i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.
wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.
that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
i might ******* in the meantime,
i might pick-my-nose...
but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
did i see it proper?
if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.
- the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -
- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.
Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;
science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.
Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.
Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.
Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.
With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?
The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.
Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:
what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
- and what do you call a man who earns
a living from old women? Rydzyk.
I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?
How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.
**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);
note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.
believe me when i say:
i will always trust the turk the barber...
i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber
if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
because?
please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
that imaginary forest into a british library!
i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
or as the ancient saying goes:
siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...
ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
ein zweite eisenvorhang...
if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
me using english grammar...
ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
bottom up or bottom down?
it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
in such examples.
