. you're using all the right words: for all the wrong reasons... and let's face it: if women own the monopoly on reproductive avenues... then men hold the ego-key, to slot their presence, through a door, that curbs or gives allowances, to what is thought... *** was nether a transluçent enterprise... oh look... the Roma sigma pops up... dire straits: de profundis - money for nothing riff - boogie boogie... milkshakes from the 1950s 'n' all... you know what my biggest pet peeve is? the englih language imitating ancient Latin, i.e. not applying diacritical "punctuation" markers to close in on syllables and make the language atomic (i.e. H is hydrogen, He is helium)... **** me... the same Brits who lived in the 19th century, are not the same Brits living in the 21st century... no wonder the fertility rate is s ****** low.... try ******* an english bride... no thank you; i'd rather **** a female gorilla.

the milkman passes my house
at, circa, 3am...
see the van skid around the bend
up the hill...
            
i listen to music at volumes
equivalent to my father working
the construction site -
i'll be deaf by the time i'm 50...
     and guess what:
                  for the music i'm listening
to? it'll be worth it...

dittoing out:
   have the criticism of post-modernists
ever suffer?
doubt: doubt, is the modern
relief from existentialist
    negation...
  
why is doubt being attacked?
doubt is half than that outright
******* of denial
proposed by French existentialists...
doubt is good in that it's
tornado of emotions,
you want to imitate Christ on
Golgotha?
  you doubt, and achieve the pinnacle
of the passion...
you start negating?
     you're, nowhere...

    on your own...

came the noun-phobia of philosophers -
the tinkers and tailors
of a.. what seems to be:
a noun-phobia
  guaranteed with fog...
   and thing..

  the term
  "thing" presupposes
the supposition of tree...
     which subsequently serves
the proposition: let's hide in it!

      philosophy and its infamous
noun-phobia -
               thing...
           and it's nihil...
  its nothing...
      
                 a ******* cul de sac -
     epigram -
       of quasi morse encoding -
     braille to boot -
September is coming -
           van Morrison (moondance) -
hiding autumnal chill -
           pan-Europeanism:
proto-"africa": either in Hindustan -
or Siberia;

suppose a moon, suppose a shadow by
candlelight, some edgy urban solo -
as a bricklayer i could raise kids
and crux on a woman -
          chicken / doctoral itching with
a blunt nail are called scratchings -
       hand-writing:
             less digits in the digital
formatting - and more
calligraphy...
                      the rotten handwriting
of general practitioners...
     Hippocrates might have made an oath...
but in terms of a handwritten cipher?
no clue...
               the canvas of a monkey
onomatopoeia within the confines
of a custard of a lexicon...
   a mouth thus opens -
a month begins -
instead of a tongue ejected from
the ivory temple -
  a sludge crescendo of a quasi
                 cascade of sludge gluing the
whole theater into
a replica of a Russian drinking game...

....                 ⠞⠓
          ...     ⠑⠁⠑
     ...           ⠞⠑
    ............                  ⠞
...                      ⠥ ⠎
     : : :           -  ⠎          
   ........ : ....           ⠕?

100 wolves of the continent...
for, but 1, fox,
of the English isles...
   i'll settle for that ratio...
and then i'll bite to ensure
a signature!

  howl all you want...
but have you ever found seagulls
annoying up the river?
more annoying than magpies
or crows?
             the wolves can howl
all they want..
ever endear the ear
to hear a fox "laughing"?
   no?
  might as well listen to me.
i cradle that sound,
above the chariots
of a human newborn...
        i grieve!
   i am... sombre gsture...
    a past, a passing,
a future, a wicker man within:
torch...
   banquette of souls!

    let's interlude -

   touko "tom" laaksonen -
    how can people "do" sober
           when entertaining such
extravagances....
        is it empathy, or sympathy?
            in the name of the either,
with either being the sum
of what wll never be a sum
allowance,....
     to gain from...
                  why not
       ****-ease up the ****
    for a zeppelin-esque
                            bomb drop -
(minor the Nagasaki) -
                    and hand-piked ****
with the cusp of your hand -
         throne of thrones -
  flagship?
   "king of kings":
  like ****...
  the holy trinity of
       the no. 1, as the no. 2,
   and subsequently the no. 3:
**** (father),
       take a **** (son)...
            ******* (the holy ghosts)...
king of kings,
never sat on the throne
of thrones...
   i always hated "artists"...
    painters -
   plagiarists -
      cheque sketchers...
             plagiarists...
         ******* indentation
from holding a pen to add to having
exposure to a grammatical examination...
       quality cinema:
panorama take on a versus of
heavy editing...
                     and there was a time
frame to encompass dialogue...
      somehow it fits:
the verbal myopic -
            the entire pre-
& post- canvas of a blinking eye...
   always the question of the
pre-industrialißed sketch;
words predating metaphor
akin to  -
  words versus metaphor
in genesis -
   format? anecdotal.

      in writing:
            by one hand alone,
made into two...
        my, my...
  what a ****** self-portrait
"assumption"...
        a self-portrait...
a wish for color,
with nothing to show,
but the relief of encompassed bones;
that become a disembodied
skeleton - minus a purpose
of tendon attachments...

∟          "contra"    Δ          -
equilateral my ***...

            a few days spent within the confines
of a Promethean *****,
     there be, elemental insomnia
of an electric bespoke...
if Prometheus stole fire,
who, in in all for ****'s sake
stole the saber of Zeus,
the thunderbolt -
electricity, who?
who craved the insomnia?!
             this Frankenstein-esque
insomnia-zombification -
             white as is white:
with all the dermatological
copper take on broken shins...
         should ivory coco -
come between piglet *** copper
auburn in terms of autumn...
******...
             *******!

take your ****** *** elsewhere,
and then... start spelling
it with a missing G...
when citing Niger...
  you do the double dip of the NBA...
you count the second dip...
why do i love Batman as the best
superhero?
  not of his superhero powers,
he has none...
          his enemies are
the only interesting
counter-factoids of
having implemented an existence
for.
   there is no exacting of
a superhero,..
   but there is enough
to mind an antithesis...

          tylko wieśniak
by wydział film w tym,
          bo sie nie rusze -
    cegła, kamień -
       pień - mur -
           i by mówił - w tym
co zamarzło -
          to co ostygłe -
    w co z tym samym -
        meine filmisch -
      i skakaniem świec -
   od i na nagim cieniem -
   pytać nad pyche -
       tanz! tanz!
                 moje iskry słów...
   sto! i lat,
    o wielbłąd churem o
grzbiet da, i da,
       iskra; alfabetu!
    bogiem impromptu
o czym warty: -gień.

- suppose a moon, suppose a shadow,
by candlelight - within the confines of
mercury - that quickened silver -
some edgy urban solo -

      as a bricklayer or a cobbler  -
shoes that deviate from ushering
an echo -
          i could raise children and keep
a woman: only if she decided
upon not allowing me
a leash -
            what a saddening affair
of minds and freedom...
           chicken doctoral -
i don't know: vanity of the impossible
mortal gain...

    the monkey onomatopoeia
    within the confines of a custard
of  lexicon....

          that Victorian image proof
source of envisioned Braille in
the confines of a primate...
  
handwriting:
itches, scratches, chicken esque
clucking... which is what
handwriting looks like these days,
what, with the coding...
    semi plumber,
half the electrician...
  and certainly null when it comes
to calligraphic invigoration...

- homosexuality was always a contingency
escapade to release suppressed yearnings -
a sudden but a non-fulfillment questioning
celibacy...

               you can enforce curbing homosexuality,
but then there are two outlets...
the perversity: or the question...
of Ayn and Sophia...
                          
        greeks ****** the hebrews in the hole
without an outlet - zee heed: with a missing A...
      Ayn - Aleph -
                    twin Adam -
          perhaps a Siamese abomination...

mind you... the forbidden fruit?
sounds more like... the forbidden flesh...

thee burdensome walking
the already burdened earth: as the fruit,
somewhere between the flesh of man's last predator,
contained, on land, and his hidden desire
for revenge and introspection,
a denial of commonality and shared purpose -
thou shall not consume
that which also hunts you -
little or no concern with equal
     measure of forbidding, that which you pet...
the forbidden "fruit",
in between the flesh of a sabertooth tiger,
and Cain's fruit of famine and incompetence:
               cannibalism...

   and why would you think about
drinking a ms. amber with pepsi...
pepsi! to coca -
and not slide in a slice of lemon
while you're at it?
  terrible mistake...
       well... one way to get y'er vit amins...

        and why is it that all the best
movies these days are about homosexuals?
the dutch girl for starters...
   me, drinking, watching t.v.?
either **** good drama,
a western,
   or a movie about a *******
homosexual...
          did i mention that i think that
homosexuality is an auxiliary escapade plan?
natural, of course,
    but i'd hate to have to life
a doubled up life -
then again...
     perhaps i would...
           me? i have a new girlfriend -
Sophia - and her ****: Philip -
           so am i expected to make demands
for the child they might end up
called Ayn, or Aleph?
                - the Wahhabi hypocrisy
    concerning music, or rather, censoring it...
but... but i thought the adhan:
the call to prayer: was sung,
rather than abiding by the catholic
credo murmur?
     no?
                         my bad... you know better...
i'll send you a postcard from
the Galapagos Islands,
if i find the time, to find:
    that 4th dimensional concept doing
the trigonometric shoom! elsewhere -
on a tangen "bias": **** knows where -
like a comet - missing a tail -
shoom!                                       gone.

shrapnel:

            not enough thrills for a hard-on...
... images... drawings...
   apparently fine art is not enough
stimulation to ******* to for these Arabs...
****? .....   in general?
cartoons.... cartoons of women....
   ... because?
well... apparently the niqab...
  extends beyond the realm of...
  readily available attire...
            women on the street?
   pornographic "actresses"?
                       you see the cartoon?
it's all ******* ******...
                  oh don't get me wrong...
amy adams?
  buff as an exploding Hindenburg...
    the pale ginger - milchskin...
                - unrelated:
   how about i sneak a skunk into
        a coco chanel perfumery -
while advocating that people will still
call it a: scent just shy of roses and strawberries.

- people have heard of incels -
but have they heard of Vcels?
    huh?!
   yeah, yeah... voluntary celibacy -
i know what a ****** sounds and looks like -
and, to be honest?
   there's hardly any rhetorical ***
involved -
         a bit like jerking off...
              monkish chants -
Byzantine -
     the fear of man,
   when his own inability flourishes:
     in a woman...
                          
these acts have become well trodden...
so well trodden that i'm
authentically surprised that anyone
would still goosestep them into
their mundane plagiarism's existence...
    replica invigoration:
turns out...
    
   zeit ist nicht gerade, aber
kreisförmig...

                              touko "tom" laaksonen...
i.e. tom of finland...
   question: you think a macron over
one of those As
                     would do the trick in terms
of spelling correction?

  touko "tom" laaksonen...
you seriously can only watch European cinema
while drinking...
    again... invigorating the english language:
one baby step at a time -
a simple grapheme -

    the vater's S Z interchangeability -
   synchronised contra synchronized -
    settled -
    synchronißed -
                       sometimes the slithering S
of a snake -
   otherwise the rigid totem with
a torso of a zebra...
                     hardly a major investment -
but when i see English having moved
from the Elizabethan Shaky Steward of
thou etc. -
       imitating ancient Latin -
    coordinating the Greenwich study of
dyslexia...
            Joyce...
              no diacritical application?
   hell...
                 might as well release a bull
into a China shop...
                 or a rottweiler into chicken shack...
still... why is there an orthographic aesthetic
in practice, hovering over I and J,
  when there's no difference, as suggested
in CAPiTAL letterIng?
                                       ah... i see...
the english "think" they can bypass the para-
frontier, and the orthographic frontier
and race down to the metaphysics...
        first?
   you explain why it's i and not ι,
  and why it's j and not ȷ.

A life long lived is a life filled with nothing but emptiness,
A life well lived is a life filled with exotic wilderness.
A life complete is a life well nourished,
A life with love is a life filled with fresh water.
A life with joy s a life filled with intoxicating perfumes of fresh flowers,
A life filled with expeditions is a life filled with hope.
A life filled with hope is a life well lived,
A life filled with graciousness is a life filled with extravagances.
A life filled with mercy is a life filled with joy.
A life filled with extravagances is a life filled with expeditions.
A life filled with fresh water is a life filled with graciousness.
A life lived in an exotic wilderness is a life that is complete.
A life that is well nourished is a long life that is filled with fulfilment.

Love, now, is considered 'cute'.
That's all there is to it.

It's not looking up at the stars and
wishing for that same blazing fire
inside yourself.

It isn't those long, after-dark
conversations we had when
the constellations sang us melodies
in Ursa Major and Ursa Minor until
we remembered that I could play the piano
and you were alright on the recorder
and we joined in.

Sometimes, you'd stroke your fingers
through my hair, and my tears would
stroke the piano keys at the beautiful
audacity of your perfection.

Our shadows would intertwine,
flecked with tiny shards of the moonlight
and its spittle,
and it would seem to us that all
the great expanses and extravagances
of our universe had aligned to give us
this moment.

I'm told that wasn't love either.
No. Love is cute.

Love, according to the here and now,
is not what Shakespeare promised me
it would be.

It is not speaking the sort of words
that have stretched from the dawn of
the dawn of time and have tangled and
coiled and wrapped us together
like words are ribbons and we're
a human maypole.

It isn't seeing the sun and thinking
of the way your eyes lit up when
you first read my poetry.

After, you'd rise from where you sat
to the right of me, the east
and whisper to me how
lucky you were, how lucky we were
to be here, in this world, together.

Our hands would clasp, my small fingers
warmed by the inexplicably intrinsic
sense of togetherness.
Of you. Of me.

The two words blended like
we were only colours and this
world our painted grey palette.

None of it mattered.
None of it mattered, because none of it was love.
'Love', according to the modern mind, is simply
Cute.

We were boiled down,
like we'd been pushed into a pan and
they couldn't understand why we wouldn't fit
even once they'd chopped us up.

Everything - because wasn't love everything? -
was just plagiarised love letters scribbled on the
dog-eared corners of textbooks.

And though to us we were Nut and Geb,
Gaia and Ouranos,
Romeo and Juliet, if Romeo had
had your freckles and Juliet had
had my temper and they'd had
love built on the transcendence
of time instead of party crashing.

Except, to everyone else in the here and now,
we weren't. We weren't *******
Nut and Geb.
We were cute.

Somehow, love seems to equate to
you carrying my books around for me
like you don't  have enough of your own to drag.

Love is suits and cravats and
prom dresses with stick on sparkles
because the night sky is no longer enough.

Love is kisses on the end of text messages
to replace the kisses in real life,
and pink and red heart emoticons to
pretend that we all still have hearts that are capable of
anything more than 'cute'.

And when I close my eyes and try to remember that it was real,
what we had, remember that it was the kind of untarnished love that
I could look in and see our reflection,
it's not your voice that I hear, but the words of 'love' in the here and now.

'You two are so cute together!'
'I wish I could have a relationship like yours. It's adorable.'
Quaint. Charming. Darling.
Cute.

Love, now, is considered 'cute'.
Even when it's not.

More than a myth than Nut and Geb ever were.

Even when it's real.
Especially when it's real.

That's all there is to it.

In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to you
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.

I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.

“I’m not a **** at all –“ you wrote,
"It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine -
Your optimism won’t catch you.
(Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.)
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you, as you say,
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”

And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.

You were always nasty
When you missed me.

In a Bluebird toffee tin
Are a hundred letters –
Most of them doodle-stamped and
Delivered by hand.
Unlike the letters I sent to you
They do not smell of spritzed cologne,
(A trick that I learned from Grease)
They are not messy
Or tea stained,
But perfect powder blue
And allowing for small extravagances –
The Cursive of the Obsessive,
Cursed by neatness and perfect hearts.

I pick one out at random,
A casually cruel one sent from Rome –
I imagine you blinking on a balcony
With dazzles on your collarbone,
A teeny tiny sugarless coffee
At your side,
And a pen tapping your knee.

“I’m not a **** at all –“ you wrote,
It’s only that you are gregarious
In the most DISGUSTING way.
That’s your problem not mine -
Your optimism won’t catch you.
Cynicism won’t catch you either,
But it has the courtesy not to throw you.
I’m stopping now,
By the time you get this
I’ll be back home.
What pointlessness we endure for one other.
I miss you, as you say,
‘ever so’ –
Bedtime here is a source of misery.”

And then you signed your name,
Tiny,
Small,
Impossibly graceful,
Just like yourself.

You were always nasty
When you missed me.

Last year my family and I traveled
to New York, the bursting bright
dreams in our light, the big apple
rooted inside our souls, the van
packed with immense suitcases
and heavy exhilaration.  

We were on the long road to a
new beginning of our life.  The
world we used to live in was filled
with endless moments of dragging days,
sweat stained fields riding our backs,
as we worked long breathless hours in
the scorching heat, feeling our flesh
burn to a smoldering defeat.  

And as we topped and suckered the
tobacco through the day, blistered
hands buried in blazing depths,
our swollen feet cramping and
struggling, waiting patiently for
a sweet escape.  

We thought it would always be
this way, every morning waking
up to the sounds of rattling tractors
and smoky engines, long draining
walks and dripping sweat rolling
down our cheeks, while we took
in the consistent cries of our lives,
letting the journey seep inside of us,
letting this world be our forever home.

Now as we stand on the grounds of
New York, the many fascinating people
passing by us in extreme excitement,
exquisite extravagances and designs,
towering buildings built of massive
strength and diligence, the Brooklyn
bridge standing majestically in the
distance overlooking the shimmering
scene, the Statue of Liberty rising
high in the sky like the tremendous
trees, like a distinguished nation.
And as we walk down the city
streets of Times Square and
breathe in the wonderful attractions,
golden glory and brightness, a
show-stopping entertainment racing
through our bodies, we welcome
our new home of various adventures,
a phenomenal place full of excellence
and taste.

A storm and the stars
Everywhere it would
Echo the song
Of sheltering silence

The dream of
What's ahead
The dawns, how
They turn into days
Fate, the blissful chase

Enduring crosses
Completely, These
Extravagances
Of the heart
Even the nearest
Moment is far

coming from someone who, actually had a communist party member to speak to, i.e. his grandfather... who are these leftists fooling? who are they if not merely vandals? communism is primarily an enterprise in a collective civic duty... every aged communist will always assert a good citizen if he sees one... these "communists" inside capitalism? they're not exactly expressing a civic duty, they're not communists, they're vandals; i stopped "trying" to be an individualist in western society, when it became too confusing to insurrect the mere idea, let alone the practice, into the environment... bamboo the chimp in the london zoo had an easier time stating his "rebellion" against the oppressive chimp collective: took to a p.c., and ordered a take-away for a picnic; lucky *******, wonder if he figured out the hygienics of wiping his ***, after taking a dump worth's of a camel **** in the bushes.

listening to these people,
you really have exhausted
the concept of individualism;

it's not god that's dead,
unless he's dead from laughter...

the western world, which championed
individualism, just killed it,
by not relying on scientific rules,
akin to the laws of physics akin
to rules of linguistics,

the western world is a lunatic asylum,
i call it anything but an asylum,
******* lunatics everywhere,
yes, i like "profane" words...
  which justifies equating themselves
in political speak...
mostly: one & the same.

these people are teasing a new collectivism,
they're abolishing neither cultural,
nor ethnic norms,
they're abolishing the 1 + 1 = 2 rules
of grammar... can you even imagine
the consequences of the shadow of
the golgotha cross...
   the cross itself is one thing,
but the shadow history is much worse...

the unconscious aspect of islam knows
this... don't you touch the sympathetic shia
islam, don't you ******* dare
to tread a foot into that territory!
                   i will, warn you, *only, once!
you make your enemy the shia muslims
you will only encourage the sunni
fanatical squat-hoppers of easily-taking-a-****
sunnis...
     no respect for music,
i guess the angels forgot to sing
and instead came to a conclave of a mumble...
******* camel-jockeys.

the western world killed the concept
of individualism by succumbing to people that
were never entrusted with linguistic rigour...
who were never told the categorical stratum:
the maxims, my dear deutsche friend,
are long gone, long gone and wasted on
simpletons...
                      we need to return to relearning
the basis of categories per se,
people seem to have comforted themselves
by forgetting grammatical categorisation
of words, to simply differentiate them
from the branch of nouns...

      and they are really pushing the testimony,
as i already suspected: in the wrong direction...
you can't de-sexualise pronouns into neutral,
if you can't sexualise nouns into a polarity...

            retards are native speakers,
but they can't fathom their language as native
speakers...

            i'm half the native
   of them, by most the most ambitious,
            but mostly *******,
since they lack the linguistic rigour
to compensate other cultural extravagances
that cannot translate, into fully formed &
fathomed sentences...
      
please, don't make me into a babysitter
of your children,
   oh wait... i already am;

shove your text-message short-scriptum
of l8er for later up your ***,
and sing me: cauliflower sunny
while you're at it,
   i desire no excuses! not like i don't,
learn to spell, learn to interact with
the arithmetic of couple:
c + e + l + o + p + u...
      learn the chinese stratum of bias;
if you're not going to learn the vertical
method,
you're going to learn the horizontal
method!

  back & forth, fro & back, back & forth,
re.!
and that's for not applying
diacritical marking,
   when the greeks applied them:
to an unnecessary excess.