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When Jacques Derrida's Mother
Embraced the concept
Of  'wholly other'
She loosed her hold on life
In the past tense
And gave herself up to
The 'Metaphysics of Presence'.

How I love this new-found euphoria
Now there is no more aporia.
If only the world would grasp
The concept of deconstruction.

So she put down her knitting
Logged onto the internet
And signed up for a course on
Basic Moxibustion.

Such a great invention
This internet
But life is even better
Without unresolved tension.

Oh for a mother
To understand her son.
Abby Orbeta Dec 2014
First, let me begin by assuring you that the feelings indeed are mutual.
I just can’t be with you.
Here are the reasons why.

1. Your hands feel like they were molded perfectly for me. Our bodies fit so well together. Your lips taste like honey. Your skin reminds me of the scent of the sea. Your eyes, they hypnotize. When I am with you, I lose myself. I can’t have that again. I just got myself back.

2. I can listen to you speak for hours on end. Your voice, smooth like silk. You could read the dictionary for me and I’d be turned on. That scares me. I may forget the sound of my own voice and only hear yours.

3. You’re well read. You can quote Derrida at a drop of a hat. You read Foucault for fun. Yet it is the classics that make your heartbeat. I feel stupid around you for not being as smart. You never used that against me.

4. You laugh at my jokes. You’re even cornier than I am. That is never a good sign.

5. You are idealistic. You want the family with big house that smells like chocolate chip cookies as soon as you open the door, filled with noisy kids, surrounded by a white picket fence. You want the carpool to soccer practice and the after school arts and crafts and the weekend piano and cello lessons. I want it too. I just can’t. I have a tendency to run away from it.

6. You understand my tendency to run away. You love me still even if. Love is such a broad term. Love scares me. I. Love. You. Love. We. Love.

7. You remind me so much of him. The one that I lost. The one I got cold feet with. The one I regret not taking the leap for. I don’t want to regret you.

8. I am broken. I carry so much baggage with me. It doesn’t help that doctors agree that I am crazy. I need to fix myself first. I don’t want to give you less than what you deserve.

9. You are way too good for me. Your heart is so generous and loving. I can’t match that. It’s unfair for you. You already know I’m not good for you. I am dangerous for your soul.

10. I don’t want to be just another warm body in your bed for those nights when you are cold and lonely. I don’t want to be just another experience for you. A way to fill your time. I knew from the moment that you held me close that I wanted us to be permanent. I want us to work.

There’s no need for us to hurry, lover. Hold me close and let the cadence of our hearts beat as one.

Actually… please. don’t. I need room to grow. I need space to breathe. I know I contradict myself all the time and you are so patient with me but… no.
Colt Jul 2013
start
set the scene...
somewhere enclosed, close and closed
like a bed
(tight, restricted like, uh, the world all around me, how fitting
now it’s political)
on a morning
and maybe the sun will be rising,
or setting−yes−to represent the ethereal dusk of my cognition,
Say I’m with someone−don’t identify whom−it’s meant to be a mystery:
unfinished, left.

it could be you

and I’ll search the dictionary
for words to make my pseudo-philosophical, imagist, absurdist poem obfuscated, esoteric,
tanquam yet favillous; beyond recognition
So that it sounds like Dr. Seuss,
that is, a Dr. Seuss that knows Althusser, Derrida and the early writings of Flaubert.
add some random enjamb-
ment.  cut out the capitalizationandspacing. start a sentence;
end it. Section break

Oh, I’ll need more words, you know, to remind my peers of my intellectuality,
-out of place words that don’t actually mean anything:
Specificity or
literati
that’s good. Now, to end-

bring it to a close in one all-encompassing word:
(to be read over-dramatically)
pretension.
where do old people go to find ***? their sagging wrinkling barnacled skin easily torn or bruised thinning wispy hair dry tongues raspy voices gray teeth wobbly legs malformed brittle spines rickety stance shaky hands misshapen arthritic fingers foul stale odors itchy scratchy orifices ***** stained underwear where do old people go to find ***? their vanishing generation locked away in reclusive lonely dusty rooms creaky dim apartments when i was young i thought old people were unburdened of lust no longer bound by libido urges somehow grown free of base desires needs this constant horniness i suffer where do old people go to find *** is it wrong to politely ask or beg a younger person indecent to plead for a little charity where do old people go to find ***?

there is a wooded area outside Paris where some couples drive and park man behind the wheel woman in passenger seat her window down clothed anonymous men approach with exposed penises in hand staring at woman’s fingers massaging between her thighs spread as she watches the men stroke themselves sometimes she kisses licks even ***** these strangers' erections the driver sits composed empowered sharing his companion amused aroused admiring her lasciviousness oh the French they are so ****** with their stinky cheeses pate de foie gras rich sauces refined wines briny scented ***** tresses seductive lingerie licentious literature DeSade Zola Rimbaud Foucault Derrida Deleuze Deneuve Belmondo Goddard Truffaut Depardieu

the oppression of money in every gulp of air we breathe all the secret arrangements sick crooked associations complicated deceitful ***** deals the great divide between gated community and ghetto slum how can we feel proud knowing our insatiable self-absorbed hunger greed oil carried in ocean channels spreading evaporating into atmosphere air rain groundwater rivers lakes vegetation animals us poisoning killing off everything the oppression of money i hang my head

the oppression of time memory longing for that which we once knew felt i remember running into a very **** pretty girl whom i had not seen in a year carrying bag of groceries in her arms on street asking why didn’t i call her back she repeated why didn’t you call me back wide smile tempting eyes ***** blond hair dark roots enticing bush exquisite floppy lips lanky cowgirl physique narrow hips i did not know what to say said nothing simply stood there looking with sad eyes at her i remember several different girls hinting to take them more seriously i thought to reveal i am too weird tainted ****** up do not want to ruin your life each one of you with my wounded heart troubled thoughts twisted feelings searching stumbling soul my uncertainty do not know what to say said nothing just stood there looking in stupid silence the oppression of time memory longing for that which we once knew felt where do old people go to find ***?

dance with me lift your spirit listen to your heartbeat rhythm of your breath lift arms roll shoulders flutter fingers loosen hips wag **** bend knees tap toes make animal sounds pretend we are young with time to waste whirl around until you feel dizzy forget gravity imagine bliss dance with me
Lawrence Hall Mar 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                       Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida

As the first stars came out above the leaves
Of Merry Sherwood, the lads in peaceful repose
Put away their after-supper mending of gear
And idled over their ale of October brewing

Then Robin Hood spoke to Allan-a-Dale:

Don’t sing to us of Neo-Post-Colonial White Supremacist Patriarchal People-of-Color Matriarchal LGBTQTY Non-Binary Feminist Chomskian Existentialist (existentialist – how quaint) Hegelian Post-Structuralist Logocentric Sausurian Psychoanalytical Post-Modern Marxist Jungian New Critical Cognitive Scientific Neo-Anarchic Canon-Repudiationist Neo-Informalist Catarrhic De-Constructionism.

Sing to us
                                                       a story.
A poem is itself.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
I like the word Cnut. It'a obviously related to ****, which is nice. Freud would maintain an existential connection, no? Kristeva a maternal one. Derrida a...blah de blah

Matthew Conrad* Cnut is an actual name of a Danish king that ruled England... it's not related to **** in the least. it's authenticity speaks for itself, 990 a.d., variations include Canute.

Matthew Conrad crapper - its - ugh and the whole shitload of
missing diacritical marks in English, excessive when said:
hyphenation when quasi-German-compounding,
and the one-armed bandit of ditto when a possessive article is expressed, notably missing, a notable circus frenzy or:
that thing to mind on the tourist trail: short-hand it's:
it is, and its, such a short word will always do
stealth undermining when quickened to be expressed:
unlike a stripper's corset might, or a cat's invisible leash
given it's behavioural quasi, or in falsetto dittoing i.e.
passing down the torch, id est: more ambiguity than anything
so the dichotomy of hmm... quasi- or pseudo-?
almost or sort of?
even more atomic, linguists are mathematicians
of letters? sure, hence the complexity variance
of 10 ( 0 - 9 ) v. 26 ( a - z ),
mathematics is difficult, due to e.g. ∋,
which translates as t.q. (talis quod) -
is encoded....
where was i?
x and .
both denote a convergence - only that
the western multiple variation has
divergent off-shoots, while the eastern method
hones on a x, y, z, or (0, 0, 0) -
and hence the multiple, hence the full-stop
that's never a full-stop, given so many books are
written including bypassing the semi-colon
and hyphen and colon and all the other remainders... dare i say, reminders?
but still, mathematics overpowers
linguistics (the equivalent science) with the many
more punctuation marks...
≈ v. ~
mathematical punctuation in
language is sometimes akin to stiffened Latin
prefixes, like quasi and pseudo,
in mathematics quasi (≈) and pseudo (~);
the hyphen (-) is translated as +...
quasi = approx.
and pseudo = similarity.
there is so much refinement
going on when mathematical punctuation
mingles with literary Oliver Twist -
i mean, literature is a pauper when it
comes to punctuation -
ctrl c & v this ****...
only upon replying you can
i honestly spin the cobweb, thanks...
the Minotaur wakes up sorta thing...
i've decided you did this on purpose,
i guess i'm glad...
after all... it only takes
a very minor incision to dissect a whole body:
pulling the brain from the nostrils
within the framework of mummification
sort of thing...
but my luck is as good as yours:
if you don't prosper from this little hushed up explosion,
then at least i'll peacock strut into another blank being filled,
or the sort of thing you say on a Monday:
how was your Sunday roast, with the family... or...
whoever you ate with the previous day, in the afternoon?
Freud, yes, Derrida, yes... Kristeva?
feed me something essential,
never heard of what's already a pronoun enigmatic word
given the current transgender upheaval of he she you me
it we blah blah.
oh right! a woman! d'uh... i'm still stuck on Plath
and, ah ****, what's her name... Imogen Siberians-Need-
                  Sun-Cream-Akhmatova -
dunno... i was just reading this article about
    this *****-donor app that spirals female fantasies
out of control akin to the Tinder-swipe and i got
thinking about the futility of men in professions outside
of construction and whatever the **** there is to do
that's macho -
                          and rather than gender affirming,
more or less life-affirming -
                                        to the specified method-statement
of *** -
                             not that i'm undermined,
          or threatened -
just ****** bewildered by the whole um-hum hmm?
                     ****... (after a long pause);
i should really check this groovy someone-something out,
should i?
                   what medium was she using?
        i was digesting bob dylan winning the Swedish prize
for the best lingonberry jam (vocabulary) or
the marley: we're jamming in the wind -
                         don't know where such crass gin jokes
came from, but i'm sure they came from somewhere,
where?                           oh sure,
              a million poets said with jealousy:
   but i don't recite my poems while playing the ******* flute!
****** puritans: learn the ******* harmonica before
charging into the scene wanting to recite Jethro Tull's my god!
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******?
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.

I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?

It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.
Copyright Andrew M. Bell.
Jane Clark Oct 2013
Discarding the loaf, he gnaws on the crust
Declaring all food but tasteless dust.
“Because you have always eaten bread
That doesn’t mean you’ve been well fed.
You’ve missed the whole point,” he said with a grin,
“Since you have no stomach for original sin.”

For logic has fallen and can’t arise.
The meaning of meaning? Delusional lies.
What seems food to you is not food at all
What seems true to you – a siren’s call.
And you will live happily there in your dream
not caring if things are not as they seem.

The stylus bleeds when fixed in his grip,
conforming the straight to a mobius strip.
Denying philosophy, playing the sage;
No words in the center, the margin, his page.
He signifies. Indicates. Yet you might miss -
The words have no meaning. Not even his.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
i have six beers and only two cigarettes
and no philadelphia digression.

as a pronoun you can dissociate yourself
from nouns and common noun usage
and censorable noun usage,
and find that the deconstructive aspect of *derrida

is not found in nouns but primarily in prepositions
& conjunctions
and the timing of adjectives to respect the manual labour
of cobblers & tailors is almost arbitrary
for the six digit people employed to use two five digit extensions
and swing less under par when unemployed on retirement
looking for busyness and 6am and the alarm clock’s chandelier at noon.
Pearson Bolt Dec 2016
they say god is perfect.
that holds true for me, too.
no concept contains me in totality.
Stirner wrestled with the undefinable:
an indefatigable Unique,
anarchic,
lacking category.
Camus perhaps said it best,
"i rebel, therefore i exist."
i strive to personify resistance.

i find the answers
in harmony with Counterparts,
defining The Difference
Between Hell
and Home
:
"i am what i am
and i am an outcast."

an outlaw,
a nobody
akin to Nietzsche,
returning infinitely—
stretched like so many grains of sand
on time's flat surface, orbiting
eternally around the creative Nothing
at half-past 3:00 in the morning.
a singularity,
deconstructing
Derrida's Différance.

a nomad on the margins,
wandering aimlessly,
roaming perpetually
with Deleuze and Foucault,
an astronaut arranged
along the endless frontiers
of an ever-expanding cosmos.

Vonnegut recognized
the periphery affords
a radical view
to the few who choose
to embrace that which cannot be Known.
a zero-sum game
between Death and me,
staving off manic-depressive ennui
if only momentarily.
‪"The lyricism of marginality may find inspiration in the image of the 'outlaw,' the great social nomad, who prowls on the confines of a docile, frightened order."‬
‪- Michel Foucault ‬
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/              sitting on your leg
almost ingesting a tongue-like
presence into your ****
on a window-sill?
miracle, when it comes
to bowel movement;
and what a pristine piece
of **** that was...
     i hope homosexual ***
feels... just as good.

    p.s. esp. while listening
to brooke c's drum covers...
and to think...
some people read books
on the throne of thrones...

on the odd occassion a game,
but sometimes:
watching videos,
thinking to myself:
this takes the bollocking -
it's d'ah "****"!

i guess that's what you might
call cognitive massage parlour
additive to compensate
for...

       the deconstructive
post-modernist, derrida spreschen
of modern lawyers...
   brick is a brick isn't a brick
type of scenarios...
i thought they stopped
as a thesaurus sensibility?
guess i was wrong, all along.
Miguel Diaz May 2016
I take my knowledge from architects, medieval painters and galore.

I walk along the stretch of times, Read the Canterbury Tales from folks of yore.

I've written literature in my own dialect, through the beautiful English language.

I find awe in the act of creation, new etymologies where old writers anguished.

My words: symphonies of the beloved and dead Beethoven; like the arias of Wagner.

I am the high priest, the new catholicicist propogandising as your Cardinal.

I am the spiritual technology, provided to the ailment of what we call society.

I am the new Ghandi, the Dalai Lama deservedly inspiring your piety.

I am the Luciferous angel of life, breathing heaven through the cesspool of Earth.

I am the post-modern Romeo and Juliet, Warhol's 15 minutes of fame and worth.

I am the Alexander Mcqueen, the metaphilosopher of fabric illusions.

I am the lyricist of society, speaking through the castrated eunychs.

I am Stephanie Myer, inspiration of vampiric genius to adolescent impressionables.

I am Jane Austen, author of new age thrillers such as The Secret and Lesbian Misérables

I am the eclipsing of twilight, the post-mortem autopsy of a rotting cadaver.

I am Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson, legends inspiring a race of sleeping pill grabbers.

I am the Blockbuster, the Titanic Avatar, $4.9 Billion to children in poverty.

I am Gangnam Style, 2.5 Billion viewers of the Palestinian Bombings.

I am modern philosophe, the birth giver of Socrates, Plato, Nietzsche, Derrida.

I am Steve Jobs, terrible father, tyrant and billionaire technological reliever.

I am God, the predeccesor and successor of all eternal life.

I am Satan, damnation and strife.

I am Tupac, rapper of gangster warfare. Inspirational to first world degenerates.

I am Oprah, most powerful black woman with white hillbilly aesthetics of Ellen Degeneres.

Thank you, to world's only true Genius.
Hail Kanye West, our one and only revered Yeezus.
Genius is overrated. Knowledge is pointless. Everything is nothing. Yall should read Jane Austen Parody Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Kange West guys! Come on! Give him all your money now!
Into our rooms, we scurry
into the comforts of chairs we can spin on,
screens we stare at for hours;
there is so much we have condensed
into the slight rhythmic movement of the wrist.
Only twenty years old and where have I come to,
on a desk with a jar of money beside Derrida
(with a cartoon where Plato instructs Socrates)
and the tattered pages of
Foucault, madness and civilisation -
those sick lepers ride a boat, which reminds me:
the Leith overflowed today, gushing
rushing into the harbour. I
looked out the window, imagining
it was Styx
and the ferryman had come to get me.

There is so much
artistry to it all, sometimes
it overwhelms me and I stutter
and remain silent for days;
the swirling air encloses
around; leafs tear,
wind flurries, shuffling shoes
shuffle shoefully
marbles that drop down stairs
knock knock
tick tock, tick tock
old Clock tower ding ****
ding, these clocks, Burns, don’t you get sick of them?
it is now time to begin
the lecture. Open
the rows
for late students.  I am definitely
going to be late today. Look, someone has inscribed
“you are the yellow bird I have been waiting for”
I feel great
Can we write our stories with passion today?
Can we speak to each other properly today?
Can we see the sky rupture today?
It’ll be like walking the beach at night
at sunset.

Oh, god
when will
I ever




Forgive me, forgive me, I was distracted
for a second there
with Lear’s fool who implores
“Give me an egg and I’ll give thee two crowns”
and the funny looking cat that stares at me through
the bathroom window.
Freds not dead Mar 2011
You know
When I tell you
Calm your
Head
I’m not telling you to
Let go
I’m telling you to not grip
So tight
To stop clawing
So hard
You have life’s thread
Under your nails
Along with centuries of dirt
Blood from the Great
Wars
And you sit
Thinking
You are alone

When you wake up
Soon
And realize the things
I told you about the
Past
And you send me a post card
With a modest, honest
Un-artistic picture of a
Snow bird
Signed sincerely
With love

You know I will write you
A small letter
And I will fill it
With some kind of
Stuffy intellectualism
Something that starts
Slowly like
As
Heidegger said or
Derrida shows us about writing
Or
Emerson told us we don’t miss out because of this and this
or
Even worse
It was Nietzsche
Who told us
About how to treat criminals
And you will grip
And claw
And chew
Those words
In your cage of a home
And staring through
The bars
You will know
That
All that
Heavy literature
And all this talk about
Freedom
Time
And killing
Can be known so simply
In a wink
Or the flash of
An eye.
That’s why we are criminals.
Sasevardhni Jul 2018
We are acknowledged as human beings.

The difference between need and change,
Reminded her about Derrida's defferance.

Being a human,
She is mostly in need of someone.
Or, sometimes seeking for a better one.

Though she owned everything,
She demanded something.
Although she knew to dance, draw and sing,
Her heart ached to possess a fling.

The undivided universe revolves around three elements,
Apart from the God-given five elements.
Cash, food and flesh.
She was always in a rush
Who forgot to blush on seeing her crush

Though love seems to be a priority,
Some of us don't have the time to stop and relish one's individuality.
But has all the liberty to judge other's sexuality,
And feel sorry about an unknown casualty.
Most of us have never hesitated to escape reality
Thus our face encourages duality.

Though the universe grasps the truth,
The concept of acceptance became an issue,
Maybe, that's why some great words were used as a tissue.
Trying not to get the point, but just get offended.
The confused woman heard, "accept, don't expect".
Thus she accepted the truth, "Money makes many things"
And she stopped expecting a change.
Martin Narrod Jun 2017
A rolling coaster pitched onto the lawn of life. Echoing promises we ****** up on a Friday night. Each and everyone is a little child, even if they've won the lottery it still takes forever before they change their style.

Keep forever in the headband wrapped around your brow, leave your acid tablets there with some mistletoe. Under everything, there's just something they all seem to leave behind. Even if the stitches are out, it's the seams that'll leave you blind.

(I) Could use an apostrophe, or an apotropaic and a glass of whiskey. I could use the color of the war, all the drugs on the west coast, and it still wouldn't erase my memories. There should be a couple of things they sell at the corner market in the middle of town. Maybe one day all the ails will go away from the things that've ailed me all today. Maybe the rain will stop coming, and you will stop judging, how I chose to run away from every thing that ever scared me to an early step into the grave. I'm not going to write, I'm not going to bed, I want to smoke my cigarettes and light a fire between your legs, let's make falafel, you can tell me stories about your father, and the apostles you made a point to disobey when you gave away ******* to everyone in the 6th & 7th grade.

Tell me, where was I? I was eating crow and yelling in the street. Where was I? I was turning 17. Where was I? I was reading E.E. Cummings, trying to learn about loving, jerking off my eyes to Derrida about nothing, I had to teach myself something. Where was I? When you were auto-asphyxiating and choosing who would get you to come to, who would bring you to come too, I was in the next room with the t.v. on mute, pretending I couldn't hear you, but I wanted to tear you apart from the start. You've been the smartest girl that I'd always wandered apart from, until I turned into the guy that you fell through my arms, and I turned your pilot light on, and I'm with you now. I'm with you now. I'm with you now. I just hope I can choke you too.
Akemi Oct 2018
Three tabs of acid and a year of postmodern novels will ******* up in a shorter span of time than doing a degree in poststructuralism, and only an idiot with a death wish would do both. Manic romp to reach nowhere in a political field that never arrives, except in France.

Well Sartre once said nothing, and so did Derrida, and so did Baudrillard. Endless procession of words for the sake of filling a vacuum that didn’t exist until it was filled. Enter Freud; exit Bernays. All meaning atop a Golden Bough.

Sitting in your flatmate’s room the acid kicks in and suddenly no one is themselves, every line that leaves their mouths traceable to a media product, the perfect communion of pluralism arriving as the terror of integral capitalist banality. To speak is to add to the mockery; to say nothing is to let the mockery continue.

Forget it all by watching Youtube videos at 0.25x speed. Displace the terror of your own situation through the consumptive behaviour that had constituted it in the first place. Watch in gleeful delight as the eyes of whatever presenter happens to be on the screen at the moment dart between this or that object of desire, ever unsure of where to settle amongst an infinite number of existential refrains, none of which deliver from the anxiety of the prior.

Holding a caramel slice in the departmental tea room, your lecturer waits for you to respond, but all you manage is a cough.
Briscoe Oct 2019
This town has marijuana on her breath
And neon light's on the face of the deep.
Nicotine Nietsches discuss surface death,
Too tired of missing out to go to sleep.
His paranoia's poised to annoy her.
He guesses what she wants to discuss.
She refuses, confuses views and viewers
Via her hair and vain vaunts. Invictus
To explain how she hurts herself. Scandalous,
Scared, scarred, scampering. Incisions to bleed
And promises to read a meticulous
String of pages, as known as it's envied.
A pierced vein and a question. A ******
Whose esteem's sacrificed for little laughs.
Her humility and his humiliation,
His hubris, how high he gets of her calf.
Images, a thousand evidences
Of life in photoshop philosophers.
To them Nietzsche is a name
And Derrida a deconstruction
And a vague book they read long ago
But there is nothing in between
These thoughts and each memory.
"Perception can be split into two processes,[5]

(1) processing the sensory input, which transforms this low-level information to higher-level information (e.g., extracts shapes for object recognition);
(2) processing which is connected with a person's concepts and expectations (or knowledge), restorative and selective mechanisms (such as attention) that influence perception."
-Wikipedia
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
well, probably the longest relationship i ever had,
so we're doing it with a ******,
on the bed, on the floor, in the bath...
and then she suggests an ingenius plan:
i'll take the contraceptive pill, and you take
that gimp-for-your-****-rubber off,
and then you ******* into me, because i feel
like i need to have that experience.
sure thing babe.
                    oh, by the way? it took me
about three dates to get an ******* in suggestion
of trust...
             what's with this: men can get an *******
prompto! on the first sight of **** and a ******?
i'm not a robot, i can't objectify you straight
away... the ******* my case...
        prostitutes use cream to oil up,
          i need to oil up on a meaningful conversation...
talk milan kundera with you, or share
a similar taste in music... listen to your fetish for
certain pop songs...
                       anways... few months in and
we're ******* in her st. pestersburg apartment...
        so she not exactly a soppy story of
                            the matchstick girl with no shoes...
and she proposes to me at the same time...
   i didn't even get a chance to bend my knee,
buy a ring in secret and surprise her...
                            nope...
         that classical **** didn't happen...
               how often does that happen to men,
i.e. when a woman "proposes"?
                     i'd say one-in-a-millionth's chance
of it happening...
                                so the unearthing of the nag hammadi
library, and the st. thomas gospel and
how you'll enter the kingdom of heaven by
turning male into female, and female into male...
          **** me... that caught me by surprise...
i didn't even see it coming...
                 and then... boom!
     we're not married, she breaks up with me,
gives me back our engagement ring, she chose...
                and then calls me up: i'm pregnant...
        and it's july...
                              isn't it too early for christmas?
i thought we had an agreement?
                    i have *******... a ****** isn't
much of a bother...
            no, but i don't want to explore latex suit
fetishes...      fair enough...
             i'd love to, but **** me...
           thanks for suggesting i read some bulgakov
while you continued to play your video games...
god, i have a fetish for juxtaposing memories,
   like looking into a prism, or a diamond,
or sketching rodin's statue the kiss from several
angles at tate modern, before some idiotic lady
imagined an interpretation, and wrapped ropes
around the statue... so only the most "important"
part of the statue were exposed... but not the actual -

if i profane with my unworthiest hand
this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Your hand is like a holy place that my hand
is unworthy to visit. If you’re offended
by the touch of my hand, my two lips are
standing here like blushing pilgrims, ready
to make things better with a kiss.

good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
which mannerly devotion shows in this,
for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.


        ok, shaken pear... we get the picture... amen;
which will never be a frenchy with a *******.

but **** me! i just graduated and i need to get my
footing!
                          i was 21...
                        thank **** i gained british citizenship
and she had a russian passport;
  +, what with her turning all schizophrenic on
me...        what do i know about "hearing" voices?
i was sweating on a roof, roofing, as you do,
                 and it's like:
         what i love about this self-indulgence?
          **** never gets boring, however many times
i recollect it...
                                    i can turn into a proust,
or a tolstoy, simple on this sole act in the theatre
of my life...             obviously i might bore some people,
but, ****, i'm not even yawning, or in want of a yawn...
just recently i became acquainted with the acronym
                         mg...tow?
             mig... tau?        soviet MiG-29? mikoyan?
        gurevich? RSK MiG?  towing what?  
                      that's english for you,
it's not like the french deconstructionism akin to derrida,
much simpler in english... craft acronyms!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
how did it all come about,
this short-hand evolutionary observable
family,
  how the greek letters lost
their names, and became musical
syllables, in the roman castrato
sing-along...

    how α became a,
   how β became b -
    however did γ become g?
   dpbgq...
         how δ became d -
      how ε became e -
             how ζ became z -
how η became n -
     θ & φ became neither thought
nor philosophy, or the point -
how ι gained a head with i -
how kappa remained, κ or k -
how lambda (λ) became L -
or how Γ met the mirror -
      laughter eta eta eta...
  how from mu came em...
      and from nu came en...
     from ρ (rho) the p -
and from chi (χ) the eks (x)
ψ (psi) + π (pi) came the p (ee) -
o remained o - omicron -
       stern sigma (Σ) into smoothed S -
   τ (tau) remained true to tao
of the latin t -
         the υp of upsilon remained u -
even though more about
exfoliating the nu (υ vs. ν) -
   and sharpened the ω into w;
with ξ (xi) the "11th anomaly* of Q...

ars geometria, the post-scriptum
of cubism: that imploded cube.

modern art: everything about perspectivism,
modern art can be accounted for
being beyond the standards "expected":
if you only take into account
the meagre outputs of architecture...
for all the l.s.d. consumed during the 1960s,
we have edinburgh's appleton tower
to show for it...

flaky mosaics peeling off...

  i still can't believe that psychology
retains both the latin word, as the german word,
from ego through to selb,
    ego: inhale -
       cogito: exhale -
but as anyone suffering from a mental
illness -
    ego: exhale
     cogito: inhale -
    res vanus = ego per se -
    res cogitans = ego ut nihil -
      nihil qua sum omni -
slouching away from "narrating",
      mental illness and the automated
narrator -
    the enforced unwelcome thought,
and as all thinking that's not welcome
is, and passes us, and as our egos
cannot become turtles or spiky defensive
hedgehogs,
  automated thinking becomes
painful -
             mental illness is all about
the automation of thinking,
forced thinking,
  well... it's just "thinking"...
  
the irony via this medium reveals:
              to not think, is to actually think.

and then in classical orientation -
plato would have been a darwinist -
he would have settled for forms -
the history of **** silimilus -
        
but perhaps aristotle would have convened
on the linguistic evolutions,
esp. from greek to latin...
      how ω became w which later became
ł & even later (л + λ) -

i can only admit one truth these days:
history has become crushing -
    it's crushing day by day -
whatever system in place -
  man, the eventuated hoarder -
if not by hoarding and filling his home
with "antiques" or worthless junk -
still, man has become a hoarder -
                     a hortmensch -
whether in objects, or whether in
history, grievances, respects, prides,
and failures or successes -
it's so exhausting to hoard so much,
whether under a roof of a house,
or inside the cranium and a receding
hairline...

history is a crushing dead-weight -
it becomes a blessing
   having drunk the previous day,
and not remaining some minor details,
but then, comes along dates,
like in england, 1066, 1914,
  1997... 1966...
               does all this history even matter,
given that,
  we're currently talking about
a genesis, where so much more
unwritten history took place,
than in the current year,
   of the supposedly written history?

i'm just asking for a zoological
invocation of historical content -
for there is but one historiology -
it's most certainly zoological -
       but even then: it's a crushing
dead-weight of what is needed -
        rather than what is necessary;
who are these censors of history out there?

i wish it was a different history
of existentialism to begin,
   once it arrived to england from the continent,
from denmark, germany & france,
the only answer to these thinkers came
in the form of psychiatrists,
notably r. d. laing -
  it's so sad to have spectated this,
how existentialism in england became
rooted in psychiatry,
as if reading books was somehow a psychiatric
affair...
        continental existentialism,
died the sad death of its influence -
both at the hands of english psychiatry,
and french postmodernism
(the deconstructivism of derrida) -
but you can't ignore why
only psychiatrists took interest in
the movement...
                these days?
everyone's suspect -
           and everyone is: the usual type.
Wittgenstein's ladder wavered in the wind,
as he set out to scale the great garden wall
of language. His ladder, hand crafted for many
years in Vienna and Cambridge, came up short.
He could not climb the moss-dappled wall --
his intellectual paramour since
he started building a new metaphysic of the word,
with his Tractatus.

Suddenly, he hit a stalemate. Not able to scoot over
the wall, he washed his hands of trying to analyze the
black hole of predicates, conjugating verbs and slippery
allusions ******* up each particle of proper speech.
He splashed his face in mystic water. then offered
a gnomic pronouncement over his failure. A type of
recipe for missing the mark:

Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent.

A proposition of the limits of language; it turns out we
cannot say everything about everything, after all. So we
must embrace silence in its coarse cloak of humility.
We must stare down our limits.

Jacques Derrida thinks we must write what cannot be
said on the other side of our mystic sputtering.
The written word has an immediate, imperative tone
of authority, he implies, an authority that renders
silence a respectful remnant of our former backward ways.

But silence butts up against the scruffy gray wall
of meaning. And echoes off it precisely as what
has been said. Pointing by writing opens up another
avenue of speech. Writing speech only codifies it
as a once living thing. You must read the written
text then still point to be understood.

As Wittgenstein knew, silence proves less reductive;
writing simply cripples the living word.
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2020
Climbing the stairs
Pockets full of water
The son’s voice
Fell backwards
Inside of her.

Trying to explain the beauty
Of Barenboim playing Schubert
With Martha Argerich
She heard Evelyn humming
From the classical book of Trolls.

Somewhere in the South
There was talk of Derrida
And binary opposites
And social distancing
Whilst the music played on.


Love Mary **
In our present time .
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2020
In Chicago
Fr. Tracy and Jacques Derrida
Whether the gift can be given

In Carrboro
Almost 30 years later
Yes. And I too have striven.
A Poet Apr 2020
******
        Ignorant
                    Flattery

when did poets become so
       --miniscule--
constantly partaking within a state of iterability
        Plato rolls in the grave
while Derrida weeps.

                         Sad state of iterability.

— The End —