for any of my work to have any meaning, i can only suggested browsing Empedocles (of Acragas), in saying that, i suggest the name, primarily it's a form of philosophy, written in poetic form... in that it exhausts the need for poetic technique: i.e., there's more to see, than actually hear.

- just like i don't understand people who fake doing the maestro whenever they listen to classical music, in the same vein: your greengroccer... your plumber... your electricians.... god forbid you t.v. guy....  don't translate that oddity in, modern music and imitating drummers... i get air guitar, i get air maestro... no one really bother the drumming brigade, when i listen to classical music, i am looking for a maestro, when i listen to contemporary music i, want a drummer, bad; ****! St. Thomas' gospel is becoming real... like i really, really, need a *** change.... never mind the 50cl of whiskey waiting for me, or sasha foxxx's eyes... the job? hammer in a thousand nails... industrialise ***, what do you get? a **** economy... why would god enter the equation if all the problems are theological self-made-heresy? it's not even that *** sells, and god gives gives rise to stampedes... what with the Koran and oil, are we counting to state the same arithmetic... i mean: the industrialisation of ***... nothing that hurts, nothing but a quip... that sorta of definition belongs in China or India with a billion participants... what we have is a case of mouthing off the competitors, when you're actually chihuahua in the Sahara of expectation.... i'm as mad as the numbers say i am... personal stories are non-essential.... i included mine for added effect... or a presumtpion that i might: acknowledged as having said anything in total....counter to english existentialism, so wholly preoccpupied with zoos and biology as the only scientific resource... i can't agree to it making sense, in the standard item-basis-list of following-up an argument... that dire, fake or indeed couch-sloth desert-prune is only half of *σ... i mean there's a tendency of a natural disparity, to ensure a dialectical health of any if all argument... σ = per se... it's because there no single, identifiable argument, the one current is a vogue argument, in the realm of zeitgeist parameters... it's not the only one... the world will move on... it's only that at the zenith of civilisation, we are only bound to industrialise ***, and art is, as according to W. Benjamin, in a state of: ditto, in the age of machanical, reproduction... easier said than... and so done... i feel the anaesthetic needle doing the suggested thing, of numbing me... it's not when art is given onto this Moloch-like altar... it's when *** is industrially-scaled to require cinema... and the quickie-dip of dimension having repertoire in threes... i have no care to ensure there's a narrative and a frenzy... i just care to say: there's a narrative, and a frenzy.... that one has no insurance, and that the other has all the resources that would otherwise invole a familial life... which now, evidently, is prone to same-*** affiliations than compliment-*** affiliations... meaning less art from the **** realm, and more art from the hetero or h-quasi realm (origin ****)... you need to talk about the cushions, if you're going to sleep in the bed, ****'s sake! -

to really live by the "rules" of existentialism,
to live an existential doctrine,
is to really: live an uneventful life,
or should i say: rather ordinary?
  well... i wouldn't go as far as saying it
might be boring, just... un-spectacular.

and all it takes it five beers and, oh, about
6 miles of wet wintry cement,
   and o.t.t.'s album blumenkraft,
with the crescendo song: billy the kid strikes back...

walk 6 or 7 miles in winter
and you come back into a warm abode
and you have skeleton hands...
numb from the cold...
but in england winter is different
than on the continent...
a wet winter (which is very english)
is worse than a dry winter (which is
continental)...
  as honesty goes... -18C in a dry winter
is probably not as bad as -1C in a wet
winter...
    so there's me, completely
****-faced watching the t.v. series
this is us, and one of the characters is
a black kid that gets adopted by
a white family when
    one of the triplets of the white family
dies in child-birth,
and he finds his biological father...
and also a mid-life crisis:
white folks told me to excell,
so he does,
   black daddy was a poet and played
the piano...
and he experiences a mild
schizophrenia... see, it's not a scary word,
i mean: without the extreme symptoms...
   a split-mind...
thankfully i cushioned mine on bilingualism...
and i have been ever since: bilingual -
nothing to be proud of,
   after all: there's the genius polymath...
but it's not about that: it's about winter...
winters in england are so different to
winters on the continent...
the grey skies? oh, that's here all year...
    talk about being a weather man
in Saudi Arabia, most of them moved to England:
where the action is...
          
but really, i can't imagine why existentialism
as a movement, culminated in the zenith
it achieved (precursor movement?
phenomenology)
        oh yah yah: were nieche, very Kensington,
very, Chiswick...

but to really appreciate an existentialist
dogma, a truly uneventful life...
   and given that existentialism in the French
vein akin to Kant but not so much Heidegger
lends itself to the cartesian maxim...
well... that's because it kinda has to,
but not really...

  Kant took out i think and merely focused on that,
his biography goes along the lines of:
a ritual walker, stayed in one place,
    a rook of the clock, i couldn't exactly call him
a pawn... nonetheless...
             a very uneventful life...
why? thought.
    
    what's the most interesting thing i've done today?
i thought, or, i had a thought (a / the article scissors
cutting off the -ism)...
and that's about it...
    had a thought...
                   i hit the gong that thus translates into
the post ergo / therefore of i am,
   and then i realised: i wasn't motivated enough
by my thought: to do much!
              
historically speaking, my writing can only be placed
into a dynamic of being called post-existentialism,
it's not boasting, it's just a plain fact,
   like Monday will be St. Valentine's day, 2017...
and some men collect stamps,
   and some men like fishing,
    and some men have the habit of writing about
things that are, a bit like Avogardo's constant,
meaning they'd love to speak about these things
over, and over again, and never get bored of them,
or for that matter: start families.

strange how it works, have it all...
       or have none of it, to later only have that one
vector that's opposite of mortal, ******...
        or have both, in a way,
and be later traced to some Shakespearean controversy
about a mistaken identity...
well... there's that too.

that must be it, existentialism, and the most,
ordinary life...
         pause for what, akin to something else i wrote
about beginning the thought catching
up to the walk a few days earlier which began
with z and i and diacritical marks,
how northern slavs wouldn't necessarily disrespect
the already present diacritical mark
on the ι (iota), i.e. regarding acute z (ź),
and how if z & i appear together, i.e.
    z and immediately after it, i... you don't bother
writing an acute version of z,
   as a southern slav (balkan) might,
with his caron (ž)...

or a bit like stating the old chestnut of universals
vs. particulars...
   well... they can say what they like about
the cheapness of writing in this medium
but there is nothing so gut-wrenching as a deleted
passage, that will never return...
    immediate heartache... there on the screen,
the computer decides to "have a mind of its own"
moment by either your carelessness
          or the computer's defects and: ****!
gone, a shift+ and suddenly... writing while not
looking at the keyboard, as you do... ****!
gone... gone baby... gone...
    and if that's not analogy of: a lesson
in placing your hands correctly onto the computer
does me: you're looking at the keyboard
and not at the screen...

  how about writing with my eyes closed?
  haven't seen anyone attempt that...

here goes:

    and with that i give you hades...

not bad, i should try it more often... it's not believable
because it's actually correct and has no mistakes....
*******.

alternative? and with that i give you sheol...
   still the same... double *******.

((   ((
    
and that's all it takes... the part where you let go,
because you have to:
  the regret can be there, but soon has to
be overruled...
   it mattered at the zenith of logic,
it was really there, for such a brief moment,
i could call it a study in how you can ****
a very lucid moment, and then have to "resort",
but, rather: merely accepting it as having no place
in the overall composition...
    so to the windowsill, finishing off
blackbeard (whiskey and coca cola and
a cigarette)... changing the aura from
o.t.t.'s album taken home from the "marathon"
(yes, the prime existential tool is the transcendence
of synonyms, encouraging misnomers
or: how to not build dams, or become custard
beavers, looking for words...
    the river, every time, always looking at a river...
the sea and the people and time...
   rivers occupy an infinite concept of space
and the change within such a Thermopylae,
as it might give you indigestion,
or the highest serving rank of memory...
the sea and the people don't scare me,
and it's hardly a thing of admiration...
its just a sight of pulverisation, a headache...
the river, the solitude, and the fact that local
newspapers have adverts of only lonely women...
sure, read a national newspaper and there
are women seeking men, women seeking women,
men seeking women, men seeking men...
but look at a local, a local newspaper: only women
advertising themselves for candles and firecrackers...
it seams men were always programmed (a priori)
        into the gravitas of solitude...
what i really meant to say: existentialistic writings
can appear foreboding with the ditto...
with the perception that there's this ulterior,
dark-seeded motive...
      i just thought about bypassing the thesaurus,
like some writers do,
    you can spot it when they do,
a word they looked up from their labour
of lumberjacking the keyboard
sticks out like a modern statue, or a broken finger,
a word: right off the pages of a thesaurus...
   i just mean that there's nothing sinister enclosed in
the said "brackets"...  there's nothing additional about it,
but as narratives go... you sometimes want to bypass
Sherlock Holmes and write a synonym-antonym,
you want to bypass the thesaurus, content with your
own vocab riches, but too "lazy" / engrossed in
what's actually coming...
say, that interlude, a cigarette, finishing off the whiskey,
with the glass freezing and having a layer of ice
around it... and: why i'll never be part of the nirvana's
or the doors' cult...
     pearl jam's indifference, from their second album.

so it's sometimes thereuputic letting go,
  after all, no one built a house on the summit of Everest,
if i wrote something of such clarifying quality,
and lost it... i can only apply an imagery of having seen it,
the best i can suggest that i wrote something
akin to 1 + 1 = 2, and then accidently deleted it...
and that's the sad part,
universals as vowels, particulars like consonants,
    even numbers akin to 2 and odd numbers akin to 1
(divided into decimals, or the wormhole of 0.123456 etc.) -
it was a beautiful sight, and then, again: ****!
gone... like a magician doing a trick
   and then... the sadness of having lost the technique
to recreate it...
well, the best i can do to recreate it is based
on a short argument...
   if universals and particulars (relying on the fact
that both have a plural form,
  i.e. so not 1 in 1, but the many of 1,
   and akin to: the 1 in many, and the many in many,
and the 1 in 1 / focus, something identifiable) -
or loosely universals like vowels, and particulars like consonants,
but given the two experience diacritical distinction /
additions... i could best remember what i wrote
as: 1 e.g. particular, if divided: fractions, and after
fractions: decimals...
                2 e.g. universal, if divided: whole numbers,
and after whole numbers fractions, and later decimals...
   so on and so forth with 3 (particular), 4 (universal),
     5 (p.), 6 (u.)...
                 a bit like having your own telescope
and microscope, just looking at what we make silence
of, our two ways of encoding what could have,
or should have been said, that was nonetheless said,
transcending our contemporaries as, what can only
be described as... an echo, lost in the caves of aeons...

this promenade begun with something to z & i...
or z, i, ι, ź and ž (what a nice pentagram,
i was watching the six nation's match
between wales and england,
and lo! behold... a goat at the fore!
  mind you, i took a cigarette break when they scored
their two tries).
Cardiff? yeah, been there once...
         Poland v Wales qualifying match,
donning a polish football shirt, got approached
by two young welsh girls saying: your team is ****...
started giving it the local... how fast they ran away...
and they say we laugh more than we cry,
   and i could be the one to snigger a sly laugh at
that memory, but cinema memory says to me:
time to usher in the reverse-psychology,
calling white black, and laughter crying...
        or as i like to call it, the paradox marriage
that has, literally not tentacle hold on the world,
   the bilingual marriage,
             lodged deep inside my head,
most recognisable by my theory study of diacritical
marks, or actually having noticed them,
and having no real, authentic accent to remind me
that i belong in either geography...
         whether from beginning, or toward an end...
some call it acting, some call it faking,
  i call it: just what i was given, or, more precisely:
what i earned... and that was to no good use...
        unless... this is the best expression of what the foundations
look like.

what was i thinking of? ah!

   it just involved the σ                       ς roundabout...
the aesthetic variation for one,
but on another investigation, well, sigma, total, sum,
and how be obey it like a golden ratio or pi,
   it's just auto-suggestive of how we are never truly
synchronised in our arguments...
   but, "paradoxically", or should i say: by a miracle,
make up the greatest potent to have an argument...
  we can never truly really synchronises ourselves
to fill the boots of expressing an utopian dream,
otherwise we wouldn't dream... period...
  so bye bye Freud and that method of escapism...
     we already ensured that, if they be our creation,
the gods are already at war with the Titans...
      i'll actually acknowledge that in an age of
pop philosophy in that Greece was, a place of allowing
a fertility of thought and later popularising it
(we don't live in times where there's a fertility consecrated
on the altar of thought, or what philosophy is, thinking per se /
for itself... innovators! scientists! up-starts!
or as some might say, the other pronoun battle,
the one without genitals involved,
as could only be sooner said:
  per se, or per per...
                       in in...
nothing sexualised... it's only that there's a limit in pronouns,
per se / in itself must come across the muddle
regarding the moment when people lose their
identity and begin their life with: ? thought
rather than i think,
       i can't place it anywhere else than inside my head,
better there than in the genitals,
   or wasn't Jesus circumcised and the zeitgeist
of St. Thomas' gospel and the transgender movment?
    the church is old, and counter-authoritarian,
it's just a tired institution, so it has no actual authenticity
over the current changes in society,
    might as well call onto Islam to move the chess pieces...
or that's what i'm currently seeing...
   i was just thinking about a logical limit in language,
e.g. timbaland's song the way i are...
   there really is a logical limit on how far you can
suddenly just forget grammar...
            so why begin with per se?
                 at best described as a cogitans (

A hollow ‘hello’ from Hell! Yes, from Hell.
Where do names come from? This Hell is
a sleepy fishing village and the best
spot that we’ve found on Hollow Head,
a Sleepy Hollows, so to speak.
We are in the ‘Bridegroom’, a little Bed
and Breakfast, run by a Rip Van Winkle
wise enough to know it was Empedocles
who jumped into Mount Etna. Empedocles!
Is my face red! Yet it will glorify
my pronoun to perfection—‘he jumps’. Yes,
both poetry and philosophy ought
to have the same antecedent. They forge
a world that’s capable of consciousness.
The self, per se, remains vestigial—
the voice of the volcano, not its source.
Your pronoun is the antecedent, not
your noun. Problematic resolved. Perhaps
I will go for a walk in Hell, perhaps
I will take the air, take the breezes.
A wonderful day in Hell! Ha-ha!

sitting there, fiddling with my beard,
trying to manage a pseudo-payot -
twirling it, and twirling it -
attempting to lose weight
with due process - of gaining
a pointy shrub of *****...
            i really had something to attest
for:
      ah!
             ****, lost the marbles...
      going to see a turkish
barber is about as obnoxious for
me as seeing a doctor...
     no one ever heard of going for
the feral look?
              in whatever agony,
i'd rather that sort of a death sentence,
than this, prolonged,
power ****** / grabbing delay
of:
      i seem to dream up  the following
scenario,
   given that the space we call
universe is primarily a medium
of time...
               and death row?
the execution bound to an electric
chair, isn't the actual execution...
the actual execution?
   it's the waiting "game"...
   by the time the shitshow is over...
sitting in the electric chair...
is a death's bargain of:
gambling on death's gambit...
  there is no pain in concentrated
posits of delayed "gratification"...
         Empedocles
    (who jumped into a burning
volcano)...
     Diogenes (who died by holding
his breath)...
there is nothing inhumane
about the rite of the execution...
it's the delayed artifact of it being
postponed that's degrading...
    mind you...
all the ****** victims,
at least experienced the pain
numbing adrenaline shock intermediate
effect...
     like hannibal lecter noted:
the shock, numbs the pain...
       but waiting
for an execution?
      up in arms for the death penalty -
but, not... cat teases mouse
waiting game...
          only last night i found myself
lying in bed...
humming out, groaning,
   an attempt at relief...
              pain is ultimate...
waiting is relative...
    here i'd side with Cain...
     execute... but please...
            don't make him wait;
waiting is the execution in itself...
if not more...
   this: reflection of what
the victim's life could have been...
taking the bible literally:
what, marked, and allowed to roam
free in a place like Siberia, or
the Canadian woodlands?
       keep it fresh, keep it simple,
give the perpetrator the same
adrenaline high...
some laws are non-debatable -
    on a high, squiggly clean, fast...
the death penalty makes sense...
but only if there is no
waiting game involved -
             the waiting is worse
than the actual execution...
                  say what you may about
the french revolution...
   but since the guillotine?
  the american electric chair...
  wasn't exactly any bias
for improvement...
          snap tactic!
   i hate, what these covert sadists
disguise as a course
of justice...
            this waiting game...
it's like Einstein's relativism never
took off...
           because a caged, waiting game
with a Cain, has no objectivity argument,
and there's no quality filter to
ascribe to this argument...
          by comparison -
   the Abel of the matter was shown
more justice, even if within the confines
of the irrational premeditation of
the abhorrent act...
                   don't people realize that,
being confined...
   subsequently providing the original
zenith of sentencing (i.e. execution) -
death, becomes a saint,
and found itself a friend and martyr?

       it is no longer an execution...
but a release -
and the person being executed -
has an inability to recant for the past crime...
he slobber and makes solipsistic
incantations...
                there is no closure...
with the evolutionary sadism of capital
punishment delay...
          
     why not make the killer and victim
lovers - in the case of Cain and Abel,
Siamese twins?
              
        waiting for the execution,
           is worse than the execution itself;
last time i heard,
in england, the pork was "herded",
piling onto each other, in claustrophobic
cages... suffocating each other...
        
     i sometimes dream of being a
maximilien robespierre -
dreaming of ghosts -
  and supervising the drop of the guillotine,
like i might think, about reconsidering
having a shave.

sure, the romance, they are the new gods,
     Paris, Rome, Barcelona (don't ask me about Madrid,
                                                       too royal),
a Venetian mask i would don, and become the quixote fighting treadmills rather than windmills -
although to Rome i have not walked
                for my footsteps to encounter the pave,
but in the Venetian pirate lair, plunderers of Byzantium
i have set foot on, at the same time to have learned
of the number 613 near a synagogue and heard the shofar.
Paris (not the Trojan) is the cliche synonym of Eros -
elsewhere Gemini: St. Petersburg as the Amsterdam
   of the north, and Edinburgh as the Athens of the north.

well, such a verse does indeed desire
                                                 more translation of Horace,
as in nimis ex vos, sed non satis ex "ego",
  yes, "ego" the abstract component of you that's
free from the three tier psychoanalytical *******,
what superego, what id? forget it! there's only you
and only "you" - work with me:
               too much out of you, but not enough
               from your alter (synonym of "ego" -
               Jungian shadow porridge);
but as promised, yet more Horace

               deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles
               ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
               sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
               invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
               nec semel hoc fecit nec, si retractus erit,
               iam fiet **** et ponet famosae mortis
               amorem. nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet,
               utrum minxerit in patrios cineres an triste
               bidental moverit incestus: certe furit ac velut
               ursus, obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
               indoctum doctumque fugat recitator
               acerbus; quem vero arripuit, tenet occiditque
               legendo, non misura cutem nisi plena
               cruoris hirudo.

but of course i'll translate, but prior in dogmatic proposals...
keep the book of revelation of the Ιωαννης,
discard the rest... the four primers are a parody of
the tetragrammaton - so gentle in his own land
yet such a vicious serpent in Egypt? which one's the fraud?
messiah of just hanging, standing still,
40 years in the desert or 40 hours on the cross?
and all that iconoclasm and modern too via narcissism?
"bring out the selfie shtick! oh wait... my hands are
nailed to a ******* crux!" and this persistent 2000 year old
negation - and being spared, the Romans, or
rather the alphabetum, Roma est mort but you
can still ask the italians of a cappuccino - Chino and
Khaki elsewhere with the Lombardy League ponce
rubbing shoulders with Saxons... Chino Versace
whistle at a Bella... you can still see c b g long after
and the coliseum in ruins... it wasn't swallowed up!
i too though the second H in the tetragrammaton was
intended as a déjà vu - it would sit perfectly with
anti-, the concept, but not the man as such,
and indeed the Y would make a perfect tree of Golgotha
in that tweaked geometric, then W and seas
and continuance - Roma alphabetum, sole constructor
of computer robot? maybe... but you see, the H
is a slippery *****, it's silent, like in Khaki... or
as is the usual case in Hindu - Dhal... it's not so much
déjà vu but silence - a necessary surd to make spelling
pretty... dyslexics think spelling is a bit like arithmetic...
it's actually an aesthetic, but they do find it as hard as
arithmetic, and that's why they're genius at numbers...
but the aesthetics is missing, so they cling to numbers
and the aesthetic is missing, and everything associated
with money... well, it's a bit ugly, isn't it?

... (postponed translation)... yes, London is Hades...
    doom and gloom.

but indeed the Gemini in the tetragrammaton,
but first the principle of three-dimensional space (Y) -
just look into one of the corners of a cube (yes
the room you're sitting in),
and lastly the principle of waves, whichever,
sine or cosine as you will, looks better that way
than mediating the ad infinitum of 1, 2, 3 etc.,
sea and constant fluxes (fluctuations),
pin-point the opposite, the principle of one-dimensional
space (a definite coordinate, rather than three-dimensional
space and that ****** indefinite coordinate) and
subsequent ripples, which aren't necessarily waves:
my tools? a-       and -the            and every other ism
that might act as an auxiliary attaché - time (W).
but indeed the anti- implementation that serves as
direct Gemini chiral-ism: the latter serves no close
resemblance to be guided to Golgotha,
hence guided toward Megiddo, and a crucifix also there?

**** such religiosity twice over with its vortex,
as promised the Horace translation

       Empedocles, desirous of godliness in being so,
       having icily strutted toward old age and by
       old age near frozen, was prophesied to jump
       into flaming Etna. as they want, let the poets
       have a right to a death (of their choosing).
       who whomever against his will saves,
       twice-over rattles the suicide's intentions.
       it hasn't been the first time, it's not that easy
       to say it: i am human. he wants to immortalise
       himself, fame posthumously. he writes poems.
       why? maybe he urinated on his father's grave,
       maybe in a place basked by throngs he took
       from it the vices and in solitude became
       desolate with inherited uncleanliness of urbanity?
       like a bear with scars, prison bars he breaks open,
       scares off the wise and the foolish, such
       the adamant nature of compulsive poetic labour,
       whoever he grasps with recitations he
       finishes off, the leech attached to his skin will
       not fall off, until satiated with enough blood.

**dicam Siculique poetae narrabo interitum.

On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought  

From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy  into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter  

Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment

since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth

Exhibiting the myth of danger
alongside
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...

—————————————————-

“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
or
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write  
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history

THE GYRES! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth;
Things thought too long can be no longer thought,
For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth,
And ancient lineaments are blotted out.
Irrational streams of blood are staining earth;
Empedocles has thrown all things about;
Hector is dead and there's a light in Troy;
We that look on but laugh in tragic joy.
What matter though numb nightmare ride on top,
And blood and mire the sensitive body stain?
What matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop,
A-greater, a more gracious time has gone;
For painted forms or boxes of make-up
In ancient tombs I sighed, but not again;
What matter? Out of cavern comes a voice,
And all it knows is that one word "Rejoice!'
Conduct and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul,
What matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear,
Lovers of horses and of women, shall,
From marble of a broken sepulchre,
Or dark betwixt the polecat and the owl,
Or any rich, dark nothing disinter
The workman, noble and saint, and all things run
On that unfashionable gyre again.

And I openly pledged my
Heart to the grave and
Suffering land, and often in the
Consecrated night, I promised
To love her faithfully until
Death, unafaraid, with her
Heavy burden of fatality, and
Never to despise a single one
Of her enigmas. Thus did I
Join myself to her with a
Mortal cord.

You ask no questions; I provide the answers.
Greetings, my friend! We have moved on from Hell.
Today I stand in surf up to my knees.
Imagine: liquid rock, a steaming sea,
the battle of fire with water, land
like iron being forged, the earth refreshed.
We must make this moment a postcard from
infinity. My friend, I need your help.
This message, like our hope for life itself,
must be left unattributed. It must
be left an unresolved antecedent.
Think of Empedocles poised at the mouth
of that volcano, Etna’s edge. He is
about to enter this world’s soul. He is about
to die. We are all thrown into the world.
Empedocles, the poet philosopher,
must hear a  voice from far into
the future, a voice from today that will
insure his resurrection, one
to clarify his immortality.
Write something in the sand for him to see.
'There was something more,
                 something more divine,
more *******…'
Write that. Leave it unsigned.
'For I have been ere now a boy and a girl,
a bush and a bird and a dumb fish in the sea.'
Write that. Knowledge will come.

always a return and as moving forward:
alway in retreat,
  to just quote empedocles:
         will you not end the terrible sounds of your ******?
do you not see that in your thoughtlessness you
are eating one another?
      indeed: what is the ego: if not a second mouth?
can i concede that this might be poorly written?
well: listen to a dialogue on scientology,
         conducted by joe rogan interviewing
a documentary maker louis therou(x), and try
to imagine how ****** writing can become a forest-fire
in society... i'd agree with you that heidegger
was terrible at using language, but then his magnum opus
took me 2 years to read...
                       and if you're interested in
the history of the third *****, outside of content,
it would be better for you to read the context of a hopeful
university professor than, say: reading the mein kampf.
          just saying... i'd **** out the politics of the zeitgeist
and look a bit deeper into the affairs...
    or how germany degenerated, what, given the treaty
of versailles?
                          how desperate people had to become
to later turn into: a volk of beethoven, schubert, schumann...
and the dr. satans of their days that numbered
  a span a 6 years.
                              i abhor psychology, i really have
not competent theory in this realm of learning, i'm sure
there is a competent cohort in some stratum of society
that could explain: no soul (psyche)... so these theories
better than i could. yet back to the greeks...
            psyche                  and narcissus -
a sound marriage?
                                  given these times... yes...
in that much needed allegory...
              originally it was narcissus and echo -
                                             but those days are seemingly
over: there is no longer talk of psyche and cupid -
             the suicide rates of teenagers?!
                         i have no need to treat the ego as a concept
that becomes a tulip, a rose and a field of lavender
  with freud, or c. g. jung... i need not these mental
stratas, these levels of codification:
accordingly with empedocles: my ego is just a second
mouth...
               that's it... there's nothing else;
and according to what is "good" quality writing...
             no one cares if ezra pound what he wrote, as if
he was writing in a telegram mode... but they sure as hell
give a **** saying: oh ya ya... t. s. elliot: fan-*******-tastic!
     even though ezra was the editor of the wasteland...
  so is "good" writing merely something pop,
and therefore simple? appealing?
                         to me: good writing is difficult;
      no one cares whether kraszewski is good,
                      most find him a bore, as a historian they
prefer to ref. pavel jasienica... why?
                   the former outpoured 30 books... the latter two...
and both wrote about the same time period of
the rise and fall of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
i'm all for intricacy, i don't like neat properly folded
napkin talk...
                       there's no need to stand for manners
and etiquette in general in writing... *** is never neat:
it's sloppy...
                                 unless you pay for it, so it then
becomes a contract... which doesn't mean that i sometimes
didn't leave the brothel after an hour and did have
an ******... and the ******* would look at me
with this horror of: huh?
                      jerking off? well: i wouldn't say
24 times a day... that would be pointless...
                            but the cult of the wendols -
which, as you might imagine, is borrowed -
                                       coincides with what happened
two years ago? it might be three or four; this english
politician found it abhorring that a woman was found
breast-feeding in public...    what the ****?
                                       can i have the other ******?
i dare say no one has really concerned themselves with
this realm of sexuality: of a husband competing
                    for the same affection as a baby might -
i'm not sure about the reasons for trying to explore this
very "sensitive" realm... but when a woman films herself
doing sexualised provocations (""?) and posts them online,
in the public sphere of things...
                                     you're thinking: maybe that
"parasite" (because that's how we're born, via the parasitic
route... that's not new... white tadpoles in some juice)
        well... that's the eroticism of the cult of the wendols:
i'm borrowing from cinema to understand something...
           there's this politician having a *****-fit when seeing
a woman breast feed in public...
   and then there's me and: the annoying brat screaming!
a baby screaming!
                            i can, but i don't have to look at the woman
breast-feeding: sure... she's pregnant and she's doing
this upper-body only dance...
                             i have a sheep-belly (socratic term
for bloated from alcohol) - the ****** element disappears
when the baby is ******* on it...
                when she's still pregnant and feeling *****
after walking the ****** Gobi desert for 9 months?
      well... you certainly can't feel guilty doing it
on a regular basis... given the chance that when you
imitate circumcision, the veins enricling that "excess"
could suddenly be ruptured... imagine that...
        death... by pleading out via a throbbing ****.
in the film, the wendols have a torso of a pregnant woman
dangling from their necks...
                  my, that really would be a rare paganism,
what with the original paganism and those *******
statues. (13th warrior... iraqi joins 12 vikings to defeat
the cannibals).

for one, i don't understand this atheistic concept of seeking eternity, by the sole way, of passing on one's genes; never got to grips with this, dare i say, existential fetish? in all honesty, some people rather pass a train-of-thought, just as it happens when socrates became neglectful to the family life... some people have other "gene" infested "babies"... one man had his "baby", known as the lightbulb... another had the steam-engine... another had the general anaesthetic... yet another had penicillin... **** me, the list goes on-and-on... in reproductive terms, that's called what? i.v.f.? yes, metaphorically speaking.

and so i can only consummate myself
to the dedication of being oath-ridden...
    i know i'd be a ****** partner for a woman,
except *one,      if helen of troy
    could launch a thousand ships...
       my woman is -      sophia of edinburgh...
third year at university,
    majoring in chemistry...
     age? 21...
                             prompt?
        learning, for the first time, of a subject
known as philosophy...
    this is england, and if you're in a catholic
school:
                theology is a priori with respect
to the dame, that -sophia is.
    argument no. 1: why teach 16 year olds
the ethical arguments for pro / con
            surrounding euthanasia / abortion?
from what i can remember,
        perhaps 2 teen pregancies around
   the year 2001 in my class of graduates
from school... 2.
                    so here's the crude part,
  how's the ******* with sophia?
           well... i tell myself in freudian terms:
genitals: my ego is the phallus,
               and a philosophy book is a ******;
****, i love that imagery;
                       i know i'd be a terrible partner
to anyone but ms. sophia / sophia of edinburgh,
why? i drink, i smoke, and my philia
        for music makes me, seemingly deaf
with regards to having a conversation about:
having children, buying a house, shopping
              for furniture, or at the supermarket,
tax revenue, the in-laws,
        you can blame the sound of cars and
headphones for my "deafness"...
     oh yeah... and bird songs are annoying as
**** in the morning...
          lucky robin, the silent bird,
    god! this head-wave is doing my head in!
         34°C... and in terms of writing:
                  nowhere is there supposed to be
a cohesion, a clear narrative,
                       much ado with dutiful thanks
to the evolution of tristan tzara into w. burroughs...
but again: ego with a philosophy book -
   it's not what's supposed to come out with
regard to continuing some sort of tradition of
upkept narrative -
                            after all - empedocles -
so onto the comparison in non-relative terms:
i've sent over 12,000 (12 thousand) ships (poems)
in her direction, and more are to come i suspect;
if only these american mig-taus?
                 mgtow? see how ugly english has
             become... we're reduced to acronyms...
that's ******* sign language to me, that is...
  is they could only learn from an english bachelor...
ah yes, the second silence: studying diacritical
markings...        mig (russian)
   so this canadian chick is an apache helicopter...
which makes me a MiG 29...
        or              na migi
    (in polish, translated into) conversation
                                                    ­  by winking,
  well... "conversation", more like indicating certain
prompts;
   for all the criticisms of the bible...
      darwinism will never produce any great works
of art, esp. poetry... and yes! yes! these people
didn't exist! how could they!
  we don't have their
      (a claustrophobic german word):
nationalinsurancenumberbirthcertificatephonenumberhomeaddr­essdrivinglicensebankdetailse-mailaddressmarriagecertificatetaxre­venue tescoclubmembercarddetailssocialmediaaccount  

   (sorry for being  mean, but james joyce
was also mean; no ******* punctuation
   at the end of ulysses(!) making the use of bookmark
almost futile).

it's not really a shortcut to philosophy when writing
it in a shape of a poem, hardly a reason to trust
there's an orthodox choice of subjects -
unresolved problem, or even having to warrant
that horrid academic style of narration - and even if
not academic then simply in the vein of vanity: 'he's
wrong, he's wrong, oh he's definitely wrong...'
after all poetry can be philosophical,
after all heraclitus wrote sparingly and wore a cloak
of enigmas - as joseph and the multicoloured dreamcoat,
so too heraclitus and the multinigmatic (πολυνιγματικoς)
cloak; then there was parmenides of elea &
empedocles of arcagas who just wrote poetry,
albeit much less self-involving
as modernity would like to believe - and i guess
if qualified as didactic poetry, the instructions were certain
disguised as faults of their own understanding,
thus the instructions are of a higher calibre, in that
they are wrong and the reader must service their
wrongs... say... with something like galileo or newton,
because who the hell would like to constantly read
didactic poetry of specific instruction to be fulfilled
while the poet has to only write it in the comfy abode
of the page?

i know the intricacies of english (my second language, my parasite tongue of which i'm the host) so well: that i'd be able to make the native speakers, dance and twirl around a carousel, singing some song by the beatles, and then eating 20 metres of liquorice worth of shoelaces.

i get these moments,
usually after half an hour's worth of walking,
and labouring a steadfast, lead-fastened
chilli of an irritable "cause" for thought...
almost like a sprinkle of sand in my shoe
to my annoyance "being" content
with the zenith: and the view -
mind you, a mountain holds both
splendours:
there's the awe inspiring nadir of the base:
as there's the exasperating zenith -
people really do tend to say the wiser
of the two at the base, at the nadir,
and, mind you: with much more breath
to conjure words and invite them
into a sentence...
at the top? not much is saying,
rather: an onomatopoeia resembling words:
merely a gasp for air...
the mountain, inside out, top to bottom:
better admired from below,
than stretched into an idiotic presence
of a man, on top of one,
since this will never be
      a: 'one step for man, one giant leap
for humanity' moment...
    just be heroic, and stick to the mundane,
but at the same time: enjoy the mundane,
and you'll be only second to achilles...
modern women?
   i thought i said this already...
these days?
the modern helen of troy?
    she would summon a retaliation,
of course, but the 1000 ships would end up
being a single ship...
   and most likely a cruise ship,
filled with pensioners, rather than warriors...
oops... sorry honey bee...
       better luck next time;
            hey! beauty isn't forever,
but it would be nice, wouldn't it?
personally i conjure up eternity,
every time i think about amnesia -
  yeah, i think about eternity,
within the schematic of being
allowed to forget something;
what?
           ah... a nibble, just a woman;
i really would like to spend the crucible
of a "life", perpetuating the circumstance
of amnesia, and forgetting this regrettable
cause for the current circumstance
of, "motivation".

that thing though, the stefan zweig book -
a typical ****** read,
  i mean easy, digestible - something you
can almost do while lying in bed waiting
for falling asleep...
   so i start flicking through it (yeah, i've read it:
the struggle with the daemon -
hölderlin, kleist, nietzsche) - namely?
2 germans that misunderstood kant,
and the first that hard to learn kant the hard way...
ants in my pants and: look at me dance!

so i start toying with it, start squeezing
the ****** paperback (he did commit suicide
with his wife... who? stefan zweig! brazil!) -
so i'm squeezing it... squeezing it...
might as well be called: misunderstanding kant:
kleist committed suicide because of
the *critique: nietzsche just elongated
that into calling him stupid and ending up
with a bushy moustache that begged for
a barber's attention...

hölderlin was the only to get away...
   he married empedocles...

anyway, so i'm pinching and rubbing this book
like your typical bibliophile pervert,
squeezing it...
      a paperback...
   so? well... if you're going to smoke a cigarette
and walk down the street,
you have to shove your other hand into
your trouser pocket... let's face it:
you can't look silly... both hands have to be
busy...
        comparatively?
   i stick my tongue out - and start squeezing it,
having a feel of it,
the one time the tongue becomes
aristotelian arithmetic considering the number
of women's teeth...
     or something like that...
pinch-&-squeeze a paperback book with
one hand, and with the other hand:
your tongue...

         very similar texture to be clarifyingly honest:
huh? what's with the red dots below the word
clarifyingly?
                   why isn't it respected as an adverb
of the verb (to) clarify?
       the ****, is this system
respective of a lack of correction
of english words in pidgin, patois, or just
plain jedi padawan?
    might as well be glaswegian, to be honest,
couldn't decipher that accent,
  even if you lived in essex, and had welsh parents;
ah, **** it, why lie,
   i can understand the scots;
the irish? they probably speak
  a more understandable
version of their english: drunk, than sober.

it always makes sense: to make your own
blueberry ice-cream...
or raspberry ice-cream...
  come to think of it: having watched a lot
of Australia Master-Chef...
hmm... beetroot ice-cream...
basil ice-cream...
                it makes sense because it's
a quintessential happiness...
altogether something different from...
making your own wine...
but this has to be the most pristine base recipe:
2 cups of double cream
half a cup of sugar: perhaps even less...
one quarter to half a cup of sugar...
5 egg yolks...
obvious beaten and when the cream sugar milk
mixture comes up to 165 Fahrenheit...
the ideal temp. for roast chicken: mind you...
i remember those Sundays when
both my mother and grandmother
turned chicken ******* into chalk...
all the men in the house would be gagging for
the dark meat: near the bones...
since that couldn't be overcooked... over-baked...
obviously if i were to compare:
taking out my little culinary chemistry set
when making a curry...
is one thing...
but there's something: i don't have either
noun or adjective to suit this adventure...
it's: ******* blueberry ice-cream...
you could almost reinvent the thrill of riding
a bicycle heavy-traffic when
making ice-cream...
i'm more of a savoury cook...
when it comes to sweet: baking irritates me...
ice-cream i can stand: under...
but cooking sweet is so less alchemical
than cooking savoury...
whiskey ice-cream: it's doable...
double up: coffee-whiskey-caramel ice-cream...
oh... wait... that's tripling up
    on the effort...
sure... some cheap vanilla extract to boot...
but since blueberries are blueberries...
and not raspberries: there was a sly squeeze
of a lemon...
i'm hoping for a good harvest
of grapes this year...
i'm assuring myself to be able to...
squeeze out a dozen bottles of row-zay...
looks ugly: phonetically... no?
i'm not going to introduce an acute on the E
to morph a rose into a: hue...
7am tomorrow... a romance with the bicycle...
and all that's Loon'don...
running through advertisement in the river
of thought of all that's: subliminal...
after all: journalism no journalism no...
they still get that itch from time to time
to replicate the glory days of Woodward & Bernstein...
for me... it was a one off...
these days journalism comes too late:
or too early...
too pawn-brokered...
   i still read the newspapers: mostly like a solipsist...
not that i'm somehow immune
to the everyday: greyish horrors of...
average people: i guess i'm one of them...
because wouldn't i want to think
somehow more of myself:
i can hardly scold... demean the prostitutes
i visit from time to time...
it would leave me supposing an ownership
of a pair of two left hands...
drinking a bottle of 70cl like it might be
a bottle of milk:
thank god i didn't have the "bright" idea
of mixing it up with a shy... 35cl of beer...
sure... it might work in an ice-cream:
coffee... whiskey... caramel...
    this ugly necessity of being agitated: prompted for
no great purpose other:
perhaps... i'd rather not talk...
fixing some shelves in the wardrobe...
making the ice-cream...
hence my demand of propping the advertisers above
the "journalists"...
it's good that i don't have the sort of money
they're gagging me to spend...
insurmountable joy arrives from
the clarity of: not having the sort of money
needed to be spent given the effort
of advertisers to make you: want to spend it...
you don't need to advertise whiskey...
or beer...
Franziskaner Weissbier:
                           but Carlsberg needs the slogan:
probably... it isn't... probably or otherwise:
****-juice at 3.5% at the keg...
the monk's brew i'll buy:
with or without an advertisement campaign...
it's most probably a niche product:
only niche consumers buy it...
i don't suppose the art: is it still called that?
of poetry: ugh... rhyming cripples...
caged rhymers...
    it would be more fun to play a game of:
slap a ball against a brick wall...
to reiterate: i don't Horace ever had a care
for rhyme...

deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles,
ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
Sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
nec semel hoc fecit nec, si restractus erit,
iam fiet **** et ponet fanisae mortis amorem.
nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet, utrum,
minxerit in patrios cineres an triste bidental
moverit incestus: ceste furit ac velut ursus,
obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
indoctum doctumque fugat recitator acerbus;
quem vero arripuit tenet occiditque legendo,
non missura cutem nisi plena cruoris hirudo...

Empedocles: wanting to become a god...
chilled by old age: was supposed to jump...
into the burning mouth of Etna.
if they want (it), let the poets
have the law unto their death.
who: whom against their will saves,
the suicide double condones (finishes off).
not for the first time:
not so easily said: i am human.
he wants to glorify himself with death.
i write poems. why?
     maybe i ****** on my father's grave,
maybe the place has been struck
with a thunderbolt: spread and is now impure.
like a bear in a fury, breaking the bars (of the cage)
scares the wise & the fools:
thus a wordsmith interloper...
      whoever he will catch... with recitations
puts down... not even with a leech from
the skin will not fall off:
                                           until satiated with blood.

he who (against their will)
               saves: the suicide double condones...
knuckle-head stunts...
not for the first time.
it's not so easily said: it's not easily said...
i am: human.
he wants to gain fame through his death.
i write, poems.

the book fell from my hands... onto the floor...
the floor breathed...
i spoke: no more...
like some ghostly wind...
if i don't translate it proper...
there was some wording about:
******* on one's father's grave...
turning the pages quickly like:
a pigeon might be flapping its wings...
328.... 329...
pages...330 & 331...
a book fell... like...
a woodland pigeons might flap its wings
while i turns the pages... "haphazardly"...
i'm no poet caged to rhyme...
i'm... Horace's horse: prosaic...
i turned the pages like...
the sound and image...
of a pigeon... flustered... wing-clapping-the-wind...
                                               might... just might...

i wash my eyes with cold water...
ensuring the rest of my face is:
welcoming a tiredness of day...
if i done things proper...
i'd throw my naked body into
a bulge of nettles
for: some... adequate... revision of...
what's to be felt...

why?
    maybe i ****** on my father's grave...
maybe the place: thunderstruck... spread...
and he became: impure.
how a bear in a fury...
breaking out from in between
the cages's barricade of bars:
shuns the wise and the idiots....
such wordsmith: poetry minding: ambition...
agitation... whoever it befalls...
with recitation doubles down on:
second-hammering...
a leech will not fall off the skin:
until it is satiated with blood.

one might start calling it an:
agitated wardrobe?!
                the dead leave us pardons:
so many that the living will ever allow:
i don't want to be among the living:
i want to be among the dead...
i want to juice up as many prunes
as there are grapes
and still... leverage what half harvest i might
have from the ..
i forget at what point i'm to care about
being an investment prospect...

i would never say that translating Latin was...
somehow: fun...
wordsmith interloper?!

and what boredom would arise - if man's mind could
teach of overcoming this sometimes woken oddity
self-inherent in our surroundings -
what materialistic bombast,
what atheistic pomp of
argumentative "certainty" -
       what a firm hold of the heart,
whether guided by the sway
of either love, or doubt -
  what purpose, what adventure
would man make of,
this: be but nothing, other than
something resembling a zoo?
   from what i heard: in terms
of the development of the brain:
imagination comes first -
   thought comes second -
but memory comes last -
imagination at such an early
age is not the ability to conjure
make-believe:
   but a was of refining the image,
or shape, or differentiate them,
in order to later integrate them...
if imagination clouds our sight,
then memory blinds it...
  i believe the new-born is born
"blind"... all and every single one
of them...
            as thought enters through
a sense of hearing second,
   it then translates itself into
     optical scrutiny,
    whereby there's a difference between
the literate T... the word table...
and the actual geometry of a table...
but there is a hierarchy:
   imagination... not something akin
to the imagination of children
inventing games...
  after all... the elders of the child also
invent games:
   profitable games,
      using nothing but geometry -
a sphere, a ball...
               two H goals either side
             of an egg-shaped inflatable.
strange how memory is both
a tool to remember, but also to forget...
memory has the capacity
    to "create" while at the same time
erasing, either lived: or thought out content...
nostalgia: memoria est res non grata -
                memory is not welcome -
and how does the collective approach work?
well... it begins in
the education system...
      you have to memorise!
                 and given the already self-erasing
nature of the cognitive faculty
that memory is...
      pneumatic drilling...
              and the self-imposed "censor" -
                        the brainchild of dementia...
but if you want to attack and collectivise
a species: attack what develops last: first!
teach the unit rubrics of alphabet,
   of names without limit of being contained,
rebellious in ****, but hardly
comprehensive, rather fickle, given
any linguistic fashion, zeitgeist and later
extinction as you might...
        transparent etymology, or that: lost
forever and never unearthed in this
linguistic archeology...
               but attack the faculty of memory
first...
   by the time you've done that,
and people are taught to be fickle -
   to have to remember, then to automatically
forget, to have to remember for an examination:
then to later automatically forget...
what comes later?
    what never actually came: thinking!
what came later was "thinking" as in
delving into the abyss of the narrative,
or could always and would always be waiting
for narration...
      but then imagination descends
and mingles with memory...
          given that memory is the faculty
  that "writes" what-is-and-was,
                         memory enters and mingles
with it (akin to the idea of space-time unison dip) -
to "write" what-isn't-and-what-could-be...
             but the byproduct is hardly
what-isn't-and-what-could-be, bur rather:
     what-was-and-what-couldn't-have-been...
by now thinking is a bemused spectator...
   hence the idea of philosophy:
  begins in awe: ends up with empedocles
jumping into mount etna...
        and if diogenes of sinope died
by holding his breath?
     he must have died while holding his breath,
but also being cross-eyed (trying to look
at the tip of his nose): to imitate the idea
of being underwater.
but that's how it appears to be:
1st comes space, and the differentiation and
later integration of it, to establish the medium
of immediate-spacial coordination without
the geometric abstract -
as does 2nd come neither space, nor time,
but some sort of medium, which is goverened
by impulsive forces, the 6th elemental,
   a vibrating impulse to stagger into motion,
a type of music, the impregnation of the mush
of soap like basis for the brain guiding
an "electric" shove: listening to words -
   making the ears hear -
              euclid and the second stage of
the woken pentagon -
                but 3rd comes memory,
        and this is where time enters the awakening
of the ranunculus alba (white tadpole) -
and society attacks this first,
drills people with abstract memory attacks -
    coupled with the ontology of memory being
that akin to natural selection: in that -
it's rather random...
                   we have nothing but
                 selective memorisation -
perhaps what we choose to memorise -
or having a natural knack for the ability
      to memorise, and become skilled workers -
whatever it might be...
    memory is the least of the three stated
cognitive functions automaton-based -
                  hence school... revision, revision...
the fact that it is the most lazy cognitive
faculty, is because it has an implosive demand
for existing: to erase itself...
          when imagination is like a vector,
i.e. from today (coordinates 0, 0) -
where do you see yourself in 5 years
                                  (coordinates 23, 70)?
and thinking really has to mediate these two
bothercome faculties, all the time,
while also dealing with its own selfish effort
to coincide with them...
                    narratives - at its own peril
     of hiding a degeneration process that comes
to some, but not all...
   but comes nonetheless, in one form
or another...
                            man was never to be blessed
with old age...
                       perhaps blessed with
a mortality and the hope of immortal craft -
but never, with old age;
i can't remember how many times
   i've listened to my grandfather tell the same
stories...
                 memory is a fickle *****...
i prefer that idea than the english version
of: life's a *****, and then you die...
               i prefer what i already
stated... memory is a fickle *****,
   imagination is sometimes like
       a dried out lake or a tug & pull game
with a camel...
   and thought is just one step away
from dreaming / a lazy ******* that waits
for someone with a name like alexander fleming.