1     6     5     8     9     4     7
5     6     7     1     4     9     2     3     8
6     7     2     5     3     1     8     9     4
x     9     5     x     x     4     7     x     x
y     4     3     y     x     7     5     x     x
4     5     6     7     2     3     1     8     9
2     1     9     4     8     5     3     7     6
7     3     8     9     1     6     4     5     2

             magic squares my ***...
   even i thought that the hebrew had better
things to do with their celibate
roger rabbits,
than what the anglicans kept them
for celibate in hope of generating
a self-esteem franchise...
        apparently no two types of people
are worthy of the same status
given the hierarchical norms...

XY XY ** ** **

   not insulting any intelligence,
other than my own...
   2:3 ratio of males to females...
the perfect "decalogue"...
             2 fifth male, 3 fifths female...
i could fill in the missing
numbers,
but the exercise is not
exactly to solve this puzzle,
or any puzzle...
          
            loved the jerking-part approach,
shame about the motivational speech...
    and if my stomach should
become known to you
to be the size of a pear's bellybutton
embrace of a jazz via pretense of
imitating squeezing a tongue...
or the whole: bailing out ignobility should
somehow...
   forsake my presence at your
                                  child's barmitvah...

takes two men to be gay...
  but at least one woman to
    come between a gay man being paired
to a woman and not sleeping
     with his consort of hail: anon. h'****.

once you get the surrogacy and
upper tier ******* of "mothers"
                                        over and done with;
just think, of your children!
   george orwell crap isn't going
to hack it on me...
i'm in for the real ****...
         the huxley embryos...
       the... curdling milk in your
morning cereal...
     come to think of it...
what a horrid affair of children...
who never appreciated drinking
sour milk.