Like a psychotic docent in the wilderness,
I will not speak in perfect Ciceronian cadences.
I draw my voice from a much deeper cistern,
Preferring the jittery synaptic archive,
So sublimely unfiltered, random and profane.
And though I am sequestered now,
Confined within the walls of a gated, golf-coursed,
Over-55 lunatic asylum (for Active Seniors I am told),
I remain oddly puerile,
Remarkably refreshed and unfettered.  
My institutionalization self-imposed,
Purposed for my own serenity, and also the safety of others.
Yet I abide, surprisingly emancipated and frisky.
I may not have found the peace I seek,
But the quiet has mercifully come at last.

The nexus of inner and outer space is context for my story.
I was born either in Brooklyn, New York or Shungopavi, Arizona,
More of intervention divine than census data.
Shungopavi: a designated place for tribal statistical purposes.
Shungopavi: an ovine abbatoir and shaman’s cloister.
The Hopi: my mother’s people, a state of mind and grace,
Deftly landlocked, so cunningly circumscribed,
By both interior and outer Navajo boundaries.
The Navajo: a coyote trickster people; a nation of sheep thieves,
Hornswoggled and landlocked themselves,
Subsumed within three of the so-called Four Corners:
A 3/4ths compromise and covenant,
Pickled in firewater, swaddled in fine print,
A veritable swindle concocted back when the USA
Had Manifest Destiny & mayhem on its mind.

The United States: once a pubescent synthesis of blood and thunder,
A bold caboodle of trooper spit and polish, unwashed brawlers, Scouts and      
Pathfinders, mountain men, numb-nut ne'er-do-wells,
Buffalo Bills & big-balled individualists, infected, insane with greed.
According to the Gospel of His Holiness Saint Zinn,
A People’s’ History of the United States: essentially state-sponsored terrorism,
A LAND RUSH grabocracy, orchestrated, blessed and anointed,
By a succession of Potomac sharks, Great White Fascist Fathers,
Far-Away-on-the Bay, the Bay we call The Chesapeake.
All demented national patriarchs craving lebensraum for God and country.
The USA: a 50-state Leviathan today, a nation jury-rigged,
Out of railroad ties, steel rails and baling wire,
Forged by a litany of lies, rapaciousness and ******,
And jaw-torn chunks of terra firma,
Bites both large and small out of our well-****** Native American ***.

Or culo, as in va’a fare in culo (literally "go do it in the ***")
Which Italian Americans pronounce as fongool.
The language center of my brain,
My sub-cortical Broca’s region,
So fraught with such semantic misfires,
And autonomic linguistic seizures,
Compel acknowledgement of a father’s contribution,
To both the gene pool and the genocide.
Columbus Day:  a conspicuously absent holiday out here in Indian Country.
No festivals or Fifth Avenue parades.
No excuse for ethnic hoopla. No guinea feast. No cannoli. No tarantella.
No excuse to not get drunk and not **** your sister-in-law.
Emphatically a day for prayer and contemplation,
A day of infamy like Pearl Harbor and 9/11,
October 12, 1492: not a discovery; an invasion.

Growing up in Brooklyn, things were always different for me,
Different in some sort of redskin/****/****--
Choose Your Favorite Ethnic Slur-sort of way.
The American Way: dehumanization for fun and profit.
Melting *** anonymity and denial of complicity with evil.
But this is no time to bring up America’s sordid past,
Or, a personal pet peeve: Indian Sovereignty.
For Uncle Sam and his minions, an ever-widening, conveniently flexible concept,
Not a commandment or law,
Not really a treaty or a compact,
Or even a business deal.  Let’s get real:
It was not even much in the way of a guideline.
Just some kind of an advisory, a bulletin or newsletter,
Could it merely have been a free-floating suggestion?
Yes, that’s it exactly: a suggestion.

Over and under halcyon American skies,
Over and around those majestic purple mountain peaks,
Those trapped in poetic amber waves of wheat and oats,
Corn and barley, wheat shredded and puffed,
Corn flaked and milled, Wheat Chex and Wheaties, oats that are little Os;
Kix and Trix, Fiber One, and Kashi-Go-Lean, Lucky Charms and matso *****,
Kreplach and kishka,
Polenta and risotto.
Our cantaloupe and squash patch,
Our fruited prairie plain, our delicate ecological Eden,
In balance and harmony with nature, as Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce instructs:
“These white devils are not going to,
Stop ****** and killing, cheating and eating us,
Until they have the whole ******* enchilada.
I’m talking about ‘from sea to shining sea.’”

“I fight no more forever,” Babaloo.
So I must steer this clunky keelboat of discovery,
Back to the main channel of my sad and starry demented river.
My warpath is personal but not historical.
It is my brain’s own convoluted cognitive process I cannot saavy.
Whatever biochemical or—as I suspect more each day—
Whatever bio-mechanical protocols govern my identity,
My weltanschauung: my world-view, as sprechen by proto-Nazis;
Putz philosophers of the 17th, 18th & 19th century.
The German intelligentsia: what a cavalcade of maniacal *******!
Why is this Jew unsurprised these Zarathustra-fueled Übermenschen . . .
Be it the Kaiser--Caesar in Deutsch--Bismarck, ******, or,
Even that Euro-*****,  Angela Merkel . . . Why am I not surprised these Huns,
Get global grab-*** on the sauerbraten cabeza every few generations?
To be, or not to be the ***** bullgoose loony: GOTT.

Biomechanical protocols govern my identity and are implanted while I sleep.
My brain--my weak and weary CPU--is replenished, my discs defragmented.
A suite of magnetic and optical white rooms, cleansed free of contaminants,
Gun mounts & lifeboat stations manned and ready,
Standing at attention and saluting British snap-style,
Snap-to and heel click, ramrod straight and cheerful: “Ready for duty, Sir.”
My mind is ravenous, lusting for something, anything to process.
Any memory or image, lyric or construct,
Be they short-term dailies or deeply imprinted.
Fixations archived one and all in deep storage time and space.
Memories, some subconscious, most vaporous;
Others--the scary ones—eidetic: frighteningly detailed and extraordinarily vivid.
Precise cognitive transcripts; recollected so richly rife and fresh.
Visual, auditory, tactile, gustatory, and olfactory reloads:
Queued up and increasingly re-experienced.

The bio-data of six decades: it’s all there.
People, countless, places and things cataloged.
Every event, joy and trauma enveloped from within or,
Accessed externally from biomechanical storage devices.
The random access memory of a lifetime,
Read and recollected from cerebral repositories and vaults,
All the while the entire greedy process overseen,
Over-driven by that all-subservient British bat-man,
Rummaging through the data in batches small and large,
Internal and external drives working in seamless syncopation,
Self-referential, at times paradoxical or infinitely looped.
“Cogito ergo sum."
Descartes stripped it down to the basics but there’s more to the story:
Thinking about thinking.
A curse and minefield for the cerebral:  metacognition.

No, it is not the fact that thought exists,
Or even the thoughts themselves.
But the information technology of thought that baffles me,
As adaptive and profound as any evolution posited by Darwin,
Beyond the wetware in my skull, an entirely new operating system.
My mental and cultural landscape are becoming one.
Machines are connecting the two.
It’s what I am and what I am becoming.
Once more for emphasis:
It is the information technology of who I am.
It is the operating system of my mental and cultural landscape.
It is the machinery connecting the two.
This is the central point of this narrative:
Metacognition--your superego’s yenta Cassandra,
Screaming, screaming in your psychic ear, your good ear:

“LISTEN:  The machines are taking over, taking you over.
Your identity and train of thought are repeatedly hijacked,
Switched off the main line onto spurs and tangents,
Only marginally connected or not at all.
(Incoming TEXT from my editor: “Lighten Up, Giuseppi!”)
Reminding me again that most in my audience,
Rarely get past the comic page. All righty then: think Calvin & Hobbes.
John Calvin, a precocious and adventurous six-year old boy,
Subject to flights of 16th Century French theological fancy.
Thomas Hobbes, a sardonic anthropomorphic tiger from 17th Century England,
Mumbling about life being “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”
Taken together--their antics and shenanigans--their relationship to each other,
Remind us of our dual nature; explore for us broad issues like public education;
The economy, environmentalism & the Global ****** Thermometer;
Not to mention the numerous flaws of opinion polls.



And again my editor TEXTS me, reminds me again: “LIGHTEN UP!”
Consoling me:  “Even Shakespeare had to play to the groundlings.”
The groundlings, AKA: The Rabble.
Yes. Even the ******* Bard, even Willie the Shake,
Had to contend with a decidedly lowbrow copse of carrion.
Oh yes, the groundlings, a carrion herd, a flying flock of carrion seagulls,
Carrion crow, carrion-feeders one and all,
And let’s throw Sheryl Crow into the mix while we’re at it:
“Hit it! This ain't no disco. And it ain't no country club either, this is L.A.”  

                  Send "All I Wanna Do" Ringtone to your Cell              

Once more, I digress.
The Rabble:  an amorphous, gelatinous Jabba the Hutt of commonality.
The Rabble: drunk, debauched & lawless.
Too *****-delicious to stop Bill & Hilary from thinking about tomorrow;
Too Paul McCartney My Love Does it Good to think twice.

The Roman Saturnalia: a weeklong **** fest.
The Saturnalia: originally a pagan kink-fest in honor of the deity Saturn.
Dovetailing nicely with the advent of the Christian era,
With a project started by Il Capo di Tutti Capi,
One of the early popes, co-opting the Roman calendar between 17 and 25 December,
Putting the finishing touches on the Jesus myth.
For Brooklyn Hopi-***-Jew baby boomers like me,
Saturnalia manifested itself as Disco Fever,
Unpleasant years of electrolysis, scrunched ***** in tight polyester
For Roman plebeians, for the great unwashed citizenry of Rome,
Saturnalia was just a great big Italian wedding:
A true family blowout and once-in-a-lifetime ego-trip for Dad,
The father of the bride, Vito Corleone, Don for A Day:
“Some think the world is made for fun and frolic,
And so do I! Funicula, Funiculi!”

America: love it or leave it; my country right or wrong.
Sure, we were citizens of Rome,
But any Joe Josephus spending the night under a Tiber bridge,
Or sleeping off a three day drunk some afternoon,
Up in the Coliseum bleachers, the cheap seats, out beyond the monuments,
The original three monuments in the old stadium,
Standing out in fair territory out in center field,
Those three stone slabs honoring Gehrig, Huggins, and Babe.
Yes, in the house that Ruth built--Home of the Bronx Bombers--***?
Any Joe Josephus knows:  Roman citizenship doesn’t do too much for you,
Except get you paxed, taxed & drafted into the Legion.
For us the Roman lifestyle was HIND-*** humble.
We plebeians drew our grandeur by association with Empire.
Very few Romans and certainly only those of the patrician class lived high,
High on the hog, enjoying a worldly extravaganza, like—whom do we both know?

Okay, let’s say Laurence Olivier as Crassus in Spartacus.
Come on, you saw Spartacus fifteen ******* times.
Remember Crassus?
Crassus: that ***** twisted **** trying to get his freak on with,
Tony Curtis in a sunken marble tub?
We plebes led lives of quiet *****-scratching desperation,
A bunch of would-be legionnaires, diseased half the time,
Paid in salt tablets or baccala, salted codfish soaked yellow in olive oil.
Stiffs we used to call them on New Year’s Eve in Brooklyn.
Let’s face it: we were hyenas eating someone else’s ****,
Stage-door jackals, Juvenal-come-late-lies, a mob of moronic mook boneheads
Bought off with bread & circuses and Reality TV.
Each night, dished up a wide variety of lowbrow Elizabethan-era entertainments.  
We contemplate an evening on the town, downtown—
(cue Petula Clark/Send "Downtown" Ringtone to your Cell)

On any given London night, to wit:  mummers, jugglers, bear & bull baiters.
How about dog & **** fighters, quoits & skittles, alehouses & brothels?
In short, somewhere, anywhere else,
Anywhere other than down along the Thames,
At Bankside in Southwark, down in the Globe Theater mosh pit,
Slugging it out with the groundlings whose only interest,
In the performance is the choreography of swordplay and stale ****** puns.
Meanwhile, Hugh Fennyman--probably a fellow Jew,
An English Renaissance Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen—
Meanwhile Fennyman, the local mob boss is getting his ya-yas,
Roasting the feet of my text-messaging editor, Philip Henslowe.
Poor and pathetic Henslowe, works on commission, always scrounging,
But a true patron of my craft, a gentleman of infinite jest and patience,
Spiritual subsistence, and every now and then a good meal at some,
Sawdust joint with oyster shells, and a Prufrockian silk purse of T.S. Eliot gold.

Poor, pathetic Henslowe, trussed up by Fennyman,
His editorial feet in what looks like a Japanese hibachi.
Henslowe’s feet to the fire--feet to the fire—get it?
A catchy phrase whose derivation conjures up,
A grotesque yet vivid image of torture,
An exquisite insight into how such phrases ingress the idiom,
Not to mention a scene once witnessed at a secret Romanian CIA prison,
I’d been ordered to Bucharest not long after 9/11,
Handling the rendition and torture of Habib Ghazzawy,

An entirely innocent falafel maker from Steinway Street, Astoria, Queens.
Shock the Monkey: it’s what we do. GOTO:
Peter Gabriel - Shock the Monkey/
(HQ music video) - YouTube//
www.youtube.com/
Poor, pathetic, ******-on Henslowe.


Fennyman :  (his avarice is whet by something Philly screams out about a new script)  "A play takes time. Find actors; Rehearsals. Let's say open in three weeks. That's--what--five hundred groundlings at tuppence each, in addition four hundred groundlings tuppence each, in addition four hundred backsides at three pence--a penny extra for a cushion, call it two hundred cushions, say two performances for safety how much is that Mr. Frees?"
Jacobean Tweet, John (1580-1684) Webster:  “I saw him kissing her bubbies.”

It’s Geoffrey Rush, channeling Henslowe again,
My editor, a singed smoking madman now,
Feet in an ice bucket, instructing me once more:
“Lighten things up, you know . . .
Comedy, love and a bit with a dog.”
I digress again and return to Hopi Land, back to my shaman-monastic abattoir,
That Zen Center in downtown Shungopavi.
At the Tribal Enrolment Office I make my case for a Certificate of Indian Blood,
Called a CIB by the Natives and the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.
The BIA:  representing gold & uranium miners, cattle and sheep ranchers,
Sodbusters & homesteaders; railroaders and dam builders since 1824.
Just in time for Andrew Jackson, another false friend of Native America,
Just before Old Hickory, one of many Democratic Party hypocrites and scoundrels,
Gives the FONGOOL, up the CULO go ahead.
Hey Andy, I’ve got your Jacksonian democracy: Hanging!
The Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) mission is to:   "… enhance the quality of life, to promote economic opportunity, and to carry out the responsibility to protect and improve the trust assets of American Indians, Indian tribes, and Alaska Natives. What’s that in the fine print?  Uncle Sammy holds “the trust assets of American Indians.”

Here’s a ******* tip, Geronimo: if he trusted you,
It would ALL belong to you.
To you and The People.
But it’s all fork-tongued white *******.
If true, Indian sovereignty would cease to be a sick one-liner,
Cease to be a blunt force punch line, more of,
King Leopold’s 19th Century stand-up comedy schtick,
Leo Presents: The **** of the Congo.
La Belgique mission civilisatrice—
That’s what French speakers called Uncle Leo’s imperial public policy,
Bringing the gift of civilization to central Africa.
Like Manifest Destiny in America, it had a nice colonial ring to it.
“Our manifest destiny [is] to overspread the continent,
Allotted by Providence for the free development,
Of our yearly multiplying millions.”  John L. O'Sullivan, 1845

Our civilizing mission or manifest destiny:
Either/or, a catchy turn of phrase;
Not unlike another ironic euphemism and semantic subterfuge:
The Pacification of the West; Pacification?
Hardly: decidedly not too peaceful for Cochise & Tonto.
Meanwhile, Madonna is cash rich but disrespected Evita poor,
To wit: A ****** on the Rocks (throwing in a byte or 2 of Da Vinci Code).
Meanwhile, Miss Ciccone denied her golden totem *****.
They snubbed that little guinea ****, didn’t they?
Snubbed her, robbed her rotten.
Evita, her magnum opus, right up there with . . .
Her SNL Wayne’s World skit:
“Get a load of the unit on that guy.”
Or, that infamous MTV Music Video Awards stunt,
That classic ***** Lip-Lock with Britney Spears.

How could I not see that Oscar snubola as prime evidence?
It was just another stunning case of American anti-Italian racial animus.
Anyone familiar with Noam Chomsky would see it,
Must view it in the same context as the Sacco & Vanzetti case,
Or, that arbitrary lynching of 9 Italian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891,
To cite just two instances of anti-Italian judicial reach & mob violence,
Much like what happened to my cousin Dominic,
Gang-***** by the Harlem Globetrotters, in their locker room during halftime,
While he working for Abe Saperstein back in 1952.
Dom was doing advance for Abe, supporting creation of The Washington Generals:
A permanent stable of hoop dream patsies and foils,
Named for the ever freewheeling, glad-handing, backslapping,
Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (SCAEF), himself,
Namely General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man they liked,
And called IKE: quite possibly a crypto Jew from Abilene.

Of course, Harry Truman was my first Great White Fascist Father,
Back in 1946, when I first opened my eyes, hung up there,
High above, looking down from the adobe wall.
Surveying the entire circular kiva,
I had the best seat in the house.
Don’t let it be said my Spider Grandmother or Hopi Corn Mother,
Did not want me looking around at things,
Discovering what made me special.
Didn’t divine intervention play a significant part of my creation?
Knowing Mamma Mia and Nonna were Deities,
Gave me an edge later on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Cradleboard: was there ever a more divinely inspired gift to human curiosity? The Cradleboard: a perfect vantage point, an infant’s early grasp,
Of life harmonious, suspended between Mother Earth and Father Sky.
Simply put: the Hopi should be running our ******* public schools.

But it was IKE with whom I first associated,
Associated with the concept 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
I liked IKE. Who didn’t?
What was not to like?
He won the ******* war, didn’t he?
And he wasn’t one of those crazy **** John Birchers,
Way out there, on the far right lunatic Republican fringe,
Was he? (It seems odd and nearly impossible to believe in 2013,
That there was once a time in our Boomer lives,
When the extreme right wing of the Republican Party
Was viewed by the FBI as an actual threat to American democracy.)
Understand: it was at a time when The FBI,
Had little ideological baggage,
But a great appetite for secrets,
The insuppressible Jay Edgar doing his thang.

IKE: of whom we grew so, oh-so Fifties fond.
Good old reliable, Nathan Shaking IKE:
He’d been fixed, hadn’t he? Had had the psychic snip.
Snipped as a West Point cadet & parade ground martinet.
Which made IKE a good man to have in a pinch,
Especially when crucial policy direction was way above his pay grade.
Cousin Dom was Saperstein’s bagman, bribing out the opposition,
Which came mainly from religious and patriotic organizations,
Viewing the bogus white sports franchise as obscene.
The Washington Generals, Saperstein’s new team would have but one opponent,
And one sole mission: to serve as the **** of endless jokes and sight gags for—
Negroes.  To play the chronic fools of--
Negroes.  To be chronically humiliated and insulted by—
Negroes.  To run up and down the boards all night, being outran by—
Negroes.  Not to mention having to wear baggy silk shorts.



Meadowlark Lemon:  “Yeah, Charlie, we ***** that grease-ball Dominic; we shagged his guinea mouth and culo rotten.”  

(interviewed in his Scottsdale, AZ winter residence in 2003 by former ESPN commentator Charlie Steiner, Malverne High School, Class of ’67.)
                                                        
  ­                                                                 ­                 
IKE, briefed on the issue by higher-ups, quickly got behind the idea.
The Harlem Globetrotters were to exist, and continue to exist,
Are sustained financially by Illuminati sponsors,
For one reason and one reason only:
To serve elite interests that the ***** be kept down and subservient,
That the minstrel show be perpetuated,
A policy surviving the elaborate window dressing of the civil rights movement, Affirmative action, and our first Uncle Tom president.
Case in point:  Charles Barkley, Dennis Rodman & Metta World Peace Artest.
Cha-cha-cha changing again:  I am Robert Allen Zimmermann,
A whiny, skinny Jew, ****** and rolling in from Minnesota,
Arrested, obviously a vagrant, caught strolling around his tony Jersey enclave,
Having moved on up the list, the A-list, a special invitation-only,
Yom Kippur Passover Seder:  Next Year in Jerusalem, Babaloo!

I take ownership of all my autonomic and conditioned reflexes;
Each personal neural arc and pathway,
All shenanigans & shellackings,
Or blunt force cognitive traumas.
It’s all percolating nicely now, thank you,
In kitchen counter earthen crockery:
Random access memory: a slow-cook crockpot,
Bubbling through my psychic sieve.
My memories seem only remotely familiar,
Distant and vague, at times unreal:
An alien hybrid databank accessed accidently on purpose;
Flaky science sustains and monitors my nervous system.
And leads us to an overwhelming question:
Is it true that John Dillinger’s ******* is in the Smithsonian Museum?
Enquiring minds want to know, Kemosabe!

“Any last words, *******?” TWEETS Adam Smith.
Postmortem cyber-graffiti, an epitaph carved in space;
Last words, so singular and simple,
Across the universal great divide,
Frisbee-d, like a Pleistocene Kubrick bone,
Tossed randomly into space,
Morphing into a gyroscopic space station.
Mr. Smith, a calypso capitalist, and me,
Me, the Poet Laureate of the United States and Adam;
Who, I didn’t know from Adam.
But we tripped the light fantastic,
We boogied the Protestant Work Ethic,
To the tune of that old Scotch-Presbyterian favorite,
Variations of a 5-point Calvinist theme: Total Depravity; Election; Particular Redemption; Irresistible Grace; & Perseverance of the Saints.

Mr. Smith, the author of An Inquiry into the Nature
& Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776),
One of the best-known, intellectual rationales for:
Free trade, capitalism, and libertarianism,
The latter term a euphemism for Social Darwinism.
Prior to 1764, Calvinists in France were called Huguenots,
A persecuted religious majority . . . is that possible?
A persecuted majority of Edict of Nantes repute.
Adam Smith, likely of French Huguenot Jewish ancestry himself,
Reminds me that it is my principal plus interest giving me my daily gluten.
And don’t think the irony escapes me now,
A realization that it has taken me nearly all my life to see again,
What I once saw so vividly as a child, way back when.
Before I put away childish things, including the following sentiment:
“All I need is the air that I breathe.”

  Send "The Air That I Breathe" Ringtone to your Cell  

The Hippies were right, of course.
The Hollies had it all figured out.
With the answer, as usual, right there in the lyrics.
But you were lucky if you were listening.
There was a time before I embraced,
The other “legendary” economists:
The inexorable Marx,
The savage society of Veblen,
The heresies we know so well of Keynes.
I was a child.
And when I was a child, I spake as a child—
Grazie mille, King James—
I understood as a child; I thought as a child.
But when I became a man I jumped on the bus with the band,
Hopped on the irresistible bandwagon of Adam Smith.

Smith:  “Any last words, *******?”
Okay, you were right: man is rationally self-interested.
Grazie tanto, Scotch Enlightenment,
An intellectual movement driven by,
An alliance of Calvinists and Illuminati,
Freemasons and Johnny Walker Black.
Talk about an irresistible bandwagon:
Smith, the gloomy Malthus, and David Ricardo,
Another Jew boy born in London, England,
Third of 17 children of a Sephardic family of Portuguese origin,
Who had recently relocated from the Dutch Republic.
******* Jews!
Like everything shrewd, sane and practical in this world,
WE also invented the concept:  FOLLOW THE MONEY.

The lyrics: if you were really listening, you’d get it:
Respiration keeps one sufficiently busy,
Just breathing free can be a full-time job,
Especially when--borrowing a phrase from British cricketers—,
One contemplates the sorry state of the wicket.
Now that I am gainfully superannuated,
Pensioned off the employment radar screen.
Oft I go there into the wild ebon yonder,
Wandering the brain cloud at will.
My journey indulges curiosity, creativity and deceit.
I free range the sticky wicket,
I have no particular place to go.
Snagging some random fact or factoid,
A stop & go rural postal route,
Jumping on and off the brain cloud.

Just sampling really,
But every now and then, gorging myself,
At some information super smorgasbord,
At a Good Samaritan Rest Stop,
I ponder my own frazzled neurology,
When I was a child—
Before I learned the grim economic facts of life and Judaism,
Before I learned Hebrew,
Before my laissez-faire Bar Mitzvah lessons,
Under the rabbinical tutelage of Rebbe Kahane--
I knew what every clever child knows about life:
The surfing itself is the destination.
Accessing RAM--random access memory—
On a strictly need to know basis.
RAM:  a pretty good name for consciousness these days.

If I were an Asimov or Sir Arthur (Sri Lankabhimanya) Clarke,
I’d get freaky now, riffing on Terminators, Time Travel and Cyborgs.
But this is truth not science fiction.
Nevertheless, someone had better,
Come up with another name for cyborg.
Some other name for a critter,
Composed of both biological and artificial parts?
Parts-is-parts--be they electronic, mechanical or robotic.
But after a lifetime of science fiction media,
After a steady media diet, rife with dystopian technology nightmares,
Is anyone likely to admit to being a cyborg?
Since I always give credit where credit is due,
I acknowledge that cyborg was a term coined in 1960,
By Manfred Clynes & Nathan S. Kline and,
Used to identify a self-regulating human-machine system in outer space.

Five years later D. S. Halacy's: Cyborg: Evolution of the Superman,
Featured an introduction, which spoke of:  “… a new frontier, that was not,
Merely space, but more profoundly, the relationship between inner space,
And outer space; a bridge, i.e., between mind and matter.”
So, by definition, a cyborg defined is an organism with,
Technology-enhanced abilities: an antenna array,
Replacing what was once sentient and human.
My glands, once in control of metabolism and emotions,
Have been replaced by several servomechanisms.
I am biomechanical and gluttonous.
Soaking up and breathing out the atmosphere,
My Baby Boom experience of six decades,
Homogenized and homespun, feedback looped,
Endlessly networked through predigested mass media,
Culture as demographically targeted content.

This must have something to do with my own metamorphosis.
I think of Gregor Samsa, a Kafkaesque character if there ever was one.
And though we share common traits,
My evolutionary progress surpasses and transcends his.
Samsa--Phylum and Class--was, after all, an insect.
Nonetheless, I remain a changeling.
Have I not seen many stages of growth?
Each a painful metamorphic cycle,
From exquisite first egg,
Through caterpillar’s appetite & squirm.
To phlegmatic bliss and pupa quietude,
I unfold my wings in a rush of Van Gogh palette,
Color, texture, movement and grace, lift off, flapping in flight.
My eyes have witnessed wondrous transformations,
My experience, nouveau riche and distinctly self-referential;
For the most part unspecific & longitudinally pedestrian.

Yes, something has happened to me along the way.
I am no longer certain of my identity as a human being.
Time and technology has altered my basic wiring diagram.
I suspect the sophisticated gadgets and tools,
I’ve been using to shape & make sense of my environment,
Have reared up and turned around on me.
My tools have reshaped my brain & central nervous system.
Remaking me as something simultaneously more and less human.
The electronic toys and tools I once so lovingly embraced,
Have turned unpredictable and rabid,
Their bite penetrating my skin and septic now, a cluster of implanted sensors,
Content: currency made increasingly more valuable as time passes,
Served up by and serving the interests of a pervasively predatory 1%.
And the rest of us: the so-called 99%?
No longer human; simply put by both Howards--Beale & Zinn--

Humanoid.

. so yeah, perhaps the aboriginals, the argument for the noble savage is there... point being, they have a narrative, more eloquent than the moneticised outside the frantic fanaticism of Harry Potter, a plagiarism of Merlin... etc. etc., with all the scientific superiority, a narrative in collectivism based upon plagiarism? does it really matter? the people who spurn on the superiority of western culture... let's just say, they love to gamble, but don't understand nature's gambling pattern of weeding out the weak... and... given their opinions? i wouldn't want to share a meal with them... contradictory *******... tell them about the Manchester attacks, and they'll cite Yemen! i find it rather uncomfortable sharing a public toilet with them... to begin with... but eating with them? what a strange anticipation of the most profound profanity!
            
                                 so yeah...
  nice critique...
"philosopher" *** sophist -
namely a rhetorician...

i love the giggles,
don't you love the giggles?

philosophy is something to engage
with, rather than explain...
more a tartar steak than
a medium-done slash of slaughterhouse
debris...

ahem... where's your western narrative?
where is the sociological focus?
the focus point?
the campfire?

  where, is, the, glue?

    can't see it...
western civilization is superior,
i grant you that,
but, where is the self-inflammatory
implosion?
  the self-reflecting critique?

look at your literature!
my good fellow!
  the pop-***** of vampire-clad-
neo-gothica?
you have to be kidding me...
too many facts, imbedded with
seeking counter-doubts (i.e. facts):
compensated with an antithesis
of a narrative principle...

a right, without a wrong...
a fact, without a narrative,
is pointless educational rubric -
no more finding an point
of answer, than regurgitating a bunch
of facts...
      i would be so certain as to joke
about the aboriginal culture...
when the western narration continuum
is plagued,
   by inconsistent narratives...
narratives that would never
want me to allow myself
a focus for congregating...

   no, sorry...
           you sit that **** alone in youir
little group-therapy sessions...
i'm about to do a Pontius Pilate
revision...
   i'm washing my hands away
from the gloat...
i can't stomach it...

      i don't want to stomach it...
i don't even adhere to an I.Q. discussion
as astounding racial differences...
i have already the point breaker:
and why so few black athletes compete
in the swimming events,
while so many are prescribed the
100m / 200m distance?

            what comes naturally...
800m / 1500m races?
white...
          the quasi-marathon running?
evidently Kenyan or Ethiopian...

i hate this, the vest iz v besht...
                       i regurgitate on this
factoid...
               with diarrhoea...

for all the science involved...
what is it, exactly, that constitutes,
the gluing fabric of community?

    i hate to say this,
but seldom facts are a differential aspect
    of exploratory conundrums...
Moby **** type of narratives?
the integral aspects...
      science has overtaken the expression
of life, sanitized it,
   securing an antithesis of
misery and mortality...
                    with: "facts"...
      
i might share the pH scale with someone...
but if i don't share the commonality of
a narrative?
  **** me, third party sources...
why should i share?
we share the same factoid,
why should we even bother consummating
this fact, over lunch?!

no bother!
there is no reason!
      live your life, let me live mine...
but don't you ******* even bother
dictating what i can, or can't do,
on the allowance of having invested
in a private property,
you, *******, english, ****!

  savvy?!

  the vest iz z best-chore...
   sure sure...
      love your literature, wonder
of the ******* world!
          YA ******* and your journalism?
makes Mecca pilgrims blush!
  wonderful!
                
...and for not particular reason...
vampires, werewolves,
zombies, the whole generic
exhausted stereotype -
   applause! applause!
applause!

              what?! health service?
i was lucky to have met up with my socialistic
accessible doctor,
   how many? 2 years to spare from
the last visit...
   zee vest iz z best!

            because why would i have considered
studying chemistry to an edinburgh university
level...
    and not began a post-scriptum of schooling,
beginning work in a supermarket?!

nice narrative, love the advertisement...
keep up the belittling tactic...
   glorifying your ***** wiped clean...
nay bother...
  as the Picts used t say...
                there is an actual masochistic
attache of internalized hate,
that even i can accommodate...

                     i hate gloating,
i hate boasting...
   and i hate the sort of people who
self-identify themselves as philosophers...
rather than sophists...
the sort of people:
who, simply, can't, keep, their, mouths,
shut!

don't criticise cultures,
when your own culture...
   is gearing up to problematic investments
of its own,
most notably, the teenage mental
health crisis...
          please...
                       this is not a time scant
for diminishing the already
queuing problems,
   by resorting to I.Q and race arguments...
the ******* can claim to be
philosophers, and entertain
the centre stage...
   i have a bench...
  in a park, talking to an old east london
geezer about rayleigh bikes...
and the scalpel attitude to
finding a prefix, negation,
                in the word disease...

western civilization has been gripped
with an Sunni Islam virus of
a superiority complex...
             they sure as **** know how
to point the good stuff...
   but slightly less...
                dream-detached when it comes
to the current,
    problems...
                  but hey!
the barbaric peoples are our closest
allies of worthy comparison...
   compare a ******* donkey
to a galloping horse!
  that'll fix it!

- but i thought that western culture was
all for the inbreds,
the down syndromes?
  the last birth mothers?!
   so?
        some cultures are somehow
more clingy to a peoticization of
the past...
    which... says much more...
for what currently grips the western
inconvenience in the pursuit of
a narrative, whether historical,
or fictional.

I want to be your abacus baby,Oh you can count on me.
I wont say that i love you, or i heart you, I less than 3 you.
Your molecules must be moving fast,girl. Cause your really hot.
Are you igneous sedimentary or metamorphic? All i know is baby you rock.
And if god existed I'd thank him for you, but I'm rational and read a lot of Sam Harris.
Your beautiful like the font garamad,but i want to see you sandarac, take your pants off.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,
And i observe your quirks oscillating, and I'm formulating, a g-string theory..
Like an archeologist,I'm gonna try and compute your age. cause i really want to date you.
You make me feel like a male giraffe. I want to nudge your **** and make you urinate,and mate you.
Scientific fact,thats what they do.
The value of my love for you cannot be expressed exactly. More rational then Pi.
Hey "****" is a legitimate word in scrabble, just FYI
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
You can **** me into your super massive black hole, the center of your galaxy. Im talkin ******.
I may not be the strongest or the prettiest, but my knowledge of grammar shines.
I know how to use the words  further and farther..correctly. Every fricken time.
Example:farther indicates physical distance
and further a depth or degree
example: the moon is getting farther from the earth
about 4 centimeters annually. Fun factoid,take it home with ya.
You just keep getting further into my heart.
You just keep getting farther into my heart.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me,and if the situation is ambiguous, further and farther can be used interchangeably. Just a fun factoid.
I want to be your abacus baby, you can count on me.
Baby i less than 3 you.
So please take off your pants.

checking potent aftershock
observing seismic anniversary
checking another tremor
resuming constrained writing

annexing hidebound constituents
hugging incoming eschatologies
fighting pervasive insomnia
battling invasive fatigue

damning incompetent fools
awaiting furtive escape
abandoning corporate wasteland
summoning celestial syzygy

detesting spaghetti code
protruding riparian dolphin
establishing unilinear escritoire
glowing cybernetic cynosure

avoiding eternal invisibility
supporting valued customer
performing lexical gymnastics
scrooping notification sounds

restoring usual happiness
glorifying darkwave fanfares
collapsing old relationships
raising ambient awareness

defining wolf people
propagating yesteryear's spectre
achieving hemispheric virality
testing weekend legerity
installing iron curtain

propagating today's spectre

developing niche audiences
transmitting abstract propaganda
disappearing thought experiments
overusing various condiments

double-checking hyper-real emotions
rubbernecking celestial explosions
observing splendid holiday
exploding volcano day

erupting bucolic mountain
disrupting hectic shouting
perfecting suggestive triptychs
checking festive pyrotechnics

drifting across multiverse
regifting glossy paperwork
writing six-lined hexagrams
liking two-toned instagrams

recalling pygmalion sculptures
brawling tatterdemalion cultures
"rambling corporate shill
rattling rapid prosody"
"battling hamburger hill
ambling hundredth library"
"sensing ideological schism
pending guttural neologism"

glowing verdant background
foreshadowing palmyra takedown
developing geopolitical mess
geminating quasi-couplet stress

"hugging cultural diversity
shrugging irrational adversity"

distancing spooky raindrops
avoiding potential burnout
implementing lexical databank
approaching crash-scene sudser

becoming increasingly selective
escaping tyrannical bureaucracy
perpetuating cut-throat capitalism
purchasing contrived happiness
incorporating chance elements
relaxing rigid structures
reheating your retweet

holding theoretical design
smiling beach life
scrutinizing eternal simulation
rushing artificial apothegm
annexing facetious document
freaking creepy centipedes

writing neural structure
congratulating yestreen's warriors
encouraging seatbelt usage
boosting abstract setting
sensing frivolous ochlocracy

keeping hypothetical metropolis
blurring metaphorical æsthetic
scrutinizing computational festival
memorializing towel day

raising six-fingered paw
eternizing fragment schedule
liking subtextual repository
quoting quintessential quidnunc

finding ideological style
disregarding their slovenliness
planning spatial factoid
spinning glacial ellipsoids

enjoying eternal spreadsheet
deleting repetitive tweet
awaiting festival lineup
gainsaying unethical startups

observing turgid experiment
contemplating conniving contrivances
enjoying dynamic project
dropping two-toned simulation
finding harmonic space
finalizing warring cavaliers

detecting enigmatic apathy
retrieving potential exchange
meddling middling muddling
baking hypnagogic pizza

spinning galactic dinosaur
building trans-pacific partnership
finishing theoretical mission
giggling agog googlers

crashing atypical tessellation
cherishing precious hexagons
proliferating western lottery
cretaceousing funkaholic skeletor

blurring turgid gallery
cancelling tsunami warnings
extemporizing incoherent neologisms
transmitting harmonic rave

gliding black hawks
hiding quacked ducks
archiving animated light
googling moonbow imagery

ignoring relatable messages
observing unfinished world
generating optional content
continuing exponential growth

.how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...

)            that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:

i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...

after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...

but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...

current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...

there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...

somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...

sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...

which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...

and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...

perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...

this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...

not when you're walking: and trying not to think...

also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...

and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...

i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...  

but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:

act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.

id est:

act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...

o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?

i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...

water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)

or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!

the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...

there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (

since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:

stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...

all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...

this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...

that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...

it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...

but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:

when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...

even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...

perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...

superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...

perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!

perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...

walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...

this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...

since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?

how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se -

yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...

i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...

now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.

disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.*

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
upstanding,
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"*

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
wealth,
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

courage

Let me tell a story about how to be crazy.

So its 3 AM.
You're dreaming in the past, but wide awake. Stomach unsettled, tears rolling down face. Its been forever. Months. Coming on a year. Maybe more. You've been here before. All alone. Various locations and times in your life, but all the same result. You cared about someone more than you thought you could care for anything, and they deserted you, turned their back on you, or decided to hate you. Parents, brother, sister, maybe best friends, or this time the love of your life. That person you found yourself infinitely happy with, who you never thought would leave your side. You question now for the ten thousandth time, why? All over again, the flashbacks cycle through your head. Good memories, bad ones. Ranging from wonderful euphoria to feelings after grave mistakes. A mental rollercoaster ride you strapped yourself into for no reason at all. Things they said, things you said. You find that your head is a broken record which never falters in recollection or account. All these memories, a timeless and photographic archive kept for no other reason than to torment you for the rest of your life. You relive a once familiar face spewing terrible factoid after factoid after factoid, which depending on perspective, or if you must be God or not, are either completely baseless opinions, or maybe totally true. You hear that loved one's voice talk terribly about you again, that same one who once whispered in your ear with such a tenderness of care and love. You go ahead and remind yourself that they now almost act like they never loved you or as if they were only the victim of your completely heinous crimes. As if it were ever news to you. You remember that just before that time, you'd already confessed before the conviction. They wouldn't let you take the blame at the time, but then threw you completely under the bus as if you all of the sudden, needed to be punished for being so absolutely terrible. You had already suffered enough. You were going nuts, you put yourself through so much pain and got so low over things barely of your doing because you wanted things to be alright. You remember confessing to them, owning up to every mistake you could think of, and even things you couldn't control...apologizing for things people said you did, but didn't even do. Promising and pleading to make things right. Promising yourself to never leave their side. That you'd always have their back. But now, you go back to remember that the things you promised were seen as nothing. If they meant something to that person once, they mean nothing now. You remember how their parents talked to you like you were worse than trash, forced a breakup. When you had only tried to piece it all together and came back to your love, they were tired of your "excuses". They even wound up thanking their parents for driving you to the edge of suicide and left you to die when they were the only thing you had left. Did I mention that only weeks after telling you they'd wait for you, after their parents forcefully broke you up, would always think the world of you, would always love you, and always want you, they decided they don't even like your gender? Now, time goes by. Those things are gone. You recreate them in your head over and over because they never did turn out alright. You try to find out what you could have done to change the result. You never got your closure and you became nothing but bad memories and the topic of gossip. The last time you tried to talk to the person about it, they told you they were tired of having to explain themselves to you, but they didnt explain anything at all except reminding you that you treated them like ****, that they're never coming back, and that they're gloriously happy with someone else. They are tired of you shifting blame on them, and telling them they almost killed you with the things the way they dumped you. After all, you almost committed suicide a dozen times. They reiterate to you for good measure, that they don't like your gender. It makes you feel disturbed as you flashback to things you did alone together. You question what was real. They tell you they could never have had *** with you, and act like it is a big deal to you. No matter what you say you can't get them to budge. Its odd to you because you already had a form of *** with them - multiple times, and they appeared to like it. Going down on her was a bit of a one way deal, but what made you happy was being able to pleasure her, and you were satisfied with that. There was never any real craving for more. Besides...you loved them, not their ****** anatomy. You thought it was mutual. You thought you were clear. You thought they were honest. Somehow now though, in their mind, they finally stomped you down. As if you were some terribly controlling brainwashing freak... they finally got away from your control and were proud to do so. The control they and their family and friends all made up for you in their heads. Just like how their mother told you that "you never did anything except **** with her head". You know you genuinely loved that girl. You know your promises were real when everyone told her you were full of ****. You remember in the last of the better days, pleading for that person to just be honest and be themselves amid so much ******* and chaos. Meanwhile people including the love of your life are completely moving on because they couldn't care less than to stop for your ****. Your life is whizzing by you. That person that hurt you, or lets say, you hurt, may never speak a word to you again, yet you continue to dwell on things you couldn't change. There are millions of fish in the sea, and you're determined to starve yourself dead before you let that one get away. Little do you know it was caught by someone else months ago and you'll never get it back. You'll just keep trying until you die because then you can pretend it isn't suicide.

Did you know?:

HP Printer ink is more expensive per volume than human blood
by a ratio of nearly 7:4

Or Why I Left Medium.com

Sing, Muse, the futile war betwixt genders.
Hate, stupidity, intolerance, PC *******.
Femmes Afeared* of contradiction. Shout.
Their castrato sycophants. Here, *****.
Nannie and her harridan hyenas. Attack.
On Medium you will be well done. Fried.
Hordes of Harpies hurling lightening.
Petulant little girls. Stamp feet. Pull hair.
Free to agree; otherwise, shut up.
Hidden behind PC barriers, they snipe.
All men are potential rapists. Factoid.
All women are helpless victims. Fact.
Millennial milquetoasts. Everywhere.
Do exactly as you are told
or take your evil ***** and fold.

lieutenant sticks, that's what they called him,
kij denotes a stick, without confusion
the emphasis of an olé (diacritical marks
are punctuations in punctuation) -
russians love to read, so you begin writing for
russians... a bit simple...
               i know they will one day approve
diacritical marks for the j, and depose the dot
above it like a halo...
  so i then get to say: key-jay....
           unitl that day happens i won't be found
playing the piano, able to read the notes
of a composition...
          nor draw blood from my fingers when
allowing myself the second thought of chess...
but some day along this carpe diem expansion
i will say: that day i took l.s.d.,
          and also that memory of 1950s
technicolor films made all the more sense...
       and it really was that saturation of colour,
the original saturation of colour translated onto screen...
like fake-tan orange of essex,
                  i'm about to juggle watermelons: wee!
productive sarcasm or even counter-productive sarcasm
never really sticks to a frying-pan of salivated over
pancakes readied for breakfast or some hereafter...
slobber gusto is not exactly a case of Pavlov's...
nor is reading a sunday newspaper...
               i can only think of a "metaphor" of walking
the dog in an english park and picking up
its ****... so much so for agonising myself reading
a newspaper... so i guess i now get to write the word
similie, in italics preceded by the colon heresy and not
reaching for the b, i.e.: italics.
when did i become so twitchy and double pardon
a concern for appreciating the comment?
last time i read jane eyre and started thinking about
that madwoman in the attic, that was rochester's
first wife... about that time...
      unlike that case of being a "poet" and writing
a scenario, i feel no guilt over these compositions,
   why did bukowski have the c.i.a. onto him and not
the f.b.i.?
                could you tell me if he was a spy?
oh look... a tumbleweed moment...
                             so i was talking to these two drunks
in this shady place at night
  and just blah blah blah later we exchanged
ethnic content, and one said he lived in
birmingham for a while, that place where ozzy
came from... and it's not like they even call
that city a "venice of the west", or a "st. petersburg of the west",
just as well... they twinned the town of
grimsby to chernobyl...
        they have edinburgh the "athens of the north",
they have amsterdam, the "venice of the north"...
and then you get birmingham,
and it could apply for a romance from somone,
like the venice of north-west... north by north west...
i'm not ignorant because of copernicus:
just a little bit disorientated trying to translate
sign-language from chinese ideograms...
   the idea was: ching chang walla(h)...
               extend that and you have imitations of dolly,
oh... finding dory...
   or... when in suffering, make a comedy...
like that pain adoolf hihi-tler felt watching a charlie
chaplin movie and saying: that moustache gig
is going to conquer the world.
   so where was i?
                   if you build a labyrinth you're bound
to ask the question of where you are?
     ah right, heading for the mortality exit...
concentrating on some word that would make no sense
to the average cognitive tactic of narration...
                 kije! - yep, sticks, that's the plural
version of kij, which just means stick...
    i really want to put a macron over that j
      so people don't confuse yahweh with jesus
   or add fractions to the concept...
or what the ancient greeks did, i.e. doing the dumbest
thing possible of sub-humanising the jews...
             suddenly Y                              is very far
from
                                                                             J
via gamma...       was that me trying to
  turn the tongue into a saxophone of cool?
  is that word even as half relevant these days as disco?
or is that when good becomes "evil"
   and evil becomes "good" and we call
                          a nightclub a slaughterhouse?
"   " aside... you don't get to play the existentialists
when it comes to words like list from
   the thesaurus (rex) beginning with the word red...
  the book states the "ambiguity"
                     via its synonym basis: crimson, burgundy...
red... rose...
or as kant would put it: we need the categorical
imperative, not to be "good", but to make
clear distinctions...
               and what a sad sad affair that has become,
when having looked for all the facts,
we became stunted and now argue with
what is the chiral (evidently opposite of facts) statements;
so they had genes and so they came up with memes...
facts need the opposite unit for them to be
the much needed resource...
              i guess i can't "coin a phrase" working
on this angle... because a word already exists to counter
factual expressions... you posit the chiral version
of facts on the word...                 factoid.

anyone who has been in this position
will tell you:
              when you start reading philosophy
books, well...
   there's not much a psychologist
or a psychiatrist can really help you with...
after all: psychology is pop philosophy,
it's an off-shoot of philosophy,
       and that's not some pompous
affirmation of the subject matter,
            it just is, what it is,
                 blatantly it's rather problematic,
if the h'american education system
introduces philosophy in high school...
you should really discover philosophy
aged 21, at least 21...
        hell, alcohol and *** can come before,
as they naturally will...
but i have a sharp aversion with regards
to teaching teenagers any philosophy...
again: what an over-used term:
   "philosophy" - esp. in the climate
of self-help gurus...
                  philosophy is not a subject
that fixes ****... it complicates life...
   and when life is already complicated:
the only aid is to at least
fortify your mind...
                     rarely a life uncomplicated
with an uncomplicated mind...
but such life exists...
  nonetheless...
                  these days philosophy lies
in the shallow grave of psychology...
                 psychology just seems to be
a pursuit, a cascade of schematism,
    oh yes... schematism...
           schematism is the new scholasticism,
on note, that medieval system becomes
more and more appealing...
   without jumping to any conclusions...
hard to pick up random facts,
unshakeable facts for a befitting narrative...
i mean, the usual suspects are there:
the big bang, darwinism, world war II...
but there is no "real" narrative
      for so many of us...
                        unless from mouth to mouth...
but from a mouth you've never heard
speak?
          a distant voice that has no power
to resonate?
                 in my hands i hold two books...
history of germany 1918 - 2000...
           modern history is so dry...
                      people in this book are so
unimportant upon a retrospective reading,
even ****** is akin to a dwarf...
    since the "concern" is germany...
             history books, a great genre,
when dealing with individuals,
    esp. medieval individuals...
       for what is history?
                         an incremental seduction
by minor events toward a memorable
crux, a single: outstanding culmination
zenith / sigma...
                           the summa summarum
of here and now.
   will it be considered "****" to have
a fetish for the german tongue,
after all, west saxon, english,
   is the offspring of altmanndeutsche
(would i have a fetish for russian?
   i don't think so, i'm too entwined in english)
alles in allem auf hier und jetzt...
    again: heidegger's dasein seems to be
forward looking: rather than inward looking...

so, in my other hand?
     jim bradbury's biography of...
    philip augustus: king of france 1180 - 1223...
a mighty book... but more a mighty person
invoked...

what is to justify man's desire for happiness,
for the content life?
                        the more i ever felt the relief
of a contentment with life:
         the more it passed me by,
                     i was more or less asleep than
awake.

         eh! the current canvas of history via
the mainstream application bores me,
jumping between the two genesēs of
the big bang (yeah, in a vacuum, good luck
playing a violin up there,
with someone reciprocrating what
eventually looks like a mime) and darwinism...
it's congesting: custard for a brain -
      vanillesoße zum ein(e) gehirn -
out of the blue, a question -
    is it the same in german as in english,
regarding the indefinite article?
        i.e. a tree
                        an amber stone
         ein gehrin
                 or eine gehrin,
         the grapheme question...
  are two vowels allowed to mingle again?
   i.e.               æmblem
                       well... doesn't that become
a directive? an indirect article composed
of itself and a noun becomes definitive,
a definite article? as far as i'm aware...
there are no consonant graphemes...
sure... you can have SZ (SH) reduced to
a caron S (hiding the Z like a hebrew
might hide a vowel) i.e. Š...
                                       just a thought...

funny that... after my first psychotic
trip (mild drug, marijuana, so hardly
a point breaker) - i once studied chemistry,
i was semi-good at mathematics...
but then... my language skills / interests
exploded...
                     it became and has remained
a fixation...

  mind you, if you're still in high school
and are taking up majors,
and are thinking about furthering your
language skills?
               flat chance of you achieving
your satisfaction taking pure english lessons...
i took history...
     and history? well, you're still taking
an english major, but a major in a science,
at least all the history books have
a gratifying narrative...
              but in terms of history per se?
etymology...
                 how words arrived,
and how words morphed...
         guilty! i like to confine myself
to the sort of history i find to be bound
to a comprehesive retreat...
           big **** darwinism and all its
regressive ontological tactic of explanation
is one thing, the big bang is another thing
also...
               but at least i can return
to the history span that begins,
   and ends... with phonetic encoding...
the birth of thought,
when you could begin to shut up
without an empty bath's worth of the head,
but all the plastic ducks and foam
in your head, and itchy finger tips...
greedy buggers who could only be
satisfied with an alphabet,
and puzzles of words, and later sentences...

just give me a bottle of whiskey,
a decent album (akin to wooden shjips V)
and i'll sing like the kind of sparrow
you only hear at night...

and all this current ******* of "m'ah opinion",
my opinion this, my opinion that,
that "grand" constructions,
             surely it would be easier for
the phallus to find a ******
     than a tongue to find the dialectical
insertion point of the whole "my" opinion...
well, not really, every time i think of the act,
i always found the insert point
to be below my original intent,
what with women having
   to seemingly parallel coccyx bones
either side of their pelvis...
            the frontal deceptive coccyx
bone just above the v'ah-g-g...
            eh... amateur... even with prostitutes...
but this whole: it's my opinion!
it's my opinion! well, you'd be hopeful
to entertain a dialectic also,
apparently that's not the case:
give, "my" opinion insinuates:
     it cannot be debated, it cannot be changed,
no other person can entertain it,
what a primitive defence mechanism...
even poisonous frogs have
a better defence mechanism...
            again: i don't really own anything
in this world,
   i'm only guarding it, but i don't own it:
the everyday story of every single
antique...

  again, back into a "critique" of history
as a literary genre,
               i own a few first editions,
     the biography of philip augustus is one
of them: 1998 edition, first,
which is beside the point...
            i'm sure that life in medieval europe
was harsh...
but at least you had peacock characters,
rather than this, moden, bland c.c.t.v.
reality t.v. personalities...
              oh of course modern life
has all the perks... standing in line...
               but there's no way of replacing
an adventurous ambition with
complacency and comfort...
plus, they had such great names!
        peaches geldof (rest in peace)...
peaches?!
               compared to bertran de bron?
joscius?           conrad of montferrat?
  saladin & the ayyubid empire?
       hell, the smaller the tribe,
  the better the name...
             the angevins, the capetians,
the merovingians!
         now?        eh: zee fwench.
boo'ring...
   even a bull wouldn't charge at
the colour red even if you wanted him
to.

again: these days you can rely on
people who know the facts...
   and factoid checking is all we ever do
these days, being always "right"...
facts overshadow the story we're about
to tell...
            a bull charges at head:
because he / it sees a honing pointer
of: there's something "missing"...
              daltonism "vs." protanopia...
i once had a high school fwend who
laughed... at this catholic high school...
purple blazers were yellow to him...
who needs l.s.d. then?

       once again... a medieval history book?
as a genre?
                so many stories...
but there is no a priori factual check
impetus...
     the facts are a posteriori...
  what is a priori? the story...
                          and why wouldn't
philip augustus be overlooked?
given the fwench rhe-vou-lú-çion?!
****! T gone missing! T gone missing!
the H is a surd, but it shoved itself
past the cue, elbows high!      
          
  the battle of bouvines (bou-veens,
or: bou-v'ah)
                     depends...
                how selective we "must" become
to make choices from such
an impossible spectrum of events...
after all... muslims readily cite and remember
the crusades, even to this day...
hush hush the sacking of baghdad by
the mongol horde...
for the library was burned and
the skulls were stacked!
hush hush about the first defeat
of the mongols by the mamluk slaves
in egypt... who weren't mohammedians
to an extent of being slaves...

you almost stand there,
bewildered... what about the jihad
into mongolia...
well at least go and help your brothers
out in Xinjiang and Henan!
why isn't the botherhood attempting
to jidad their way:
jihad with the chinese communist party?

hush hush... let's adore the palm trees
lining avenue des Champs-Élysées...
let's sit back... procreate for a while...
eat the good food...
let's sit back and procreate...
the 2010s was a good year for fear and
tarantulla bite-numbing escapades...
let's just sit and procreate...
let's become lazy... chant with the Tehran
zindiqs ****'ites! deaf to h'america
and we've conquered London and...
just sit back... because... we've earned it...
we have satisfied ourselves with
the blood of the ***** (kuffar)...
allah the almighty will bless us in
our respite concerning those Persian
zindiqs! the people of the desert with but
one book have conquered!

true indeed: where a jihad would be
even deemed "justifiable"...
in cha-cha-china... where muslims are
being persecuted... London! London!
we need more in London...
well this whole: muslim brotherhood
and the whole muhammad ali thing...
malcolm x... only worked...
but this is the chinese doing it to their own...
no need to intervene and bring
the good people back into the ummah...
    
  hush hush, hush hush, hush hush...
cherry picking history, are we?
    well...            let's cherry pick together!
look at this garden of time:
plenty of picks, plenty of beginnings!
at this point: a certain amount of history
can become fiction,
and not in a bad way...
it can become the basis for "studying"
archetypes...
             funny how time treats those
who experience it...
    it mutates them...
                   and to no purpose
of appealing to the general public,
  so much can and has happened in my life:
and yet...
         nothing is worth the curator's knowledge
of commentary,
  the status of laureate:
   i'd sooner be found, bound to the pleasure
of shooting dead ducks floating in
the water with a slig-shot...
       than, whatever, the aspiration for
the post, deserves;
  g.c.s.e. allowed poetics can deal with that...

again:
   why is poetry so overtly scrutinißed?
no one makes so many notes regarding prose...
but then poetry is being analyßed?
out come the scalpels, the weights,
the whole forensic scrutiny!
        10 words are expanded into
a 10,000 word essay...
      gay science my ***...
                   it's the most over-scrutinißed
form of language,
no wonder people are intimidated
by it... who would want to write in a medium
that has so much scrutiny hovering
above it: and no, it's not a ******* halo
or a laurel wreath!

           there's only so much meaning
that can be derived from a sentence,
before the pun, dries out,
  before the metaphor, dries out,
before all these bogus over-stressed
ars poetica identifiers via "technique" become
exhausted, and what you're left with,
is the ancient art of narrative...
  
  yeah, sure sure, i too wish my narrative
"skills" were better...
             i'm streuengehirn...
              if i really wanted to write
a ******* mathematical rubric of:
1 x 1 = 1
1 x 2 = 2
1 x 3 = 3...            i'd be currently writing
a YA vampire romance trilogy...
do i look like someone who's going to write
a YA vampire romance trilogy?!

           eh... back when you could respect
a homosexual akin to william burroughs...
back to a tomorrow's worth of respecting
a homosexual akin to douglas murray...
   or that gay sitcom starring
           ian mckellen & derek jacobi...

                       two old **** talking:
        eloquence and ettiquete...
                     now, that was fun...
i too wish some perv shoved his ****
through my ***, picked up my hands...
and transformed by idle tongue
to present a, stage performance worthy
of an encore...
                             alas...
   given the current climate...
          i'm stuck with the sort of gays
the old gays would probably be ashamed of...
so much for the adventure and
          the... courage... of feeding a pleasure
of "something" going in, rather than coming out...

irritable bowel syndrome from time to time,
i honestly enjoy taking a **** too much,
so much so that i find the male
****** to be overrated.

post- scriptum musing:

favourite past-time?
catching a mosquito by the *****
while wearing boxing gloves.  
  
don't know how drunk doesn't
translate into shy...
or how the former translates
into an antidote for the latter
(&
   also
     bound to italics) somehow...

a fool's idle wondering
equating itself with
all the world
   and the men invested in it:
ambitions, adventures,

            so... who's going to follow
suite in gratifying this "grand"
errand?
             surrounded by unshakeable
cliffs of "knowledge" of facts...
what story is to be told,
without a fear of plagiarißm?
since there is a fear:
it implies... the story is not worth
passing on,
not unless the newly-born arrive
and are born from a foreign
body, not alligned
   to the organic allignement
of continuity...
  pass what may pass...
               once again: arriving
at the jargon babylon deposit of
the fuel for a will to live,
                             as shared universally.

I feel so cheated when I read a "did you know" factoid that I did in fact already know.

A roommate shows me this hookup app - the consensus favorite.

“Call me crazy,” I say, “but if we’re reducing *** to something
cheap and cynical, wouldn’t **** be safer and easier?”

She frowns, as if I’ve espoused an unpopular political position
so I make a show of putting “join the app” on my to-do list
- which is like sending it into outer space.

Sleeping with someone you don’t like - or even know, seems impolite, even seedy but there’s a power to it as well - knowing I could if I wanted to - I quash that thought as it rises, like heat.

Besides, factoid: I have an imaginary boyfriend, And although my thoughts are free to roam far and wide, I’m nothing if not faithful.

you know why the vikings did not care to
****, while they pillaged the conquered women?
why? well... let us not mingle war with
the melodramaticism of women screaming:
help! seems pretty logical, in sentencing these
women into a state of awkwardness -
they they be barren, by not being interacted
with... imagine neither viking,
or saxon plunging his grand dipper into
their fleshy abode...
       who've become doubly scarred
by their abode, with both earth and woman
turned to abandonment -
come the germanic brutes,
         and the natives with:
  wishes laid upon the stone,
and the iron lodged in it
we are but the deciders of our destiny -
and lackluster of the destiny unfulfilled -
made siamese with an ad infinitum decision
making, being curbed, shortened by
the year of chasing a wolf's mane,
while the fox continued his rhapsody of
thieving schemes!

- ibi est vitae, tantum in
    id est qui vita -
utrum in vivo -
                 vel in cogitatio -

danke spielzeung - vielen danke...
     spielzeuge?
*marienburg und auschwitz!
ja, danke!
    das ist gut abschreckend!
40 days in the desert, deutsche tattoo
on poland is like saying:
            up yours, soviets!

only a man will have a personal
library like a graveyard -
the ****** just reads books by dead
people...
   only women seem to read books by
people who are alive,
and their contemporaries...
men do not have that sort of
"audacity"...
like most men, i am no *****
of sortier eventualities -

which began in the form of VI / XIV -
heidegger...
   i don't write to forget reality,
rather? to immerse myself in it...

you know how roman to greek to
roman to greek works?

  simple, roman letters are sing-along
castrato "morse code"...
greeks? they named theirs...

  αλφα is a noun...
so?
   so what?
you have to extract the prefix
from the noun...

       you have to turn αλφα into α-,
while λαμβδα into, simply λ-...

i don't write to forget reality,
  i don't write to forget: rather?
to immerse myself in it.

people read to immerse if not to simply
forget themselves,
to stare into the cloudy mirror of
a narcissus disguised,
i simply can't write mirror-prose,
you will not see a welcoming housewife
minotaur in my prosaic labyrinth
of what is best ascribed as "poetry";

what comes is an etymological
present, apparent self-revealing sloth
of history, that has rested upon
too many events, and so few
self-revealing factoid impressions...
as memes are to genes,
so too factoids are to facts...
      so few mentioned,
   as to assert the groundwork of sinai.

hence the castrato song -
  struggles with silencing the grief -
as of those once bound to a harem -
these new castrated - to the grief -
the "benevolent" man chose
a third of ownership to a harem -
with one third to secrecy -
and the last third to paedophilic "intuition" -
with the lies being his ******...
and not even 0.33 to a worship of
music;

      it's almost a shame, using the guillotine
on such people:
   and not 20+ blows on the neck
of ****** mary, with a blunt axe;
god, give me a nibbled-off-clean leg
of lamb, to chop these *******' heads off:
then again i don't want to chop these heads
off! i want to knuckle them off
with a dozen or so plum sores,
so they feel arthritis momentarily,
while strapped to a, ******* wheelchair!

i simply can't believe in a orthodox rigidity of diacritical marks, those "punctuation" marks from on high, i should be able to use them in however way i see fit, esp. against orthodox aesthetics: orthography... why? because languages evolve much quicker (and ought to) than platonic forms, or darwinian forms, since darwinism is the new platonism, i thought that i might just as well reconcile the two, and stretch the rubber bands on the slingshot, aim, and release it upon the goliath of history... that being said, language has become more and more inorganic, language has already become an a.i. substance, there is no longer an organic connection of the origins of Y in the antithesis of a pine wood of I, as there is no longer a connection to the mathematical cosine W, compared with the sine M... nor the rugby goal posts at H.

so darwinism has replaced platonism, big deal,
yet no sane version of *rho-dan (rodin) would
think it beautiful to allocate a sculpture of
a monkey, or the neanderthal - even though
the neanderthal depiction is so friendly,
welcoming, after all, the ****** expressions of
the neanderthal are, strangely enough,
soothing, welcoming, trusting,
         man has evolved, sure enough,
but just as animal faces are expressionless,
the middle man got the joke,
   we, the people have returned to the animal,
once more! poker faced throngs of commuters,
faking it, lying about it, hiding it,
we have turned the child's game of hide & seek
upside down... stone-cold faced,
  trying to find the once life-force of awe,
  riddled by the already known about &: expected...
it's a full 180º turn back to the animalistic,
such that, we discuss it openly,
    and as any lie began in "eden" we teach
people that columbus beat thorvald
or karlsefni, so if a lie is as big as a lesson in history,
and how the biggest lie of all has been
subtlety ignored since its unearthing in 1945,
well, what can you do -
      make a military drill out of it?
          historical facts will never become rigid
scientific facts, history is written by factoids,
history is a barren wasteland of rumination for
"fact"... the only facts in history are
              pseudo-carbon-dating "adventures",
there are no facts in history,
  only factoids, rumours,
  murmurings into the night; intrigue;
i might dare to think that the circas (years,
there abouts) are facts, but even then,
       personal advents of gaining some faustian
prize overshadow a historical "fact"
  as a mere factoid...
   rather than being there, you study a polaroid
snap; and that's it!
- and the return to applying diacritical marks,
well, i says to the english,
if you're going to purposive avoid using these
stressors, these syllable indicators, these
surgical tools, might as well write your language
with no punctuation marks,
  like the way j. joyce finished off ulysses,
and j-p sartre copycatted the idea in
  the finale of the trilogy in the book iron in the soul...
oh forget the paragraph, let's jumble!
   the most observable form of evolution
resides in language, the rest in ancient dusty,
and overly-argued for, until it reaches the
zenith of ad nauseam...
                  ****'s got boooooooring...
    and even with the plagiarism of a plagiarism,
in the medium of ad plagium,
   one says one, two says one,
         one crow croaks, another crow croaks
akin...
               i have absolutely no idea why we're
still glorifying a "discovery" of the 19th century,
as if the ancients didn't look at a monkey
and utter: **** similis!
                     then again you learn something
new everyday...
   this time, from japan...
   did you know that it is easier to solve
a súdokū when there are two squares with
no numbers in them? oh yeah, it's an irony,
the puzzle that has but one square with no
numbers in it is harder than the puzzle with
two squares of nine with missing numbers...
apparently it is easier to juggle with two *****...
because, after all, there is no juggling with
a single ball... d'uh, you throw it, or dunk it...
and if you want to utter súdokū like a japanese
person (the way they do, hai, really fast)
you would probably have to write it as
   súdókú (and the irritating part of this,
is that i known the orthographical orthodoxy
of a slavic language that doesn't apply
  an acute u, because it applies an acute o as
an "aesthetic" variant of u... confusing,
i know)...
        besides that?
   bless the japanese, they have just quirky ways
of inventing suicide alternatives...
a certain miwa sado -
       no, she didn't commit suicide via hanging,
throwing herself off a bridge,
   drinking vinegar, lighting herself on fire,
drinking poison, shooting herself,
   or even looked for a grizzly bear mother
with three cubs... and she didn't even end
it like a samurai performing seppuku
(hara kiri still sounds better)...
    what did she do? (**** my lexicon is expanding)
she performed the ritual of karoshi
(KA RHO ****) -
         she worked herself to death,
sleep deprivation, cardiac arrest,
on top of the 8 hours she worked per day,
she did up to 159h & 37m in overtime...
per month (5 & a half hours per day) -
      and those sort of antics make me feel like
a parasite, or jabba the hut,
                      but *******, talk about
termite / ant antics...
                    oh yeah, yeah,
   "arbeit macht frei"... or in the japanese case:
karoshi, which somehow sounds like bad sushi;
still the sudoku irony -
        easier to solve a puzzle with 2 / 9 blank
(it's not a fraction, it's x-out-of-y) squares
                     makes it easier to solve than 1 / 9.

Brace yourself for a juggernaut, for I’ve a tale to tell.
I’m not out to bamboozle you, for that might send me to Hell.
I’d love for someone to collaborate on this lugubrious tome,
But I’d need to check your bonafides to let you in my pome.
I must admonish all readers to jettison schadenfreude
And accept my obsequious garble as a meaningful factoid
I’m careering about in my Websters, like a disheveled maniac
But I am fastidious in my yen to to give something useful back.
You may think my view is myopic, as I meander to and fro,
But my outlook is homogenous, as you already know.
This write may be intemperate, but I’m not a reprobate,
It’s actually a billet doux that’s a day or two too late.

The love of words is in my soul and swimming in my mind.
I kept a log of every challenge word that I could find
I tried to use them in a way that didn’t change their meaning
Even though that goes against the humor in my leaning.
I owe a lot to BLT for setting up this game we play
And hope I’ve written up enough to get me through this day
ljm

you will soon understand the point, or rather the worthwhile point of investing in the right places, notably books, and notably the essentials of solomon's music filled harems, for you will treat both book and apple alike, how can my contemporaries feel no void in their piracy, in their cheapness, and not expect their thieving to not catch-up with them... the whole lot of them would emerge as philistines, unless of course, they are dumb enough not to congregate on the plateau of genuine commerce, and feel that by stealing artistic outputs they can suddenly surround themselves with brick walls and call them the ursulas in the hermitage admiring artwork, while at the same time forging copies and remaining entrapped, a world whereby suddenly plumbers don't get paid! there's a reason why music companies exist, they are P.R. dynamics, you think that any artist would be lifted from the hades, on a mere whim, or mere admiration by a few? piracy of the content doesn't help, at least with these P.R. companies the crumbs from the table, but when people turn anarchic, the artists are eating ****, and the more **** they eat, the more people are left with nostalgic content, nothing new, nothing explorative, because the contemporary artists suddenly brake rank say to the people like the people once said to the kings & queens: *******! shove that 20th century content up yer gobs and call it sunshine!

i can't say that heidegger's L, VI didn't spur me on
to begin this dragon's breath worth of vitriol
and scolding agitation,
come on, what's this supposed "lived experience"
these days, what is apparently "lived"
is nothing short of the disorientating
"dasein" of journalism...
        we can't even live the basic facts,
always regressing toward an "evolution",
always starting with some sort of
"mutating" presence & adding a superiority
complex...
  we killed of the neanderthals... but kept the apes,
so there goes the "missing link"
argument...
    i wish we kept the neanderthals and
made bush monkey fufu with the apes,
at least we could have authentic slave archetypes
from the neanderthal class of humanoids...
but no, slaughter the **** similis,
and keep the biodiversity of the apes...
how does that work again?
    you're tell me we killed the missing link,
and kept the darwinian vanity project
of the "****" speculo (mirroring man) so we
can write "poetry" with respect to other animals?!
so let me guess, a lot of women wouldn't
really like the black widow spider / mantis
comparison... of course they wouldn't,
but we still make all the other compliments via
a "comparison"...
  why **** off the missing link,
  why **** off all the tarzans that might have
told us: actually, the origin of the eskimos
comes from japanese macaque...
so no: not everyone came from ibrahim nigeria,
you **** dollop of custard for a brain!
don't get communist on me with
a collective history, **** of a common origin:
you have your big "bang" theory -
like you'd hear a "bang" in vacuum...
          enough! of this clowning around!
i agree with this ****, the supposed "lived experience"
is a catchphrase that has become unbearable,
because the sediment of facts is gargantuan
that it's hard to break away from it,
there are no "facts" in the sense of a *lived experience
akin to: and i had my first kiss while i was
5 / 6, and she promised me what she
would never fulfill...
        that's not a "lived experience" event,
that's only hypothetical, a delusion, a fiction...
and at the tip of this atlas pivot pose is
this persistent, primarily insipid in persistence
darwinism...
       i don't live in a civilisation worthy of
no more credit, other than one that provided
the typography of a, zoo:
and darwinism is zoological psychologism
at best... came down to the alpha & the beta -
no wonder we have the alphabet sequence
that makes no sense at all...
        and no, i have no theological bearing with
this, i already equated god as a paraphrasing -
it's the humanism behind this coming-of-age
of populist science turned humanism onto
its humpty-dumpty head that bothers me!
for one, it would appear that thinking is no
longer qualified as being a lived "experience",
are we no longer living by essentially thinking?
evidently we're not;
hand on heart heidegger could not have
predicted his concept of dasein being *****
by the medium of journalism,
   in that journalism morphed the adrenaline
rush of being "there" -
         hence the necessary constant stream of
a global "narrative"...
        in all instances there was no "being" burdened
by a there, other than the being
burdened by a "there" - as common phraseology
suggests, e.g. in church witnessing an ex-girlfriend's
christening of her twins, with the person
sitting next to me exclaiming in a hushed
tone: you're not really here, are you?
   there's a "here"? i replied.
lived experiences my ***,
    after being bombarded with too many
scholastic secularism of hyper-factoid rainbow,
and the eroding of keeping personal memory,
after all that, and still the persistence of
this ****** trivia game shows where
"knowledge" is about storing information
and nothing but that, and why didn't the ancient
greeks, in their old age, worry about
killer proteins invading fat cells of the brain,
and "flexing der muscles for mental
gymnastics" ever worry that ol' alzhei mc. hammer
would be relevant?
     well, while looking at some of these
youtube view counts i start thinking:
  thank **** people are still *****,
so many children watching these brain-drains,
but to be honest these brain-drains can be
like stretching a rubber band, back into a puzzle...
but that's beside the point,
   everything i write is impromptu,
which reminds me of the title and content
originally intended... the sefirot...

   schematic!

  ultimately the keter = yesod = malkhut
(perfect calamity for a disatrous trinity)...
   and there is no person in the world, known to
man, who has achieved that... not even moses...

  then there are variations:

   binah yesod chesed (understanding the foundation
   of love)...

yesod chesed gevurah (the foundation of love is in
strength)...

binah tiferet hod (understanding beauty is in its
splendour)...

tiferet chesed chokhmah (beauty is the love of wisdom)...

yesod keter malkhut (foundation of the crown
resides in the kingship)  
  which is the antithesis of christianity...

chesed gevurah binah (love is the strength in
understanding)...

please make make me stop, but do you know
how many maxims you can obtain from
the sefirot?!

   let me show you the sefirot and you make
the other maxims that could contend with
the book of proverbs, and rest with
  what replaces the star of david; namely?
the hod of david,
   away from the jealous tip of solomon's keter.

                               keter

binah                                          chokhmah

 ­      gevurah                           chesed

                              tiferet

hod               ­                               netzach

                         ­     yesod

                              malkhut

p.s. netzach malkhut keter
         vs. netzach malkhut yesod

i.e. victory does not reside in kingship of a crown,
   rather, victory resides in the kingship
   of a foundation,

  and now i really love how that's
contradictory to what is but the remnant
of indoctrination, as the story suggests,
which is why these two books can't coexist
as one, it makes schizophrenic factories
all the more apparent,
   even in christianity, if you've assimilated
into a culture, but retain your "maiden"
tongue, your bilingualism is treated
like some mental disorder akin to
schizophrenia...
    again, only in england, me marx and engels
thinking up future horrors,
and it culminates in me...
  so... bilingualism is a psychiatric disorder?!
gentlemen! let's broaden our minds!
lawrence, bring in the syrians and libyans,
we need to teach some lessons!

We (as far as I can remember)
Started out to recreate a sane conversation
In which facts of all shades and shapes would
Simply emerge and connect themselves into
Acting structures.

There was a phase in which
Burgeoning ways and means of
Unearthing and spreading these bits
Occupied and riveted most attention;
Followed by something – Fear? Sense? –
Expressing as allergens to ungrounded factoids
And structures acting not from meaning
But obviously from the hindbrain.

After who knows how many rounds of
Lunge feint riposte I found my little self in a
Small drifting group which seems mostly set on
Maintaining through and despite all that something
Uniquely value-added – esthetic, mimetic, cosmogenic or
In any case fertile in cross-breeding ways – is going to fly
On be nurtured and eventually cover the terraqueous globe.
But there seems to be a tacit condition set in this local world,
That the “novel factoid” stream from ongoing earth-21st century
Goings on be ignored. Which begs the question of why do we need
1,200 geosynchronous satellites to do this.
Or –
Was that my drift?

you know what sweet sensation of
whiskey hitting the nervous system,
just after you've been awake for more
than 30 hours...
     and every gulp you start feeling up
a touch of cushion,
   like it might be your mother singing
a lullaby to you as a child?
****'s all... fuzzy...
                    fictoid...
  which is the alternative of a factoid:
an item of unreliable information
that is reported and repeated
so often that it becomes accepted as fact...
well borrowed from real life,
that's focused upon it (life,
or the narrative) being usurped from
being staged...
i still don't know how drunks manage
their quasi-epileptic
        space-oddities by climbing
7 stories of a building,
  to simply know on the balcony window
from the wife: refusing them
entry via the conventional route,
of utilising a front door...
               true story that,
****** managed to do the spider-man
up nearly... wait... circa two metres
per storey...
             sigma, circa: 20 metres
up in the air!
                 that's not exactly 100 metres
of comparison while holding
your breath in a jamaican sprint...
          blind wind playing the flute
of a pine forest...
                but there are certain sensations
you just can't suspect of
being the product of a Saturday night
revelry in Essex, England...
                some drunks do the Dante's
inferno expedition into:
       everything and anything -
   but only when embarked upon, solo.
my excesses of insomnia are
countered by my "excesses" of drinking,
       what could possibly be wrong
about a teddy bear among romanian
****** dreaming, awake,
  of a pillow?
                it's not even a comfortable
numbness,
      it's a mollusk encapsulated by
the safety of an oyster's shell mentality...
         i mean, there's only so much
much of the FIFA world cup you can stomach
before seeing a proper game...
   and when you do manage to receive
the spectacle of a 3 - 3 Spain vs. Portugal?
**** me... that's like receiving
the ******* eucharist!
                        RAMOS!
                       ­          ******* child of
            a one ******* ball-sack of Franco...
   and those Spanish eyes:
you know the ones...                    (    (
romance with a real tear-jerker...
             but what more entertaining
than the football is,
   the behind-the-scenes preservation
of the political narrative by minors,
minor-intellectuals, and:
                  behemoths of swaying the gamble
of history...
Iberian eyes?
        i'm starting to call them
                          siamese Shiva diamonds...
muguruza has them...
                           very idiosynratic...
in vino veritas?
    i find twice the amount of truth
in a dose of sleeplessness and whiskey...
       which usually ends with
a knock-out and: the great void eating
            all concern or, "need" to dream...
hell with a brain like a sponge that
requires quasi-x-ray
               to suit-up to the everyday
in the mythos timing ref. to boiling an egg
in real time...
         RAMOS!
          you already know of the extra
long football socks, and the rolled up sleeves,
   Puyol would be a proud
second-far-removed-claim-of-fatherhood...
not that's the case...
      beside the point...
                but there's no distraction from
my perspective,
              an appreciation of, sure,
               but you can't exactly forget
the premature ******* quasi-thrill
of listening to the bundestag match of:
left-to-right, right-to-left,
             and something in between
being plagued by a w. b. yeats quote about
all centres,
            apart from the gravity hard-on
of god, which, for reason for the four seasons:
always seems to hold,
   tight like a ******* mousetrap,
tiger pounce...
        very humane, in terms of a rodent
passing bypassing being a plaything
of some bonsai feline...
                ha ha! in vino, veritas?
every tried a dosage of sleeplessness,
   and something more, strict?
   a Dublin ****, or a Glaswegian
                                           apple juice?    
****, the mingling with sleeplessness...
you'll speak more truth than
the C.I.A. would mind giving
                two shoves to a shovel over...  
nudges? sure...
      nugget crisp and...
                  oh but i like the current
digression...
     the facade...
                      the momentary month of
blissfully forgeting the talk of politics,
and imagining the head
of Commodus being kicked about by
                          22 legionaires...
no greater cathedral to make man's
concern stupendous,
        than in a prayer-house of amnesia...
and, there isn't a reason as we'll somehow
forget for half an anno after the month?
circa, of course...
                                                     well?
by the sober judge i make my plea drunk...
and should the judge drink?
          first i nail him to a cross,
   and then: allow him to pass judgement...
who the hell doesn't pass
crucial judgement concerning sexuality,
on the throne of thrones,
without first doing the no. 1,
  and then doing the no. 2,
                   and then not doing the no. 3?
i should be all "hot-and-bothered",
   should i?
                          a case to say:
                                 don't date, on a diet;
because not on the cruel slab of
the altar of mammon are two naked
bodies suddenly: phantom?
         does eating, **** the butterflies?
what sort of contract for an hour,
require a prenup of eating,
      for a time constraint that's more than
            the actual: non-verbum flex,
                          which constitutes an hour?
RAMOS!
                    always the central defender
role...
              because... well...
              given the hard-on for the tournament...
you can somehow listen in on
political-football kicking-off simultaneously...
while the Tsar is found stark
naked, dressed in gloat, gluttony and glee,
the little people can take to tongue and chess...
little people, like the Warsaw pundits,
the staggering delayed pleasure Londoners...
and Berliners-***-Bavarians...
               and whoever the hell is left...          

ah, the quiet life: and it's little wonders...
   but a Tsar that appears so well attired in his
self-with-nation
                             goat-fat smile,
    like a Davvy Cameron prior:
      plump doughnut and plush well oiled
cheecks with missing bones...
                     plump little doughnut...
can't help but admire
   the arabian formal checkers pajamas...
sorry...
           i forgot it's high-fashion over
there too...
             houndstooth print
                                   coffee-table-cloths...

come to think of it, this western-union
euro and the post-nationalistic experiment?
**** the tongue, before claiming
a dead soul, to control the living thought...
i only allow english for reasons
that i can speak it, above a certain
framework of its native contraints,
   but if another Belgian is going to think
i'm going to let him perform a sujud
on me like i were some half-wit from Congo?!

the swiss still make milka...
                   so...
                                see you in Ypres?
and yes, truth is a form of audacity...
                               Benelux: Banalflux;
cite Forrest Gump to boot, if y'all wanna.

come night i can allow myself to breathe,
perhaps more - think again...
a few sips of homemade wine
and a cigarette - endlessly peering at
an eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
forcing myself to imagine
the face of my grandfather still able
to contort itself into ****** expressions
and enigmas... idiosyncrasies...
perhaps chancing upon the wind
to move the flimsy branches at the ends
of the corpulent crown of
this tree -
   if merely the letter Y was a meditation
of the tongue of a serpent -
or perhaps how i have two eyes
yet compound myself to: strictly cyclopean
endeavours...
soothing demand for the sound
of the sea on the shoreline -
although... i... mountains... alone...
or the endless promise of not impacting
with a good morning or a hello
when walking the fields in my vicinity...
premonition:
i "knew" he was dying...
mistress agonia... and it's not like
in his last months he ever wanted
to climb out of bed...
he already exhausted his memory cinema...
the chance crossword puzzle...
on my walks two days in consequence:
crouching on a footpath
a metre away from a blinded rabbit...
then the toothache...
a premonition of pain to come
to excavate the heart into a shroud
of mourning...
    but how unified these sequences
of events allow themselves to be...
the archaic semblance of "coincidences"...
relearning it wasn't my fault since:
the whole point of the telephone
is that it can be used by both parties:
it's not a one way street...
otherwise: yes... this meditation on
the eucalyptus tree at the end of the garden...
wishing for brush-strokes of the wind
to agitate this... foreign entity:
how much more i would have allowed
myself to a tease of pine...
evergreen from the flip-side of the earth:
twenty five pence in two coins
on my bed...
i have to allow a variation of serenity
to come back:
i cannot be this dreadfully angry mr. ****-pants:
after all: **** before the shovel...
and no: if i could possibly cling to
a revelation that i can write prose:
i'd need to focus on a sense of the linear:
and continuity -
preserving the claustrophobia of
paragraphs: i exhausted the need for dialogue
when i was young enough to still
play with plastic figurines of spiderman
and batman...
so... no dialogues for me...
otherwise: what? beautifully prosaic?
well... by all standards of speech:
impromptus and mumbling...
sure... coherency of the matters at hand...
but i leave with another comfort:
a latin man: the vulgate hier und jeztz -
because otherwise a choking veneer of
grecian superiority will not allow me
to "get things done":
to spew and stew in what's readily
available...
                       not that i was dealt the wrong
hand: i'll still have to gamble with
myself:
a waiting game with mother
and father and grandfather to come...
and then: hello solo!
not in some mythological alternative universe:
which a span of 20 odd years will
probably do to me having written these,
here, now, words...
or i might be lucky...
i will have enjoyed drinking too much...
and that's ******* dandy by anyone's
standards...
as julius caesar already said:
death... sure... but quickly...
or at least with a hard-on of shock!
n'est ce-pas?
which puts suicide a tier below ******...
since: you are premeditating the end...
ergo? no shock...
at least when you're murdered
you are in shock... you're not thinking
of it... but no i see...
death being robbed of its "plans"
with you already thinking about it...
so no shock... no thrill...
unless of course: you have been...
festering with the wounds for years
and what that has allowed is...
a crescendo eventuality...
a culminating point of exit...
                     well: funny how i am mortal
and nothing should be alien
to me regarding such topics...
unlikely, however much it desirable
to be made necessary... this return to all
things governed by the day
and all of its intricacies of mundane -
what colour should the blinds be
for the bedroom
to compensate the insinuations of shade(s)
of the wallpaper...
the formality of language in general...
how society works...
what is a coin in one hand
when i hold a rock in the other?
social constructs and what?
some transcendent values when you're
not jacked-up to a psychedelic trips
whereby: de facto... a mushroom fries your
sponge of a brain?
never knew that deep-fried sponge
could be eased as newly found "crispy"
when all this "****" requires
moving and selling...
hell: towing a shadow for a handshake...
easing my eyes on the moon
come the hallow crescent...
            at night when i sit in the garden
and look at my hands with
chiromancy ghouls and spooks...
     bones are deader: yet the teeth more alive...
aramaic is not armenian...
some gift of the gob from the "fella"
up above...
           voices that make it a crisp tartan,
& biscuit... bellowing with their chorus
like a cutting into silence
with a dozen ******* bagpipes...
bellowing choir...
singing like they are cows
readied for the slaughterhouse...
hear now...
          it has become so apparent:
i write words my words will never utter...
not in conversation:
and i do not believe in turning
my speech into a scripted insolence pre,
that would implode on me
like i'd be regurgitating: a slacking
of the already prized asset of suspense:
a motivation to further - "thinking":
more like brooding / brewing the grinding
of meat...
what of the ******* raw hinde
from the hinterlands of a "revision"
of the ottoman empire...
             brown-beat duck quack hello
new psychopathy or...
a tired re-reading of a tristan tzara...
for dodo and dada and fidgety dough...
immaculate fingernails...
mind you: a period where i was stupid enough
to visit a brothel and **** myself
a robot of i: workable in disguise:
because... whittle wichard wouldn't work
best on a date since:
precursors of too much investment...
so...
female barbers... prior to the ceremony
how she would recognise my voice...
persist in paying hardly the compliment
about how much hair was on my cranium...
and once she finished she would
******* my entire head with
her two hands...
given that i had long hair for a while...
going to a female barber...
or going to a *******: this can really
be contested as to: what's better?
maybe i should have gone to the brothel
and asked for my ***** to be trimmed...
extension anti "gratis"...
other details of... "*******":
            i live a while... but death still
manages to smooch out of me...
a wonton... A...
                        yes... clearly genius prichard
and assembly forrest...
it's not life, this box of chocolates...
it's a broth of dumplings...
same ****, different cover...
sarcasm, rules!
- and there's lee evans... which / who is funny...
i can't buy into smart-funny...
i've been trying to buy into ethno-comedy
strip-back: let's endure the sleazing
baroque of stereotypical white cuckoldry
and the odd ***** mongol...
all that cosmopolitan draft of "nuanced"...

smart-comedy is no comedy...
the dumber, the better...
i'm still giggling about jokes being made
concerning scenarios:
if i had a wife... thank **** i'm not
invested in the logic of darwin...
i'm not here for the genes...
i'm here to close up the "shop":
******* with a few good patent envious
metaphor of memories and the world
can have its ******* hullabaloo...

existentialism and darwinism are
not coincidentally mutual ****-buddies...
one's autistic the other is...
pressing matters for
man as metaphor of ape, lion... parasites...
a ******* "reinvention"
of the chimera...

keeping score my ***:
i'm keeping all the details of indigestions,
a tally of the whole brood...
toothaches and acne sours
for the pleasure of my culmination
asteroid factoid of constipation:
i hope i die a constipated loner...
hell i hope i die towing:
******* turned out to be...
given the still intact "excess" of skin...
the one pleasure in life i would
never find... demeaning or... unreliable...
well thank **** and god to boot
that i wasn't circumcised...
hallelujah! i'm redemption
and the talkative golgotha prize of:
tongue turned into a geometry
of an upside down imploded DELTA...
hirsch: del - y-oh...

y-*******-om-ing...
                          why?!
odes to peter the lad... or why somehow:
demoting an angel to the status of
saint doesn't sit well in my belly...

precious greco-hebrew new: "testimony"?
it was a greco-hebrew adventure...
no?
here the ****** details of:
unobstructed darkening...
take your cleansed morals and transcended
a priori valued diddly-squat:
this supposedly "former" filth...
borrowing from the thespian autocracy
an ear lent: a shadow brokered...
just pretend...

there are no visages that concern themselves
with directly spoken at or to...
or by...
just this murk of by "proxy"...
an "de facto": nuance after nuance
after... a fermentation of an apple is vinegar
and sweet... then all that ******* rot
that's associates with: cleaving off
of sinew working toward the tendons
an the marble architecture of bones...

yes, yes, very nice... thank, you!

to sketch but the rarest example,
  you might just require
a touch of Horace -

         bene est:
        hoc erat
                     in votis -

albeit akin to dj shadow
sampling, namely: in reverse -

    but i can't help to notice
that i turn into a kleptomaniac
on the rare occassion
   of walking around town,
drinking...

          to this day,
            with only a few days past
i still possess thorn
        incisions on my left
hand...
                
             i'll admit this most
joyous shame,
        and i rather not excuse
the drinking,
   rather reiterate:

           i'm a kleptomaniac
when it comes to flowers,
            i pluck them from
                         the front-gardens
of english suburbia...

    and imagine a woman in my bed,
or the comfort of a grave
        sealed with an epitaph
and a pecking crow...

       death: that eternal plateau -
at least the thought of
the immediacy of impact having
jumped off a roof,
      with such force,
   suddenly gaining consciousness
of the intricacies of
organs, without delirious
                      factoid fascism...

i agree, medieval art is hardly
a compliment to the paupers of epoch,
seemingly all stand ******,
       esp. when donning a crown,
              anemic yet plump beauties...

comes little wonder,
   why Dante's inferno is celebrate,
like the paradiso is such:
vague, attempt to market memory...

given that the per se has sole relish
in being: intact...
                  
  but on the odd occasion that i do
find myself bound to an up-right
spine and moving legs...
           drinking,
                   i will gain a sudden impulse
to craft a bouquet...

             throw it onto the roof just
outside my window,
   and allow the sun to...

             is it me, or, do only slavs mummify
flowers in books?
          
    that's the one Meursault aspect
i seem to have been born with,
       my mother loved poetry in her youth,
and she used to
             hide flowers in books...

come to think of it:
it's hard to think about her without
a dimension of grief...
     but the "problem" is:
                   i can't comprehend
a reflective mannerism for grief...
          
   sure, upon the served impetus,
i can show a reflex to feed the satire
of mortality...
        
              reincarnation: as in,
         only a limited number of people?
hard to choose, given that
i've slept uneasy for the past 10 years
as if i killed someone...
              butler...         or a butcher?

such a beautiful world exists,
outside the realm of man's ambitions.

Pulp Factoid IfOrganic

is this organic or aint hitting it
porion potion is one
despues de todo no vale la dulzura de la vale
orginales en deseganar el orgamco
trabajo por eso esso la gas station of fun
where does this belong but anywhere i want
potion again this time in mi personal addiction
were werewolfie his name is DarKula el vengador
el pene de pepe
el pene de joe es uniqlo

let's do it, i said
i'm a bona fides reprobate
let's call up the dead
arouse Mother Fate

we dressed ourselves purple
like butterflies and birds
sat in a circle
said all the words

in mix of drama and derring-do
we painted a pentagon in electric blue
lit red candles and turned down the light
and waited and waited the whole --- night

then just before dawn
as i stifled a yawn
as if in a blur
i saw something stir

at first I thought
'twas imagination
but then i was sure
it was a visitation

the hairs stood up on the back of my neck
my heart beat faster as i thought 'what the ----'
my arms 'n legs froze as if inert,
though all o' my senses were really alert

inky, metallic, with glinting eyes
hooded, unworldly, as if taken by surprise
air of sinister, darker affairs,
unaware of all our fixated stares

it came on slowly, unsure at first,
then started forward, as if coerced
as if beckoned by unseen power,
by spirits o' nefarious witching hour

black and hardened were its wings
fixed on its back like two locked springs
a mouth vacant with open pincer
with an odd click like meat-mincer

bamboozled by the circle of candles
the black anthropoid walked around in angles
traced the floor as if driven berserk
the peremptory beetle with fastidious legwork

a factoid known by a pitiful few
beetles are attracted to colour light blue
and when aided by a scented taper
are apt to go on a pre-dawn caper

between too much wine
and a sensible glass
of whiskey -
  just two cigarettes -
    and in bed by midnight...
   (suppose i too hope in vain
and better lie to myself)

i only came across
   Balakirev because i was
reading
a Tomas Tranströmer
poem...
i didn't like it...
   Balakirev...
          somehow i quickly
found...
something more
to my taste...
Cesar Cui -
     kaleidoscope for
violin & piano (op. 50) -
but i haven't
heard of him prior...

tomorrow
i'll look up the rest
of them:
charles ives,
        john j. becker,
  wallingford riegger,
henry cowell,
  carl ruggles...
   all who i haven't heard of
before...

but that i have
heard of Rimsky-Korsakov
and Borodin
and... well who hasn't heard
of modest "night on bald
    mountain" mussorgsky
  (but only because
of that)
well.. looks like beside
cesar cui i have
heard of 80% of
    something:
  obviously not the entire
opus just like
i wouldn't expect...
    something or other...
it's terrible to write this
autobiographical
sketch...

   it would be so much
more to have the "time"
(patience?)
   to throw out
the television...
   starve myself from
this canvas of bypassing
editorial scrutiny
and listen to a good hour
or so of BBC Radio 3...
esp. on a saturday
at circa 10pm - 12am -

no... this is not
terrible important...
          it might be a vanity project
p.s. / n.b. or...
            
    sensible: enough
of tamnavulin by timid glug
until i get a hint
of

      (a) nose: a whiff
   of apple or toffee or honey
with marzipan / marmalade

(b) palate:
      mellow pear, creamy peaches
pineapple and some
demerara sugar...

      i'm no connoisseur:
   so i doubt whether or not
i'll pinch any of these supposed
rejoices of budding...

it's also not that terrible
that somehow i end up writing
about reading -

i'll slither into the bed
and end up claiming the constellations
with the same
predictability of: earphones
and Christopher Young's
Hellraiser soundtrack
(1 and 2)...

             so much for writing about
love and women
and "ideals"...
when i'm the one about
to cocoon myself with
a horror movie soundtrack
to nod off to...

it's not so terrible...
it's impossible to have to sleep
with anyone -
i tried to entertain sleeping
with a cat...
on the side... on a folded
arm...

         it's this seriousness
of a placebo-solipsism with
all the freedoms and...
well... routines...
       in fiction it might be
deemed a penalty to
be denied the chance
to father children...

i've seen it in the park:
men who invest in their children
hoping they might
become footballers... etc.,

terrible business... having children...
probably marriage to:
i suppose Frankenstein's monster
could find better outlets
to moan his existential qualms
over than: that i might
subscribe to mating...
courtship...
            
               i doubt i might enjoy
a Cesar Cui orchestral suite...
or that Beethoven could get away
with writing something
for only piano and violins...

it's not terribly important...
give it enough time and enough
monotony of the sea -
give it enough stubborn mountains
and enough...
of anything as highly sexed-up
as an insect's life-cycle...

        how else to pursue
life: the most belittling grandiosity
escaped (from time to time)
thus gravitation to
something resembling
   an automated purposiveness
of "veneer" of self-importance...

it's comforting that
     so little can be lived for
the purpose of solo -
i'm starting to appreciate
this little of everything...
probably more than it
could ever be allowed...

          it's absolutely necessary
to feel intact
at some point
    having to disappoint
death as the method statement...
and all that
without towing along
any homosexuality:

        for all its worth
an *** like Porsche leather /
peaches... **** like
a marathon milking "project":
yes, that all these prods
are intact: yet not
necessarily invested in...

         it would be enough
to master this supposed state
of "cowering"...
not having to invest in so much
expectation for others:
the most gentle variation
of apathy:
whenever breaking into
a trainee / novice critique
of an aesthetic -
an aesthetic that comes
as unconsciously as
a heartbeat /
bowel movements as:
music on first impressions...

how life can be made simple
is probably a focus
on a peacock's tail
of biases...
           without a clarifying
imperative...
it's not that important
to have an argument...

  notably:
if duality is animate...
  then a dichotomy is inanimate...
i want to burn orange
until it becomes brown...
nothing: concretely -

to listen to violins like it might
be an imitation
of a scuttling mouse -
or an itching scarecrow...

thought:
would it be best to curate
a cure for an itch by...
  scratching the sore inch diameter
or... pinch it away?

quirk... no... not here...
no thank you...
some things have to remain sensible:
i.e. a life lived
without having digested a
self-help book...
     3 years spent reading
a philosophy book: on & off...
between other books...

somehow always finding oneself
a persona non grata
when listening to a video
on: "self-help"...
             my self-help mantra?
placebo-solipsism...

the drifting in and out of:
off solipsism...
the eloquent quench of:
if by thought you could denote
either thirst or hunger...

i think i've settled all my
moral ought(s)...
          taboo: none, really:
i thought -
         ought i?
      i ought: thought, i...
    because of this punctuation...
like jazz and jigsaw
puzzles...
   or playing chess on
   houndstooth print...
(hahnentritt in german...
                          pepitka in ******)

the best cigarette is:
when it's smoked half away through...
extinguished...
then relit and...
      all that tangy smog...
and almost wet newspaper take
on: if hue could be a taste...

if rain could be fathomed
as sparkling i.e. carbonated water...
all this and so many
unimportant events in a life
that are never to be riddled
with a grandiosity of
children... labyrinth a tool too:
Mr. Minotaur...

there's curating the eyes
when the snow is falling
in a cemetery at night...
in the nearest convenience
of a star: via replica...
there's this ugly-beauty of
it being associated with indigestion
and sickly-sweetness -

there's also a memory
of childhood and... cotton-candy
and a stump that
was... but never really was:
a "pretend" throne...

as of yet i'm still bothered as to
how / why...
subjectivity is deemed
something / somehow less
than... the zenith that's a nadir
that's objectivity that's
the encyclopedic
             trivia / pub quiz
  regurgitation after regurgitation
of c.c.t.v. sat-nav *******
squeezing: juice-ups -
tease of tangy - not borrowed
from Irene a tangerine... etc.

such that:
i am subjected to...
willingly or not...
more things and "things"
than...
i am subjected to
the queen of england...
because of rain
i have to loan a mushroom
for an umbrella...
objectively:
****** weather...
subjectively...
it's not a science or a pet-peeve
project of regurgitating
sharpening objects...
that subjectivity is somehow
less than objectivity...
that there's this "magical"
right, objective cursor...
                  
i am subjected to much more
than what...: and because
objectivity will not allow
certain facets of the bare minimum
of a lived life...
how subjectivity is less
than objectivity is only
a gimmick for
how rhetoric is conducted...

      i am subjected to:
always the case...
given... how many instances
are there where: i object to...
      it's no less no more...

  for example:
eating an apple... objectively...
well...
but being subjected to:
a desire for an apple...
that's the whole sigma carousel
of intrinsic "paraphrasing"

last "thing" i want is
to be objective and of a "sound mind"...
via regurgitating facts...
by being a factoid surf:
any other noun and all
the misnomers available...

horrid world when seeing
a subject-object dichotomy...
                  notably: via rhetoric...
a language trap...
with it: all the sour notes...
even if it were the most fine
of a whiskey...
roughage...
   creases and bones...
                words like a cascade...

via a memory of a maxim:
Wittgenstein on the concept of
a thesaurus -
                            quiz me sore as
sorry: tautology...
otherwise a lessening in eloquence...
otherwise simpler:
a crimson burgundy -
   a red red...
if i were being honest
and i pinched a robe
of a bishop...
from a purple a blush of
cherry... vinegar (&) Bolshevik...
balsamic to allocate
the vinegar...
and working: auf:
           on the note of colour...

you know what might have
happened if a
Zukofsky talked alongside
a John Berryman...
                because it's so impossible
to be human...
to be human in the mediocre
range without
being either Cain or Abel
or Jesus to be
this drop of salt and ivory
and stink...
  to be human as regrettably:
no offense:
lived part and parcel...
  something to do
with electricians and
bus-drivers...
something authentic /
predictable...
then again:
if i were to be the sort
of corrosive juice
on the collective memory
fabric where
Elvis sits pretty...

                 getting better
at something doesn't help...
ask Samuel Little...
i guess he did come to late
for the whole 20th century
bonanza of celebrating
the offspring(s) of Cain...
        now for the king rat
and the art of scuttling toward...
if they get me post mortem...
only then...
sooner i with half a loaf
and enough pigeons
to **** on Trafalgar silly...
more blitzed up than...
a 1940s milkshake
of the Loon-do'un skyline...

that might pass on the name of
a Henry Neele...
        not that it might matter
for him... most certainly not for me...

that the 20th century is:
beside (having been) a lived...
this long exhausted: lineage of life:
"something" within
the confines of events...
otherwise just plain dandy
eventuality -
that pursued no:
clarity, clarity of judgement...
if was the biggest ask...

it overcame the i
he was lost to they...
me was never a my
who troubled
      this when and this how
and via sober
asked: who's who...
                 wafer tug at
the tragicomic tool of...
a face like a mask...
contorting the imbecile
toward....              a harvest
of sieved i.q. points...

    too profound i.e. not expected...
i suppose i might vote...
this whittle doodle o' mine:
   is that scrutiny of
forward 'inking.

words ignite fire the flames burn to the ground
my words are desire my spells cast around
deceptivly inviting they all will follow me
creatively enticing as they wait in captively
word is then delivered with form from which we fight
always reassessing if they will or they might
fall to the unknown and  intention never shown
I take the rest from here your add a Lil fear
imperfectly unappeased I turn into the disease
you only give your sense to fake self-confidence
the maybe is the might that  "want to" cannot fight
even out for yourself  keel over from good health
calling on creation is to save you from the pain
discomfort shapes experience as your mindfully insane
shifty shady maybe I am without a doubt
you never need to know why  n who or what about
knowing is the burden when you really don't know ****
the factoid is the cherry on the cake that you don't get
confuse them as i simplify, you live a lie with no regret