Don't be egoist
Get back to me
Don't think about others' thought
Come back to me
Like the coldest winter going to spring
Or maybe the warmest spring going back to winter
🌨️🌤️

When too full of self
When too hasty to bring
All attention to self
No limit to singing
Of glories of self
To the self-serving egoist

Ego dwells in all
Serves a purpose over time
Ego screams and hollers
Like one stuck in slime,
When it is time to let go
Go it must for the good of all

Just thank and let it go
Promise it is for the best
That the ego that lets go
Finds peace to reside within
All tamed and mature
To tell many a story
To the future progeny

When too full of self
When too hasty to bring
All attention to self
No limit to singing
Of glories of self
To the self-serving egoist

Since you kissed me I have lost everything to you. Those scarlet lips was carved beautifully; your brown eyes and its exquisite complexion captivates me; and your voice lit up something inside me

I am astonished by your beauty, like an art
Everything that you say inspires me, like a spell
I want all of you only for myself, like an egoist

I wonder if my eyes are too naïve sometimes
You kept saying that you are not good enough; you are not pretty, and you are not just the way I see you.
You know I am just happy to see you—feel insecure
With that I could have you
All for my self

What is this, is this empathy?
I can feel your pain - it's all about me,
I don't want to be the one in equal pain,
When there is no experience that I have to gain,
From hearing your words, your story,
For the most part, I'd find it boring.
But you recant it with such fervour,
That in protest I dare not murmur,
The urgency in which I want it to halt,
Neither of us are at fault,
You want to connect, to tell me your past,
I'm really just hoping the tale does not last,
It hurts, these feels, I have for you,
Your wounds are old, but for me they are new.

When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love

"Here was a new generation, shouting the old cries, learning the old creeds, through a revery of long days and nights; destined finally to go out into that ***** gray turmoil to follow love and pride, a new generation dedicated  more than the last to the fear of poverty and the worship of success; grown up to find all Gods dead, all wars fought, all faiths in man shaken..."

"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all."

Poetry is the altruistic apogee of the individualistic emotional egoist.

The lack of feeling, and the lack of empathy,
the petty attempt to hide them with creativity.

It’s truly astonishing how we can fool ourselves into thinking we’re kind
When we’re just wasting our time, pretending to see when we’re blind.

How could we ever emulate our chemical imbalances on one another?
The only way to do it is the kindly overrated feeling of love and affection.
And why would we need words, if we’re sure about our love for each other?
Oh, we’re puzzled to believe that our puny poetry represents felt perfection.

Yet we just walk through the valleys of lyricism,
Lost in our own wishes for joy or demise
And yet we become shadows of perfectionism
Filled with the detachment we criticize.

Our representation is our perdition
We've lost ourselves in our own mission.

Feeling crazier each day.
Schitzoid, Bulimic, anorexic of thinking.
Theories of being an egoist calm my nerves,
But a breakdown is sure to occur.

I am the hero, i own my own brain.
You can jail me. You can stone me, but I'll always be free.

I am not guilty you fat lard ****.
cut off your man ****.

This is what you told me the first night we met,
And now i am wondering, if egoist and love go together.

One of the men who I always did brawl,
He did the same with me when I did sprawl
Against him in and around the school wall.
But I loved him as he supported in my fall.
He always who remained strong in squall.
His whole life is full of things big and small.
He had great powers to captivate and enthrall,
Which he used to control us full of gall.
I had been with him for nine years all –
All years nine or ten he did scrawl.
Is he selfish? Is he loving to all?
Is he egoist? Is he supporting in fall?
Such questions harassed my pitfall.
I got all answers positively in parasol –
He held my hands whenever I did call.
Made me what I’m now and took out from pall.
He is my inspiration, he is my ideal doll;
He is my guru, he is my cynic for my troll.

I'm sure an abstract painter adores
the confusion of their
lovers.
Glass reflections on materials in a bedroom
E M P H A S I Z E
the EGOIST in every
sofa
and
actress
in a television set while it rains out
(creating pockets of water on the balcony)
Where is my foundation for times like these when
feet become LOUD ER in the daytime
and obstacles have grown their teeth?

Perhaps a dump truck full of nicely dressed mannequins
will finally be
ticketed
and my eyes
will see
as soft
as your
hair.

Quarry of bones in an office space
and the FORMAL TIE HAS DESTROYED ITSELF WITH
SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS AGAIN
(LUCIDITY KEEPS INSANITY DISTRACTED)

Caffeinated Canadian Bohemian
daydream of firs showering adjacent
Manhattan batteries.
Tomorrow's rejections watch
bright and beautiful waves smile with false
inspiration
a n d a n o t h e r
concrete victim is created.

!MADNESS!
(the solar flare of the Neutral)
the ammunition in my coffee
and conversations blinking
LAUGHS          OUT
                           TO
                           THE
                           ABYSS
(gorgeous and hollow lineups in front of
a Vancouver bar 11:30pm)

Pale October energies and the
Dharma Radio
feathering my fantasies as this year reaches it's last quarter
CREATIVITY MEANDERING
NEAR NOTHING
anxiously I roll around on the mattress,
open window, listening in on the intricately staged
oblivion of trees
who've become infatuated
with coffins.

Gastown (as it appeared in my dreams)
has found it's dusk anthem!
Adriano Celantano's
"BUONA SERA SIGNORINA"
what a strange dream that was
the music was vivid to the point of
impossible recognition
and I'm awake and dizzy not from all that
but from love
(it's tilting my axis!)
Always has......

An untraceable eye
lingers in
malevolence to ALL city banks
where the late bop players
stand united and "free"
(Outside, by art on a wall with animals dancing in a hot air balloon, jealous of their own permanent state of painted euphoria)
Restaurants are consumed by silence
upon closing down,
but NOT the Fisgard streetcorner cafe
I frequent!
It's LOUD TRUTH and San Francisco weeps in
the decorated walls.....some far off dream of North Beach
Trieste evening with people who were once ALIVE!!
People that bleached
THE AMERICAN VISION
with sharpened language sleeker than
the polished jaw of Apollo.

Here I am again,
accepting the same sweeping misery
as those before me
(settled tombstones barely seen beneath a wild oak
while cars cry exhaust to beach-view apartments
and Winter's harsh wind drums against the window pane)
sure they were good people, but living plays no favorites.

I'm awake and dizzy!
forlorn with the morning.
Stars surrender to a sun
which often wonders
how we adapt to this asylum.
(Vanity makes me sleepy)

Warm in the delicate crimson light,
I lie in a temporary peace.
I am setting
as all else rises.

the young egoist licks a blunt blade in the wall
until his tongue bleeds, to feel, yes to feel, feel anything
in these fettid depths where splinters of light
find themselves lost in the subterranean gloom
of his bedroom
where on occasion when it presents itself
listens to grotesques, yes listens with an ear
a plain nasty and unfeeling ear
yet it listens without any phoney, putrid arty language
he hears old irregular clocks
feels the smells under the ground
drinks unquenchable angers
citing their antique tonal ability
to create magic words out of rain and mist
then screaming his voice starts oozing and undulating
creeping through these slow subterranean pampas
compressing and expanding themselves never and at once
he believes it is an unsafe place of frighteningly sincere dangers
then thinks is danger a place, licks the blunt blade in the wall
for even in this desperation
it makes him happy when his tongue bleeds
he tries to perfect conventionally generous impulses
the spit of dreams, his dreams as he dons his mask
his mask of foolscap to write a poem
then encounters angel-devils and demons
who he has the power to deceive
and thinks to himself as he licks
the blunt blade in the wall
finish it, finish it
then realizes it's unfinishable

As an egoist animal borned in the middle " *** " of this so called " modern men" land-circles and mazes . I tell you centuries of vices and consumption altered human spirit from egoism to greedy individualism. Fat politicians claiming divinity

There once was a girl
a soul full of foul
greedy,egoist and proud by the nature
how can she be so ugly creature.
She was gifted with good skin and physique
faster her mind with rejected logics
carried her skin and showed with pride
in the digital screens she cant hide
bribed by the possessions she had
tried to act smart but always lacked.
Some fell for her but she gave a ****
it was her nature what could it harm.
Lost in her world of selfishness,
she once tried to be nice
hatred pulled her back with unwanted disguise.
She cant change herself because she needs to show
show her covering with outer glow
Mind full of ego she needs to learn,
the world is full of billions who earn,
earn a life without their skin but with what they are,
learn some respect without a war.
Love is a play and feelings dont matter to her.
Need to learn girl the skin you have will fade someday,
but the person you are never changes,
value your soul and not your skin,
stop smiling at your admirance enjoy your pain,
when you fall in love it will show,
and if you get rejected then you will know.

"Uuh, dude, your Hubris is showing.
Watch your ******' tongue, man.
It's cool to express yourself,
but now you're just being a ****.

Hold thy beloved charientisms,
thy ****** knives in velvet sleeves:

You don't exactly seem to understand
the true power of those Words
you propagate so 'knowingly,'
as if a monkey with his own ****,
but, if you do realize what you say:
you're a ******* *******.

Well, which are you:

a tactless, spiteful,
foolish hypocrite,

or

an affectatious egoist
of a hypocrite?

I'd wager
an unhealthy balance
that it's both.

I've seen it for years.

You assume a lot
for how little you know.

You step on other people's sentences
with a mastered matter-of-fact tone
regardless of how true
those facts you spew
even ******* are.

There you go again,
borrowing other people's ****
without expressed consent
nor explicit intention to return;
we have a word for that, I think.

Either your behavior and morality
totally adapt to your surroundings,
and/or you're a ******* Hypocrite Fool.
Either way,
you cannot be trusted
once a back is turned.

Honestly,
if I had to guess,
I'd be hard-pressed to give you
the benefit of the doubt
by assuming the level
of consideration required
for maliciousness.

You just want all of your stuff for you,
and all of everyone else's for you, too,
and the crux is
you'll feign being pleasant
just until you get it,
then you come out of your ******* cocoon
and get all high and mighty, entitled, and condescending.

Last one on the bandwagon,
first one to throw a stone;
you're a real ******' winner!

All you tend to do
every time I chill with you
is berate others- oh, I meant "advise" others,
who may well be better off than you,
for having many problems
which you either could not understand,
or with which you find yourself,
you ******* Fool.

Every time I wonder
if I've become too indignant
as a direct result of your antics,
you remove my self-doubt
and reaffirm my reservations
by eating all my ******* cheese
or talking **** on my friends
behind the back of whoever it is
who has their back turned at the moment.

When will you learn?
When will you mature?

I guess nothing changes
if we tolerate **** in our faces.

Tread lightly, Elephant,
for you tread 'pon thin-*** ice."

She who dives
down the thorny road
in search for apothecary
to cure the woes

She who didn't
know what she would
find. Is apparently

lost

Then one day  
a Galahad would
come bump her toes

Irrevocable.

Inevitable, at least.

This blasts a loud boom of happenstance

Helpless ****** in the face of
the egoist

Both come to terms
and apparently
It has to be

It simply has to

be

A confused magician,
I pull the rug out
From under
My own feet;
Remain standing,
Refusing to learn:

Nothing bruises your ego
Like your own
Bruised
Ego.

Singing in one ear, ringing
In the other.
Both drowning out
The voice of shouldered
Angels telling me
To let it go, just let
It go, little big boy.

A confused egoist,
I put rabbit after rabbit
Into the hat of my closest
Human relations,

And remain on stage
Until the last of
The audience
Has left, applauding
Their every step
Away from me.

Frailty, thy name
Is Pride. Another is
Demanding Respect.

Here, pick a card. No,
Not that. Another one.

Some of us spend lifetimes
To grow into
Lesser men than
At birth.

that there's a death of melody in music
and that it's coincidental
                        with a poetic death
of rhyme -
                      all precursor of:
res vanus - and a moving beyond
res cogitans -
                 building up a budding
of a frothing emptiness -
                           along with misnomers
as alt metaphors:
                   perhaps then coinciding
with a need for a glue of an imposing
maxim...
           now i want to put on a pair
of latex gloves and write like a perfect
******:
                a mahler or a penderecki ******...
where there was once
an aesthetic...
   there's only a sterilization process
that quasi "beautiful"...
   i'd love to get drunk on alfred jarry's
pataphysics... but i am compromised
by all the social engineering currently
  in process...
                if i could only find relief
in a rhyme...
                          thus rushing to engage
with an cul de sac of sleep:
with each night i prize open a prayer
of an otherwise uneventful narration
that my thought embryo has become
with the words:
let me not become an architect of dreams...
some variation
of technicality.... willful for
an etymological promenade of details....
otherwise a return to a language
summary akin to the final conclusion
of numbers: 1 + 1 = 2 via something
akin to: i ate bread: i fattened the lean
pig with a telepathy of digestion
and the absorption of nutrients...
and fibre for glue-****...

      variations of conjunctions: in
that a letter can transcend mere sound...
or a classification as either
vowel or consonant:

                  w:               in
                    z:             with...
o:            about
                          polakk slavic...
        i:                and...
                    th­ere might have
been a return to concern oneself with
the alphabet...
but what is the use of such
trifles...
                         now i'm starting to gag
on a fear that's turning my sessions of language
use: i hoped for the informal...
  i hoped for a delight of some
unfortunate circumstance:
             translating a death in public
with... the ultimate solipsism of
******* in public...
      some neu grand biting of the ice...
this eating of the ice...
                  counting one's teeth...
a completeness of a crescendo into
a heaving of procrastination:

that instagram stole from
                       the comic book...
            once upon a time: declan... tan...
gave me a comic book
for my birthday: batman vs. alien...

and that i am wearing latex gloves
while i write this: a momentary lapse
in a self-defining critique...

mind the articles in english:
a (indefinite) is akin to a telescope..
the (definite) is akin to a microscope...
mickey mouse turned magician spectacular...
i am sure of it...

i put on a pair of latex more times...
than i have put on a ******...
and that's not because i'm somehow
shy: the brothel and ******
are not... foreign to me...

i imagine the perfection of skin
in latex... what i wouldn't do...
when i otherwise...
squeeze... beelzebub's white pulp
of phlegm coagulating with
maggot brains of acne from my cheek
and nose...
          i imagine latex as that...
olive skin... that apple sunset burn...
it's beside a b.d.s.m. manual for
a total body covering
with a variation of exposed genitals...

i think of all those poor *******
strapped to role playing and uniforms...
i just want to **** a sensation
of an oyster shell one minute...
and exoskeleton slick of knee...
the next... then there's no clarity
of need or will...
      there's just this...
perverted persuasion of an unwillingness
and sabotage... tantamount...
in excavating new burdens
of reproach... for an otherwise basic...
safe and thereby senile:
striptease of a lost artistic...

              latex again... there's no concept
of dry ice... when picking up
cubes of the "stuff"... it's impossible for...
the dry... cold cube...
to attach itself liker a spider
to the rich lipid surface of the skin...

no hindering the typing...
process... but it's not like i'm about
to excavate a paragraph from this iron
maiden of a thought:
ego or inner voice or...
some other synonym as vague as
the architecture of god for
the diligent disguise of: fed on prayer...

because i have lost control of my ego...
i can't be an egoist when
i have come to assure myself...
this feral fraction of the sigma
that's me... this debilitating contraband
unit...
          to employ hands dressed
in latex gloves, to find paper...
to magically invoke ink with a machine-esque
precision...
      
       and because rene magritte used
to... take on the full attire...
of a suit... and paint: while standing up....
i imagine the thrill of gravity too:
this way... of jerking off while standing up
rather than... while sitting on the
throne of thrones and pushing out
a chestnut of:
dilating the **** a little bit more...

- and because this is not ancient rome
and that, "somehow"...
the gynocentric model of...
surrogate fathers even if complimented
by the status of emperor is beside
a question of the old / new norm...

roses bleed a colour such a near impossible
gesticulation at the beholder's eye...
a robed bishop of lavender...
scentless roses...
          give me a flower that...
impossible... the sound of a weeping
willow... rustling... being
rearranged by the rummaging of a wind...
clarity of the closure of sensation
come the petal...
this desire to find... the plethora of
***** as akin to flowers...

           my rotting crease of:
are you looking for paper...
are you looking for paper...
      i look for edible paper with a taste
of blisters... and nails...
like it might be disguised in
papyrus...
              
    give my heart enough strain...
and i will heave a mimic
of certain avenues being solaced
as having been fashioned for some:
agreeable loot of eyes...

sometimes the articles in english
are never used...
the corpus of restraints...
not that it matters...
the restraints are such
that the transgressions mean so very little...
except for a theatre of the absurd...
cruel becomings and symphonic
whirlwinds of the absolute cause...
like riddling a pyramid as a tourist...
rather than... heaving an excavation
of a height of a mountain...

to envy mountains is to construct
pyramids...
  it to also scatter ambitions toward
the primordial and always first:
looting of a sand dune pitch...
                 to compensate the tides:
one of rain and the subsequent
              sea...
or... the grains of sand...
and that deserted place..

          efficiency in the workplace
as a concept for purgatory...
and so many borrowed themes of pressures...
in a society of unit basis:
this greasing of a leather that's
not a pair or trousers or...
       which will become apparent...
a pair of disused latex gloves...

  such a paranormal fear of this...
otherwise possible yield of base:
                                       cradle the dilemma
of a yoke... without the white
protein hive...
         **** a lemon...
forgo the ***** gesture and...
limit: because there's a hybrid
in "question"...
      
otherwise... shrapnel base to base
basics...
some variation of the closed off secure...
adrian leverkühn:
the near impossible
"dialectic" of a oink's anatomy...
the pig foretold the limbo
of a sheik's compromise...

nearing death and a juice of
grey / variation:
nearing death and the juicing
of grey...
                  my no nearing...
death is such a devilish heave...
                 language has to half...
such beside nuance worship of
impromptu / beginner's luck...
  my samson and.. that *****'s riddle
wedded to a D...
            
                     E.L.P.:
emerson lake & palmer...
trouble with acronyms...
conjunctions are sometimes used,,,
while wearing latex... ghosts!
exoskeleton winding up
a giggle.,..
          my nearing a loot
of an oeuvre..
       childless creases of a fabric of
atoms...
this hierarchy of mirages...

                        asking for a friendship
with the moon...
a lacklustre of the three dimensions
of the old speckled hen...

a three legged dog...
                 my own father...
of which i make both sorrow and *****
having found no replica...
this tamed grandiosity of worded
junctions...

               snorkeling is somehow akin
to snoring... here i perfect...
a dickensian plot-hole in "laziness"...
but not really...
         to tame the crab bucket...
to tame: "above the hive"...
a question of why... wisteria might bloom..
seemingly, independently...
yet coincidental...
base repertoir of grades...
      completely useless when
sole verb projects are employed..
    
       i have reason to vain-belief
in the use of: a dreamless attire for the credo:
that's ambition...
bit i fear i'll sooner advent
an anger and a death... before..
i can be allowed a stomach...
and an allowing / alluring concern
for... persaverance...

         like it's a gilding...
an unfathomable first prized...
                     Edison-esque project...
           was there / could there ever be...
a scrutiny of a lightbulb?
                 a mountain reeked of a scent
of havoc...
      the confines of canyon
that of an all-encompassing tomb...

                 to have to riddle
with a rubric of skeletons...
             maya niqab... maya tow
a mouth that doesn't speak
or a nose that doesn't distinguish
a lobotamy from a prose...
new basic invasion of iraq...
  which is no new iraq:
i just devolved onto the topic of...
the rat that stank...
with a gravity of spectacular of...
wishing for the atom bomb...
wishing for the atom bomb.

(with apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning)

                                        Arrogant
­Book Soldier
Conceited
Con Artist
Covetous
Cunning
Deceitful
Disingenuou­s
Egoist
Egregious
Envious
Entitled
         ­                               Evil
Haughty
Hypocritica­l
Ignominious
Immoral
Jealous
Jumped Up
Machiavellian
Martinet
Mendacious
Nit Picky
                                        Obsessed
Peck Sniff
Perfidious
Persnickety
Pompous
Popinjay­
Predatory
****
Rapacious
Regimental
San­ctimonious
                                        Self Important
Shylock
Smarmy
Sophist
Supercilious­
Unctuous
Unethical
                                   ­     Vile
                                        Vicious
       ­                                 Zealot
       ljm

In these cursed world
There are endless beasts
You call them threat, I call them egoists
Ego:the cursed weapon
It's blamed when anything bad happen
Ego can be used to step ahead
To revive people who are dead
Ego propels:it makes you win
Ego made me the person I was never been
Now the curse has began
I will devour everyone
Who used me for their gain
I am not your tool, not your pawn,
I am the shadow, the breaking dawn.
I will tell you, who I am
If you insist, I am the one
The ' fake egoist'

Once again
You are conscious
Another flow of memories
Is bursting through your veins
Like painful ache of piercing knives
Awful flawlessness, overflowing perfection
Corrupting your bloodstream with agony;
Why is there blood on your hands?
Blood-soaked sleeves of your sweater
Blazing on your pale skin with crimson glow
Like redempted lovers in a land
Where death has already conquered
I cannot hear your breath
Restful beating of your heart freezes
Yet I will sheed no tears over your frigid body
My wretched ***** lover
You loathsome empty egoist
Who left me here on my own
I will not mourn your death
For it killed who I was
Or ever will be

Let us burn a lamp of knowledge
for those who are egoist and small,
Small neither in age nor in wage,
But potted & brittle clays those,
who are miles away from the God.

The God who is omnipresent & omniscient,
but, innocent like a nascent child,
In the divinely stretched and limitless sky,
Like an aloof but flying & singing kite.
We are most often fools,
But he is always wise,
He lives close to us
But, unseen and unrealized.

Away from the God, I mean those
who are confined to self & supercilious in this zoo.
The zoo not only of birds and animals
But which comprises all i.e.he, she, me & you.

Let us,
Share our cognizance with them also,
if not the whole then, just a little mole,
As it may facilitate them in achieving MOKSHA( salvation from physical existence)
a long cherised life- goal.

Methinks, then,
It would be the beginning of a new era,
All around people blissful & stout,
The whole world whirling in mirth,
and nothing to be worried about.

Mukesh Kataria

I am but a worthless ****.
An idiot.
Stupid.
Worthy of inexistence.

I do nothing but scare.
Hate.
Break.
Wreck.

I pity myself for being like this.
Helpless ****.
Empty egoist.
Hard as ****.

I know I will live in hell.
There is no heaven for me.
I am cursed
And ****** for eternity.

What an appalling yearning it is...
I feel as my spirit will tear apart my presence
to fly where at the moment it would have to be,
breaking all the chains of reality
My life is addicted to you
What a hard conflict...
What a tough task...
Like a  patient in a deathbed
I need a 'lifeogen' mask.
I had to be moving to you at the moment,
After a while, I had to be sitting waiting for peace
And you had to be coming in
With your warm greetings...

Now, life is beginning there,
Vitality is filling empty spheres
with your blissful voice and laughter
But none of those existing dumbs
can feel it
Someone is sitting face to face with you
Where once I was sitting
Haven't you still felt the difference?!
Haven't you still found out the case?!
Anyone can take my seat,
But no one can take my place...

Can I forgive myself for my selfishness?!
I am sometimes very egoist and ingrate!
You are laughing, you are happy now
and you feel great,
that is the main point.
I scold myself and evade all of my cravings
You know me - I am the soldier of fortune...
Keep your shining and just only laugh, please...

this is: ρ2=a2 cos 2θ or ρ2=a2 sin 2θ:

linear: like any wording of an equation:
rho squared equals
a squared
cosine 2 x theta
or...

rho squared = a?
not b?
quantum ****... i live only once:
i get it..
a squared sin
() () ()
)(
()
)(
sinus captivity: within the confines of history
there is no leftover smell:
there's no scent of the times of Victorian
London: esp in the east end...

TCHNLGYˢᴹᴿᵀ

it's almost a logo: but i found myself
clearly a Luddite...
i'ay'ck...

           graffiti of year zero:
so, these things are connected like the ergonomics of
the electron:
clouds of weaving
this: oh my curse this potency:
i said
3 for Y
4 for H
5 for W
4 for H: 3 + 4 = 7
+ 5 = 12
_ 4 = 16: + not + = - _
i'm speeding to making wording mosaic
Chopin: believe me:
the music is a curse a cross like no other:
Christ Irrelevant with
Antichrist Irreverent...

           by now i call upon my darkest sloth
that's the guardian of eyes
and that of death...
i implore the language of some other god
to combat this god of plagiarists
and scuttling thieves..

B8... just watched a reclining arch
of a man
only fathoming sleep...
i saw a dirt a pre-
of ash splendor
i saw who i was
when this single mom and trolly
peered into my eyes past
my sunglasses and knew
who was looking back: ergo nihil
how i dispose of ego cogito
to become ego sum
via NIHIL and not via  ERGO...
cogito nihil sum!

cogito nihil sum!

my intellect is a proud
faction: AXS: axis:
i'm reading out the LAtin with the ABjad
i will make this year 0
the year of the quake...

i will not invest in thinking as this mortal
diabolical, demented wish fortune:

i have one equation though...

∞ > 1 < ∞
∞ < 1 < ∞

there should be 4 avenues within
the confines of the 3 dimensions...
i mean: how can you begin writing
infinity with any number
but there are two letters you can
use: o
                 o
   o
              o             o                o

you can begin writing infinity:
the rest is arithmetic: no?
1 + 1 = 2
but a deeper Kantian beyond
the 1 + 1 = 2: synthetic a priori...
analytical a priori?
ask me: when i'm drunk:
about how much you love me...
give me eternity: you want the squalor:
we SYNTHESIZED LETTERS AND NUMBERS
as AID TOOLS
WE had some push and shove
to see and analyse LETTERS and NUMBERS
and numbers in letters rather than
letters in numbers...
VI / IV...
                   is?

         break for me: write in the diary:
20th July 2023 she had her first period
now i'll turn this dragon in a chimera
of the juggernaut and goat and...

REPTILE: a great thriller...
i'm not surprise by Justin Timberlake
saying: **** it and driving drunk
but there's Taylor Whiff to compete with
and the masses need fervent minding
and feeding with distraction:
and if Christ was the birthright of Second Jacob
the romance:
the Morality Baron:
i quick-snapped at the prospect of basic Newtonian:
apple falls on head:
a spawn of id the idea is born:
since ego has thought and the linear:
then id has idea and the abstract of linear
namely geometry:
ego is temporal:
id is spatial...

                superego is what satan is:
as the holy spirit:
in the prizing of the Assyrian trinity
attempting an Ancient Egyptian revival
via the Hebrews...
idiot: is the superego: equivalence of the id...
egoist is not an idiot
an idiot is not an egoist...
get your starter package while
i get mine...

egoist, idiot... id est: iota: but just by the measure of 1?
0.000000000001 < 1 < 1.00000000000001
there! i found it!
how punctuation works in harmony with music
beyond the realm of the "art" of arithmetic:
i just needed to appreciate:
what sentence and where to:
****** is a broader term for the current malaise
and disenchantment...

but some people are not there: yet or never...
if i can ingest 3.5g and hallucinate with-out ink
like pixel Job: meets Beelzebub and the Nasty Finger
one ups the **** to downs
the slither of slug of tongue to lick the familiar
parts and at junction
****: without a kiss: but a hiss:
there's the 69er sunrise of an ***
full buttocks: rosemary: croissant cheeks:
gleeful...

smart technology: next level of cashiers
while the genuises burn out and become roaming
stars...
while we have this brainstorm: stop:
a confusion of *** ensues and that's
rather Nag Hammadi apocryphal recreational
study away
from the Church: the church is no more with
the perpetuated Coliseum:
all talk is done there: why the **** has
demand and care for respecting "the" church:
i'm not getting paid to be nice
when i dictate:
there will be a river of people using the eXIT
signage of my discretion against
a sea of people that turns into
an earth: an impasse of people...
but where the earth and the sea are elements
of overcoming and overpowering...
one must imbue the spirit of Air and the spirit of Fire:
and i was not!

i was not born of Fire!
the Quran believes i lie!
i spit on the Quran!
i **** on it i **** on it i ******* ***** it!
the envy came from He
who was born of Air...
i was not born of Fire!
i was born of Air and the slightest of touches
that commands the focal point
of the Sistine Chapel with God
touching Adam index for index...
i was born of Air: not of Fire...
i am the wind in the forest at night
i am not your Promethean Slave!
i was not born of Fire!
i was not born of Fire!
i was born of Air and Darkness and Light!
but fire is only a chimera of Light
it is not my abode! it is not my abode!
i was born of Air!

a life a breath of the breadth: a depth:
i own you nothing beside a revision concerning
the subjectivity of man:
with being subjected to too much
objecting to so so much of the little still available...
we are subjected to so much:
by alias: also: being less and less objectionable:
that the fairer *** resorted to:
objectifying itself...
since: this is the first malady of a democratic
ordeal:
if one is being subjected to so much:
that it feeds the parasite of the non-mind...
with so much democratic subjugation: being subjected to:
passwords, fairs... insurance...
blah...
         then one can only be privy
to the bogus of "being" objectionable to gravity:
where object meets objects:
in the realm of gd...

               so all this objectification to the counter
of the subjugation of lost rhyme:
just *** blockers:
      if this isn't a summary of 0 twice: 00:
i will die but i will have lived having done
work:
and that will only allow me to shine
if i escape to Kauai:
and that's still smaller than any Wembley Event
i worked at:
Thursday: tomorrow is Tuesday...
the Boss is playing on Thursday:
i demoted myself
i don't need a ladder:
when i have the snakes....

   Benicio del Toro (57):
argument "argument" with mother and father:
and Javier is not older?
Javier Bardem! (55)... ****...
i was wrong: the prettier Spaniard was
actually older...
i don't wish to get to that age:
after all in England:
what is the desired ethnicity for reproductive
purposes: not really:
Spaniards and the Blacks:
all...
but it has been over 20 years and i have
never been with an English woman
and i think that's somehow:
my, Eve's and Adam's forbidden fruit...
i'll turn the serpents tongue Y
into how a tree also with Y originates...
yahyuh
  my... YHYH:
                               at least then: there are
at least 8 of us talking...
      ΔH∇H
the DElta-NablAH tetragrammaton:

     ʎ: Seal of the I See...

YHΛH...           ΓHΛH


                                                          ­ γηλη

at least the Jews left the best toys
to the worst of boys:
imagining me not being on the receiving end
of German-**** expansionism
and Soviet Russia expansionism...
like the situation with:
well: i would be all up in arms with Ukraine
but then:
that slight hiccup:
Sienkiewicz wrote about:
the... Khmelnytsky Uprising...
                        so my support for Ukraine is:
sort of... slim:
give us back L'viv! you ******* Georgian *****!
GeLe...
                   we can toy around with this
his most sacredness but who will come off
as having interested him the most
out of the necessity of mind obliterated
by mind projected
within now: the confines of the claustrophilia
of technology?
i'm only transferring old data
from an old phone to a new Samsung:
Malaysia and the barbarian Chefs
seriously: Ramsey: take that bat spit
and ant crunch and forget the fusion of spices:

i simply can't adhere to suspense animation
with the uprising and
with UPA... the Ukrainian Insurgent Army...
ergo a four way invasion
of Poland:
the Ukrainians, the Slovaks,
the Germans and the Russians:
like my diabolical other united kingdom...
but since not island bound less
respectable time-frames... of existence...

although... one could
begin comprehending infinity
with a cyclic functioning: within: cycles
and functions...
             the basic f(x)
          π(∞)

the function is a coefficient of a circle...

      π = coefficient: abbreviated as 3...
r²
          is therefore replaced with lemniscate:
and that's an impasse:
since:        there is no      ∞²

   ergo                                  π(∞)

           or just relaxing: eating dried pasta...
like me chewing on chicken bones
getting to the marrow
to **** the juices no longer there
just this brown judge overcooked
but overcooked bones are
not overcooked meats...
so there is no double slaughter of the animal
when not prepared properly...

coefficient: that's the basic stasis
investigative force behind
the most appropriate definition of
consciousness not: arriving or relapsing into
a new arriving (reincarnation):
just the linear property of time...

        π(∞) π can't be given algebraic foundations:
constrained to the circle...
it's the most ingenious tool of contentment...
i'm just a fan boy at the end of the day:
the ancients had ways that moderns
will be made into the Holocaust
and the Jews were warned while the Germans
were warning "us":
less than the usual canape of food
for thought and worms...

i mean: how would you feel? living in a society... with these other people, being hell-bent on ensuring you are to be... made extinct? would you captilute for "western"... "secular"... "sensibilities"... what sort of ****-erosion of an argument is this... this Chamberlain's effort to wave a promise on a piece of: ******* toilet paper... wipe your *** with it... ****** implored... but no... no no... it has to be celebrated... this lost event in the periodicals of time... so imagine living among these ****** riddled half-breed Muzzies... imagine living among people that are parasitical in the economic sense and predatory in the actual sense of wanting to **** you... hagel dauer! it just takes one Norwegian-Nigerian to laugh in the night to think my writing is bogus... but there will come a time when this writing with be remnant of the times: and i... i? i'll be dead.

no, i wouldn't call it a bad reading habit:
the fact that i'm "currently" engaged in about 3 to 4 books
that i started and haven't finished,
not when i give a timeline outline of how far apart
i am in getting through each book or,
for that matter: when i started each...

for example Knausgaard's Min Kamp vol 6
i've been reading for almost 3 years...
maybe longer...
the entire collection was the last books my grandfather
gave me as a present:
he died by the time i reached vol 3... or 4...
i remember my first encounter with the work:
"impossible", or rather: dull to have read the works
in English: so i said to myself:
i'll give it another try in another zunge: namely ******
and how glad i was since Norwegian translated
better into ****** than English...
some historical travesty of the Polish state being
allied to the northmen via trade
and the amber road or something: or how English
was partially moulded by the nordzunge...
either way... i'm still to get to the juicy bits
of vol 6 where ****** is discussed and i too wanted
to buy a copy of ******'s mein kampf for
posterity but that's: ******* unavailable as a historical
artifact but i'm pretty sure that if Genghis Khan
wrote a book it would be freely available
and perhaps even venerated
because i, am... some ******* secular "prisoner"
while Muhammad's Quran is venerated:
although i suspect, with him being illiterate
which is twice-dyslexic removed from a first cousin
****** marriage... was written by his literate and
other acumen pronunced first older wife: Khadijah...
notably: he didn't have so many followers
petulent and shy and half the mad of Beelzebub's
(mucha: fly... in Polish)...            conquest of the desert...

why O whimsical sly whiskers and Why
would i care for slander
given the prancing pony parade of disgust after
the Magdeburg attack
like the media imposed this reading of 'terrorist attack'
somehow hailing the culprit
as a savior, in a weird, twisted way:
because he was a firebrand on some internet
forum hailing the death of Europe and calling it
to do more to emancipate Arabian women
from all that dough cash flow from the secret
pseudo harems of Ha Ha H'arabia
because all the European chicks like a bit of kink
when rich gluttons of the sand
ask them to perform inverted ****** on their
faces while taking a **** into their mouths:
or so the urban mythos goes:
no need for a trip to Thailand and the Kentucky
fried mouse...

                     so that's book one... i'm yet to finish...
another is Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
but that doesn't really count: no book of aphorisms
and nota bene "apostrophes": anecdotes blah blah counts
as something you might read unlike a newspaper:
skimming, tossing pages around like a wind...

    which also includes Masudi's the meadows of gold...
there is no real narrative to the work so i can "cheat"
on that reading...
        yet starting Jan Fosse's septology was a big mistake:
thinking: ooh: a Nobel Literary Prize laureate could:
but couldn't... the prize was awarded
a bit like how H'american elections go...
the popular vote of the people is worth zilch and nada
because there's the College vote and that matters more
so it's almost as if democracy is a fakery
of arithmetic: bad count... bad grounds for shadow
governance...         and this was worth a Nobel prize?
i think is dropped so many times
there is no punctuation
     it's like the advent of the printing press whereby
ink and paper were expensive and there could be no
poetic cascade
   just the myopic paragraph fudge and inorganic chemistry
of stones...
saving money and ink and paper condensing
paragraphs without spacing indicators
beside the 💊𓄿
                              (¶) - which borders on cyrillic in
the mirror with N and И
R and Я
                                     so someone once said
that most of the time, in the realm of poetic:
we write about what we're reading...
                       but not so much about the simple fact
of the per se: writing per se: reading per se...
it's a simple fraction...
    i always adored the equilibrium of:
            not writing more than i read
and always reading more than i write...

           if all should come to a fork in the road
i could condense my thoughts via letters encoding sounds
by isolating letters as if they were not sounds
syllables... ooh... syllables and languages that employ
the antithesis of the atomised tongue
like Japanese and it took me a while to imagine
having my tongue cut out and thus trying to say
certain letters as if i didn't have a tongue
and i could get away with using only my mouth
and lips but i couldn't get away with some of the letters
because they do, actually, require a tongue an the palette
of the upper mouth...
like T...                    counting all the vowels:
5 in English... 7 in Polish...
funny: Polish as a tongue: it has as many letters
as there are teeth in the gob...
unlike English with it's 26 although the 26 are debetable
since C K Q S and q: kw
                              
lips and mouth alone along the aeiou pentragram rubric...
B works fine withot the tongue
C just as well... although hoarse sounding...
D... doesn't... it morphs into G...
since D employes the tongue and the teeth...
so without tongue D morphs into G and the 5 vowels...
vowels don't use the tongue
just the mouth and throat and air...
F requires the tongue...
H doesn't require the tongue...
                 J requires the tongue for the succinct stresses...
K is the crown of the uvula being tested...
    L most certainly requires the tongue...
       K is tricky: but hark like a crow and the tongue
can be abandoned...
          M as: ma ma
  m'eh m'eh... moo...          as long: well put Am Om
and it's a breath closing the lips...
        N does require the tongue...
Q and coo... but since Q is a two vowel letter
it does require the tongue...
T, S, Z... all require the tongue...
   W doesn't...
                  R before the numbing the trill by some vague
"tarantula" bite... did... didn't... let's suppose
the French and the English still trill their Rs like the Spanish...
                 and any other letter i omitted: X?
evidently the tongue is stressor to otherwise
the breath and the lips doing fish Bob's service plunder...

but it feels healthy like that:
a newspaper handy: my my... so the savior of Europe
is some Saudi psychiatrist
Germany is on the poking stick of resurrected Weimar Rep
fuckery
        because now the story goes:
it's no longer a right wing mental health case doing
some scooping for info
like watching ****** speaches on South Korean t.v.
and how sane he almost sounds
when he's not in full glam demonic rhetoric mode...
and to think:
at the time of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
we were a people known for religious tolerance...
we even managed to found the first Protestant nation:

the devout Catholic king Sigismund I the Old (1506–48)
accepted as his vassal in Ducal Prussia,
the Lutheran prince Albert I, Duke of Prussia,
thus creating the first Protestant country in the World...

oh and with the largest diaspora of the world's Jews...
but then we were taught lessons
for our tolerance...
first the partitions... then the onslaught of the Nazis
coupled with the Soviets...
we were taught a different toleration:
the toleration of: you will not live among us...

it took a month for Poland to be conquered
during world war two... no mention of Russian involvement...
but it took six weeks for Germany to conquer
France... France... a colonial superpower...
versus this newly emerged pauper state
that sent men on horseback to throck grenades against
******* tanks...            irony: history is so ironic...
it's not even on repeat: but how humans interact with time:

if Einstein conjured the space-time dynamic
then i had to delve into a humanism
of a science and call space: architecture...
that the ancient Romans once occupied
the capuccino lands of Plaza Pizza...
with their coliseums and football stadium reinventions...
and time being history: well hey presto!

Horace: quo me, Bacche, rapis tui plenum?
where are you scooping me up with force?

in times of crisis: it is best to leave follies aside
follies of literature / narrative... proper...
so i picked up a Polish translation of Aristotle...
Great Ethic and Poetics...
i never thought i'd come to Aristotle having begun my
journey with Plato...
but hey presto... miracles happen...
and what stood out: immediately...
a correlation between Heidegger and Aristotle...
question-worthiness becomes an answer of worthiness-per-se...

what begun as an arithmetic of counting
the camel's humps...
like they might be dunes of the Arabian desert
or the raised Alps...
i wonder...
date an older woman: with child...
send the child a parediloia riddle
then get accussed of sending a ******* picture...
and there i was... about to sacrifice
my earnings and tickle of a few more years
on walking on eggshells...
i can be accussed of ****** and of thievary...
but... i can't be accussed of ******* or of ****...
sorry... that's where my love grows numb...
i can no longer love
i am numb with logic and reason...
i will turn to Aristotle concerning the
man of worth and the egoist...
because the man of worth will only be egoistic
concerning moral beauty...
because morality is a beauty unlike anything
stressed by aesthetic...
morality is a trans- (translation) of the arts...
morality undermines art:
or so it should:
call me a murderer or a thief:
but don't call me a ****** charlatan of deviance!
don't jest with asexual reproductive tactics
then start calling it: intact egoism!
egoism is born from both sexes
given that the ego is sexless!
but insinuate that i am more a ******* than a murderer
and you will feed my: wrath...

samolub: egoist...
   man of worth...            who feeds off the privy of power
and wealth... philosophers as surrogate fathers and mothers
to their eldest children...
no... i don't need a psychiatrist to prescribe me
blue pills, black pills, red pills...
i just need a philosophy book and some time
alone and knowing that the time i spent
i was bothered about high brow literature like
a Nobel prize matters when it's not dynamite...

now comes the wrath in writing
because my heart has grown numb from the accusation:
it must be a H'american thing...
i asked AI the dynamic of getting a greed card visa:
sexed up...
works fine if you are an American gent
importing a Thai queen progress...
but reverse that...
i can't imagine sitting on my *** for half a year
until i might get a permit to work...

then again: let's be honest:
beside the fact that i told her:
there is no better brothel... there are no better prostitutes
than in the church of the Savior...
but to be accussed of sending a teenage girl
a picture of my *******?
come on...               there's paranoia and there's
absurdity...
   so philosophy books exist to cling to like
a drowning man might cling to a razor blade...
i don't need a psychiatrist to talk **** over
and to be presribed anti-metabolic pills to fatten
me up...
     plus all the red flags... all her previous boyfriends
were the problem: she wasn't...
if i get accussed of said X...
who is to say i won't be accussed of unsaid Y?

σπoυδαιoς (human of worth)
               is not an egoist (φιλαυτoς)....

                 spoudaios... philautos...

            that's settled: the "ego" in my stomach
overruled the "ego" in my mind and most
importantly the *******-ego of everywhere
that's alias to my body-extremity...

                    i needed the bait... i found the bait...
then i needed the opposite party to trip up
and take the bait...
which would absolve me from feeling guilty
of leaving my elderly parents to fend for themselves:
with only the promise of the greatest *** imaginable
i could hone in on a diet of
just pure wanking
and be content with that...
because the idea of slobbering on a ****
that would be only recreational rather than give privy
to my fatherhood...
well... should you find yourself in a similar situation
with an older woman:
how modern this all is...
fancy how far feminism has come
to ensure that age is only a number
so the medieval times are like the 1960s
in terms of attitutdes toward affairs of the heart
and there was never a period in time
when heretical mouths were not given the slither
of the stiches to shut them up...

i can be accussed of being a murderer...
a thief...
but a pedohpile or a ******?
         you don't get away with that sort of accussation:
i am numbed out of loving her
we invested so much time in discussing
paraidolia that it stunned me:
stunted me: i became a dwarf and a castrato at the same
time...
            
         i don't have time for that sort of ****...
if being alone is my fate:
at least i'll have philosophy books to mind
and none of that housewife *******
of floral arrangements and seeing young Reyla
being disgruntled at a nativity play for the school
not playing the lead role of Joseph that
cuck...

             i hate Christmas i hated Christ the moment
i heard the mantra of: turn the other cheeck...
when oculus per oculus (eye for an eye)
was seemingly erased from our natural ontology...
i hate "christ" on a personal level...
i love the church for how well it organises people...
i just hate "christ": cosmopolitan this ******* figurine
this slaughter piece standard to conquer the north...
while these ****** ****- go lampooing their desert whims
of wisdom like bogus hocus pocus...

**** these desert ******* these camel jockeys...
i've reached a clarity levelling that's
beyond my concern for whatever humpty-dumpty politco
dynamic is left available:
if my ancestors lived through **** Germany
and Soviet Russia: a people desperately willing
with so few quid... you think these Arabs
with their ******* easy money thrill me to scare me?!
really?!
               i'm waiting for martydom.