“kitty”. sixteen,5′ 11″,white,*******.

ducking always the touch of must and shall,
whose slippery body is Death’s littlest pal,

skilled in quick softness.  Unspontaneous.  cute,

the signal perfume of whose unrepute
focusses in the sweet slow animal
bottomless eyes importantly banal,

Kitty. a *****. Sixteen
                            you corking brute
amused from time to time by clever drolls
fearsomely who do keep their sunday flower.
The babybreasted broad “kitty” twice eight

—beer nothing,the lady’ll have a whiskey-sour—

whose least amazing smile is the most great
common divisor of unequal souls.

How many complete pathways of choices are there?
OR
How many choices are left to achieve completion [!]

Either offers an accurate divisor into the number of possibilities "n" roughly at whatever is the above determined level which is a power called "m".  n^m, roughly...divided by either the # of pathways or the choices that are left [!] to completion.

Either divisor will serve by ridding us of duplicate iterations of over-multiplied possibilities inside of roughly n^m.  

Put another way, simple estimations of "n" at the indicated power level do not recognize that
1) more than one path arrives to a conclusion;
Nor do simple estimations at indicated power levels recognize that
2) apparent particulars from which to work toward completion are actually not different particulars--half of them are double counted at the level of being two choices from complete due to the dimensionality of the whole becoming complete.

So the impact of having a divisor is strongest either when:
1) working toward completion from levels that already include almost all dimensions of particulars or else
2) whenever operating at low levels of power which have only a few pathways.
Estimations of possibilities are easily too high if not considering the adjustments for cases 1) and 2).
These are for occasions of having more than one possibility.

However:
The number of complete outcomes that are reachable, divided by all choosable pathways = n/n = 1 .
Or else, any one outcome chosen from its penultimate particulars through to completeness = 1/1 = 1 .
Thus,
Singular possibility is by definition, complete, whole, created, ultimate, and embraced in all of its dimensions.  It is both one easily won and/or one, fully, dimensionally itself.

(Whatever is not and is not divided,
or, is nothing left unchosen
= truly naught and something not found = 0.)

Sources:  Closed dimensional choice paths (the geometry of the powers depicted) and Pascal's Triangle

.this is not spectacular writing, this is mediocre, but given i've had to contra- the κατάκτηση (conquest), πόλεμος (war), πείνα (famine) & θάνατος (death)... it's like the ancient greek readers of mythology: the four titans have been conquered... but what emerges are the new gods... λόγος (reason), ύπνος (sleep), έρως ("love") & πάθη (suffering)... and i'm not using shapes or colours to depict the change... as once the mighty Chronos... to subsequently mind a Zeus... point being... homosexual literature: when the act of homosexuality was still taboo, and was even punished by law... a ****-****** poem from the 1950s? well... sure as hell competes with 1970s Italian pornographic cinema to... forget whatever is happening in the current whatever-whenever is, and is: "happening"... remember... the sister of πάθη... απάθεια... i never inclined myself to state: suffering... i.e. medicine without the anaesthetic... πάθη is only understood via his sister: απάθεια.

just across from my windowsill:
two years if not more
i've watched the lights
be turned on, and off,
    rooms illuminated:
being switched...

                nothing spectacular,
not the grief of a lingering
shadow ruminating
            post-mortem drowning
in the night at the sight
of an afternoon's worth
         of a coffin being lowered...

two books reviews:

   (1) biography, reviewer
victoria segal,
      withdrawn traces:
searching for the truth
about richey manic,
author sara hawys roberts
& leon noakes...

      (2) memoir,
reviewer leaf arbuthnot,
when i had a little sister,
author catherine simpson...

    molly russell...
a smile that could make any
man wish he were
a father...
        and...
     make one think of
undertaking a reading
of the genre of literature
that's philosophy:

  well... only at the open air
market
back in the city where
i was born...
   if only approached
with the proper candour:

philosophy is
the matriarch of bachelors,
it suffices to say:
  how it is approached,
how it isn't:
     a heaved hive
of contradictory inhibitions...
or some:
   other wording to
suit the circumstance...

"home"...
             "home"...
i too can begin a history
with a 4000 B.C. worth
of history...

    before i was an Anglo-Slav,
i was a Pollack,
   before i was that i was a
Slav,
   and before that?
   i was a Lengyel...
     now:
  the every new to be
affiliated with:
   instance and revision...

well... for what a pyramid's
worth, or the hebrew text...
seems i too can bite
into and chew a past
that's...
                     well...
   with what is a "gripping"
past:

and to think in having
the sun as a clock,
and the moon
              as the godhead
of dreams...
    and not of this:
              sped-up
variety of 1000.0001

         0: multiplier and
divisor...

               0 = x & ÷...
   and negation...

            Lengyel...
a history:
            but no etymology...
no loan words...
no Latin prefixes
or Greek suffixes...
   no modern word:
für leben...

well... it's back to:
listening to a vinyl album...
i was this close to wanting
to repeat the song
see the light
from the album prequelle...

yet upon 2nd listening...
i was still drinking
a glass of cider...
and i was still mesmerized
by the vinyl
spinning at 33rpm...

       whoever is Logos,
whoever is Pathos...
i welcome the chores
of Hypnos...

  no alternatively
arriving at the four
donkey-riding riddles
of the apocalypse...

the four brothers:
   logos, hypnos,
                      eros & pathos...

      mind you...
frank o'hara...
the poem returning...
it's as if:
   i find myself in better
company
   of ****-****** poetry
than upon the altar
and in the shelter
of the opposite
         aspect of my: function...
somehow i'd much
prefer to peruse the ****-******
poetics
   than claim subject
of a woman's body...
it's as if:
         claiming
    a ****-via-the-****
allows a man
to grow a second,
higher, metaphysical
tongue...
in place of what could,
at best: be a case of
"schizophrenia",
           i.e.: bilingualism...          

i'm done with the Greek
imagery...
            i leave the four horsemen
at the gate,
   i had to,
i replace them with:
the universal plagues
of the universal man:

logos,
   hypnos,
    eros... & pathos...

since? well... we already known
of the claim of a man
being an embodiment of logos...

honestly?
  logos, hypnos, eros & pathos...
(mort est mort! so no!
no thanatos: no man
prior to, or even upon death
allows his mind to: die)...

   the embodiment of logos...
time to de-abstract what evidently
requires a personification
on the stage of a precursor
demi- succeeded by
                       a            deity...

what else, if not rhetorical
blunders?
   clearly spoken...
as... footballers?
em, but, em, but...
you know...
oh sure... clearly spoken!

what was once a woman's
body, a perfume,
a sight in the dimmed
lights of a brothel...
what was 120 quid for
an hour's worth of
kissing a *******'s lips:
as an excuse for not
having trimmed my
***** hair...

             i had to succumb to
****-****** poetry...
   a phallus is not a phallus
is a broom is not a broom
is...
           well: unless
female genitalia were ever
to be a floral pattern...
    but no ******* oyster...
well...
my ****-envy...
   that's a skyscraper...
but, honey bear...
every **** is a floral pattern
but not a gooey salty-sick-yuck
of an oyster?

who's the *****-envious
and who's
at Alice's picnic of things
being all: roses
and not... eating-itself
slobberings of a smack
             of the ol' mollusk?

that was my pet name, a love's long lost word
of infuriating apathy against grey public passerby materials:
simply that: kakasha - or little ****, or mouse ****,
or rodent shrapnel - i guess me being a Pole
and she being a Russian would have never worked out -
i don't actually know what was expected of me, an English girl?
n'ah, wouldn't have worked with the master slave antics -
a Polish girl? **** me, no! well, it just ended up being
a love for the people... which is a lot and nothing at all
come to think of it... whenever i said Cyrillic
was the new Greek i was right... shame though,
i could have had a marriage correct my deviant bachelor years...
i would't have written anything at all...
and it would all seem like the perfection of life: problem here,
problem there... but that's all i remember
from the days when youth allowed  my body to be buff and me
staging  a dumb way out of having a body of a model,
but hardly the vacancy to accept it... god it takes such a
large chunk of manoeuvring a Zeppelin
to land a paper aeroplane equivalent -
               i just didn't have the vacancy
to keep at the gym routine...
         went back to the bloated lamb belly,
and felt all the better for it....
                 starting drinking professionally -
because soberness was  a bit of wasteland -
nice name, that lover's pet name: kakasha:
or little ****, or mice pebbles, don't you think?
sometimes that's what's needed to
strengthen the memory, when memory
overpowers imagination,
it's not a case of lingering on the past,
utilise phonetic encoding well enough
and the symbols reveal a lacking need to
move forward and take into consideration
triangles and squares...
          images...
      you just forget about the future...
you're not stuck in the past,
        it's just about how everything's encoded
and where you place your primers -
        but of course i'm not nostalgic
as in hoping for a revision or a revival:
i just mean: it actually happened,
i can't reverse it from having happened -
what i can do is treat memory as the most
private event of cinematography -
nothing the forward looking imagination
might breed - what imagination lacks is the
fact that symbols can't change... they remain
intact... all imagination can do
is use the same symbols of encoding that
memory otherwise decodes, unravels and
makes desecration of... imagination is politically
correct by comparison... memory really does
become the perfect cinema, provided there's
a life worthy of cinema, however simple...
i know i bankrupted on imaging things as
they'll never be... but memory?
i already knew they happened - hence
the counter-imaginative response:
memory, alter-cinema -
                     which, in another framework of
sentences is a second rebellion,
counter teeny winy annie mo - of how they
framework educational models,
stuffing our imagination with fall-safe mechanisation
of know techniques: akin to arithmetic -
and how we were taught to remember what
would readily become forgotten come the next year...
                   of what i understand:
i think             i imagine                 i remember
                   precipitates into           being
                     - thus the three prime faculties
  and akin to the rules of prime numbers:
               no positive divisor greater than 1 or the
           stated faculty per se-
      later she slanders me with the nouns schizoid
and autistic: because we didn't have the picnic
  and didn't raise a family... a lonely world indeed.
i feel: and indeed the many loves, and failings of
    the heart's housekeeping standards -
             after that it just becomes a guess-work
   pattern of competition and incompetence -
                    or how language can become anti-journalistic,
  as it often does, it never is a scenario of
             Wednesday, 6th of July 2016 a.d.
                                        and credits akin to a movie:
             like you'll never talk to the background of things
and the people who move them while you pay the tax.
right now i have a 9kg Maine **** cat trying to
escape the house during the night, a cat turned
Pavarotti - meow meow, meow ******* meow,
meow meow... Lombroso should be near... this
is really starting to bug me... he might have a case
about a cat that never shut up and the person that
strangled it...
               so, indeed, three basic faculties of the mind...
i kept them as: imagination, thinking, memorisation...
                which means i went against the
Cartesian model of denial thought and doubt -
because i found them too emotionally entwined,
and therefore less puritan in consideration -
            and also less scholastic by the looks of it -
exams...                     for me the three prime
faculties are imagination, thought and memory...
they're antidotes of what later became the existential
revision of the Cartesian inspection: how
                              namely the notion of denial
as the antidote to good faith (doubt) - i just didn't
like the kindergarten of adults playing childish games.

/i couldn't stomach the burden of a perfect german, hence this, algorithmusdeutsch... then again, like the Marovigian might have said: german is perfect, in making mistakes pretending to sound intellectual, barely clinging to a razorblade, suffice to say: when drowning... but at least german, a cushion, and a pristine canvas to dig trenches, blush a zeppelin warhead plop into London cement... and then mind the Bavarian whittle shittenholen... enz... must be enz, und plu- arable... namely remnants of a day, and an unfinished crossword puzzle...                  
        
           vorher narzissus,
   schattensuchende
    klatschen ein gla-ß-ee,
und entstehen
     ein gehockt krähe-
lauren,
          sheutod...
      carboxylic açid

and all things germanic...
slingshot into elder saxon
and back into
cosmopolitan *******,
a timid fungus like a tongue
hiding in a pyramid of
   signatures in bones from
within the grave;

   hard to imagine
that it took a ******* hog snout
to become a botanical
Sherlock 'olmes...

       as ever,
   the Cockney Surd...
namely 'aching,
   which translates itself
outside of the local 'appenings...
   odd: the laugh is yet
to be perfected.

- playing the xylophone
   at the nativity play -

       schatten, schatten
  werfen on ein(e) mauer...

occupational hazard,
  like the saxon N
    in between vowels to avoid
a tongue numbing spiral,
an eye rather than a eye...
gambled through two faces:
a 6 and a 2...

lost coordination with
the poly- prefix germanic
of: the the the (point),
id est -
post scriptum:
   I'll ensure that tongue of
theirs will become a *******
saxophone,
than a timid wrigglingua testimony
of a tapeworm...

   came the pillar of Atlas
and the Zeno talltale of
Achilles and the tortoise,
before the mile became a kilometer,
subsequently
       a metre, centi-, milli-...

and 0 = the perfect divisor
     "number":

  far cry from the Kantian negation
made compact, like
everything Kantian, per se,
compact packaging,
******* tourist he would have been,
if first he left the routine,
and then Königsberg...

          last time I checked though,
I have my A through to Z...
   0 isn't exactly a number if not
a doughnut tale of a squashed
omicron...

    pity they managed to undermine
words... funny...
from words came the icon...
    oddly enough painters are
in the confines of the same asylum
criteria of desperation...

colours are apparently a tier above
words... oddly enough...
words can conjure images,
colours... a look at them being
expressed, and they thought
cubism was bad....

    ******* are all other the place...
and if they are not contemplating
punctuation marks,  
they should be showing syllables,
and if they're not even doing that,
we'll,  my friend: diacritical
marks are the highest asking...
I'd love to see a truly punctuated
painting...

   a painting is one thing:
but the work in progess to accompany
the harsh censorship of
the artistic masochism,
    is quiet another...
a painting is hardly going to be
utilised into a chair...

          sollte ihre spiegelung
   verlassen du,
     als geieraustern: innereien...
schauen ihre schatten...

as ever, within each language,
at least a few letters spare,
namely the remnants
of a once great monopoly
and power broking priesthood,

that ****** aesthetic of
epsilon and eta...
      remains of the day and
the castrato singalong
     remnants of Greek in:
the sigh in dentistry...
   prior to the sleep and the wisdom
teeth being pulled out,
asking
       the anaesthetician: quo vadis?

- because they never actually tell
you, to take treat antidepressants
akin to amitryptyline as if they're
sleeping pills...
              just before bedtime...

    a ******* knockout to boot,
and my joy at a ***** popsicle...
because I would never think
about drinking with someone,
and that misery of conversation,
or the current, generic,
exasperating poetic maroons
   without a Defoe in sight...

and word that became flesh
that became an image...
           such the poverty of language,
but words, but words they bellow
like cretins who never
saw a cow being towed into
a slaughterhouse, bellowing
a torturous epiphany too late...

orange that didn't become an Ibizian
freshly squeezed hangover cure,
and more an O'Hara opinion,
     so more to the point:
words, just words they say...

   hope to high hell and the gates
of Tartarus that I never ask such
people for directions...
   namely they'd speak that
  right is "right"
    or the upper tier of
Copernican ronin...
       flimsy ******* luck,
coming across this cult
      of aluminum wrapped
  on their heads:
           humanity reboots.