apologies, but i will not be abstracting people
as mere pronoun users,
i know i should, but i kinda like "painting"
and giving peoeple race, and differences,
i can't really establish what pronoun-bleaching
would do to, oh i don't know,
perhaps i'd be writing this...

back when i still worked as a roofer and was doing
a project in Greenwich,
  nice try, construction industry men don't
go to the gym... what a joy to remember my roots...
anyway...
    what was i saying?
   so i commuted from north east london
this this little village...
and it really has a feel about it that it is a village...
i went into the Greenwich waterstones
bookshop and spotted something interesting...
    a j. k. huysmans trilogy (beginning with la bas)
and ending with *cathedral, or something like that,
if i knew what the internet was saying,
i'd buy all three books...
     but i did the dumb thing of buying
the first book of the trilogy, that's always in print...
anyway, no small loss...
   and there stood sideways joseph roth's
the antichrist...
              i can't compare it to nietzsche work,
even though i should, given roth was jewish...
and i figured: if the concept is not originally
jewish and greek, and anti- is a prefix much
more easily understood these days with
the existence of anti-matter...
            than say... armilus...
    well... so i was commuting day to day,
and over the course of the project probably read
two of three books, roth's was one of them,
alongside nikos kazantzakis' blockbuster...
but something weird happened when i read roth
for the first time...
     sitting in this dockland train heading south
of the thames, a group of muslim "women"
spotted that i was literate,
     they sat, about 10 metres away from me...
but the word antichrist must have prompted them,
one just said out-loud: you're satan's *****...
huh?
   there i am, reading my own book not raving
mad reading it aloud, and there she has the prank
of associating a book to a very mysterious person
who riddles the bible being completed...
      mein gott: two world wars ever since nietzsche
wrote he was the person with the title kept
sorta on a whim for nearly 2000 years...
     and then two days ago my father has a car accident
and this hijab clad woman is driving,
  but she does a Pilate and doesn't take responsibility,
the passenger that's with her jumps out
   and gives my father his details
and the woman is pristine...
     a *******, what do you call it: sacred cow?
most pedestrians in england are treated as such...
  so she phones her son and gives the phone to my father
and her son says to my father: it's against
the law to phone the police, you can't phone them...
well... hey presto! we're in Saudi Arabia!
and this is what's worrying me...
no... nope... this is what pains me...
    i had to take my ego for a walk tonight...
i had to think a lot of ******* out,
how the ego would whimper and whine like a dog...
there's your "janus" / "contronym"...
ego... dog...
   the leash? i'm thinking with it...
and suddenly, clarifty, i can pierce it's *******
narrative and think about it... as any id might...
what i experienced was an ego-dispossesion...
   i lost it, it turned into an automaton,
robotic misery... hardly the angry Frankenstein monster...
i lost the care for an ego-embodiment...
i was dispossessed by it, robbed, thief! thief!
i needed to come back home and read
heidegger's aphorisms 174 through to 178 from
the ponderings (it would help that you read the
ponderings... after reading being & time)...
the pain i felt was very much akin to being British,
even though it's something i assimilated into...
which could mean that's it's the odd bit...
should i, shouldn't i feel some sentiment for my host
culture?
word are flying around the place,
they're calling it cultural marxism...
well... i come from a culture that had stated
marxism, period, i.e. supported by an economic model,
that worked, and would have worked,
had capitalism not done what capitalism does
naturally: compete!
   i'm watching these cultural marxists and, i think,
i'm watching penguins in a zoo...
  i don't know what to make of these marxists,
who aren't even leninists...
            where's the economic model?!
  
that's the problem of going to a catholic school
in england, attempting to stress multi-culturalism,
i even ojected to being confirmed ritually,
with a bishop from Brentwood,
sorry, too much Irish around the place....
i too thought i was about to say something in Gaelic...
outer-east london: a complete ******* jungle
of biodiversity...
     so did i misplace my allegiences?
to the tongue? to faking an ethnicity?
    of course i'm pisssed off, i spent the past 2 hours
walking the most mundane of walks,
bewildered why this woman in a hijab wouldn't
own up to causing a traffic accident...
i helped him will out the police forms,
and there she is, on paper, smug like some ****** mary
because i'm the one that really doesn't think
that Islam got Project Hair wrong,
me? personally? i think that woman's hands ought to
be covered,
     in thinking terms, a woman's hands could
get me more excited than a woman's foot...
but sure... hell... why not hair?!
              the last time i checked, normal people
have an aversion toward hair...
ever see that person almost vomiting when they found
a stranger's hair in their soup?
  that **** that grows on your hair is the only silk
you've got... how about a few toenail clippings
to boot? first thing a sane would think: ****! ****!
oh, we're going to get on... just fine, just fine...
   the next time i think about encouraging
an **** ******* position's worth of prayer
i'll be a ******* cardinal.
   what's wrong with taking responsibility?
why are Islamic women so immune to the tractātus
of law? where's the jurisprudence?
   i'd call it something more than diabolical...
you can really become a vampire when you're told
the lesson: those that thirst for justice...
  lesser leech...
            who gives a **** whether it was: "but a scratch"?
woman! take responsibility!
  pampered little coconut jugglers...
   now to think of it... leave those curtains,
and this one time: she was walking with a buggy
and a small child and she unveiled herself from
a niqab before me...
           the perfect arabian nightmare i could
have ever witnessed...
             i had long hair back then...
what she revealed from under that niqab?
wait... am i writing this in the times
when the French occupied the Holy Land and had
the first thirst / idea of a colony?
  
this is me, imitating punching a brick wall...
this is me... in a boxing ring...
bashing myself...
            this is me thinking about how man
has no capacity to usher in karma,
how man's concept of law is hardly cosmic,
how man is a kniving ******* that
deserves something beyond a heaven and a hell:
rather: a return to his self...
that's what i keep telling myself:
i don't want heaven, i don't want hell...
i, just, want, to, return, to, my, self...
    yes, that's a reflection,
hence the pronoun has no compound, i.e. isn't
a reflexive understanding for the fluidity of language
expressed by the concerning compound: myself.
perhaps that's just the beginning of understanding
the noumenon / thing in itself, or rather to counter
the fluidity of the word itself, since, evidently
it self makes no sense that could ever produce
a concept akin to the noumenon...

why wouldn't this woman care to give an inkling into
her concept of right and wrong...
she's driving the ******* car, she makes a doo doo...
pauper... **** up!
            i still don't know why it was about hair...
you like a stranger's **** in a soup?
   what's with this middle eastern fetish for covering it?
hey! beginning from 1986, am i sorta automatically
involved in a cult that has a vintage of ageing from
a **** of a camel a long time ago?
  no wonder the knighthood ceremony was initiated
by slapping a newly initiated knight across the cheek,
like i said, a woman's hand is more ******
than her hair...
      i'd say: take up ye care to don gloves!
and that, i'm sure, will never happen.

it's probably the most delicate thing a woman can possess...
a hand...
the rest is what darwinism cared to provide us with:
a black widow, a mantis;
and that's talking pure earnest about the matter...

listen, i spent the past two hours having the ordeal of
an ego... which i had to anti-narrate into theory...
yes, the id was helpful, is actually told me, or rather,
interrupted the ego from the narrative
to give me this *******'s worth of profanity
(and yes, with due reason; ever fill out a police form
concerning some accident? do that, then you'll be equipped
to read Tolstoy)...

so it was ego-possessiveness,
      the ego already thinks its eternally subject...
that's one of the implants...
eternity and god are inherent in ego,
   your heart means absolutely nothing when the ego
has been given certainity that it can't shake off...
what the ego isn't given is a unit of reason
that sees past it... the id...
in relation to dualism and the much active dichotomy
as alternative to an equilibrium of dualism
i will outrightly exclude the superego
  as nothing but antithesis to the ubermann theory
of overcoming man...
  and on their shoulder they once had
the epitomes of cartoon conscience, an angel and a demon...
but thanks to the superego: they had mama
on their left shoulder, and papa on their right shoulder...

just the mere act of shutting that thing up
was enough, and it was apparent,
that writing fiction could be to blame,
   writing fiction can be rightly guessed at
for levitating a condition of medical proportion
into the realm of mythology,
    we have already depersonalised the unit
of ego to the extent that it has become polarised,
bipolar, e.g., comes from a depersonalised
gravity of ego,
we're no longer in need to write books,
we're in a dire need to write our own psyches...
and it all stems from making the basic human unit,
bound to the privacy of thought,
as needing a system that outweighs the moral
stratum,
           what can a person actually be or become
to even dream about asserting that there is
a da-sein (i.e. something, somethingness)
          "happening"?
i feel that there's something worse than a second
nakedness emerging,
         it's this incapacity to move on,
it's a mental nakedness, i am more easily prone
to dress my body in clothes
than i am able to dress my ego in thoughts,
than can correlate adequately, and peacefully...
toward something akin to a symbiosis
that can reach a = status, rather than an
   ≠ or an ≈ status... ****! Aquarius!
isn't the ≈ symbol the basis for it?
oh hell, back into the zodiac...
              
     i know my ego can be a downer,
but at least that's who i am talking about...
aphorisms no. 174 through to 178?
i do odd experiments with books,
     this is the first of its kind,
i'm actually going to rattle-******* this book out
till it feels like having wanked it 20 times
in a single day... i'll write what i "feel",
funny word, that word feel...
you never get to use it these days,
man is more about hammering in nails than
saying: ooh... that hurts...
and we all know what happened to Jesus'
teaching... forgive strangers...
     make sure your former friends are
crucified up-side down...
                 that really went far...
                      i can just see him...
an oasis of bullet-proof clauses...
              about how to handle people...
give them l.s.d. unconsciously!
         then wait for actual l.s.d. to arrive
and then worry...
when they took to their Swiss bicycles...
and writing poetry... and eating a soft-boiled
egg... given the concern for cholesterol:
a hard concept to fathom: that runny yoke...
     never ate mine with salt, i always like
that idea of legalised abortion...
                and we can be just that...
so imaginative to consolidate being mammal
that we can fathom eating chicken eggs
as easily as abortions... runny yokes have no basis
for a morality, or a compass...
they just are... runny... yummy...
             i call yokes the male version of
a woman's fascination with chocolate...
  i think egg yokes are the equivalent of cholocate
for men as chocolate is for women...
or so the advert said...

aphorism 174: as language...

          aphorism 175:
              philosophy catching up to science,
akin to theology catching up to philosophy,
both condescending extracts
that end up with both of the extreme parties
dressing up funny.

aphorism 176: such that newspapers are
the natural preservers? i.e. the idea of historical
escapism.

      (toilet paper does, much much more,
than a newspaper actually provides,
   press freedom is a bit boring to be honest,
beginning with the need for a moral agent
that's less and less moral, and more prone to
darwinism, i.e. selective, which is also said via:
what's natural, in a more and more techno-savvy culture?)

aphorism 177: only as, a rural thinker unto
a rural thinker... a case of describing a perfume
of those thinking about a day after tomorrow,
   but more precisely:
  the day before yesterday that didn't involve them...
say, on the ethnicity basis,
  the talk of being inheriting from the form
of ancestry... how we cultivate cucumbers,
tomatoes, prejudices...
   which is why i'm a slav happily talking a tongue
that's germanic, an off-shoot saxon,
and hopefuly defending it.

aphorism 178:
         "everything great wavers and wobbles,
stands in a storm. the beautiful is difficult."
   Ezra too, with the last, alas.
     but it's true... what happened in england in the second
part of the 20th century was great,
  and it did indeed wobble past the storm into
a desert of retirement...
            a peaceful coming toward terms of
a natural agreement...
   the generation preceding mine enshrined in their
psyche an england they heard over the radio...
king crimson... all such artistic expressions
found a case to take root...
     how parasites never attack a feeble creature
and only take roost in a strong symbiotic partner...
once it was said england could resemble ancient greece,
and it did, from the second part of the 20th century...
but that ended...
               it's gone, i have inherited a communist
past, a marxism with a concept of money,
and economic policy that wasn't inherently competitive,
but it also wasn't a welfare policy of the Marshall Plan,
and all i get is this freakish counter-movement
known as marxism in culture...
   that's worse than marxism in economy!

it should be heartbreaking to say this,
but coming from a monochromatic society,
watching the death of communism...
     i could say it was perfect... but then i can't
given my grandparents have a secure pension plan
that the state provides... i like that joke,
i just said it, and it makes perfect sense...
there is much more of Pilate in the history
of the peoples than there is of Jesus...
washing my hands clean, the companies said,
meaning self-employment...
     unless you have a really hungry libido
you actually do start worrying about keeping up
the numbers...
  companies don't...
      it's a bit of a bollocking...
i come from what could be imagined as a safety
economics of marxism into a marxism of culture
that i simply can't comprehend...
              well: it did give "us" a sense of pride,
and a will to rebuild warsaw without any american
money...
        the russians just said: where's your pride?
do you want to take their money and have it easy?
and when i ask that question:
i just start thinking about arabs without their oily diapers...
oil diaper... not exactly black gold:
oil diapers...
             Ahmed gonna poo poo?
              &nbsp

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<”Its your choice to have or not have the happiness in your life”>

Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.

Here come Jupiter child,
You can hear the flowers crying as they plead for her to stay a while,
She just collided with and intergalactic asteroid,
But things were only created never destroyed,
In the dark cool tunnels she found some pretty moon shrooms,
sheltering growing seahorses wrapped in loose water droplet cocoons,
Now towards earth you hear her come,
Within the clouds she beats her tribal drums,
The ocean sways and swells to the time of her rhythm and sound,
Reaching deep into the sea forest to whales traveling homebound,
She wears stars framed in turquoise,
Like the kokopelli she gives birth to planets with grace and poise,
Here comes Jupiter child, dread locks wound with comets,
extracts from the universe, she mixes matter-less tonics,
Recipes rooted deep in wizardry,
she borrows knowledge from indians and aztecs to cure all misery,
Her meteor showers made of her salty tears,
Are earth's dream catcher, snaring all nighttime fears.

because chances are, you haven't heard it
before, i know, in either case
not to my liking either -
but then the olympic flame was passed
between a thousand interlocking legs
that ran from one centre of the games
being celebrated, and onto another -
and if there were aquatic obstructions
along the way, the baton was still allowed
to run, on a ship, in circles, before landing
and unwound, allowed a straight line
once more - not straight in the strict
geometric sense, obviously zigzagging -
but let's say i found cross-generational points,
in each generation there are cross-generational
interests - should my own produce very little,
or of little interests, there's a back-catalogue
to delve into - who'd imagine the youth could
never die like that - but intact - even though
some could be asserted as being ancient -
a revision of their work years later only made
them however the revision was to understand it -
and yes, links, under a million and the chances
are you haven't, haven't heard it, you yet to be
a cross-generational - cronquist stick-seeds might
describe the writers born in the 1910s - and say
a rebellion against Wordsworth took pace -
or some other rebellion, or even an appropriation -
you have those from the 1980s too, minding
the literary output from the 1960s, anticipating a
future, a splinter group of hopefuls anticipating
something more - unlike in the current state of affairs,
where no longer the old moaning and groaning
cuckoo cranks - our's, youth's cultural arthritis -
we too complain, scaled to the nanometres of
metaphysics - our spiritual health has been dampened,
and if the timing was anything, although in agreement
it was: canto LXXXV - rock drill, well a drill assuredly,
a burning that implants a windy vacuum of gravity,
cf. (conferre, i.e. - id est - compare) with an article
in the style magazine (every sunday, religiosity of
newspapers, a weekly event, much anticipated) -
the article in question? generation viz / not to
be confused with viz. (videlicet - namely, that is to say),
rather generation viz as visual, a visual generation,
visuals only, censor all ****** words and have as much
******* and gore as you like, the offensive
u                c                  k               from fathering an oath,
so generation vista print, vista (the all pleasing generation),
no drink, no drugs, aloe vera water and cucumber
extracts - generation squeak - squeaky clean -
mother's failed rebel - generation mind the gap -
it's no longer a stoner, a mary and juan dipper -
'yeah man, far out...'
                                worse, it culminated in post-language,
and due to lack of intoxication, it's supposedly
serious... well... by god it is serious - post-language
is akin to a venture into the unknown acronyms -
acronyms and emotive chinese of :( -
the lesser form of computer coding - the tip of the
iceberg as they say - a champagne bottle splits
in the ratio 1:10 - that's one bottle and ten mouths -
during london fashion week also called an entrée,
in russia it's called a canapé - ah but the sober
eye that can explore further afield rather than raw
memoriam dimmed slightly - a rattler of cigarette
packets - more caffeine less gasoline -
and so, i too a hackelia nervosa, clingy to the past
in some way or other, not to mention attempting
an enticement to my palette - a storage room,
just there, lost & found - umbrellas, books and
other memorabilia - should any claimant come,
it's, just, there.

you kidding me, right?
  nachos? tacos? tortilla wraps?
          guacamole molé molé?
sombrero(s)...
  the revised eastern european
moustache?
                    tequila!
that's it?
               well... not if you consider
the second tier of soy boys -
the ones that drink that...
budscheiss that's
         "der könig aus bier"...

one word... no... actually two:
CER-VE(H)-ZA(H) -
probably the spanish word,
that sounds better than all
the other spanish words...

     what did mexíxíxíxíco give
us?
   the orthodox script
of a german beer:
    yeast, hops, barley, malt,
water... fizz: boom!
   a fine summer's day...
   mexíxíxíxíco beer?

MALTED, BARLEY...
     don't ask me how the genius
figured out a smoothness
so subtle,
   that you actually had to shove
a lime wedge into the neck
of the bottle...

  or, as i did - buying an almost litre
sized bottle,
   and a lime -
  looking at this ***** goliath
at the checkout thinking:
   david?
       am i david?
    did we really enslave such people?
david, meet goliath...
goliath wanders off like some
happy ******, giggling and brings
another strawberry milkshake
to the checkout...
         so the west, enslaved these
                           nearing 7ft Baobabs?
king david's audacity,
           nothing more...

so i buy the CO(H)-RHO-NA(H),
and a lime (30 pence a piece)...
****... no knife...
guess teeth will have to do...
shove a whole lime in bits and bites
and walk on...

                   seriously?
guacamole molé molé?
         that's the best you can do?
drinking a beer with lime...
compared to the h'american
budscheiss?
           who... apart from the japanese...
extracts alcohol...
from: ******* rice!
  
    malted, barley...
                   whoever that sergio
sanchez was...
               hats off to him...
     sometimes it's just nice...
to take a break from the heavy cavalry,
orthodoxy brew of german
beers...
   americans?
     know jackshit about brewing
a decent beer...
   mexicans?
              they put a lime in it!
****! you have to drink it!

Cold, still clouds of blood rain,
Thick drops of agony
Fell on your lips.

I have defied the Life
By controlling his destiny

Oh, my Holy Puppet,
Curiouser and curiouser I was to ask,
What were your thoughts?
Did you always know?
Were you thinking, why?

Captivated by darkness,
I lathered the lotion of fellowship on my skin
To hide my true intentions.

Sweats trickled from your brow
When I pressed my lips against your cheeks.
A rushing stream of adrenaline ran through my heart
Upon my poisonous kiss.

Pieces of silver told me of your Sadism,
Of how you took away the sweetness of the
Vanilla extracts of my life.

My desires you denied!
Now die in shock, and let your last breath
Be nothing but a seeping gasp of silence.

My name is Zhou Yuanten, but call me Eddie. I am a doctoral student at Xinjiang University –in the far, far west, but at Brunel to study this year. My English is good. I lived in Boston, Massachusetts for undergraduate years. I majored in piano at the New England C and then discovered I wanted to compose rather than play. So I go to MIT and soon I discover the English do it so differently, so I apply to Brunel. And at Brunel they then say of this place ‘you have to go.’ So here I am.

So surprising to be greeted in Chinese! And not just Nin Hao, we have a conversation! His accent is Northern Mandarin. He is writing a novel, he explains, about poets Zuo-Fen and Zuo-Si. We have 15 minutes conversation every day and I help him with his characters. Strange, to most of the class he is nobody, but to foreign students here we know him through his website and his software. I have even played his colours piece, The Goethe Triangle.

It is joy to be respected by a teacher and his sessions are like no other I’ve had here, and here I mean the UK. Oh, so laid-back, so lazy so many teachers. People lack energy here. They are dreamers and only think of themselves. He is full of energy and talks often about this Imogen of whom I never hear. Her father a great composer and she copied his music from when she was a girl – such beautiful calligraphy. Her father loved India and learned Sanskrit. He should have learned Mandarin; at least that is a living language. ‘Imo’, he says, ‘is my heroine, my mentor, the musician I most revere.’ He showed us her library and what was her studio in one of the old buildings here. He gives me this little book about her ten years in this place. A strange looking lady; there’s a photograph of her conducting Bach in the Great Hall. She looks like she is dancing.

This morning some are not here, but there are little notes on the desk with apologies perhaps. He leaves them untouched and we make chords again, and scales and arpeggios and Slonimsky’s famous melodic patterns. We write and write. He sings, we sing too. There is a horn and a cello with us today. They play and make jokes. They show us harmonics and tunings and bend our ears in new directions we do not expect. Those who complain about this course not being ‘advanced’ will eat their words; only I think some of those are not here.

As Chinese we hear sound in a different way I think. In our language tone is so important. To each word there are four tones that make meaning quite different. Chinese uses only about 400 syllables, compared to 4000 in English. So there are lots of syllables, like ****, that have multiple meanings. I tell him the story of the Lion-eating Poet, which he does not know!! I am writing this out for him, all 92 characters. Just one word **** but with four meanings – lion, ten, to make, to be. The Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den is the story of a poet (****) named **** who loves to eat lions (**** ****) goes to market (****) to buy ten (****) of them, takes them home to eat (****) and discovers they are made (****) of stone (****).

So I have no trouble hearing what others struggle to hear. We make pieces that are all about tone, and on a single note. Mark, the cellist, plays the opening of Lutoslawski’s Concerto – forty-two repetitions of a tenor ‘D’ a second apart. I had never heard this – a cadenza at the beginning of a concerto. Now we write a duo, on just one note. We write; they play. We are like many Mozarts trying to write only what we have already heard, making only one copy. I use the four tones and must teach the players the signs. I demonstrate and he says of the 1st tone – ‘Going to the Dentist, the 2nd – Climbing a ladder, the 3rd – ‘The Rollercoaster’, the 4th –‘Stepping on a pin’. We all do it!

And there are all these microtones. We listen to a moment of Ravel’s Bolero and pieces by Thomas Ades and Julian Anderson, then in detail (and with the score) to part of Duet for piano and orchestra by George Benjamin. This is spectral music. He is daring to introduce this – very difficult subject - this idea that a sound could be mimicked (? Is that the word – to impersonate?) by analysing it for the frequencies that make it up, and then getting instruments with similar acoustic properties to play the frequencies as pitches. So the need for microtones – goodbye equal temperament! Great in theory, difficult in practice.

This afternoon we are to study spectral composing using our computers. Until now we use our computers or smart phones to listen to extracts. He has this page of web links on his website for each session. Instead of listening through hi-fi we listen through our headphones. Better of course by far, no birds sounds or instruments playing next door. We can hear it again anytime. So there is software to download, Fourier analysis I suppose, he tries hard not to use any science or maths because there are some here who object, but they are fools. Even Bach knew of acoustics – designing the organs he played.

We finish this morning studying harmonic rhythm and this word tonality nobody seems quite able to describe. To him even the chromatic scale is tonality, and he shows in a duet for horn and cello how our ears take in tonality change. This is not about keys, but about groupings of pitches – anywhere – so a tonality can be spread across several octaves. So often, he says, composers are not aware of the tonalities they create, they don’t hear harmonic rhythm. They’re missing an opportunity! Sound can be coloured by awareness of what makes up a tonality. So understanding spectral music must help towards this. It is very liberating all this. If we take sound as a starting point rather than a system we can go anywhere.

Yesterday he asked me about a book he is reading. Did I know it? A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo. Of course I know this very funny book. He said he liked to think of music in the same way the character of the Chinese girl Z thinks about love.

“Love,” this English word: like other English words it has a tense. “Loved”, or “will love”, or “have loved.” All these specific tenses mean Love is time-limited thing. Not infinite. It only exists in particular period of time. In Chinese, Love is ài in pinyin. It has no tense. No past and future. Love in Chinese means a being, a situation, a circumstance. Love is existence, holding past and future.

And so it is with music. Music is a being, a situation, a circumstance. It holds past and future. It is wondrous, just like love.

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EZ-detox capsules buy one get one free…

i started dieting at the age of twelve
hopeless puking and desperate
i call this year my miracle year

blissful as a bar of chocolate
that’s when I decided
**** thin happy wins

let's call this busy-body James Joyce, given: pages 15 - 81, and the dates 1969 through to 1981 and the locations - Athens, Methymna, Los Angeles, Austin - then let's call in the plumber and see what the problem was.

S.M.P.E. - *Sulmo mihi partria est - Sulmo, my homeland,
variant of S.P.Q.R. - spare person quartered reason,
and the sum of its parts - more or less...
is there a valid point to mention the relationship
between the Paeligni and the Republic? none, what-soever,
but we're buying time, so might as well;
and do i have any gratitude akin to the expression
quidquid hoc libelli, qualecumque? probably not -
let's go for a miracle, or charlatanism for a while,
December, Austin, Texas 1981 - and Dr. Preston
simply said of Ovid: contrary to what you may read
somewhere else, he's so human he tears you apart,
he's immensely creative, he's far more complex,
far wider in vision and tougher than most people think.
aye aye in the House of Commons, including the S.N.P.,
it had to happen one time or another, a wee ***-for-tattle.
Ovid suffered in the 18th but not the 19th century,
whatever movement was in the years 17-, default by
association - others would call it a cousin ******* a cousin -
or the "probably" of 18 b.c., Augustus passes the first
stage of the legislation and reform lex iulia de maritandis
ordinibus and the lex iulia de adulteriis coercendis,
while all the senators are told to wear fishnet leggings
under the togas, to prove the smooth arrangement of
a change in political whiffs of mustard from the *** air:
pungent, really pungent stuff - disperses a crowd like
a bucking donkey on steroids and lysergic acid -
overload of heaven (carrots) and hell (sticks) in a timed
framework of strobe lighting - pray for the animal,
but not the senators. these days bachelors are favoured,
prenups are all the rage - obviously the intricacies of
Roman governing outlived itself in England - Nero and
whoever else were adopted - adoption was big back then,
no harem, just... well... "innocent" little harems in Versailles,
the joy of lying, that too died a little bit, gangrene lips
kissed it and a reality checked in under the pseudonym
reality, or was it rat-cages-rattled? i'm not sure,
you have to ask the porter - starboard me shimmy
and timber... a few apologias later we see the mascara drip
from Pont de l'Alma and Charlie Chaplin on the drums
singing: Harry and Will, your mamma will not be seen
*******, better dead than red, yoddelay yoddelay yo.
well, if you want to instil Louis XIV boudoir ambitions,
the mamma has to go, with the cheap Rolex guy from
Knightsbridge - what a tacky place, you can just imagine
walking through it eating tacos. via: by the way,
alcohol is twice as potent and 100x more enjoyable in
terms of sedation than anti-psychotics, and D was on them -
sadism is a kaleidoscopic venture, you never know when
the pusher will come, yep, the pharmaceutical pusher,
gets orders like any dumbo on the street corner from
the mafia and the Vietnam kids minding the business
in a semi-detached loft - pushers everywhere, even if
in "theory" they want to distance themselves from Big Pharma,
it's the circle of life - otherwise we'd have thomas more's vision,
i'd drop the -e, and add an extra -r. Ovid: back when
writing poetry was deemed anti-social - you could write that,
it's not the Homeric standard of adventure and heroism
and bad denture - back when writing poetry was deemed
anti-social - good enough for the internet to pop up,
yesterday i was talking to a U.P.S. a.i. - and she understood
by stressed elocution - next, more, next, more, repeat,
face-to-face time also a big downer, old school face to face -
people need pixel fencing - pixel fencing is the way to go -
there's one behind those fly eyes - also pixel - just cover
your eyes with a t-shirt and stretch it - fly eyes -
but now from the man herself -
transmute the *** of your lover whenever you mention
him: write 'her' instead (book 3)... wait a minute,
isn't that a shorter version of what's cited in the Gospel
of St. Thomas? when you make the two one,
and when you make the inner as the outer... you
make the male and female into a single one...
to be honest... if these guys are implying what i think
they're implying, i'd rather do a Jonah - and then turn
around and say: tell that to the mandrakes!

ah yeah
beautiful ladies
stretching up to the sun
what a gift
this little ****

see uh I been a grower
for some time now
grow that types a ****
make ya mind bow
gettin lower
on that cheeba
no not cheva
this is a killa weeda
so many strains
make ya heads spin
you like to stay up late
or get all locked in
see it don’t matter
which way ya wanna go
indica or sativa
I treat ya right, bro
see here in Oregon
we do things different
work a barter system
help each other pay rent
call me a socialist
like a give a ****
you be at my door
when ya havin hard luck
I’m a medical grower –

Son, I grow medicine
stopping censures
killin cancer
out my freezer
alcohol extracts
make all ya'll relax
no mo heart attacks
rushin like the train tracks
I grow medicine –

I grow out door
like that plant was meant to be
no chemicals
let that ***** grow free
feed em organic
lots a guano
watch the buds rippin
from the back po
see I’m a real farmer
have a long patient list
always lookin to add names
get the money makers ******
so I don’t charge much
just cost no overhead
I aint in this to get rich
that’s why I got this rap bread
I’m a medical grower –

Son, I grow medicine
stopping censures
killin cancer
out my freezer
alcohol extracts
make all ya'll relax
no mo heart attacks
rushin like the train tracks
I grow medicine –

Vernarth leaves and articulates in them to guide and accompany them with this imperishable itinerary, coming from the undivided becoming that was normalized with its evident parapsychology, creating certain polycellular substances in the accentuated multi placebo effect by injecting them with clinical blindness, to then reactivate them in the ejido of Bethany as a path of going and death, back and Life, with whom they revived from the anginal dizziness, that even some faltered when they saw Bethany full of Borricos who led them with the allegory as if the real world had just been made in a variety of towards a speculative problem and its limitations. Vernarth could glimpse with his glances certain affected areas of some who were with the entourage, essentially in the wear of their pancreas, hormones that were launched with radiant flashes of celestial suns, with extracts of muscles varying with irradiation in super stocks, inhibiting radioactive parts of Cinnabar that finally brought them all together when the phase of Cinnabar that was deployed as an aid to the cutting of the heads Speleothemes or Speleotomies, becoming radioactive by generating concentration in large eminences of snatched electrons, in order to begin to open the layers of the bathyal zone at four thousand meters of depth without light, up to the Neritic where large cemeteries with whale mammary arteries flowed back, and together with toxins from sea snakes. The hypnosis that Vernarth exercised towards all those who absorbed aspiring to have enough dynamics, and generate prayers of all kinds for when they reached the Metelmi tunnel of the Profitis Ilias. With the management of the visualizations of her emotions, meditation and prayers were rewound after a neat trajectory of wealth and well-being Venusiana.

The power of their unified minds has been successfully adhered to for hundreds of years since they were fostered. From the first hypnotic third with the mesmerism of the chiroptical, rather of the four species of Vlad, Fruit Chiroptera, Vampire, Indiana, Egyptian, which would mainly be the carriers of fertilization of the lands of Patmos, and their pollination together with the Lepidoptera, also gave them the magnetism in this way:

Says Vlad Strigoi: “Eventually it suggested to me from the hypnotic trance that led us to varieties of suggestion in the dermis, which it branded us as suggestive ectodermal. Under the keys of the nervous system if I have to have a conscience or exquisite wisdom for all the blisters that in frugality it is convenient for my species of chiropterans to shelter them, and not my human comrades. So I got over the death of my older brother, and then I succeeded him, where I went some time to moan him on the Danube. I was exiled in Edirne, and from there in my second reign, I went to Wallachia, many episodes happened and early in the morning I was visited by the rest of the Boyars' bats, fleeing from themselves, there were thousands and thousands I had to take care of from them. Later I went to Valdaine, Chauvet. Welcoming me to Wonthelimar so that one day we would regain the true kingdom of manumission in the darkness of Wallachia with my monastic brother Vlad Calugarul "

The blisters of thousands of Vlad's Chiroptera burst when he referred to his brother Calugarul, beginning to fall from the upper angle into cheesy leagues of flying animals, who wanted to control the pain of man, all protected by psychic mental waves emancipated from the presumptuous angle of Vernarth, and of the laziness of his spasms, and migraines that we're frightened of some by the entrails of the physiology of the platform. Upon reaching five hundred years, there were four hundred left to approach the quantum borders that the Souls of Helleniká transferred to them, the entire timeline was covered with a tunic that was moistened by turbulent water that appeared from overseas, producing dramatic conventional meteorologies, where The line of sight of the horizon lay three times where it was, to indicate that the humid plain of the tunic was in concert with the setting Sun. From this regulation plan, the prime time was counterpoint, for a link of half an hour before approaching midnight, before reaching the Profitis Ilias, specifically the Metelmi Tunnel in the Raedus Codex. Many species were unable to tolerate the immunity of such an event as they emerged to the surface and began to collect cells that revived engulfed in themselves, to later become impregnated with Wonthelimar's entourage and then predisposed to enter the geological cavity.

The collectivity of time was dissipated, all the nature that was of a coherent past was beginning to visualize itself towards a state of immunity mechanism, due to the trances that deprived it of hope of living in a new beginning before reaching Patmos. From Agios Andreas, expulsions of malignancies that were expressed with the Apsidas Manes were still felt, being very well alternated by Marie des Vallées who deconcentrated conventions and individualities towards the lacerated that still did not form outgrowths on their bodies removed from Spinalonga, while she continued as always In its most absolute darkness and exile, only portraits were enough to project itself on a populated island, which would be rescued from involuntary excretions and depopulation, being a human settlement. More than a hundred experiments were missing to scale the island to a superiority that was far from a medical shelter site, which excludes it from knowledge of prevalent and invalidated concepts of a miraculous life that was beginning to be written in Agios Andreas. The power of Faith self-healed in the bodies that had yet to be awarded the healing intentions of collective minds that flowed among all, when they were guided by the Saint of Normandy after having clear evidence and for how long they would be on this islet, for also rejoin the investiture of the Himation of Vernarth in the Áullos Kósmos, indemnifying the intervals of the Vas Auric and the Cinnabar. All prayed inclined towards a transformation of the permutations that inspired a quantum healing, that moved the waves of the seas in unison with their prayers, that creating a quantum healing atmosphere in all channels, and for all their atoned intentions. Telepathy apprehended all their emotions, prevailing the vital energy that contemporary in the prayers of the new earth field that greeted them became at their astonished feet.

The hospitality of Agios Andreas had Theus and Vikentios defined to be with her, to have total compassion with the Saint and to recover their ancestors with a focus of energy that were invaded by hyper healings similar to an ultrasound, which emanated from the hands of the Santa, for each of the individuals who remained to be definitively healed and then redistribute them in the new spheres of execrations, which hung from the indigenous Manes on the island, which delimited the improvement of many human beings who lived long periods here, overcoming dimorphisms in the reproductive organs of ancient cavemen, with leprosy in the ***** of their ******, but the testimony of dimorphism motor skills will lead to species totally free of this scourge of the ***** bacillus, to perfectly synchronize a field of healing energy, from the magical thought of the Saint who assisted them permanently, to prepare themselves in the new regions before they had what to make the last decision to integrate in Patmos. The membranes of the nuclei of the sun that healed them and reconvened themselves from the molecules of an energized level of matter celestially congruent, with the sensitivity of the affected organs, until some cells imprisoned in the cells of lost morbidity, hypnosis was reinstituted bilocate de Vernarth who assisted them from his eclectic Portal before superior hypnosis that led them to mutate their bodies into astonishing birds, which were retransformed with the Birds of the Stymphalus.

Have you ever been madly in love?

The old man broke my reverie.

On the long faded green bench white with bird droppings
he was peering at me through his silver grey beard
looking oddly out of place in that college squire park
where only the dreamers at the prime of youth
would sit between classes to exchange love notes
and steal a kiss when the passion couldn't be reined in.

Have you ever been madly in love? he repeated,
and then as if growing impatient by my silence
mumbled, pausing between words,
like they stung him like thorns
it extracts a price been paying all my life
living with a void no other woman could fill
a commitment that breeds only pain
yet makes me insanely boastful
of being madly in love.

It was recess hour and the benches were being filled up.

How many, I wondered, would still hold hands
when the classes are over.

I'll eat you in your own kitchen.
It wasn't a pleasant start was it ?
...Let me start on a different note. 


How about a story on Bratt ?

Bratt was funny maybe a little quirky but man did he deserve his fate ?. Maybe not but again - I'm an animal. A disease that rots you from inside out and slowly devours you until your last moment, where i feed you to the fire and burn you alive. While i dance as you scream and sing as you begin to fade. I am that kind.
The most disgusting sight you'll ever have the pleasure to witness. I wear a heart of different kind but let me sing about bratt first..

He lay on the grass-
Ever so softly he wept,
Eyes watching everywhere,
As he drips in sweat
Anticipating my company
And withering in fear 
Oh, that moment
I can't bear,
I hear a song,
Of a different kind.
A symphony so beautiful,
Playing on my mind.
And then I dance,
Oh, I eat upon his grave,
And I can see god,
As just the light fades.


I thought that was too many emotions on a single page and i can't help myself for being a sappy poet riddle maker.

I strangled that kid. Then I ate him. I ate him. Enough about me though, I'll tell you a story, read very carefully.

Once I met a man
Eyes I couldn't understand
The air 
Ate away all the sand 
But the hourglass
Still pour
And upon his ashes 
A phoenix soar.
His wings mighty 
In its shadow I saw the stranger 
And I heard his whisper 
I was the death angel 
So I pushed him inside
Till I saw my mother 
She was screaming something
But I couldn't no more 
Ask my little brother.


That's rotten, I made no sense there. Did I ?. I mean I can clearly understand what the heck I just wrote but someone reading this might not. Danm he won't. It was my dad, he started all this. Fed my delusion that violence is the key to all happiness. I was smart though, and with a little hygiene, I am in a much better shape. I'm not blaming him, I'm sure those fancy doctors and scientists will all agree with me. Let me write something for them as well.


Ugly duckling never became
-Beautiful.


That's all I can preach about it. It's complicated. Now, I would present my case to you, so you can judge me better. I once killed a little girl because her mother couldn't take care of her properly. I felt pity. See, I am capable of pity. My point is, I killed a little girl out of pity, then I ate her. That brings us to another glimpse of utter nonsense.


I once killed a man 
Because he was happy 
And I once killed a man 
Because he was sad 
I once killed a man 
Because he was sappy 
Oh, I once killed a man 
And then I killed his dad.

I love twosomes, three is crowd, and I would like to point out, I am a bad man, If you haven't noticed thus far. You can either **** me or I keep on killing. Ask yourself 'what would have god done' ?... nothing. He doesn't gives a **** about you, why would he ?. If he did, why did he make me ?. So, I can **** innocent people. What exactly is mysterious about this plan ?. He enjoys when I **** people or why wouldn't he stop me. I don't believe in god though, just messing with you delusional kind. You can all believe in a man floating in the sky but the truth is, I am your god when I **** you. Trust me on this, god is in everyone. You just have to claim him. 


I ate little birds,
When I was small.
Then I ate a cat,
When I got a little tall.
I have so many creatures,
Hidden inside the walls.
But believe me when I say,
I drank all their tear drops-
Every last of them.

Well, the reason I wrote all this down is because I want someone to know my whole story, right from the start till the very now, But again I can't let them walk away. So, I do this thing. I tell them everything. 

Claim me your king 
Let the metal sing 
Kiss you, and bid you bird
So long, fly.
Now close your eyes 
Stop believing your lies 
You are nothing ever-more 
I am your king,
I whisper and you die.
If you turn around 
you can see
I have an axe,
Good-bye.

and the myth goes along the lines - had i but the eyes to spot
a silver spoon - there chimed a magpie in the the night,
a cackle compared with the rhapsodic
crow call to wake up Barbarossa...
                    the cackle and the literary laugh...
there she was, with the Kraken -
                        she was there bewildered
to sing a song, sroka among the magpie calls
to tell tales of silenced lightning
                        without thunder.....
                shamanic in the extreme:
what a strange nationalism being born
with extracts of a former colonialism in Ukraine -
lost, forgotten, and a brief testament to Israel -
do i feel any pride? perhaps i should...
                  i better myself in the word spoken:
sroka is above magpie -
       the serenity of the sharpened consonants,
the flight to become werewolf legend -
                               sroka, or magpie -
as a language there are some offences -
                           which cannot translate, but merely
tarnish...
                                     s and r
           are two consonants that out-perform stress /
authenticity when m and g are used...
                the tongue is more important than the breath,
counter the metaphysical greek breath that's known
as psyche: i.e.                    γλωßα -
                                         to treat the tongue akin
to the mind, and soul as the authenticity of the verb
thought: when all organs automate, akin
to the kidneys dialysis.
           yes, sroka / magpie...
                                crow / kruk             / crux
                      or the shadow of Golgotha...
                                     toward us: the darkened hour...
                           to gloss over - to speak a phrase in demand -
                 sire *** qua non byzantine sprechen.

The stress keeps me awake
My bedtime is pushed forward an hour
Three hours
At three thirty I admit defeat and rest my head
Or so I think
Gritted teeth and dry mouth
Growling belly
Arching back
Aching wisdom tooth
The pillow slowly slips away from me
I try to dream up horrible fantasies
Male vulnerability
Hostages and electrodes
Conscious becomes unconscious
While I lie awake trying to be as still as a wall
Instead I tremble like a leaf attached to the tree by a millimeter
I know in the morning my blankets will seem so much softer
My dreams absolutely captivating
I'll have regretted my time of cold feet and absolute terror
The next day will bring horrors unimaginable
Humiliation, fear, rushing from place to place
And without warning I achieve what I've been waiting for
I drift away
I'm in the room of my dreams
My room
I don't remember ever physically going there but here I am
And it is so familiar.
I see it every three years in my dreams
I must belong there in some way
It is the room of my soul
The place of turning points, perhaps
All-encompassing mahogany brown
Nineteenth century
A court house, a church and a mansion all in one
Justice, religion, riches
Do I believe in any of these things?
My eyes drink it all in although I've seen it many times without remembering
I think it is in England
This place
A long table at the front
And a pulpit and an altar
It is hard to remember
But so vivid in dreams
There are other rooms
Thousands
But this room stands at the top of the mansion
A square balcony in the middle of the room opens to the rest of the house below
It is filled with gold and brown antiques
They remind me of my bookish grandmother

I see a classmate of mine from university
I sang in Chapel Choir with him
An aspiring conductor now
Always taking things seriously and getting excellent marks
He greeted me
Seeing as it was a dream I expected some wise conducting advice
Since I have no aptitude for it at all
But suddenly a frightening brown-haired marionette was pressed to my face
Muppet-like in appearance with red lips and freakish features
Beckoning me to come to her
In some dark cabaret of the mind
But I was already there
My classmate's face was impossible to see now
She consoles and coaxes
Dances with me
I know he wants to manipulate me
His puppet tells me to relax and sit down
My pink roommate barges in and doesn't seem at all curious about what is going on
She looks on the ground for what she is missing
And speaks in short confused sentences
I feel uncertain, yet relaxed
I think I am safe since my roommate is in the same room
The puppet pinches my shin and injects a clear fluid into my leg
Then extracts the blood slowly and uncomfortably
I feel strange, more faint
I open my eyes and I am in my small dark room again
My escape was a success
I still feel the pinch of the needle on my shin
So I shake off the feeling
My first instinct is to try to continue the dream
I want to know what happens next
What happened and why
And yet it was so real
The thought of continuing seemed terrible
I tried and tried but it had stopped for good
For that short time I had completely abandoned my problems and responsibilities
For more frightening new ones
I felt like I was a fictional character
A much better embodiment than being a real person
But that room
Maybe I belong there
Maybe I am something more special than I am now
The room of my dreams, my soul
The room of my past, present and future
Maybe I will call it Court Church
I was left more tired than I had ever felt after a near sleepless night
A walking zombie
The curse of Court Church

"The text is typical. It's like a speech whose units mold like a dropping of a secretion. And since he is here a glottic gesture, work on oneself of the language, the element
                                                                         It is the saliva that also sticks units to each other. The association is a sort of slimy contiguity, never a reasoning or symbolic appeal; the goop from the hazard makes sense, and progress pace by small tremors, grasping and suctions, veneer - in every sense - and slippery *******. In the mouth or along the column. "

Because it’s my birthday I thought I’d release something I was keeping for myself. Enjoy.

On this red planet,
Alone I stand in the vastness
of this scenery in purgatory.
Alone I stand long,
alone I stand king
of this terrain.
With this, something like a kiss,
the way its skin caresses my toes
as they work its way through
the pink sand;
With this I have reached my peak.
I have reached transcendence.
There are no more epiphanies to be had --
I have reached my goal.
Come to terms with my purpose on Earth,
I have sampled ulterior extracts,
while my earthly self does what it does best.
Still the 'Q' I question existences trifles.
Straying from the path crafted by man's willingness to obey.
Now the 'X' I exploit the fact
time is no longer a burden.
Freedom, like raw diamonds
flows through my fingers,
sweat falls upwards and side to side,
and gravity is now an illusion of memory.
This Roman god of war,
bends freely to my will...
Shifting, moulding and grafting into more
than the Earth could ever behold.
This place is not to share,
not this everlasting pink beach with no ocean,
this is mine
and mine alone –

After trying several chemical-based expensive products available in the market, it is disappointing to see the results they give. Thus, it is beneficial to pick up home ingredients that are simple and easy to use. To get rid of the dirt and oil that clog the pores of our skin on a regular basis, some natural elements work wonders when used as cleansers. Here are a four things you must use regularly to cleanse your skin of the various impurities it attracts.

Clay

Although, there are different types of clay that can be a part of your daily skincare routine, fuller's earth or Multani mitti is the best cleansing clay that you can use. Usually mixed with water or rose water, you can also use it creatively by mixing it with aloevera gel, milk or yogurt to have a more soothing effect. Clay has the properties to pull away toxins from the skin and can also calm any existing inflammations that result from acne.

Milk

It is not unknown that most cleansers have milk as one of its prime ingredient. Milk not just has cleansing properties, but also nourishes the skin as it is loaded with proteins. The fat present in milk help to retain the moisture in the skin keeping it soft and supple, along with cleansing it.

Rose water

Loaded with the goodness of roses, and its necessary beauty extracts, rose water is one of the best natural cleansers for a problem-free skin. Simply dab a few drops of rose water on some cotton and wipe you face and neck with it every night before bedtime. Rinse it in the morning. This simple process can also keep you face dirt and toxin-free, always.

Chickpea flour

A traditional element used to cleanse the skin, chickpea flour is one of the most popular natural cleansers among Indian women. Simply mix it with rose water and dab it on your skin like a face pack.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

if not cited sparingly, and in a democratic number,
then at least cited as if minding the republic's senators,
concentrated influences - few, but certainly
in a concentrated manner cited.

when reading becomes as acutely distinctive as the hand -
never before have both hands reached an ideal
equilibrium - my withered manus lævus elsewhere -
esp. at Marathon, with the puny javelin throw -
Herculean balance in the right hemisphere -
yet although in physics the right held sway -
now it seems in my mind, the arithmetic pain busy
buzzing in the former ***** colony has gained
the upper-hand - its persistence beyond mere myth
of the boulder the hill the repetition as punishment;
such a grand way to use both without prejudices
of former believed-to-be satanic rituals in a Victorian
school.

perhaps going beyond Plato sinister sexology of
the soul and punishment via transgender migration -
if once a true and serious meditation, now it would
seem blocked by something, emerging from that
ancient theory and brought before us in practice -
that the left-hand masters of the quill were migrating
from Hebrew, from Arabic from Sanskrit?
less sexually orientated and for that reason, purifying
the old ways of teaching boys the practices of the state.

we are right in that we begin on the left -
and they have already left for the other world,
their theologies ensured they left -
but that does not necessarily make them right -
beginning from the right in writing with each word
they leave for another - a better one -
for us, who begin from the left and ending by being
right in our political affairs and our moral practices
(so supposed) leave us entrenched in this world -
by so right in doing the mere thought of atheism;
but times have changed... we're all moving forward -
only a retired general practitioner might have used
his index to peck like a crock at the keyboard -
youth spared me - even both my thumbs are used
when typing - notably the left thumb for the space -
or so the alphabet arranged for a quickness in type -
if arranged by some formal logic - the keyboard would
be a different battlefield against Peter Phantom and
the leash of surrender; yet what fingers used more often
than the crucial index of an aged doctor?
for the most educated class of people, they write such
terrible enigma scribbles on prescription notes -
for the most part, type font was invented to decipher
prescriptions - or as some would call them -
a chicken dipped its nail into an ink bottle and scratched
in good morning on a piece of paper.

so it came to be, when Latin imploded from the ******
and was allocated a pickle jar preservation aversion
to graffiti Latin on the coliseum walls it became
ecclesiastical Latin - power was hidden from the ***
blah gurgle - or the Germanic burp for: a pleasant meals
desires a compliment, echo in the cave, burp in
the (o)esophagus - a grapheme divorce -
but that's also beside the point - instead of mere writing
left to right or right to left - the grammar changed suit!
Latin names are the easiest to spot:
the barbarians and the Latins are like us and Arabs -
mirror and chiral thinking go hand-in-hand as a handshake -
some remind us of neschek the usury serpent -
or they remind us of demon-slug narchak engaged
to simony - by example, zoological quirks reminding:
corvus (crow) cornix (hooded) - hooded crow,
corvus cornix - corvus corone - carrion crow -
corvus manus laevus - left-hand crow, which by it's
hyphen refers to a deity - thus in original crow left-hand -
Odin's illuminating eye embedded for eternity entombed
in the companion that takes the sky as leisure equal to
a cushioned and scented parlour, and the wind as a mother -
away from the hunchback penitence as seen on ground,
pauper hunchback clad in black a futile scout.

as already mentioned - capture it at any one time in
unravelling Babylon - the grand spiral architecture  
unison - for that English was used - or "proto" Latin
without diacritical marks (stresses) - the one accomplishment
that arose from the mad farce of Nebuchadnezzar -
the Jews sighed relief when then plans to build gardens
above the sky (hanging) were foiled - the sigh of
the Hebrew slaves in Verdi's Nabucco - indeed va pensiro,
alter: ave ratio! the only one time when the Mensa society
are of any use other than training pet monkeys -
a democratic hooray! geniuses unread but good at
arithmetic... they're still children for goodness' sake!
but what have we exchanged for the hanging gardens?
the pyramids were already ridiculous,
the hanging gardens were impossible, but the tower
of babble-toe-babbling-tongue came to be prißed for
all the wrong reasons - sigma global, Atlas threw earth
away and picked up the Moon.

still the compass away from Bermuda dizzy in myth
or reality provides us the true North magnetism -
as Confucius said: man's importance lies in the head,
not the toe - we shall write from head to toe,
to motivate our understanding of the yet unexplored
gravity, this be our grounding... no grand empire outside
the evident physiognomy of Shanghai blinds of Buddha -
nothing beyond this reach of yellow -
the Mongol will try, but fail, the Japanese will try,
but fail, the Koreans are another matter, a civil war
ravaged them, and a true schism happened,
there was nothing Byzantine or Romanic about it -
the schism of reality, nothing metaphysical kept them apart,
a genocide division without a genocide -
an old father had a plot of land and three songs -
Yin took the northern realm, Shin the southern realm,
Ming became a Communist party member in China -
Tibet never had the exclusiveness of the Vatican -
the Vatican is not an ethnic entity, for starters -
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is...
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is... claim a son or a godhead
see how the masses entrenched in insect Darwinism
come about with coherent reasoning -
masquerade as a prophet, the easiest answer is that
the consistency of time will always precede your idea
of superior constants, neither Buddha nor Christ were
ever meant to be π.

the Chinese knew how to build a state, shame! shame
on the Slavs for biting the apple too soon rather than
baking an apple pie with Communism -
shame! shame! shame! ridiculous souls -
fickle hearts - i only learned this in exile, a proud
exile at that - not that i became accommodated in a superior
culture, these ******* inspired socialism with their
bile Empire monotony - am i proud to be British?
give me a minute, i'll just ask the Scottish separatists
if they think Andrew battled Santa Claus like St. George -
(anagram: Satan's Clause, an article of jurisprudence).
em... British? poet in residence or poet on a high-note
of a tsunami of change? i think the latter.
once the Scots rammed their way into Westminster
the Labour party was no more, what with the Iraq
Endeavour of Herr Barrister Milosevic -
**** up and Shrove Tuesday - **** in a fan,
chocolate milkshake with a sprinkle of shattered cranium.

when in Edinburgh i implanted into my brain the compass,
the perfect geographic locality, Edinburgh is,
i had a nice acceptance in Bristol by the cat-and-mouse
people from the educational firm University seeking
a scientists that had some vague sense of respecting humanism...
that really smeared chilli powder on my *******,
i left suspicious about the eagerness -
went to Edinburgh, the education reception was cold...
cold enough to be given an onion to smash against the
floor after it was dipped in liquid nitrogen -
but the city! the city! it breathed ancient fables!
and **** me... a city built around a mountain...
how many sunrises and sunsets do you think
i sore with every blink on my maiden voyage to the land
of the Picts? enough... plus my stomach was ready,
haggis was nothing unusual... i was familiar with haggis
in a pork variation - czarna kiszka (char n'ah kee shka'h).

so what will it be?
hic mali medium est                     or...
                        hic boni medium est?
i wish there was an ad hoc hidden somewhere, but
neither expressions are a nail for the hammer and
the planks of wood, but you can think of them like that...
i.e. 1st. here is the core of evil
                 and 2nd. here is the core of good... yeah, mm d'uh
that famous and meaning the two opposites are inseparable...
but i mean the compass! the compass!

the Firth of Forth helped, no, not Genesis' selling England by
the pound, and everyone somehow hates Phillip Cool Onions -
ever hear that one about another day forgetting paradise?
it's on there... i can't walk... i can listen to Genesis -
you just realise how complex English culture of lore yore -
that's long forgotten yesterday - everything decays,
autumn must come -
now the children play with fame, rather than work for it.

i get reminded every ****** time...
i kept the notes and extracts after the Cantos ended -
i neither wish to imitate - but pay the compliments
necessitated by the work -
when the rhythm section was more complex than
the solos - when it was always jazzy guitars on prog.
i kept the fragments unread -
and in between travelling to London to see
the Werther opera and the Don Quixote ballet
i was commuting with Kant - i know i mentioned
them as my heroes, given there would never be a battle
of Θερμoπυλαη and only the yawns of battle
with the critique - i too care to admit a defeat -
when i pick that book up and i pick up the Cantos
with the first i hear someone knocking on my door,
while with the latter i hear someone playing the flute,
optically and exclusively based on that to suit the final
exasperation of breath.

or you would think that by the standard of the English
mind at least poetry would gain favours if
French frivolity and German philosophic Benz fell out
of favour - at least poetry would be attended to -
and when they see the demonic form of the prised
asset of English intellect that isn't music, but the Yorkshire
dales and rambling naked and telling folklore and tall
B.F.G. tales would not shrivel into a tightened-strait-jacket
panic seeing someone juggling pronouns on a psychotic
cloud; almost every day the English mind allows
madmen in a different category - equipped with
suicide vests and the crowd of many - playing god
almost every other day - materialisation of fiction
with terrorist attacks - see both good and evil -
chaos demands both, order a distinction, the latter
played out so unfortunately to be constantly compared -
the former? well, either that or nothing -
of the essences so much was said countless times -
and countless times unsaid when the actors came on stage.

so rekindled Latin in encoding sounds ascribed hoarse
throats of the nomadic north bound exploration -
from left to right - then reinvented as if Arabic -
from right to left: corvus cornix - hooden crow -
well, at least it's easier to think of it as right to left
rather than left to right - than mere concentration rested
upon the stone not turning to bread -
higher in the pyramid than the water turning to wine -
as the pigs were fed, and the toils of man became
a fervency of all - as the devil asked:
are you sure you will be selling the aristocratic life to all
and all will be pleased? not all men were born
into a luxury of continual drunken luxury -
later the riddle turned into a choking joke of the 5,000 -
never show them tricks of the aristocratic class
for they drink to excess, and turn wine into water by
the day... but will stones keep the agile hands of labourers
readied for the next task if given water they turn into
debauched drunk sloths?

Tiny things that strike your fancy
Any verse which hits a note,
Messages from all and sundry
Extracts from your favourite quote.
Moments from a treasured movie
Recollections from the past,
Sunday roast from Grandma’s oven
Sights and sounds and smells that last.

Memories of moonlight saunter
Arm in arm with newfound love,
Barefoot where the sand meets water
Lost to all... but stars above.
Walking in the hills at daybreak
Crispness of the frosty verge,
Feel the pounding pulse of living
Feel the joy of being... surge.

Tomatoes from the garden plot
Rich and biting, acid red,
Delicious on hot buttered toast
With liberal salt and pepper, spread.
Gazing at your baby daughter
Softly pink in muscled arm,
Wondering what future holds
For her in love and wealth and harm.

See the grasses thrash to windward
Hear the pounding surf cascade,
Lines of gulls in steady hover
Thunder breaks at lightning fade.
Old friend’s letter, unexpected
Tells of hardship over time,
Loss and sadness unconnected
To good fortune, found in mine.

Tremor in her frail, white fingers
Dancing of her rheumy eyes,
Sharing yesterday’s good tales
To bring a joy to aged disguise.
Lavender in gentle velvet
Serves the honey bee her gold,
Nodding in the balmy breezes
Reminiscent perfume, old.

Cup of tea for all the Aunties
Dear old Fred has passed away,
Sadness... but we all agree
He made the most of every day.
Sun ball on the far horizon
Melting orange, richly gold,
Sinking to the seascape, gone
To let the moonlit night take hold.

Marshalg
Sitting on the Taranaki sand with my love, with nibbles and a glass of wine
Watching the enormous, Autumn sun melt into a flat, flat sea.
April 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie

they say the saddest
are the most happy

how a comedian can
stand up on stage to
make himself the world’s fool
because he had never
heard of a joke like love

our lady of perpetual sorrow
grabs the fool from everyone
a leach of life that chooses
to choose a happiness like you
extracts all it can
like nectar to a bee
but it’s almost relieving when
it had no where else to be

i have begun to believe
life isn't about all the
joys to feel and
things to see
it's not about you and
it's definitely not about me
the illusion is that
greatness is up and
failure is down when  
true progression doesn’t
care for dimensions

remember the comedian
who hates it all
who makes it funny
because he recalls
if i can’t be happy
everyone can

sure,
i still sometimes wish you'd see me
when i'm out
running you off

but at last.

i am
running you
off