horror movie tactic: or the abrupt / concentrated
                                                                              crescendo -
                              the shrill -
the chalk on the blackboard -
                                  all there, horror prime is
not the images,
                       but the music,
                                                  horror is defined by
music - the the lack of -
                           as are epics, with humanity being
inspired rather than ****** -
                and i dare say, i made my first collage worthy of
the aged Matisse: exhibit (a) a newspaper,
(b) a packet of cigarettes,
                       (c) a bottle of whiskey
and finally (d) heidegger's pondering(s) ii - vi;
i told you i was mad enough to buy a copy instead of:
when books are concerned, it's hard to imitate a
taste for designer ware, for a:
        my great grandfather invented / founded so and so...
how easily you can become elitist with books,
a bargain at £30 when usually $60...
                                        and, honestly?
i do feel less snobbish and more powerful,
                 i wield a variation of Egyptology's term:
precious artefact, something from the Third *****,
an intellectual output that doesn't bother Schindler
and the cinematography of the kamiński
red, amongst all the obvious bloodshed -
here's me, some years from the devastation,
feeling insecure about the need to call them Jews
(when they were primarily Poles) to anti,
  to anti justify when the two labels are considered
with variation on the pristine assumed nature of
Israel's policy -
                      sounds different when you consider them
Poles rather than Jews -
                           and here i ventured into the complexity
of thesaurus rex stomping ground the dictionary
keeps reverent - i'm not an Catholic escapist artist,
you won't find any argument to suit my awareness there -
          Jesus can have my writ of concerned antisemitism -
i already said that the tight-rope event by a Frenchman
was and will forever be more spectacular than
the crucifixion -
                                             he was a prophet born
without a conscious involvement in the three magi
and the star of Bethlehem -
                                       i don't believe he was born to be
recipient of a pristine banking on the matter:
         that all depends on how we behaved later,
evidently the Romans respected Jewish c.v.
none were handed down to Roman authorities to
build the coliseum - they were left pristine in their
Pharisee guises, and then the supposed "god" (level
it with the existentialists, the ditto means ~, approx.
or ambiguity, passed down, like a neared concern with
mythology) usurped the religious movements
the Roman respected and never employed the rites
of passage prescribed by Ramses and Nebuchadnezzar;
          or as i continually say:
you rather hear the word ****, or your face being
punched by my fist?
                                       why not, why not talk
***** and keep the *** acts pristine in accordance with
the rule of life? you think that not talking *****
will keep your ****** ******* haloed?
                   for the case of life: i rather talk *******
and **** with effectiveness than
                 put my tongue into a ****** and talk
pretty pretty, and **** like an imbecile...
                                      because i need to become a fuhrer
when she's doing her bit, and i'm doing her bit...
                i equate censoring peasant cordiality with
the things that destroys us: famines, earthquakes etc.,
   with the rise of ****** perversity -
to not talk oath words is as much as talking ******* pretty
and engaging with paedophilia -
                    or something quiet similar to it.
          **** me, talk *****, you don't even have to eat
shellfish: the grand scavengers of the depths -
                      better talk ***** than throw punches
or engage in unspeakable blasphemies;
so why are they trying to make you talk pretty
when you're bound to stuff that **** in your mouth?
you think that will resolve the matter,
thinking *** is ***** thereby enforcing a pristine way
to say hello; really?
              because that's where it's heading -
and it won't do much good when you say:
i can't say akin with the lark what the hell i want,
because another force is rummaging in the same area
saying: i can do what the hell i want, with or without
****** annoying lark singing me onomatopoeia(s)!
              sure, a mind that feels caged will flutter into
ambivalent freedom with the tongue,
       as will a tongue that feels caged flutter into
ambivalent freedom of the tongue:
enter?           a Rothschild -
         have you noticed how things have changed since
Descartes equated the dualism of thought and doubt
as the medium of being?
         apart from Heidegger, the finite increment posit
of what's the centimetres of a person's lifetime?
i think
                1 centimetre
                                        i doubt
                                                       1 centimetre
           precipitates into
                                                i am
                                                                 also, 1 centimetre,
existentialism took the i doubt from the equation
and replaced it with: i deny -
                                                and so called it bad faith...
denial is a subtler version of lying, or perhaps: a more
eloquent expression of it:
       god, i acknowledge the fact that the thesaurus is
an enemy of logic - i.e. close proximity synonyms and
                                      extensively divergent synonyms:
the first tool of rhetoric exposed,
i.e. say red ten times... sure!
      crimson, burgundy, wine, rust,
                      ruby, dahlia, geranium, maroon,
              scarlet, titian
                                               (nouns are primarily synonyms,
their existential purpose is to be synonyms,
   to compensate the existential flaw in Darwinism in
terms of the high tier of variant evolutionary consideration
        and investing in / creating a manageable vocabulary,
kindred of agricultural expertise / -ease, not as suggested
       aesthetic; tee off, a variant wording: games aside,
    but truly a word game, or golf; mankind has staged
the greatest war with its communicative system:
politics v. crosswords: two games - and none are enjoyable,
better leave the games to the symbols 0 - 9);
oh right, d'uh, back to the Rothschild "problem",
                you confront someone like that,
you won't hear a word of doubt, you'll hear the words
of denial... the point is: stunted emotional withdrawal -
just put the whole dynamic into a school playground,
                     people like that can't doubt their actions,
they can only deny them, which is why existentialism
exposed an very emotional variation of cogito ergo sum,
       the sentio ergo sum, or what one calls the Cartesian
extension: c.c.t.v. - like any viral infection: mass paranoia
stemming from a dichotomy rather than a duality
imbued by thinking and acting according to a balance.
the worded confrontation is a summary of a delayed reflex
of the staged confrontation, hence the need for the status of
"the shadow people", to deny and then exert force is
to deny and then to later manipulate certain factors into
an equation: bomb a place, **** anonymous "a", etc.,
             the fact is: it's algebra incorporated into language,
the general concern being about: the nonsense of
a Mr. Smith class system incorporated into all the brickwork
layers of the pyramid...
       sure, a Rothschild will feel vulnerable when question,
and he'll deny rather than doubt, and he'll think his
***** is 1 centimetre tall when ***** and is protruding from
his forehead... but that same person will react with
the "doubt" part of the equation:
                           he'll invest in an arm's deal that will
slaughter ten thousand Colombians over a kilogram
of *******... and he'll then doubt whether those ten thousand
Colombians had social security numbers or passports
or whatever it is they actually had...
                     courtesy?      sure: doubt they ever did anything,
keeps you thinking...
                        deny them the idiotic lie of proxy?
oh sure: they're into higher powers too! don't you know
that evil also works miracles?
                          there are proxy miracles,
are there are immediate miracles of: well, why not be
a saint for the day?
                                 my advice is:
doubt propels thinking, it's an instigator of thinking
  which some call: non-being...
                                but i consider thinking to be a variation
of being:
                                 as in: an aversion to watch a football match
and join a herd...
                       negation? the existential alter to coupling
thinking that's to translate into being?
      &

ok, so this is the upswell
of wheeling free without wheels--
you taste the unknown on the wind
and endless vigor vibrates in your bones.

sidewalks, dumpsters, fields for beds,
star-gaze drowsy thinkings, underfed

but overzealous of an openness we'd never seen, we'd never see again! the planet turning magical in unexpected
ways of wanderjest--
consummate rest of freedom undenied, joyful celebrants of every day!

the strangers sudden friends stop
to gather in the journey up 'til then--
tales of kindness or of danger
sharing in some facet part

integral, shining, random and forgot--
we each diverge in thanks
or so it's been with me
despite mass fear of ****** sprees
we help each other's spirit's free

some begin and end with sore feet soothed,
the destination moved;
others with a steath-pipe harshly clean:
ember throat-smack numbs the breath
and giddy paranoia settles in
as 'the white house' sailing by perverse
-ly urban planning plotted bums who smile missing ob
-ligatory chili dogs in crowded bl
-are full to frighten morning parking lot we pitched
our tent and woke to soaking feet and sleeping bags submerged in runoff corner-lake

another time we simply waited at a truck stop,
piles of the rigs just running ready there
and one for us, he said he'd bring us north,
and more, he told us of his brothels,
his debt-collecting days, the cokehead legs he shot
for honesty, he said, and sang us poems (he wrote)
of foreign women loved, some with pictures,
pickled eggs and cooler-hotdogs stale,
my first menthol cigarette: inhale and fall
into an understanding outlaws have
of skipping all the weigh-stations, of
friendship gleaned by chance, ephemerality
in strength of truth to last:
he took our picture on the exit ramp,
gave us hugs and left us waiting there,
more than just an ex-**** trucker,
hired gun for pushing coke, but a human
sentimental in a context undefined
like justice in the sense of kindness to rewind

the rain... a joyful merciless accord
of being in the storm of open-ended
waywards torn in being home and on the road
life untenable in farther reaches worn of ages never understood

but standing in a trailer whipped with highway gusts of water-gratitude
though slipping in the bouncing hay and horse manure fertileness
we joke eternal swinging backpacks soaked and knocking spin on balance play

meeting lovers simply known as such
for nights or only one, talking into dawn
at random campus dormroom sheltering
when sober, high, tempted into impulse act
afraid or pleasant easy unknown facts
just passing by she offered for the night
his first intoxicant beyond the ***
surrounded puffing passing groaning
in the rooms above below i'm listening
smirking at the undeserving joy i swallow in her eager kiss
to throb the floating line of destiny in endless acts of freedom's light

though a ride can be a head-ache too...
piled beer cans on the floor,
clanking with each swerving,
the driver even stopping for a ****,
thankful? to be riding, not walking,
but observing when we're there, the ground, this time, i bend to kiss

Sam was the most generous:
he brought me to his home, his father took me sailing, swimming with the family
serving food on lakehouse dock and later
reading with the kids, dinner bonding
then such sleeping    deep    peace
and in the morning, after breakfast
on my way with lunchbag tastes of kindness never lost

there are many more
tucked away in word-gifts, also
blueberries to pick along the roadside, more
than i'd ever seen or thought to see
cows to sleep by, horses randy for an audience to claim the pasture for

the offer is a type of gift you question to refuse,
not to lose your wits
some are quiet, kind,
most are liberal in ways they couldn't ever elsewhere be:
snapshot saints in momentary boons of spontaneity and love.
some cross lines.
so, grateful i'm ok, but never worried otherwise. i run the 'risk' it's called,
and run it still: i ask the random for assistance,
in upturned eyes discern the weather
as in ancient times the host and guest stood cultural across
in making kin of unnamed walking in,
gifting company for company along the way
trusting always in the limned choices traveled, with a existential grin

All observation is from a particular point, but
acknowledged subjectivity's better than naught.
Thus follows some comments on their qualitative nature.
Use them as you deem. In this piece everything is as it seems.

Caffeine is unappreciated enough,
Give credit to that stimulant for the things it does.
Coffee has little time to play, for there are errands
to attend to before the light fades.

The amphetamine will spin you until you're spun,
The cathinone will also try you with its luck.
The stimulant is a trickster [touch within]
and a magician never reveals their secret,
Even when seeking it befalls endlessness.

Me and E(cstasy) used to dance all night,
Closer to all your dreams was as far
from the light, we soaked ourselves
in emotionality and I soared high:
Perfection in the dark
rekindled my heart; 'cause
on pills you love everyone.

******* is always hungry but will never feed you
for it is naught but the scent of pure ego;
because on coke everyone loves you.

There is nothing to learn from an opioid or benzodiazepine
beyond the hedonistic stupor in-between awake and sleeping.
Similarly, cigarettes never taught me anything about myself
much like quick, ***** ***, that's nicotine and painkillers, in essence.

Alcohol is reliable for those sociable
but can hurt the body and scorn the emotional.
Drink toyed with me, then she abandoned me;
Despite that messiness I still reminisce occasionally.

Gamma-HydroxyButyric acid [GHB] requires utmost caution,
One must observe the proper conduct when
wading through such subtle intoxication.

Don't use ket too much, don't use angel dust.
If you want a supreme arylcyclohexylamine
seek out methoxetamine, use it responsibly.
Dissociation, end of line; no[thing is o]ne.

Always be considerate before transcending reality,
Reverence for psychedelics keeps them self-regulatory.
Of all the compounds they would humble and reveal to you;
Existential, being when tripping; every[is]one.

Cannabis I dared to use recreationally
for it often reminded us when one should act sensibly.
That deep conversing with trusted friends
is better than any substance I have ever had the nerve to test.

.english colonialism used to be passive-aggressive, english post-colonialism is a strange dynamic of former colonial nations playing the endgame of colonialism with non-affiliated nations of the british empire (affiliated by trade anyway, although not based upon origins of the ruling elite's extending arm), there's a hot topic in england between the irish and the polish, the irish are provoking the polish into racism so someone else can look smug with a pakistani friend on the london tube.

you know the amount of pain i see writing my father's
invoices of manual labour with the irish *****
apparently running
the show protecting northern
irish outputs of poetry and cigarette smuggling -
keeping us migrants "in check"?
god the loathing,
i try to improvise each invoice
with an excess knowledge
of the english tongue to break through,
but my sole considering comforter
is still death,
**** this *******, i rather die
than see my father's eyes eye me
hurtful hopeful of seeing my "bright new life"
when i was nearly murdered by
an egyptian school-friend / childhood friend
and later told: boy you better pretend you're
mad... boy my ***, your father is just
an x-ray technician... go back
to the northern africa of your
pretending to be a semite and build
another pyramid... *******, **** all of this,
days of casual pretentious squeaky clean
non-offensive poetry are over...
gentlemen - let's broaden our minds... swear a little
take up oaths with truth...
we were born to down a pint of concrete before
ireland was born, rushing out of pubs
when the call was made: concrete has arrived!
run, run run run! break legs and whatnot,
because in an irish pub talking to a homeless
person in akimbo giving him a cigarette
is cause for argument with an irish girl
trying to get, familiar;
unlike the sword, a stick has two ends...
you can smack someone with it,
but then someone can rebel and grasp the same
stick and smack you with it, for a suckling
taste of a kiss in memory of reprimanding manners.

- and i do remember the good stuff coming
out of h'america...
    i once owned a copy of blue valentine
by tom waits on c.d.: scratched that record
from over-playing it...
found a vinyl copy in the shop today...
splashed out a staggering £20 on it...
lucky for me the mp3 record comes free...
     £20 is a lot?
       well... better that £20 which played
in the background as i finished off decorating
the kitchen...
   rage 2 deluxe edition for ps4 -
      £44.99... so sure... i splashed out...
          thank god i'm not a gamer...
with games it's like with movies...
   notably? vikings season 1...
     i thought i could watch it a second time...
couldn't...
   a bit of a hit and miss...
    with games and movies...
      when the narrative gets exhausted...
and you're still honing in on the narrative
whether a passive spectstor or the role player
in the game...
but investing in an album?
       background background...
and an almost infinite array of the comeos
against the record...
   one cameo decorating a kitchen
another cameo finishing the day off with
some cider on a windowsill...
   but once upon: that's what h'america was
about... united we stand,
divided we fall... blah blah...
           and it looks like that right now...
the cultural export zenith peaked and it isn't
coming back...
   not for a while at least...
now we only look at not the united
         but the balkanized states of europe...
the states pulling at each other:
where once there was a cohesive collective
      export of pure cancan h'americana...
tom waits' blue valentine...
                          now i'll am getting
"culturally" is a bunch of vlogger content...
export of problems,
existential qualms without support on
existential pillars from continental thought
of 20th century europe...
   19th century doesn't count:
   not even nietzsche does: but kierkegaard
doesn't.

what are those lyrics from that vomito *****
song enemy of the state?
we shall send you, in ever increasing number:
ships, planes, tanks, guns: that is your purpose
and, our pledge... (1941 state of the union speech
sample)

most americans are not aware that soon
the primary export of our national economy
won't be cars, or food, or microwaves.
instead we'll be exporting death.
instead will be exporting death.

   perhaps, once upon a time...
now the export is quiet different,
   at its cultural zenith of exported values...
it would seem h'america choked on
a bitter pill... h'america no longer provides
the sort of culture worth exporting,
notably in cinema in music...
                               in literature...

the behemoth lost all of its juggernaut
momentum... and stumbled into rehashing old
ideas... it's not plagiarizm as such:
more a plagiarizm ex per se...

norman davies: god's playground -
   1795 to the present:

the Belweder is a palace in Warsaw...
(belvedere: a beautiful view)
constructed in 1660 -
  the White House in Washington D.C.
constructed in circa 1796...
by god, what a similarity!

   polish emigration to the u.s.a.:
in social terms their educational and communal
organizations are less effective than those of
the ukranians,
   in political terms their problems
command less notice than those of the blacks,
chicans or amerindians...
in the vicious world of the american ethnic jungle,
the 'stupid and ignorant Pole' is a standard
stereotype... once the noble lord...
reasons no doubt exist: like the irish and
the sicilians... the greatest influx came from
Galicia containing a large number of
the 'wretched refuse': people so oppressed
by poverty and near-starvation:
supressed linguistically, religiously...
the instinct of mere survival...
accepted the most degrading forms of employment...
exploitation: 'industrial *******'...
they were the gangers of the great american
railway age...
a canadian textbook can be cited
(j. s. wordsworth, strangers within our gates,
toronto 1972):
'it is hard to think of the people of this
nationality other than in that vague class of
undesirable citizens' -
   very much like to today:
   to think of canadians being a people
beloning to the making of mankind -
    without the canadian concept of mankind
being: peoplekind...
even woodrow wilson (then) prof. at prince-ton
deemed the Poles to be 'inferior'.

- but who was to ever to keep grudges...
grand torino - the movie, starring and directed
by clint eastie-boy-sparking-wood...
waldermar kowalski... dumb pollack...
why do poles no integrate within a community
bias as such?
                   the proverb:
if you want to succeed within a framework
of immigration: steer away from your
fellow countrymen...

                     almost all other cultures that
come, but the host's nitty-picky:
oh look at our asian labradors...
why can't you lick our ***** like they can?
etc. one example out of the many...
some people, i guess: prefer to be in
the background...
post-colonial powers need tokens...
akin to a sadiq khan:
papa was an immigrant bus-driver -
quick step up from daddy being a bus driver
to the position of mayor of london...
browny points!

the english are smug like this:
you hear even today -
WE WON'T BE SORRY FOR OUR
FATHER'S AND FOREFATHER'S SINS...
not for our colonial past...
they say that consciously -
but subconsciously they are scoring
brownie points...
        i can't say they're doing this
unconsciously: since if they were:
there would be a unanimous concensus
and no: "diversity is our strength"
agenda...

             besides... you can't exactly
conquer an island...
the norman conquest of 1066? it wasn't really
a conquest: for a conquest to actually take
place you'd require the native population
to be displaced / replaced by the invading
force - akin to the saxon invasion...
'don't touch, their, women...
we don't breed with these people...
what sort of people would you think
that would breed? weak people... half people'
(king Cerdic from the film king arthur 2004)...
proof being?
when the normans invaded and "conquered"...
they simply replaced the ruling saxon elite...
hence? the domesday book...
the ruling elites were being replaced
and the new ruling elites wanted to have
an account of who they were going to rule...
it was less a conquest and more:
a change of guard... since...
            the locals were first investigated
and subsequently left to their own devices...
there was no conquest:
               as such...
                but you can get on with your
day-to-day life on an island with natural
fortifications (the ******* sea)...
and produce your little whizz-kids down
the years...
   but imagine being squeezed by:
prussia... russia, the ottomans,
                  the mongols...
                             the swedes...
                and subsequently by the austro-hungarians...
matka królów (the mother of kings),
i.e.: Elisabeth von Habsburg...

   in conclusion... oh to hell with the whole
"incel" label... you have to pay for something
in the end... why not skip the *******'s worth
of pleasantries: the dating masquerade
and not get into the nitty-gritty with a *******
in one smooth stroke of a count worth an hour?
no hard-on shyness that way...
no ****-teasing...
whatever is an erectile dysfunction outside
of the brothel... doesn't seem to bother
whittle wichy while in a brothel...
so go figure...
                and relating to the stories of incels...
hmm... maybe it's the fickle women...
last time i checked...
i picked up a thai bisexual in a park,
a random stranger...
                took her home,
some beer, some jazz...
                  ****** her in the garden...
        i don't even think it's the case of
"i can't get laid" with these incels...
     english women: nuns on the outside...
latex gimp suited **** black boot licking
*** fiends in the bedroom...
   the madonna-***** complex...
the only aspect of Freud that resonates with me...

you know what, never mind...
      i'm just happy i collect vinyls...
free mp3 copy to boot...
and instead of spending 40+ quid on a game
that will become exhausted after one sitting /
completion (these are not arcade games,
nor are they the "free" new wave of games,
the ones where you play "superior"
opponents with a handicap -
since you didn't pay any in-game updates,
patience is a virtue,
   and someone people invest real money
into these games, but are still **** at them,
plus, these new wave games never really end...
i'll be dead and i won't be able to finish them,
added bonus? there's no NPC dimension
to them, added strategy: with a complete loss
of narrative / story-telling, genius!)
plus... how much does a vinyl player cost?
you can get one for under 70 quid...
sometimes vinyl bargains: under a tenner...
this one though, for 20 quid...
1 vinyl worth 20 quid once every two months?
oh yeah... i really splashed out on this one!

woman is a grand idea though...
    there is so much of woman i would be able
to love, if only the practicality of woman
wouldn't be associated...
alas: reality bites...
                       regrets...
                                  aged 33 and i feel as if...
i have managed a good enough sample
where both sexes can coexist within the confines
of me entertaining them:
as if they were to never meet and "preserve"
the "fate" of "humanity"...
      i'm pretty sure there are plenty of people
who have been bullied into this trap
associated with the otherwise "intelligent"
dodo mentality...
                          besides, i'm about to find out,
whether or not, they sell liter bottles of whiskey...
using my braille tally:

            ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
            1  2  3   4  5  (6)
             a  b  l   v  à  (é)

                        from what i drank yesterday
for that lullaby... i'm starting to supect that:
what they label as a liter... is actually more -

    if after ⠷⠻ ⠷⠻ (i.e. 50ml  20x) i'm not left
with an empty bottle... well then i'm not left
with an empty bottle.

Existential cruelty of a long abandoned Friday
Remembered once, twice
then forgotten by 8 pm.

The shots of Chiraq and memories of Hatshepsut linger effortlessly on his doorstep in the dark of sunlight,
but smiles in his lap disappear on the pavement beneath skyscrapers
before the dead of noon.

His mind travels to the curvy bodies of Monroe types.
A palm, a fist, a thumb
caress ******* and legs before he wakes
to find hair on his pillow and lips in his face
where only days before a yellow sky and bright green eyes waved and faded.

And all because interracial pride and prejudice leaked toils and tensions in the face of Basquiat
Where once African princes and white German queens
spent Tuesday afternoons charming their ways into each others' beds
and sighing at the disgust stamped on the faces of strangers.

i.*
She's beautiful. She's an angel. She's everything we asked for.* I cried for the hopes and dreams of a future that was never mine. I didn't know any better, so I kept crying.

xiv.
You can't run around like before anymore. Don't get your knees *****. Elbows off the table. Grow up. I brushed my hands of the dirt and picked myself up, because ladies weren't supposed to pick earthworms out of the grass. I picked up eyeliner instead.

xvi.
I'm trusting you. Don't get into trouble. Don't do anything dumb. There's something satisfying about hearing the roar of an engine at the start of a July evening. With the wind in your hair, freedom at your finger tips, I could have done anything. But I shut off the car and went inside.

xviii.
You're grown up now. You're an adult. You can't afford to make stupid mistakes anymore.  I was composed of keg stands, one night stands, roommates, 2am Taco Bell runs, first dates, caffeine, prayers, tears, insecurities, heart to heart talks, "just try it, it's fun, I swear", friends that turn into bridesmaids, broken promises and broken hearts. I can still hear the train's whistle.

xxi.
I told you not to do anything dumb. I told you not to make stupid mistakes. I don't know what to tell you anymore. Here's a standing ovation to being immortal; hats off to the teary drunken nights and the existential crises. These are the days that we'll look back and wish we never wasted and I'll wonder why I let you wipe your muddy shoes on me.

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance.
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique.
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion.
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression.
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms.
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all.
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural.
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate.
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success.
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race.
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’.
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for.
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism.
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism.
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights.
This is mandate.
The republic for which we stand.
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us.

love-energy swinging toward bitter blows:
a father’s pride becomes a son’s,
he becoming bitter becoming hatred
in the midst of love abused,
a civil fight for freedom failing in the eyes of youth:
these minds of ours turn wildly—
change to the beat of unknown drums
and death knocks us up
pregnant with a new generation of hate,
of goals to love: the obliteration of hate’s mother,
but question on, worship your mind,
build a shrine of doubt and find
darkness emerging as a deeper shade of black
knowledge? knowledge?
myths laid upon us through the perspectival dimming of language
no one’s fault? societal pressures
no cause for blame? survival instincts
no source of evil? history has a gun to their head. . . .
no use for these words? meaningless.
dialogue, yes, for the birds,
the carrion of hope
once the breeding stops
and lets the precious journey start:
down the cesspool of quasi-oblivion,
where we’re all a minority of one,
grasping for meaning in an abyssm of phantasmal foundations.
words, words, the excuse of words;
when father’s left no ground to walk on,
the son sits there digging
ditches for the death of systems
holes in the fabric mother wore,
tears in the existence we thought we knew.

what is this about? question marks
swerving away from sour truth
bleeds the nonsense through the flesh of what we love
and dying, dying, hate becomes a source of love,
guilt projects a softened heart
kneeling down now
outside, but wanting in.
affirmed, dejected.

[OR
are they swerving away from faith
simply a defense against the actions to take
ontic procratstinator! hear me now!
safety is the goal behind every measure
seek danger and you run the dangers of comfort,
seek comfort, and delusion becomes your handmaid.]

for knowledge of past dogma is dogma too
and the heart pumps it anyway;
for existence is. O heart, your sutra
flows nimbly on into eternity,
but you take this life and live it now,
the rhythm born of a mystery,
sacred to the foolish,
sarkin to the wise—
and the dancing wise man
birthing a new enigma
travels on into the depths of the ordinary
with a smile and a bow,
a hop-skip like Nietzschean
melodrama.

I can write it once for fun,
twice for accuracy,
thrice for fame and ten more for shame.
Do you want to know what it’s about
or do you want to figure it out?
the game of pride makes fresh
the fish of mental seas;
but truth is less cozy;
dagger in your existential eye.

no conclusions to be embraced without the whim of faith?
no art show game gripe to win but for the game of taste?

this bout goes on, this Bout goes on! oh how I wish my mind was lacking!
but no! the sacrifice, but the sacrifice,
pigs of Aristotle knew no quarrell,
no such quarrell.

when does such a poem become a forced effort?  when will I stop questioning myself?
where is this urge to destroy originate?
what ******* language am I speaking in when I think?
what and why,
who the but questions, questions
falling spiking holes in teh floor of contentment
or is it laziness: should I tak emy e pick now or wa itf ort he rig htto **** newith mystic alllllllllllll certainty from be yo ndt he fen ceof lan gua ge.

why go back? why try?
the difference between communication and self-indulgent writing is the effort to conform to the extent necessary for the sharingof truth... and so nobility demands conformity, however long it takes and however wonderful it may be in the mean time to simply spill my fingers across the trypesu ritre lia shjkk e a A b B i IG load o f ***... as if the hiddenness of deconstucted language masked my immaturity as a poet, as a person, as a thinker, as a wallower in shame.  as a Man. as a *** machine. as a weak creature. as a creature of potentially great accomplishments but small ***** at the present, as a person hiding from the said for fear of having to live up to it, as one who doesn’t believe his words half the time, even noe, ever noer rht all suiooos  dhjhjh tuof rhty w arbif trya dfyoudng huddkkfkd fmdmf dfdlililhkjga wyeruipok smmm tuhtuth dgfhg dagdh f dhajkdf  fuduudjjd fh d hdhhd bit b not n tno totot t ototot  read read read read read read read read read reda dnrenadkf leadsd fhdus duig hgjhdf dh sdmf sialdihf duf dreioan ign udfin the dh diguicse of hjtkjh heioa never heros heilike hte  e9a 1 1 ih kj n h ogma doifj hedOLvever otitoto the  ososososririrroow ww dance waiting at the librasyer renckjh c concon con iejr a  goodo excucse to t constraint no nt rot th even dfhight hwith th d dear on the all ndklfn eh fh searching thioart worthless buthen I find htheihadf htis hivoih Valid dfkdljhf jhkajh yea it s i kjh Lavlls ishn Vadildld meaning ngon woven into nonesense nd fnidoijifj bJar in Tennessiossdnohf  a freww few deletes and the important words become clear however taxing on an hypothetical reader from the future in which I do hope to become g”reat” half-heartily,  though for show.  .  .and the experience of writing is revealed through the laziness, or tiredness, of a recent graduate trying to write something meaningful after a summer of passion and *** and drugs and resentment toward the family and the sad economic advice given him.

I used to view existential
as a meaningless concept
rendered complex when used
in sentences by the pretentious
until I came to realize that it’s
simply nothing but the shadow
of a black dog sitting on a dock
by an old man holding a rusty
old revolver to his head on dark
nights of deep water thinking
man, what a waste of a good
bullet if you pull it, so throw it
in and let me fetch it once again
just like the last time, and the time
before that, or like every time you
have a notion that the ocean is blue
only for you and your sorrow, dude
let it go and let’s go home before
tomorrow comes, for your shadow
is aware and cares for your existence.

never in the circulated, supposedly civilised world, a mother so abhorred, or a father so abandoned; people ought to rekindle a shame in being "children", given they're so "motherless" & so "fatherless"... seems a shame to just leave the children without being scolded, as children without being scolded remain: children, and never mature into being the mothers for the motherless, or the fathers to surrogates.

talk to y'oh mamma,
talk to y'oh mamma,
talk to y'oh mamma...
go on, sweet talk her into kentucky...
fwy er a chee-kin...
******...
         goon on!
talk yer mamma daffodil pweety!
go on ******, talk
yer mamma daffodil pweety!
no talk mamma pweety?
neine hooney: beensprout!
   sorrows of: find your other
honey-bon lass!
     ha ha... i took to reimagining
jean-paul sartre in an english
society; didn't get far...
lived with his mother,
me? i revised the female
complex by going to a *******:
**** me, what a thrill!
  i cook my mother food, i clean
the house, even though she lies
about the extremes of having
had hernia treatment,
i had mine, as a toddler...
so... who's sherlock?
  me, or her?
       i solve the puzzle unconsciously,
she "solves" it with a
"moral" compass...
     women... woes to the man
who doesn't deliberate having a tear
to shed this opposite of concerns
being manifest,
with a month, akin to the name
like october...
    i just can't imagine the
twin concern of made effort...
i can't imagine it...
  no, you can't equate
the effort of ensuring
9 months made = with 90 years...
sorry, you can't,
this can't be the nodding existential
relativism,
9 months = 90 years...
nope, convince me a second time..
convince me a third time,
a fourth time, a fifth, a sixth...
convince me all you want:
you will still be unable to convince me!
why?
existential reductionism doesn't
end with the cartesian thought,
existential relativism does though,
existential reductionism begins with
a revisionism of cartesian ticking
of the clock..
       i have finally found
a grander complexity to counter
darwinistic reductionism....
      namely cartesian pre-existential
reductionism:
a thought, without a geometric "bias",
thus cited: no point
of origins;
we all know that glasgow is birmingham,
as we know edinburgh is london.
hard, speaking to your ***** test-e,
when it's not your mother,
harder then to speak to your mother,
seeing your ***** canvas so
rebellious... and hardly the culminating
sort;
english is already a language
*****-slapped-ugly...
   i really can't make it more
uglier, than it already is,
given the *reesh and the picts:
or the charlie-charlies, i.e. the woolsh.

Words. Work.
Getting old. ***** shirt.  
Exhaustion remains after washing away stains from dirt.  
Lower back hurts,
..but this mindstate is not where I'll stay.  
Meaningless pay spending my hours when I just want to create and play.  
Heavy body, cat nap after embers hit the ashtray.  Astral stray.  
The most nutritious are sometimes the first to decay.  
Get up just to lay.  
Easy to see darkness when there's no heart in the frame..  

So I'll adjust how I see, and remember to breathe,
because all of life comes to us with ease.  
Gonna physically release just to come back and share my dream
Yes yes, nothing less.  
Do what you love
is all I can confess.  
Limited time, I see that we're blessed
Hope to make the most of mine,
before in peace we rest

Death sentence. Moral Repentance.
In the age of remembrance blinded by pyrotechnics.  
Embody the calisthenics and honor further than aesthetics.  
Depths beyond measurement kissing anti-venom lips.  
Tethered to the weather within our steady blissful trips.  
The clock can tick all it wants but the hands are losing their grip.  Proving nothing to be more beautiful than this present-tense eclipse
Intuition is our intangible compass
Creating a compassionate instance that can't be diminished
I am hear forever to play with the trinkets and parade those that listen
Love is all encompassing, not just a mission
Thoughts come to fruition
Extending what you envision
The Synapse fires like a piston
What you've done indicates your current position.  
Think now my friend.
 You are the sun shining at the podium speaking at the perceived end.  
You are the sum dictating everything yet to come.  
Thank you for praising the vibration connected to one.  
Take a deep breath, smile, and have fun.  
This strong web we've achieved can never be unspun.
Reflect your true self and know we've only just begun~

Check back soon to resume and consume
every tight-lipped, slack-jawed fool in the room.

See, it's all what you know
as the fires start to grow
and the future burns slow.

Keep your eyes on the ceiling,
and your antenna feelers feelin',
for when your senses stop reeling,
you will finally start believing.

Kick-back to the basics,
not too far from the basement,
and close enough to show
that **** really isn't basic.

It's another mid-west, ******,
******-up freak show.
Another evening drinking whiskey
with the seedling's peep-show.

So, it's time to relax and relapse
into acidified broken synapse.

The lights keep flickering
and the couples keep bickering:
“*****, I am not above homicidal snickering.”

I steer clear of these diversions,
and wander past the sermons,
just to chew up all the crooked talk
and spittle out inversions.

I shovel mockery to hypocrisy,
pin-***** the empty *****
whose passions lack predicates,

and in the background, I'll be complexifying my medic-kit:
ketamine, morphine, ecstasy;
marijuana, mushrooms, LSD.

Watch those ******* jitter-bug college *****
procreate while sloppy drunk,
but keep an honest eye
on the flies that will rise above –

then fall back down in existential angst, like:
“Dear God, why must I be free?
Oh, God! Why is every universal eye on me?
I'm just another acid war veteran,
sneakin' through these gutters
with pestilence and bitter sin.
When they reach the promised land
of golden clouds and holding hands,
I'll be underground with the slugs and the spider band.”

Yet here I sit, sick of sippin' poisons with illiterates.
So, let the skies fall and the buildings crash,
as you stand on the wall with a fist full of cash.

I'll be on the front lawn,
picketing for dawn,
while the night around me slowly ambles on.

and looked into the mirror that the Isness of the Universe held before me.
Seeing nothing but the Isness of the Universes indifference
and glee at the ongoing 26 armed conflicts
it has initiated worldwide.
Seeing it possessing all the vanity and all the narcissism
worthy of a "god" or "goddess"or any "religious" leader. .
I am, as are all others,the individual Isness,
which is a small but equal,
individual autonomous and independent part,
of  the essence of the Isness of the Universe.
I am incarnated in this,the latest in a long lineage of bodies
dating back beyond numbers or clocks.
I am incarnated here to realise my true nature as an individual Isness.
Seeing naught but the Isness of the Universes perversity and destructiveness
manifest all around me,
in the various civilisations that have come and gone
and still remain ever warring and corrupt.
It is a hard thing to acknowledge that one is a part of the Isness of the Universe
when you are a separated part of it,
but truthfulness wins over "truth" any day for me.

Truthfulness is the only way to preserve my most precious possession which is my individual integrity.
I looked and saw corruption and shed just the one tear and  
shook my head slowly and sadly.
And I stood up and walked away ******* myself with hollow laughter
at how impotent and nackered the Isness of the Universe has become,
since it created the universe out of its own beingness.
All of us individual,one to each body,each a part of its very beingness.
I,this particular individual Isness, was there at the beginning,as were all others,
living the pure truthfulness of existence--as all individual Isness were.
In Union with the Isness of the Universe--not separated by bodies
Minds and GroupMinds and Conditioned Identities
and Group Conditioned Identities.
The Isness of the Universe acted biggy bangy turning its self into the Universe.
Then came the transition from less than nothingness
into existential beingness in a succession of bodies.
I separated from the Isness of the Universe and took the first of many bodies,
foolishly believing the things we had agreed on before selbst manifestatie would come to pass.
Naively believing that the Isness of the Universe's word would be honoured.
Fool that I was.
How untrustworthy and sly the Isness of the Universe has become,
hiding behind "religions" and the masks of many "gods" and "goddesses".
Using its many surrogate and shallow identities,
to manipulate and mislead my gullible fellow individual Isnesses
into the slaughter of War on an industrial scale.
Lauding the death of decency and honour and integrity
and non-violence and equality and unconditional love.
How vain and shallow the Isness of the Universe has become,vainly
demanding worship and praise and the blood of innocents
as if this petty narcissism is the raspberry sauce
on its cosmic Ice cream cone,to be licked avidly,
gore running down its chin.
How untruthful and evasive the Isness of the Universe has become,
a role model for death and war and criminality
and sexism and lies and untrustworthiness.
Who will help me talk sense into our progenitor
before it destroys life altogether?.
Is there any one out there who can stand with us
and talk back to our erring and errant beingness?.
Where are the real women and men,not the "seekers" with their endless narcissism and gullibility?.
Hiding behind stolen verses and concepts
taken from a million pornographic philosopies.
And please no prancing posturing chattering "poets" with
their fancy stanzas about love and destiny and
eternal bliss.
Oh and their "sincerity".
You against the world!.
more like you against those who would stop
you ******* the very life energy out of humanity.
Oh Cowards.
Are there no other Men and Women of Integrity alive?

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

i’ve planned out my whole funeral.
which probably makes it sound like i’m a lot more interested  
in dying than i actually am
but i just--
i think my problem is that i was never the type of person to plan ahead.
i never have imagined my college life,
or my future career, or how many kids i might i have.
i’m one of the only people i know
that has never tried to picture their own wedding.
my mom says that’s a good thing,
keeps me away from unhealthy expectations
but she’s my mom
and it’s like how your mom always tells you that you’re pretty
because what the **** kind of mother
doesn’t correct their kid’s self-loathing or at least try to?
my mom, she’s pretty used to me lying on my kitchen floor
in the throes of an existential crisis
because existential crisis is sort of my nom de plume
and before anything else,
i am afraid to be someone disappointed by my own dreams.
but i think because i never tried my hand at planning
i have no idea where i’m supposed to be in my future,
i have no idea what i want.

see the thing is,
i’m afraid i’ve never really fit in comfortably anywhere in,
i’m just really good at pretending i do.
if i wanted to swan dive into my psyche a little bit more,
i’d chalk it up to all my biracial bicultural biwhatever *******:
that feeling that i’m two things at the same time
and i don’t know where i fit.
in simple terms:
i’m too white for the latino kids
and not white enough for the white kids.
in complicated terms:
i’ve got close family about 4000 miles away
and i feel really ******* guilty for not loving them
as much as my family in the next state over,
and i resent them for not getting who i am
like my family 4000 miles away does.

i don’t think i know anyone who worries quite like i do.
see i’m not unhappy, really,
but maybe i’m the saddest happy person i know.
i try not to think about it too much,
but my brother tells me it’s because i think too much;
he’s one of those people who is frustratingly self-assured
even when he’s not.
i told him to play highway to hell at my funeral half as a joke
but mostly because i can’t even stand to imagine
the thought of outliving him.
we’re the weird kind of siblings who adore each other senselessly.
identical, two halves of a whole,
we are the same person a so many ways.
he’s the reason i exist in a completely unpoetic way --
he wanted a little sibling so much
that i joke that he begged me into existence.
he is the only person who’s ever laughed at the right parts of my jokes.
he tells me to stop worrying about tomorrow like he already has.
i think this is our key difference.

i like stories because i like escapism,
i think poetry is the only time i’m really… myself.
it is what it is and it isn’t what it isn’t,
and i loved harry potter because i wanted to be magic
and i loved star wars because i wanted to be a galaxy far, far away.
and i love how i met your mother
because everyone loves lily and marshall, right?
and everyone wants that, right?
to love someone that much,
to be so ******* sure about somebody
even when everything else is ****.
i’m just afraid that i’m never going to get that.
which is cliche but all cliches had to start somewhere
and i think people actually hate cliches
more because of the fact they’re so inescapable true
rather than the fact that they’re corny.
i’m mad at the TV for selling my a dream i’m not sure i get to have
and i’m mad at life for not imitating art well enough
and i’m mad at life for imitating art too well
and i’m ******* ****** at whoever told me that
i could be whatever i wanted when i grow up
because they were ******* lying.

so i tell you that at my funeral
i want everyone to get really ******* drunk.
and you tell me that jesus christ, daniela,
most people don’t spend their free time
thinking about their own funeral.
and it’s a matter of perspective, i guess.
some people never see the meteor coming
and some people can never tear their eyes away.
death is always walking towards me, the bus is always coming,
it’s just that sometimes it sort of speeds up
and everything else slows down.
so at my funeral, i want there to be an open bar
and i want to have someone collecting
other people’s stories about me at the door as admission.
i am not obsessed with my legacy,
just my end result.
i have never known where i’m going to end up
but i’ve always been willing to find out.

and at my funeral i want everyone to dance.
sloppy and uncoordinated.
i don’t want my funeral to be sad.
i can’t think of anything
less fitting.

(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th

i don't know why i found redemption in the tetragrammaton, sure, my mother cared for two elderly jewish ladies, one escaped the Holocaust (surname Roßhandler) and the other of established English rooting (surname Rockman... thanks to her, upon completing my g.c.s.e. exams i got a complete collection of Bernard Shaw's plays) - but i find it there, ping-pong salvation every time, translating it akin to arithmetic: 1 + 1 = 2 is very much akin to Y              H            W          H, which i started calling the perfect chirality - chiral meaning non-superimposable:
                                       A                      &                  E, i too ventured to call the double H dualism a déjà vu - but i know see them as vantage points, more electrons and quantum physics than protons and neutrons - well, it ****** well fits the schematic: sine (M) and cosine (W) - sure, crude, but i'm not looking at the geometry of the mouth... language on the base of pure optics... and no, not necessarily adjective noun compounds for emphasis to argue a point, just easily an easily accessed point of reference...     so quantum physics calls it the non-independent ontology of electrons: a. particles (Y, centre 0 on the x, y, z graphs - apart from the heliocentric and the geocentric models, here's another one of similar causality)... and b. waves (W, the formerly stated trigonometry suggestion) - and hence the two vantage points bound to H... apart from Adam and Eve lodged in between... which suggests that the geocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like waves... while the heliocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like particles: microcosm Copernicus blah blah; well, more like pseudo-Aristarchus of Samos.

20th century literature is, quiet literally
something akin to the cave paintings at
Lascaux - big brother isn't watching -
nor is the publishing old guard -
i just find it unreal that so much rests upon
the internet these days, the people have no
idea what power has been granted them,
they petty the use of the internet with
their earthly squabbles of a marketplace,
while, running parallel: the lost infatuation
with democracy as necessary organisation -
turns out it's unnecessary organisation:
because we ain't go anything better -
hence political disillusionment - rampant in
what western society deems the pinnacle
and the Libra of a fine balancing act -
religiously? that famous: "mystery of lawlessness"?
that's the internet - imagine a time when you
could bypass some publisher, some adherent
to a state doctrine, when you could turn poetry
into physics, not the waffle of metaphysical Keats
waiting for a kettle to turn into a volcano
or a whistling horse, but to turn the dial to
point at the reality of things:
quantum physics (derived from quanta,
a variation of datum: particularity of input
energy) gave poets breathing space,
metaphysics became shadowy, Hades like
learning, obscure and all the more necessary
to build-up its strength while puritan physicists
lost their sway of power with the fears of
the atom bomb and all things quantum -
so while the physicists became dazzled with
all things quantum, the metaphysics took off...
entombed in an apathetic (without pathos)
subjectivity: a calm heart, much more than an
embracing heart - yes, i am aware that i have my
wacko moments of feeling, but this ticker is
made of stone - and that usually means a chaotic
thinking process, spontaneity being the key
in involving yourself with real-life narratives
then never suppose a character study: what you see,
is what you get: my sanity plateau?
talk about music rather than make poetry musical,
it's a pale shade of red or blue when you
have guitars and orchestras and the poet,
a voice in the wilderness - nothing but pins dropping
to exemplify the talk... i don't understand
the need for poetry being a kindred of musicology,
i don't understand rhyme, i don't understand
being conscious of poetic prescriptions of technique
very much akin to language's artefact minded
grammar: noun
                                v. poetry's pun
grammar's verb
                                       poetry's metaphor... etc.
my deviation? being an adherent toward music,
and returning poetry back to its true purpose:
puritan narrations - not conscious of what's
expected, or what defines the art,
very much the beginning of cubism and later
innovations in art, i just can't stand rhyming poetry -
it's too conscious of itself by what it's defined by,
we have learned of a new subjectivity:
the unconscious - we might as well exploit it
while objectivity gets crushed into bewilderment
by quantum physics -
thus said: i feel like i'm a dervish spinning
counter-clockwise in a chaos of tornadoes spinning
clockwise while listening to two songs:
tool's *right in two - and muse's stockholm syndrome:
i can't be bothered translating the feelings
entombed in these two songs with a rhyme...
poetry should be less stuffy than it already is...
it should be a statement of the supreme effort: freedom.
all of this? spurred on by rereading passages from
Jung's gegenwart und zukunft (1957), alter:
          the undiscovered self (1958) -
it's seemingly odd (but not too odd) that books
written by psychiatrists are more popular than
philosophy books in the anglophile culture -
as already stated, i can't read philosophy in english -
maybe this is why psychiatric literature is so easily
accessible in this tongue, what with the self-help
movement, it the grandest prescription that no pill
(unless it's a sleeping pill) can be prescribed -
i'd say, if you want to read philosophy in english,
i'd start off by reading a book from psychiatry -
Jung is by far more adaptable than Freud
(Freud's for the rich people who have ***
written on their foreheads in permanent ink -
        and: daddy didn't care, mama was
                                     struggling feminist who
     forgot to breastfeed me) -
       but of course the 1960s Scottish superstar
(who drank, rightly so) from Glasgow: Laing.
well, sure, the Hungarian Szasz (shash, not sas,
or zaz... shish kebab... it ain't the difficult) -
impromptu deviation: what's funny about Heidegger?
he says: you need to study Aristotle for 15 years
to get him... and that's very much true for him also...
two years... TWO YEARS it took me to read his book.
that's what's interesting about this book,
a literary anorexic, in at 79 grams (pages) -
the interesting point? in physics, there are things
that are not independent of observation -
i like that conundrum, the mere idea of it is titillating -
running joke for the past two years: ***** ***** tat for tat
months later -
                          well... i'm not the one trying to
dress you up in a straitjacket with a label: this is poetry...
can't see **** for miles with how i write.
so there's a purpose, some things are depending on
being observed - which is a good thing, which means
that this world could not be independently sustainable -
its dependency on existing lies akin to our
desire to be independent of it - so all the religious
blah blah means something - even after 3 years
of rigorous studies in chemistry i come back into
humanism with a furore of agitating religious paraphernalia -
mind you, i do have a scientific approach toward
language - grammar and algebra combined -
meaning? certain words have become post-grammatical,
i.e. algebraic - not categorised as nouns or otherwise,
but as algebraic signatures: primarily because no one
really knows what to do with them, apart from
church yoga, standardised: e.g. x = god,
            i = y                  and the                  world = z,
predictably transcending the casual use of language
when shopping for cheese in a Parisian grocery store...
err... je ma'pel gorgon, avoir vous fromage?
nope, took to English too much - i was learning French
in primary school, but i had an existential crisis
aged 9 or 10... my brain refused to learn another language
after having just learned one from scratch -
                               the mute in class soon turned into
an avaricious reader... so parallel to my life, i now hear
stories about children being diagnosed with depression...
try being thrown into the deep-end of the pool
with your former development using a language
automatically, into having to learn the language without
no major influence of a teaching authority...
                                  no wonder the accent game
   sort of imploded and i started speaking sometimes tosh,
sometimes posh, and sometimes east London oh'rite?
                             ale casem tes jak rolnik -
                            owszem, czasem jak mieszczanin też.

A body cradled in a nightly cocoon of blankets and self-loathing.

A contact list full of numbers in which calls go straight to voicemail.

An explosive cocktail of one part perfection and three parts depression, with an overdose of cheap coffee.

A personality of anti-anxiety pills and choked down insanity, with a side order of slit wrists.

An A+ on your history test, smudged with tears and smuggled *****.

A sleeping tablet.

A mind like a room with the blinds down for weeks, a smile like a gunshot in the darkness.

A broken tape recorder of one missed calls, of slammed doors, of smeared lipstick in front of a mirror sparking with tears.

A cigarette for every sin, a dollar for every broken dream.

A full wallet.

A brain like a twisted forest path, a sketchbook full of scratched pencil marks, a screaming teacher at the end of every class.

A daughter of the human manifestations of nine-to-five jobs with a pension scheme and insurance.

A carefully maintained vocabulary of whiplash sarcasm and blank stares.

A graduating member from a class of 'Congratulations on Getting the **** Over Yourself.'

*A bullet.

a man privately asks, can you help?
you say, sure-no-hesitation

let me think on it for a day or two, he says
yet you act even before he comes back,
too late, you say, when he returns,
too late, he repeats in puzzlement,
yup, my check is in the mail,
cause one senses the need is dire plus,
plus you well recall the immutable obligation when  
a vague commitment of “just ask” was inked in a long ago message,
a poem born from/in the days when you slept in the car on the street

this vague promissory,
a more enforceable judgement in your own court of law
than any state construct or the judgmental eyes of a silenced god

word, honor, do.

thus it begins, an unwritten contract inked,
an egregious interest rate of 0% proffered and agreed,
commences a plain white envelope trickle,
a check inside, by postal mail, slowly it came,
month by month, inch by inch, Niagara Falls ^

years go by, and then comes a day,
when the accompanying check and its gift wrapped note says,
Paid In Full!

and so much for the tedious minutiae...

like kindness, I do,
Thank You and Your Welcome
are high on my list of proofs of
daily human extensions existential,
Paid in Full,
now rests at the top of the list

let me be blunt, the thrill of being a party
to a deal with no handshake, just coated in the
honorable words waterproof sealant,
with a person I likely may never meet,
made me so better assured of whom many claim I am,  
a mathematical proof revered and kept mind inscribed,
it was an aspirational ****, an unforeseen monthly blunt,
the best feeling good smile,
a kick in the pants about what really matters

being paid twice over and me,
getting by far,
the humanity confirmation,
the better half of the deal

write too often of honor,
and yet, will instinctual do again,
again overpowering my rays of will,
for there is no deflection, only reflection

for the glorious riches gifted and received,
without compare
the return on my honorable investment the best ever

oh brotherhood, oh brotherhood,
I am paid in the currency coined from brotherhood...

he could play a frakkin' minuet
with his hands, this dude,
with perfect pitch and key --
and birdcalls of a timeless cult.
he'd hangglided in volcano rainbows,
had meathook *** from rafters.
reciting Shakespeare, conjured instant goosebumps, tears --
towering heartwise, intellect vast
whatever roles he played at night to model for our soul
we ripped the roof from off my fathers house, sublime,
wearing attic soot in all our pores,
asbestos grin contracting into mycophile hopes
flirting with the passing birds
in leaves and pizza parlors,
tanned and buff, shingle tar on shoulders, nails,
iron hard for her and her and her
the beating sun-breath coughing under mask
each tack an instant echo for the breeze
to take direction from a symbol core
no symbol ever truly held..
refreshing airs to bleed away the vanity,
yet halfway on the ladder there
an interrupting brag, my father's fascia beams
report card scores as if a better world they made
in money pitted recess taxing hidden filth- -
thank you,
Bach, to break up pride with existential high
new melodic rain to cover over thousands lost to sell,
settle dust,
handwind bard, aesthete
innovate human
you turn me on with tales of your amazing wife
bareshirt in your unfinished house, lusting eaves,
backyard grasshoppers on the counter,
****** as insect brains can be
to tilt their eyes with me at unreal fullness spectra-circle on a cloud
not possible the wholeness found
in wish fulfilling living roofs
of ecosystem awe and sunlamp bottles
here, and here,
under moss on backwoods skillion
or trussed on tree spread wide, open-hipped for skylove --
contentednesses missed the meaning now
of mother-art to birth anew the endless homes,
ecosophy's abundant cheer
laughter even in the nooks of dying nails
extemporaneous arcology of barefoot
ridgetop feardance raked in soffit shift
from gray to green
invulnerable vigor gained and gone
and grown again
from marginalia to universal veil
'happy evermore' no matter this or that
a swimming hole of naked sayings streamed,
inner wash of salt and sweat, an afterthought deluge
to challenge dormer crease-dive of a dogma drain
structured, learned pillage ivory still
though greensulated soon








.

the question remains a question
A paradox, an enigma.
Despair embodied with human curves
That arouses my deepest and most concealed fears
Like the heightened sensualities of a pilgrim
Or the hunger of a pagan god.
Once again, where is Mecca? or Jerusalem?
Perhaps Eden is in a box?
Or within the ****** of a battered woman
How about Atlantis?
Is it like me? Between 4 walls?
After all, we are left to confess and write
Our darkest secrets, our most inhumane crimes in a wall
In blood or in phlegm, or perhaps *****,
Is just a matter of preferences.
Sartre is on the phone,
Looking for someone who’s never home
Whether he knows or not we’ll never know
But my finger touches his dance partner.
Dance away like numbers
Minus the precision or the count
Learning tango simply costs too much
and like Sartre, I'm poor, or maybe less
So he went on dancing like that,
With no measure nor count
Free like a *******, like me
Nervous yet spontaneous.
Another silence,
But unlike before it’s even more silent
Making it even more unspeakable, undesirable
And now it demands the impossible;
To be called by its name, by its urgency!
But the words, those little empty words
Withers away like leaves or skin kissed by fire
So we are left away with no device
To break the silence or to speak out its name
The trigger, the unmoving dance partner
Went down to its cold alloyed knees;
Proposing marriage with my finger
She knows the answer,
A way to speak the unspeakable name
Loud and clear, with a bang
That everyone will surely hear.
Or do we already know that?

If one had a desire to define the word god where would he begin?  Why would he assign the traits he did to the word?  Would he want to assimilate traits that he perceived to be godlike?   Would he obtain a clearer vision in a realization of the futility of aspiration, or would pragmatism and adamant tenaciousness afford him a better route?  Perhaps we all could benefit by a reassessment of our affinity with god.
  
The metaphysical extremities of human nature provide man with a multifaceted image of the possible psychic states of God. Objectivity has led man away from the true nature of his need many times at this point.  Any retrospective analysis of man’s personifications of deity most often leaves one lost in the quandaries of the psychic quagmire.  The weaknesses created by man’s lack of a universally acceptable id conclusion have elevated many philosophical or theocratic hypotheses to the level of demagoguery.

One method which has been used by theologians in attempting to induct a summerial derivation from the vast warehouse of human religious extrapolation is the concept that perhaps basic truths can be affirmed through the theory of sufficient constancy of conjunction. Which is to say that reasonably analogous conjectures can be found in the depths of religious pervasion.  But this is not strictly true.
  
The ancient Babylonians, like the Indians, were polytheistic. They worshiped gods of nature, tribal union, fertility.  Deifications created from allusion to natural analogies, yet often imbued with a euphemistic optimism.  Where as the pantheon of Grecian deities often seems an almost banal personification of psychological metaphors from the darker side of life.  Zeus a fallibly omnipotent being who pompously subverts all beneath him to his will.  Who along with Apollo and others roam the countryside ****** and adulterating the women of their choice.  And Ares the formidable God of war who’s natural lust for violence leads him and his cohorts to vicarious involvement with mankind’s altercations.

Egyptian theology seems to have been an amendable and progressive state that began with sun worship and gods of nature, and moved on to attempted assimilation of godlike traits through a natural alignment with the perceived nature of God.  There were in depth studies of the nature of time, and life, and notions of existential transcendentalism.  The momentum of this progression led them to the ultimate grandiose delusion in which the Pharaoh was worshiped as the universal supreme being, omniscient and omnipotent ruler of the ultimate utopian society.

The Jews worshiped a God who was at once both a part of them  and an exogenous force believed to have created them in its own image. A God that deliberately instilled an understanding of it’s intended wisdom by instructing them of the laws they were to live by.  These divine revelations were often considered as the unadulterated word of God.  This God was jealous and demanded the adoration due him as the supreme essence.  His worship became the underlying force in their social conjecture as they attempted to inspire his continued grace and benevolence.  A seemingly irrational solution to the quandary of idealism.  An allegiance who’s impetus was unquestionable.  It seems by me to be improperly rooted on a personal level in that it overemphasizes the need or expectation of divine inspiration.

The ancient Chinese social wisdom was by me commendably rational.  Unlike the Jews they do not seem to have overemphasized the expectation of divine inspiration.  Instead they, like the Egyptians emphasized an alignment with the perceived nature of God on a personal level as the way to strength.  They of course had a conception of the possible natures of deity, but considered wisdom to be an honorably truthful self orientation.

Another realm of intellectual extrapolation from which one might hope to surmise a depthfully pervasive generality would be man’s philosophical treatises on the possible natures of God. Unfortunately due to the myriad nature of possibility this again appears paradoxically difficult.  To me this seems to be a product of the nonempirical nature of these conjectures.  Humans experience a reality which does not necessarily  have any relative effect on the transcendence of their conception of the possible nature of God. Although many have attempted to empiricise their conjectures through rational logic they are most often refuted by the possibility of ultimate transcendence or quandrified by the actuality of paradoxical argument.
  
Some good examples of these points are perhaps the arguments of Lucretius who attempted to empiricise that God can not revoke mathematical truths.  But what is the relative reality of those truths to the transcended essence of ultimate beingness.  They are refuted by irrelevance.  Another example might be the statement that God has aseity.  That is if he exists his existence is not caused.  This statement seems easy to refute for the supreme being could be all of the things possible for him except this and have evolved out of eons of cosmic continuum into natural omniscience and or through assimilation of the forces innate to the cosmos have achieved relative omnipotence.
  
One generally accepted statement that is refuted by these arguments is “the cosmos does not have infinite existence and is therefore not the supreme being.”  For if this supreme being has not yet evolved if it’s transcendental form could be said to have become out of cosmic continuum then the cosmos will indeed have achieved infiniteness.  But this already seems intuitively necessary to the ultimate cosmic essence regardless of a lack of self consciousness or even a physical form.  Perhaps what is possible and eons of void are the root of all force and matter, and perhaps this as yet unfulfilled sequence cycles on to nirvana.  Then again perhaps the supreme being does in fact preempt all as a self conscious entity.  This also would seem to be intuitively necessary to the essence of totality which of course has always existed and is in fact the supreme being in at that at that although not necessarily the true form of it’s transcendental being.
  
On this lofty note I would like to reiterate my thesis.  Perhaps we all could benefit from a reassessment of our affinity with God.

A man can accomplish many things with his concept of God. What is extraneous?  Perhaps the question would better be put what is expedient, but that becomes subjective.   You have to define your goals.  Where in lies wisdom?  Can man truly aspire to godhead or is this personally nonproductive?  Man seems to perceive a sort of manifest destiny for himself.  An intrinsic affinity with infiniteness that just must be dealt with.   Perhaps our beliefs in life after death are a grandiose delusion in which we hedonistically waste our time pampering our egos. Which brings me to my third and final argument.

Perhaps conscious regimentation and an affiliation with earth bound logic would bring us closer to our affinity with God.
One of the ideas presented by my philosophical references was that many of mankind’s inspirations to define his affinity with God grew inadvertently out of social realism and the powers assumed. Although often the subjective truths of these understandings went unmentioned out of a desire for objectivity.  For example what God must be if God is to be God.  Perhaps one would do better to relate personally to his affinity with God.

I think this is true.  Although we seem to lack omnipotence we are all individually speaking a preternatural corporeal state.  Perhaps we all should assert our godliness instead of hiding our talents in the sand.  Perhaps then we could construct a contractual reality.  An aspiration to the perfection of the human social mechanic.  I salute this concept.  In fact I firmly believe that by conscribing unalienable rights to our beings we have already performed the rights of the human social mechanic.  Our aspiration to godhead is complete in it’s conjecture.  All that is left is to obtain expedience and accuracy in our amendment toward continued obtainment of the majority goal.

basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!

to *think, is to not narrate,
                               much of what is regarded as
   "thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
       that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
  hands with a tongue...
                    hence: idle speech,
                hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
                                       (tongue)...
but most people don't think,
   because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
                  their day-to-day...
               and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
         i really do...
              how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
        wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
   really bothers me...
            the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
   (iberian inverted questioning
   ¿   ?          that's the first step toward
   an iberian existentialism)
                        said the third person,
    with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
  of the writer's original testimony?
   if northern existentialism (french / german...
  the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
       encompasses the tool that's "      "
   then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e.       ¿   ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
       but aphorism 285: "worldview",
     "grounding", "configuring"...
       i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
   aren't all the three descriptive elements /
   adjectives the purposive sentiments for
                   originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
   after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
                                  it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
         if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
  found in the existential tool of     double-ditto "     "
  or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
   or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
   from passing the judgement...
   they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
     at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?

Once upon a time -

A young philosopher sat among men
In the shaded olive groves of Athens
Incense to the Muses, wisdom to all
His ideas soared like Athena’s owls

One day a wise ómorfo korítsi
Delighted him with her strong arguments
Delighted him with her dark Hellenic eyes
Delighted him with a dinner invitation

And as they reclined in symposium met
With verse and wine and wisdom in delight
He excused himself to the toualéta
Where on its walls he read in Attic verse:

If you sprinkle
When you ******
Be a sweetie
Lift the seatie

After that his fellow philosophers
Saw him gently into a nursing home

When I first heard the word
existential
I thought “Ooh that’s posh
perhaps I’ll pepper it in conversations,
Bosh! and figure out later
what it means.”

Twonk I was, I only slowly
saw the word existence hidden
in the cleverness of syllables
and then I thought I got it

But not until a maw
began to daily swallow
more than a thousand souls
of families and carers,
teachers, truckers, nurses,
loved
did I become aware

And I was scared.

Not just life being lost
but existence
the whole ****** swirl and fanfare
of little faffs and laughing drunken,
first chuckles, first kisses, first footsteps,
Sunday roasts, broken hearts and ecstasies

The nail-clutch of my anxiety
floored me
but underneath an ember burned
and a fire-question unfurled and grew:

How did we let this be?

comb
your hair
everyday
after shower
before you head
outside.

irrelevant.

When I write,
It is like I am on an adventure,
When I am happy I am drifting down a lazy river,
When I am full of anger I am raging down dangerous rapids,
Crashing into the jagged rocks of my anguish and anxiety
Until finally I reach the river bank and I can rest.

It is like I am scaling Mount Everest,
Each level of creativity is another 100 metres into the sky
Until finally my imagination is at the peak
And my freedom is limitless,
stretching across to the farthest reaches of the horizon

It is like skydiving,
A rush of adrenaline as I plummet towards the ground,
Completely weightless and my mind is racing
Like the air that brushes over my skin
Until I pull the cord and release the parachute,
Safely land on my feet
With a new idea.

It is like a drug,
I am on an all time high,
Hallucinations of what could be,
How something that is far from tangible
Becomes existential,
Then during the come down
I make that dream a reality.

When I write, I feel like myself,
There are too many possibilities
That are still left unmarked on the map of written art.