i finalised my "divorce" today. well, it was a breakup. 2 years together, lived together, shared our cats, shared a life... all that. so yeah, it felt like a mini divorce.

and i couldn't help but notice how relatable the song "happiness" by taylor swift is now...

"all the years i've given is just **** we're dividing up"

he left the house a week ago. today he came by, and divided up our shared things.

"tell me when did your winning smile
began to look like a smirk?
when did all our lessons start to look like weapons
pointed at my deepest hurt?"

when i first met him, it was the stuff of fairytales - like most relationships. we shared some of the best memories of our lives together. but like all good things, it came to an end. over time, we became stressed with life's responsibilities. we became toxic to each other, and both made terrible mistakes. towards the end, it became the inevitable to end things.

"after giving you the best i had
tell me what to give after that?"

i gave it my all. we both tried our best. it just wasn't meant to be.

"haunted by the look in my eyes
that would've loved you for a lifetime"

how i wished he was the one... given any chance, i would've loved him for a lifetime. i miss him. i miss the life we shared. i grieve for the future we will never have.

"i can't make it go away by making you a villian"

but just because the relationship failed, it was still extraordinarily beautiful. i hold zero resentment towards him at all. no negative feelings. i wish him all the best in the future.

"no one teaches you what to do
when a good man hurts you
and you know you hurt him too"

these lyrics hit me the most...

"there'll be happiness after you
but there was happiness because of you"

goodbye, lover. maybe in another lifetime, our paths will cross again. but for now, i wish you all the happiness in the world. i will always have love for you deep in my heart.

.i'm in luck, they're selling it at under 11 quid right now,
stock dry - gone in an instant - laphroaig like -
but not as smoky - but smoked scotch it it
at £10.34 - oh the little joys of having little money to spend -
you end up less picky and less hoarder and
the junk yard.

na głowe sypano mi, tak popiół:
     popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
           popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                 popiół! a obiecano mi *****!
                  (not my words... lao che's dym)...

me, beer, cigarette, outer-suburbia -
police whizz past, silent with flare
or screaming toddler and Odysseus' 20 sirens
with wax in the ears of oaring company
akin to Ajax'ς vitality -
along the way, my neighbour (who's mother
killed my cat.. listen, i know he had
heart problems, he was on aspirin -
but kidneys, even if complicated are not
real problem, felines take longer to ****
than do the no. 2, pigeons don't have kidneys -
they're always of an **** diet of diarrhoea;
write like Aristotle sometimes,
forget the facts, be wrong, get it wrong,
never put a glass cup into the waterfall of
poetic cascades - get it wrong, be wrong -
get to know yourself - it's not that dumb
to be predictable in yourself -
if you allow self-predictability you will
see certain social events as being pointless -
you'll see friends and "friends" -
self-predictability is a verb, compounded -
i already know i'll make references to grammar
and it being missing in philosophy -
no, not coherence and appropriate arrangement -
i mean undoing the box of thing-in-itself
and the subsequent tennis with a brick wall,
to surprise yourself when something is unearthed,
a little piece of the puzzle - simulating awe,
the genesis of all that's to come, even awe from a yawn
and boredom... it's here somewhere... i'll karate
catch it with chop sticks.... (looking around)...
i don't know, might be a moth or a fly...

Antichrist: or a summary of Antisemitism - a variant of,
or at least a concentration - mainly confiscated
by Christianity - prime complaint:
a democracy of Anointed One (Messiahs) -
obviously a manifested justifiable practice of Antisemitism -
the throng of Golgotha intelligence quotient -
Jew v. Jew, and one convert from the delusional
4 x 4 (in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy
                                         spirit... hold on!
                                    i make four gestures... and make a fifth
                 with Romeo and Juliet talking -
St. Matthew-Luke-Mark-and-John... penta penta pent-up
pentagon - evidently there's a pentagrammaton somewhere:
ah! i b l i s.                       Surat no. via Rumi - 7:143 - veils and
the one - reward in heaven - more veils, gardens veils,
grapes in heaven veils - stomach a veil - hunger a veil -
rewards in heaven also veils - the poem?
praise be Jesus - and Jason and the Argonauts - and whoever
wanted a strawberry flavoured pastiche to lick tears off -
love's apocalypse, love's glory -
         well bloodhound eyes say it all - droop drool -
droop & drool... Jack & Jill... went up the hill, and passed
the Grimm Bro. baton to Hanzel und Gretyl in the 100m x4
relay of Disney Limps - then rabbinical literature to sober up -
Albotini's Sulam HaAliyah (Ladder of Ascent, formerly Jacob's
ladder - to be: Ladder of Skip-rope; Oxford, hello! yes,
can you please consider un-hyphenating what is desirably
a compound worthy word in the practice of German?          )?
is a bracket necessary anywhere and i missed it?
Antichrist - or a very strange form of antisemitism -
be like a Jew, congregate applauding in the right corner: Jesus -
in the blue corner: Crux Golgothia.
export from Portugal - the said book -
key principle (kefitzah) jumping or skipping (dilug) -
and this being applied to the one practice of mystic Judaism -
the ****** gematria; hishtavut (stoicism) -

me - is it still 20 quid for an eighth?
Sim (my neighbour) - yeah, but these days
                                       they sort of cheat,
                                       you'd get an eighth nibbled on,
                                       twenty for a tenth?!
me - ******, well, we can't expect it to not happen,
         we had coin debasement - clippings of silver
         keratin with Siliqua, third stage and
         all encoded authority is gone: Thomas and Anne
         till death and nail clippings be fraud unison in
         the depart (or when narration extinguishes
         a character, the character is worth nothing -
         the narrator wakes up - all the characters run
         like phantom-hares into nonexistence -
         phantom! thin air!
politeness said: only one **** at the wacky wee ö wee
(umlaut O / double oh, 007 - 00'7 - double u... oh!
                                 i get it!                             Jamie Oliver!)
DEI.GRA.REG.FID.DEF.
   "   (-tia) (-ina)(-ei)(-ensor) -
all that would have been clipped - authority of visage -
the courtesan only knew the mint in silver
and the mint in the flesh - hence clipping of coin
to erase the authority from the holy authority of words -
in the beginning - but once dei.gra.reg.fid.def.jpeg /
                                   dei.gra.red.fid.def.gif.

that ****** moth is here somewhere! there it is! catch it!
                                                             ­   catch it!
SLAM!          and the job is done )                                      ).
i really waiting a bus stop pretending to wait for a bus
toking on a joint - joint is mix tobacco and wee wee
and spliff is pure? i forgot the slang - haven't been
addicted to it in years.
Sim - yeah, that's how it is. work in central london -
         have to get up early in the morning.
         corporate finance - no that's a commercial firm,
         corporate finance - McDonald's, etc.
me - oh cool waiting for  ghost bus - never get paranoid
         then?
(police cars whizz by)
Sim - n'ah, a perfectly decent area, got stopped once,
          three years ago.
and the price goes to the laziest narrator in history - absolutely
no engagement with characters - it's too real, everyone's
lying - this is the second time i spoke to my neighbour properly
in the past.. ooh 2002... 14 YEARS - it's not even funny -
no amount of marijuana will make you feel comfortable -
you can mate and make Kingston handshakes and what not -
this is purity of absurdity and western isolation,
we went against the maxim: no man is an island on purpose,
not by chance like Robinson Crusoe -
at least Crusoe had a talking Friday - we have a ghost
of Michael Faraday on Friday - ******* disco blink blink -
poet... or alt.: the narrator complex - inhibitions toward
character craft and pseudo-schizoid symptom -
believing in ghosts is easy, fiction writers and their ghosts
and abortions, hardly a way to escape from that -
poetry: rebellious narration - just anything with narration,
modern fiction is read like a chess match between deep blue
and Kasparov - or Pavlov v. Jezebel playing gynaecologist.

blank.... blank... wait for the atoms trilled R to make
their toady presence felt -
the more pricier the whiskey the more pristine water,
i.e. you get drunk more easily -
anyone that smokes marijuana and thinks
they're clever are stupid; how many people are out there that are
stupid! - resounding hearsay-hooray!
drugs, ******, crack, blow, marijuana, ****, ***,
  cannabis, dope, ******, mary-jane, 13, M - herb shake -
Humphrey saying to Bogart - that joint. as said in Saudi
Arabic - a Ferrari G.T.I. and MeKubalim HaMitbodedim
                  )
                                  -chism - schism - sky - ski -
                                  cha cha, cha cha - kilo or 100th -
                                  1000 thd. - hundredth a thousandth -
                                  - where then the acute,
                                  timber from Czechs -
                                  kebab from Mesopotamia -
                                  and the Trojan horse to boot -
                                 chatter - chopper whopper -
                                 astoikism - not chew off
                                 curve into cherish but
                                 cravat chew in -
                                 Slavic mining zed - czarna
                                 ciasność - blackened claustrophobia.
a Buddhist clap
                   immersion -
left handed the right hand claps against air
                  )             )              )               )            ) ) )            )
a night at the Opera, right handed the left hand claps against air
(                       (        (            (               (          ( ( (            (
scimitar Luna - so they said, would like an audience with the
further unmentioned mention -
you're mates with neighbours who over 14 years you only
spoke to the count of thumb and index on occasion -
and thus necessarily high -
i was going to write something really important before
i finalised this draft... but i forgot what it was...
got almighty this whiskey is good...
i'm smoking salmon and pickling reindeer hooves and antennas;
a bit like practising Chinese miracle medicine with
whale blubber and Mongolian nostril hairs.

it's not about loving your enemies -
this love sinister must be invoked as: making your
enemies bearable.

i'm sure i had something concerning poetry and narration -
ah! it was... poetic compensation -
a.d.h.d. narration - attention deficit hyperactive disorder -
true - all psychiatric terms are metaphors -
at least outside the psychiatric realm -
poetry as a.d.h.d. meaning: shrapnel narration -
a custard pie of missing characters -
poetry: i.e.: the inability to believe in ghosts
or write characters - claustrophobic or agoraphobic narration?
a mix of both - poetry - the inability to conjure
Ouija fancies - poetry, the over-specialised gift for
narration, but an inability to invent characters -
poetry, the truth of the narrative, and the truth of un-invented
characters, poetry: the ability to narrate, coupled
with the inability to create characters -
fiction and the dumb narrator - poetry and the exquisite
narrator - fiction and the exciting characters -
poetry and the God - our focus is based on that vector,
or bias to that vector - fiction and the Oscars -
narrator and director - when to change from first person
to third person - again Burroughs was right -
images 50 years ahead of writing - a bit obvious,
nothing spectacular with that phrase -
lightning and the sons of thunder: 12 of them -
made the tetragrammaton less spoken and swear words
fucken-uppen censored so the crucifix and **** could
collide - a fine fine excuse - the Boeing 747 first
and later the quasi-sonic broom shoo' 'mm -
poetry as fiction disguised when fiction was given
a seance with pure narratives - splinter group:
philosophy's juggling with pronouns esp. the plural deviation
from first person as if to proper punctuation -
psychiatry and the theory of pronoun usage -
poetry and the pronoun rōnin (macron = umlaut -
count to two, or prolong - reasonable man / **** sapiens, pre-noun pro-adjective / adjective attache-noun, noun counter-noun es duo-adjective, Kellogg's sunrise cockle-doodle-dip-in-tartan-chess) -
only poetry mediates the parallel vectors of prose-fiction and philosophy - it consolidates the use of pronouns, art of poetry alone -
pure narration we're talking about,
the narrator and characters of its fancy,
philosopher and dialectical placebos (character equivalence)
with self-conscious moments, mono-pro-noun - alone i name -
the sacred squash wall of lecturing an invisible audience -
rummaging epitaphs in a graveyard along with birth dates
and live by dates - yes, that sacred we philosophers use -
an entire theatre was summoned to continue in appearing
sensible when writing without fictive apparitions -
enabling a fluidity in pronoun use, without sensible letter
writing, as in dear sir,
                                       me in reverse, thank you.

In 1410 the village of Little Darling was a pretty nice place to live,
it’s houses were stout and wonderful and the people had lots to give,
the lord who owned the area was benevolent, he never ruled with an iron claw,
he spoke with softness and kindness, not knowing a cajoling roar,
he left the people to get on with their lives, unless they needed a helping hand
and then he’d be there to provide a peg up somewhere in his land.
Because of this the folk who made home here had it better then most peasants from this time,
who were condemned to a life of grinding servitude as if their living was a crime,
they were happier and joyful and free from the toil of subjugate,
each second was a pleasure and every minute spent first rate,
however there was one thing they shared with those who spent every day under the cosh;
everyone was filthy, no one liked to wash.
Only about once every 10 days would they pull bathing water from the well,
If they were especially filthy and their stink they wished to quell,
the rest of the time they didn’t care that they resembled a muddy shrub,
or their faces were still covered in last weekend’s off grub,
nor did they think it mattered if their hair was a matted mucky mess
or that compost heap didn’t smell more than their locks, it actually smelt less,
to them water was mainly a drink when their mouths were feeling parched and shoddy,
not a soothing liquid  with which to  cleanse their body.
Everyone in Little Darling didn’t mind being ***** and looking a unhygienic fright,
actually not everyone, everyone’s not quite right.
Alice always wondered why folk didn’t wash
and that’s not because she wanted everyone to be pretty, pristine and posh,
she just pondered as she daily made herself all gleam,
“why does nobody else round here care about being clean?
They all wallow around in their own filth like a burrowed germ,
more buried in soil than a busy earth worm,
I don’t get when there is plentiful water from wells not that far away
why don’t they dose themselves in the aqua good at any point in the day?
She thought, “Of course it’s their own life and if you never harm anyone else you can never do anything wrong,
but how how how can they fester in their own awful pong?”
So every day Alice would get up before she heard the going to work bell
and go and fetch some water to cleanse herself of smell,
she’d make herself all fresh and totally sans of grit and straw
and revel in the gleam she had coming out of every pore.
Everyone else in Little Darling all thought Alice was great,
a truly smashing lass who had tons of friends and mates,
yeah sometimes they’d remark to her “I don’t get your penchant for keeping yourself immaculate if I had to say
but who cares, I love you, have a fantastic day!”
And yes due to the mud in the village sometimes Alice would get herself all shiny and within a couple of hours look like she’d just crawled out of a cave,
but she didn’t mind as starting the day with a sparkle was what she did crave!
One fine day the folk of Little Darling decided to throw a big party as they adored a drink, a chat and a jive,
just have a massive night of  dancing, where they could give appreciation for being alive,
as Little Darling was a ace place they invited another village to join in the hedonism,
as they wanted folk to bask in hours through a wonderful prism!
When Alice heard news of the shindig she let out a chirping coo,
as revelling in the realm of fun was what she was really made to do!
As the week whiled to an end the day of the party came,
Alice could hardly contain herself as carousing ran through her brain,
she picked out her favourite garments feeling all of a super gathering quiver,
and then full of beans moseyed on down to the river,
she washed away with gusto and dressed all primed to go out,
“I’m on my way to get down and groove!” was her gleeful shout.
She started making her path to the good times, feeling all content,
she couldn’t wait to be immersed in the hub of blazing merriment,
as she was walking to the barn where the party was she encountered others making their journey to fun,
lit they all were by the going down sun,
someone said “hey Alice, I reckon you’ve spent an eternity scrubbing yourself for this bash”,
another said “yeah, I bet you’ve wasted hours by the river to get yourself prepared for this night on the lash!”
Alice replied and remarked, “yes I may have used my time getting myself ready and not been able to enjoy the chills and sits
but at least I don’t have hay in my hair like you ******* smelly *****!”
Everyone burst out laughing and happy all skipped to the revelry,
the slow dusk sky reflecting calm as far as the eye could see.
They jaunted into the barn with the music already in full swing,
the harp, drum, lute and trumpet players all doing their tuneful thing,
Alice grabbed a jar of foaming ale and started moving her body to the beats,
each noise in the air a consummate amazing treat!
Then from out of the corner of her eye she spotted a guy with dancing around in the air,
who'd cleaned his garb,
and washed his hair!
Alice thought "Wow! That guy doesn't look like his stench would make my opticals weepy,
in actual fact he makes my heart all leapy!"
They saw each other and felt swirls and sparks,
a knowing of what could and will be lover’s larks,
a chance they both knew could never be missed
and finalised their first look synchronicity with a longing kiss.
Everybody else stopped,
turned to look,
and knew a little bit more about
loves' rushing roars,
and couldn't help but breaking out
into a round of applause.
Alice felt a dawn,
reciprocated the smile of her fresh guy
and hand in hand they left the barn,
on their lips a glimpse of forever,
and went to find a empty stable,
where they could become all
***** together.

my linguistic observations were not written onto a blank canvas,
they arose from a backdrop that suggested political apathy,
and language games: my observations
came about not from observing
the necessity of what was suggested,
my observations didn't come
from omission - by was to consider
mathematical acute and macron
sense of what's to be punctuated
in addition, or stressed multiplication -
it didn't arise from omitting something,
it actually came about from
the futility of the leisurely fragrance
of language that politics could abuse
and leave many politically apathetic -
similarities with mathematics:
whenever the arithmetic cauldron
reached out-of-proportion counting methods
to value things -
same with these 26x nth term variations -
(nth term? the easiest allocation,
globalisation: ask a Croat of a Slovene
and i wonder if a Californian
might regard a Nebraskan in the same way) -
no, my observations came by way of
antidote: i looked at language and thought:
they're wasting it...
                  what with language entertainment:
crosswords and anagrams -
               i never understood why poetry
became obsolete by some noble pursuit
akin to philosophy... it didn't...
philosophy, pure philosophy didn't undermine
poetry, offshoots of philosophy: logic
games bedded the goodbye of emotion,
we're great at self-preserving emotions bound
to anagrams and crosswords,
   but cross love and hate together
  you get:                       h
                                        a
                     ­                   t
                 l       o      v     e...
                                                      philos­ophy is
at some points poetry, when there's a new crossword,
when there's a game of anagrams -
well, it write a new poem every day,
because people rarely acknowledge their everyday
apathy, they think they're without pathology,
and in a sense, they're without pathology,
their only pathology is finalised with
a connectivity of emotions, the paradoxical
unity of chiral emotions, a chance of opposites
solidified within the opposites of man, and woman -
when we speak of man, we tend to speak
primarily of femininity -
            and when we tend to speak to woman,
we tend to speak primarily of masculinity -
   the noun with the opposite-effect adjective -
but as sure as i am: it's a tightrope experience,
https://www.google.co.uk/searchsclient=psyab&biw;=1600&bih;=775orld+trade+towers+tightrope&oq;=world+trade+towers+tightrope&g;_lp..r_cp.&bv;;=bv.132479545,bs.1d24&ech;=1ψ=kOjZV5HjNckUqoiegM.1473898640411.14&ei;=UPTZ_IOKAbinangBw&emsg;=CSR&noj;=1 - is unreachable raph.co.uk/film/thewalk/philippepetitworldtradecentr/
Philippe Petit's expertise would do just now,
but on the confusing subjective deviation scope,
not minding the objective facts - two buildings,
one rope, one man... oh there's logic in subjectivity:
you just have to revise the objects surrounding the
feat - it's not exactly a United Nation's translation...
something has to uptake a poetic feeding,
and some has to be discarded...
   crosswords are philosophy's version of a poem...
i'm pretty **** at them... which spurns me to
write a poem, i'm with the Japanese squares -
as always, an optical consideration to allow variation...
but a poet usually wakes up when he sees
what others have done with language:
   crosswords are thesauruses in disguise -
      the hint is aligned to a thesaurus, more than
a dictionary - there isn't a care for
                       your vocabulary,
given that philosophers systematise and therefore
   acknowledge a need to curb a chance vocabulary
deviation as: in addition to... it never happens...
     but when did poetry become so discredited
form of entertainment in the use of language,
averting poetry as not music is wrong -
              poetry was replaced by crosswords and
the play on anagrams... music was wrongly attributed
to poetry by philosophy - it was a double blow -
a secondary **** - poetry was never music,
                    it was never about hitting rhymes:
Tenacious D's one note song and the clinically
   real:                              hate
                         ­                ate
                                         late - same ****, different cover.
imagine an onomatopoeia orchestra: doors, knock knock,
        sand in hands: the sounding of mortality,
whatever...                             can you see this
****** attack? i know Nietzsche's poetry was pish-poor,
but his maxims stand out for me to provide the
necessary reflex - philosophy attacked poetry,
the thespian art took over, the monologue is a holy
grail: a monologue that is free from narrator -
narrator exclusive - spontaneously: here! there!
nowhere! omnipresent!
                                          the pleasure from poetry
is in every household, not the poncy pretentious
households of frail households,
  your grandma is doing it already,
she's doing the crossword, she's not raising an emotion,
a gamble, she's a sterile duck, doing a crossword
rather than reading a poem -
                            and the philosophers?
the Shiva-disciples? before another art-form is attacked
they'll make money from being critical of films...
    to be honest, they'll have a hard time attacking music...
they can be great film critics... but in terms of music?
  well... the original confrontation with poetry
has made them impotent in this field... music is pure emotion...
including all the cheese entanglements -
however cheap an emotion might be (cheap: pop,
appealing to the universal attainment, shy, hidden,
the standard base of later improvements / idiosyncrasy) -
they can't attack music, it's double jeopardy -
given that poetry is deemed akin to music...
although caveman orchestra: man and his echo -
philosophy can't attack music, Plato's cave and the movies
beckons them... try once more,
                         and here comes the spectacular!

She says: WHY R U STILL LAYING THERE?
First she whispered, then she spoke and then she screamed
cause it seemed like i was consciously deaf.
'You say ur tired but are you really?
You say ur done but do you mean it?
You sure don't act like it.
You were happy, you were at peace cause i've seen it'

Well, now i'm not, i answered.
I'm emotionally broken cause he broke me,
My heart so full of feelings, they might choke me.
Feeling it wraps its cold hands around my neck,
As i gasp for air, waiting for my lungs to fill,
fuel my body with energy and try to fight back.
But i lack hope, so i finally gave up.
I fell so hard spiritually,
i landed on my back and decided to stay there.
Why? because:

There's only an amount of weight i can bear.
I feel like i passed the limit, twice
then three, four and five times.
So I've had it! My goal is so far, i can't even grab it.
Instead of feeding my spirit i overfed my habit.
Pulling myself away of His light, while my world turns black.
Crawling into the darkest corner
far away from Him cause i'm to ashamed to show my face
Ignoring her calls, denying His arms, disregarding His embrace.
Forgetting His grace and neglecting my thoughts.

And then she, the inner voice in me,
finalised our dialogue.
Why are u broken while He healed you?
Why are you a slave while He freed you?
Ain't there anything that you've memorised.
Rise up before you realize it's to late.
before your inner voice, actually the voice of God, is gone.
Cause then you'll get as cold as the floor that you're laying on.

as with any plaster work, or draping muscles and bones and
organs in skin - i knew i reached a zenith of some sort:
forever introspective, that chance momentum
that never reaches a museum of retrospective
finalised banalities -
and with that's happening in America,
i get a chance glimpse into that part of the world
so bogus, so *****-like, so haphazardly
put together - the chance to see the rats (artists)
jump ship and head to Tangiers, Paris, London
(for the pillars of the movement to come,
London especially, but might i suggest Edinburgh?
the capital of the offshoot that's to come
from Scandinavian novels?) -
i wouldn't suggest heading to Prague -
or Budapest - never to tourist hot-spots, obscurity is
what you need - Edinburgh out of season,
then the theatrical circus isn't there -
***** poetics: poncy monologues and Annabel
art-house flea markets... but that's the beauty,
flea markets in France, charity shops in England...
but i did exhaust this one musical avenue,
i dropped the ᚱᚢᚾᛖᛋ - it got boring after a while:
all that charged up mythological feeling -
the way we always wanted: myths to feel with,
to eat, rather than the sterile scientific facts...
i've learned enough to later ditch them,
even a Professor of Chemistry will have a postcard
of Edward Hopper's painting by his desk,
that window to view the world that doesn't
necessarily encompass sun moon and constellations...
how anyone would be foolish to scrub off
some inspiration from such things bemuses me,
the lowest of the low of poetic expressions is
sung to things that manage too much: the moon
and the sea tides, the sun and the seasons and
phototropism - it's a double edged sword...
only from one art to another do we get to see
our labourers of attention, else the same old deficit:
god... who in his glee took offence at anyone
having more awe-inspiring sense to please such
things... no alone can you master contemplating
both the beauty and the utilisation behind such
objects as a single man... however well...
it's impossible... you're sharing the bronze platform
with those that simply wrote of the shallow
beauty, and those that found these objects
were not simply aesthetic, but meaningful in
the machinery of things... it was never up to
us to find that electric genius of combining the aesthetics
with the machinery as one...
for in that sense god is a form as fraction
of 9/1, 8/1, 7/1, 6/1, 5/1, 4/1...
the fraction of wholeness... a complete set to start with...
man has already proved the limit as a fraction
with the base 3... 9/3, and that didn't really end well...
at best man is composed of a fraction base of 2...
by sharing the world through marriage to a woman,
or through a learned devotion, a crumb of what a woman
is, a philia (love) of his interests, a soloist voyage...
some just say: you will either take to being faithful
to philology and yourself as its devotee,
or you'll take up a wife... oddly enough chemists are
defilers of marriage having any purpose other than
to distract... but as i said: you can rarely write
decent things when trying to admire celestial spheres...
more ambition comes from the distraction of the zodiac
"prophets" and astrologers... a poem about the moon
is just a poem that is levelled with a poem
about a dustbin... but hey... Top Cat lives in the dustbin,
Neil Armstrong bopped along the lessened gravity
surface... but which is easier to acquire for a smile?
Benny... cue the violin theatrics of lamenting to a comic
end.
well... we have to juggle each other's impressions,
taking at hacking the raw meat will not give any of us
medium-rare barbecue steaks marinated...
taking the moon as something else is: nice...
and you know how nice things end up as... as tacky
suburban *******... if you're going to tackle the
thing with all the rawness... i'd first spend looking
looking at that thing of your attention in a graveyard...
just to get the feel to the idea: well... my fellow daisies
sniffed from the roots up would probably have
said something sulky similar.
but it's like that, you get to exhaust certain musical avenues...
i'm currently at a period where i have enough
stash of jazz records to rekindle my interest in it...
on today's menu? the real McCoy (McCoy Tyner,
Joe Henderson, Ron Carter and Elvin Flynn -
Flynn makes his mark, even though not the star
of the album, Art Blakey has a match) -
then onto the tragedy of Sonny Clark with his
cool struttin' alongside Art Farmer, Jackie McLean,
Paul Chambers and Philly Joe Jones...
i must admit that after watching the film whiplash
my ear-buds staged a coup to move from a certain
type of music into this... and even though
i already said that the climate in America at the moment
is very a second attempt at a Beat movement...
it's very much different... i guess jazz makes all the sense
in a pure urban environment...
jazz and urbanity, the hipster parties where wine flows
like poetry and people get to do their wild marijuana
******... but Bukowski changed everything
by bringing a taste of the classical into the scene...
it feels just like that these days...
there's no jazz on the radio...
going back to watches and radios, mono-utility things
that are the glamours of the inoffensive cluttering of a room...
no digital screen... the radio position at the back
of my head, behind me, the little fly-eye Rubik cube
ahead of me...
that's the odd thing with coming with jazz these days...
it's like Bukowski in the shadows of the beat movement
back when it was the beaten track...
so i said that jazz and urbanity are perfect partners...
well... take jazz from an urban environment and put it
in a outer-suburban environment, in a place
about 30 minute walk from farming fields with bulls
and horses... foxes the thieves rummaging in people's
trash... and... as classical music took to
teaching us the language of celestial bodies,
Holst... in this kind of environment jazz does the same...
jazz becomes equal to classical music with celestial
bodies... i'm just wondering if there are enough
instruments to arrange the solar system...
Mercury the Trumpet...
         Venus the Double Bass
Earth the Piano
                       Mars the Drums
Jupiter the Tenor Sax                                   (comparatively,
                Saturn the Soprano Sax                using a Holst
                                                           ­        schematic, the reverse,
                                             yet citing Jupiter, not as a planet,
                                           well, the bellowing voice of paternal fury)
Uranus the Clarinet
                                           (takes sheer magic to play that thing)
so that just leaves us with an Neptune as either
   Alto Sax or Trombone...
but that's how jazz morphed since it last came across
poetry... someone stole it from its urban environment
of busy streets and ugly manners and quick quick snappy
and the millionth time i could compare it to a spontaneous
encounter with someone in a bar... jazz lost its cool there...
people said the same thing about jazz
as Kaiser Joseph II did of Mozart... "too many notes"...
translate this urbanity into an outer-suburban environment
and put it against that kind of backdrop?
well... personally, there are just enough notes in each piece...
you looked outside the window? you could hear
a **** from a mile away and no tree would even sway
in nodding approval even with a galeforce wind slapping
them... jazz lost its synchronisation with the urban environment
it emerged from... but in so doing, it managed to mature
like good wine on the outskirts of large cities,
where it literally became the only thing that could ably
make a Kandinsky moment from semi-detached houses.
NEWSFLASH... what is this concern about art being
subjective? i don't see where these arguments go...
i thought art was about revealing the intimate,
not revealing the objective shallows of a method...
of limited scope like any philosophical systematisation...
if Christopher Columbus ever did things
objectively he might have discovered Lisbon or the Canary Islands...
art can't be objective... trying to argue that art is
"only a subjective" expression... well, if it was to be
a "greater" expression objectively, an artist would
walk into an art gallery, take all the paintings from
the canvases, and turn to the public and say:
now let's see your subjectivity, otherwise go ponce
off the art critics to take something they said to your
date about how: the light contorts the features of expressions
blah blah blah blah blah... the point of art being
superior as a subjective vehicle is so that i can feel someone
else's feelings... as opposed to thinking someone else's thoughts...
art is the sensual, not the premeditated dogmatic funeral -
which all philosophers attend: they're objective to the
point that they're afraid of having a personal attachment
to their outputs - they will hardly ever want to invite
a criticism of their objectivity, because they're such emotional
paupers - they fear criticism of their subjectivity to such
a point, that you can simply look at their pronoun usage
strategy, they really do use these words like kings -
but when Mozart is criticised by the Kaiser... he thought
nothing of it... he actually thought, nothing of it,
perhaps his vanity was wounded, but his virtue wasn't...
which is why he remains with us...
for the fatal wound incurred is not that of virtue,
but that of vanity... and true virtue is unafraid of criticism,
there's this cognitive blockage that enriches the
heart and leaves the mind blank... the sort of blank
that accommodates the Pyramid of Vanity:
bishops, priests, doctors, kings, queens, portrait artists,
Versailles... such things are so ****** void of anything
but scare-mongers, sycophants, leeches and finally tourists...
for whatever you take from the realm of Hades,
there's a stamp-duty on each precious element from that
realm... each thing is stamped: worthless...
you couldn't extract penicillin from Hades...
changing gold into a ring is worthless if such symbolism
of a union of monogamy end with the ring being
nothing more than a thing disputed over the divorce settlement.

there is a part of me that
chases, clamors for, craves your touch
(soft, steady, gentle or far too much)
a stubborn/reckless fraction
of an imperfect whole;
yearning to cage the still uncaged,
to catch myself a lost angel.

but your heart is too fragile,
too precious and too complicated
(untarnished and unremonstrated)
and my grasping fingers, they
would leave smudges and stains
handprints upon a handkerchief
****** white in this world of ink.

you are not a blank canvas
that tempts one into leaving a mark
(writing my name, my love on your skin);
you are a finalised masterpiece,
every line perfection,
and to change, covet or chain you
would be the highest blasphemy.

I offer no useful explanation
No news flash story on the madness of my life
Cause there's sorrow and sadness, yes
and loss and 
"yes and no" answers
25 years of grieving bereavement 
Me at my hastily finalised funeral
Songs and soundtracks 
A casket carried out  
To far approaching forever
Awkward; pausing moments
The pall bearer moves, nervously
Slips
Someone 
Plants an assuring hand- 
Mateship stays but Death-
Death 
goes on and on and on
Rattle ump thump
And the end is never near,
And always.  

two sudokus down, one pending, and the drinking is insatiable, peering into the stack of books, there's a copy of seven years in tibet and in start to wonder: what sort of interesting life should ever produce a book? the majority of me is asking: really? 7 years in 7 sittings of reading this?! who imagines writing a book, having "completed" an interesting life, does not imagine the majority of the readership, discarding the actual book, and being tibet bound... jealousy is such a cheap emotion, to be honest jealousy is the cheapest of all emotions, cheaper to pay a ******* for an hour's service, than take a fine girl to dinner; what, was someone expecting an "oops" with that?

i sometimes can't imagine the quality of pop,
it's not a pedantic "observation" -
it's just: well, could have done better,
but then again: you clearly couldn't have.
    i like rereading shakespeare and thinking
than minor additions would make the works
stand in greater clarification,
notably in shrapnel -
- 1st witch: why, how now, hecate?
you look angerly.
- hecate: have i not reason, beldams as you are,
saucy, and overbold? how did you dare to trade
and traffic with macbeth, in riddles,
and affairs of death,
  and i, then mistress of your charms,
   the close contriver of all harms,
  was never called to bear my part,
   or show the glory of our art?
such minor revisions, pedantic, of course...
i.e. - how did you dare to *trade and
make trivia with macbeth -
      better still: trade & trivialise -
         and
   - in riddles, and in the affairs of death;
suppose we don't live in times
of man's "omniscience" etc.?
                but we do, and categorising ourselves
as such, we can only seem to test
knowledge via answering trivia question -
the triviality of knowledge oozes out
of game shows: where enough to be
knowledgeable is enough to known the most
encyclopedic set of facts...
    having to encompass all of man's
endeavours seems rather mundane...
             heidegger's aphorism 91 ponderings VI...
and the arrogance of writings maxims /
aphorisms...
        you read them as if they are basically true,
but then again: they're written as
propositions, rather than as presuppositions...
there's not a single word in the works
of nietzsche or la rochefoucauld
that supposes an observation to be true:
        a bit like the legal system dichotomy of
the english vs. the european courts:
  a. innocent until proven guilty, vs.
b. guilty until proven innocent...
                it's the ****** bombast of writing
maxims as propositions,
   there's no room for "error":
said content is: necessarily true,
                         but unnecessarily observed;
most of the time maxim notation is
an erosion of common sense, and subsequently
the killer proteins of alzheimer eating
away at the fatty tissue of the brain...
          mental exercise?
      who the hell wants a schwarzenegger's worth
of brain, i.e. exercise what?
           i don't like nietzsche's style precisely
because i don't like aphorisms or maxims...
          they're bombastic in assuming they're
true,
   i.e. once observed: forever replicated
to the same summa summarum...
  i think it's unsavoury to presume that one's
observations are fit for purpose of replica
observations taking hold of the reader...
if, perhaps, these aphorisms were written with
an overtone of presupposition,
             and left in the la la land of: supposing so -
they would be guarded by an element
of surprise...
                      an encroachment moment,
with an element of surprise...
         if only the loss of propositional bombast,
and the mediation of supposing-so,
   with an undertone of prepositional discretion...
stating the obvious in that stating
the obvious is stating an: unchallenged truth,
an unchallenged observation shared between
to people, well, aren't we talking about
  simply observing the perpetuated plagiarism
of what is "observed", without ever
deviating back into the "unobservable"?
       i believe that aphorisms (as a medium)
are plagued by a certainty inversion -
             sure, they're true, but they are also
true without a guarantee of replica -
                 for the most part they are placebo
ridden...
                and the only aspect of philosophy
that is unscientific...
                for the most part the style of writing
that's aphoristic is placebo,
        and not res replica...
           unless offensively forced - stereotyped.
if only the writing of an aphorism was
plagued by presupposing rather than proposing
a conclusive play on a voyeuristic act -
             the presuppositional attention to detail
would be tactful - and part of the cartesian
continuum...
             but propositional observations,
akin to making stereotypes, have no element
of founding one's thought in the cartesian dynamism
of doubt... there either is, or there isn't -
existentialism akin to the genesis in nietzsche
was born with the cartesian roller-coaster
of fusing an emotional regard for feeling,
i.e. doubt... negation being the prime ingredient
in existentialism, is oh so boring...
         ego negare, ego quasi cogito - ergo..
      i deny, i sort of think -
                                             therefore;
pretty obvious, we had to change the song -
we know so much already, in the current times,
that doubting would be pointless -
    doubting used to have a thrill of purpose
never being finalised,
   existentialism replaced doubt with denial...
so few things can be doubted,
   and when so few things can be doubted,
  we purposively lie, deny, lie, deny, to somehow
muster an origination of awe in emotive
experiences, which only bring failure -
  awe does not coexist with denial -
           you can't be in awe via purposively lying
to yourself...
  you can only seek awe by being forced
  into an emotional system of doubt...
but since existentialism eradicated doubt and replaced
it with denial...
     as already mentioned:
we deny, therefore, we sort-of think -
      we deny, therefore, we "think";
as the zeitgeist suggests - robotics, and other
forms of automation are taking over.
the argument still stands:
  if only the medium of writing aphorisms,
or succinct "truths" could be universally tested,
or at least universally observed as being true...
     if only there was a lost propositional(!) bombast
behind these pieces of writing,
or rather: a presupposition(?),
     since both approaches still converge in the realm
of supposes;
   a position is taken and one is for it -
while a supposing is given and one predates
it with a spontaneous unearthing of unnecessarily
having an opinion about it -
to presuppose is to not suppose -
since presuppositions are more archaic in always
being unforced observations,
  whereas propositions are enforced results
of having forced oneself to think: about something
with the end result of: a maxim,
or the extended maxim, i.e. an aphorism.
          - so who would actually want to make
language, and easy, and accessible, to the majority
of man?
          did not the power reside among
the priesthood who spoke latin, while the general
populace didn't?
   so why would anyone not decide upon:
speaking an english, within english,
   that the common englishman could not understand?

Waiting Waiting..........
Always WAITING.... !!!

After A While...
Becomes FRUSTRATING... !!!!!

Like Waiting For A Train...
That’s Gonna Make You LATE... !!!
Because It’s Been............. DELAYED...

Or... Waiting For The Day...
When Girlies Play STRAIGHT...
Instead of... Playing Games...
When It Comes To Getting Laid... !!!!

Ya See Waiting Is A Game...
That ISN’T Fun To Play... !!!

If What You’re Waiting For...
DOESN'T Guarantee Rewards... !!!

Like Music From Producers...
Who Have ALL The Excuses...

For Why It Takes SO LONG...
For Them To Finish Songs... !!!

To Me These Guys Act FUNNY...
When It Comes To Getting MONEY... !!!!!

“We need to be paid,
before we play a single note !
That’s it okay, no time to wait,
or for debate !
If you want your stuff,
to really sound tough !
Pay us up front,
and you’ll get what you want !”

That’s How It STARTS...
UNTIL Cash DEPARTS... !!!

But Then You're Left....
WAITING............................ ..

Waiting... WAITING.... !!!!!

And Then You're Left Stationed...
Unable To... “Move”... !!!!!
Just Like Black Nations....
... Requiring FOOD... !!!

STARVED of Information...
About Your Tunes... ?!?!?

Waiting Like SATAN...
With A Darkened Mood...

Because You Want CLOSURE.
Before Your Composure...
Gets Lost And Confused...

Because These Guys...
... AREN’T Telling You...
When Things Are FINALISED...
... Which Is NOT COOL.... !!!!!

Because INDUSTRY Types....
AREN’T Known For The Truth... !!!!!

Or For Doing What’s RIGHT... !!!
By Artists... Who....
Place TRUST In Them... !!!

These Industry Heads...
Who... Play The FOOL... !?!

But Walk Away PAID...
Even If Your Tunes...
Don’t Sell Or Get Played...
Like... Biebers' Do.... !!!!!

I Guess It’s Like Blacks...
Waiting For Reparations... !?!

Because Your Track’s...
Getting NO Rotation... !!!!

... ON Radio... ???
Or... In Your Own Home... !?!

It’s True.... White Folks...
Play The Same Old Role...

NO Getting Past GO...
Until THEY SAY SO.... !!!

Its The Same Old Story....
WITHOUT Denzel...
Or A Film Called... " Glory "... !!!

BIG WIGS Turn Tricks...
More Than They Make HITS... !!!

And The OTHERS Try To Smother...
By Pulling STROKES Like BUTTER...

When THEY TOO Are...
..... BLOODSUCKERS..... !!!

SICK ******* Type HUNTERS... !!!

Just Waiting For Young Prey...
To ABUSE While They Make HAY... !!!

They Say It’s Just A Game...
That You Have GOT TO PLAY... !!!
If You Want To GET PAID... !!!!

But... Waiting In Vain...
Holds Weight TODAY...
In... Different Ways...
To Bob Marley’s Day.... !!!

Or Maybe Just MAYBE... ?
Things Just WON'T Change....

It’s A STRAIN On The Brain...
For Those... " In The Game "...

Who Play It... STRAIGHT... !!!!!

From Those Who ENTERTAIN...
To Those WAITING For THAT TRAIN  ... !!!!!

CONTEMPLATING At The Station...
WHY ON EARTH Am I STILL.....

...... “ Waiting “...... ???

My beautiful suicide
Written in the stars
Tired of hiding bruises
Unhealed septic scars
Tranquillity is calling
At last I’ll be at peace
Solution finalised
Time for breath to cease
Remember all my yesterday’s
Laughter plus the tears
Running for my destiny
For more than fifty years

The ******* get bitchier by the year,
The most common insult is "that ***'s queer"
I ignore the threats, laugh at the bets
And I'm still laughing when I smash in their head

Some don't believe, others try to deceive
They think I'm weak but that's what they see
Looks can be deceiving, the only quote I'm reciting
Hope they think the same when they're beaten and bleeding

My father told me not to start ****
But honestly, they just keep going at it
One day I'll snap, fall into the trap
And bust my way out as if I had a secret map

High-school horrors, mocking me
Taunting me, make me bleed
My heart is bursting full of rage and hate
You better give it up before it's too late

Fate and chance, holding hands
Slowly waltzing, eternal dance
So I'll bide my time, and spring the opportunity
Leap at it with both hands and fulfil my destiny

I know how to fight, hoping you're getting this right
I try not to overkill but I can show you lights
Showtime, centre stage, playtime, anytime
Storytime, finalised, tell it to your kids

About that one kid who took them all down
Grabbed his neck, forced him back, slammed his *** into the ground
Smiled and laughed at their pathetic attempts
The worst thing for your business is when you mess with the best!

High-school horrors, mocking me
Taunting me, make me bleed
My heart is bursting full of rage and hate
You better give it up before it's too late

I've decided, this isn't worth listening to
So what you gonna do?
I hope this gets through to you

I've decided, I now know what I'm gonna do
So what you gonna do?
When my fist meets your head and it bursts right through!

Blood on the ground and a beautiful sound
Finally, silence, paralysed by shock and horror
Didn't expect this? Didn't think of the consequence?
Should'a thought it through now let me just finish this!

High-school horrors, mocking me
Taunting me, make me bleed
My heart is bursting full of rage and hate
You better give it up before it's too late

High-school horrors, mocking me
Taunting me, make me bleed
My heart is bursting full of rage and hate
You better give it up before it's too late

I do not come to you with the usual platitudes
Things you have heard numerous times before
Though perhaps my arrogance stretches far and these words have reached your ears many a time.
How am I to know.

I would ask you, to save me.
There is no need to take any action, just keep shining.
You taught me, or rather, finalised the lesson - when my fathers should have - that you can be as fantastical as you want to be. You do not grow old, your body does.

Thank you for reminding me that I'm still growing and that there is Hope for me.

But if your light were to go - I suppose I would still live - but life would be so much darker.

Thank you for smiling when you can - I of all people know there are rainy days.

a lot of -ism is biased within an etymological framework; coupled soon, how darwinism can never attain a suffix of logic, as can biology never become bioism; contemplating the impulses of boa constrictors seems more pleasing to both ear and eye to understand, as it always would have seemed to appear: it being said - without guilt, conscience or self, but that rotten "economic" model, of communism.

logic begins with: the origin of words,
and how they morph -
as said:
an -ology is always lesser than
an -ism:
etymology overcomes darwinism,
sorry, you don't have to handle
theology, or the -ism of theos -
words speak words -
forms speak: square becomes
a square, and the rest is: a lost affair,
asking eric clapton to turn into
jeff buckley, while papa's not there:
with that being papa *tim...
      actually much of logic is
etymological...
          the origins of words sometimes
became histories...
    to say the least:
the name athena became the city athens,
while romulus and remus became rome,
st. petersburg came from
   sakt peter - sanctified peter -
  edinburgh, came from illicit edith -
of malcolm, half removed from
macbeth's choosing -
             are we so thus, so thus far
removed, from our weakened travesty
of making: encouraging history?!
    tell the germans of the icelandic orcas,
and how they hunt them,
and how the seas turn crimson akin
to biblical fables...
tell them, that there is a higher ground
to begin afresh, akin: to a new beginning...
that they might refresh their toiling
in scandi song, in scandinavian folk,
to allow this resurrection is almost
a travesty among my kin folk...
   but, one, worth minding, having an
execution;
darwinism already stated its primordial
origin, the form of ape,
    but with every -ism, there's an
-ology,
             terminological for starters,
etymology for making the ends meet...
i'm afraid that the suffix question
seeks not authentic pardon of presented
artefacts...
       since the origin of form,
in that platonic simplicity is laid
intact, unmoveable via an  atheistic orthodoxy,
we have to move our ways toward
an ingrained, deeper, beckoning...
let our history encounter an
etymological zeitgeist -
to source first meanings,
to source them as is much desired,
having finalised our: first & thereby only,
                           beginnings.
      so, given our beginnings being
a samson's un-moveable pillar of all things
know, for the temple to stand intact,
   can we at least perform a secondary
historical feat, of attending to etymological
explanations?
   and at least desire, a curbing
on anarchic slanging, curling language from
scholastic affirmation of kept culture
and practice,
       to assure the minor offence of
allowing the linguistic intactness -
   and that infamous serenity of ensuring
progress, by abiding to the sort of
cultural non-appropriation that
youth resides in?
  for i dare say, and dare believe in
enough to fear:
    should the integrity of language be
kept, as today it is "kept", i.e. un-kept,
it will become no medium worth
of eloquence,
namely, demeaningly: only a canvas,
of irritating bombast.

p.s.
i can salvage the germans from their **** past,
a song of paganism,
a song of the cultural "idiot",
a song prior to the current "foundation",
a song in memorandum -
      a meditation on the crow -
a meditation on the matter of snow -
a meditation on the grey skies of winter -
a meditation on beer & song -
to find the german of today,
is to strip the german of yesterday,
the yesterday of 2nd world war
foundation,
   and the tomorrow? looks
like reviving the romanticism that
came as the 19th century "post-scriptum":
the thought of the kid
who was to inform barbarossa
to wake up once in grave,
when a swarm of crows shattered
the silence of his graven passivity.

seems maybe if it is written down

for tomorrow

in the diary

it gets done today

finalised with finesse tomorrow

like

the stick fence and composting

and other varied tasks

pottering in and out

did you see that river stone there

adding accent

do you see the chicken wire behind the ivy covered some time ago

do you find that predictor adds words not required and meanings irrelevant

even the thorns came useful

She is Big Brothers sister
and since probate's been
finalised (quite sometime
since he was sick, or well)
his estate is her inheritance.

Genocide of the elderly or
unproductive animals will
be her first duty as the farm
can no longer maintain or
sustain practices of era 1984.

Landfill burial procedures of
last century are a redundant
form of carcass disposal, the
Krupps™ technique is going
to be employed universally.

She anticipates that by 2024
forty years after her sibling's
initial concept was conceived,
the first tsunami of Pfizer's ©
victims will be exterminated.

There will be plentiful grazing
for the younger beasts and a
lot more accommodation, plus
an abundance of Winter feed
which was becoming a problem.

Gated® communities will no
longer exist thanks to the new
patent 060606 which will allow
branding again, thus permitting
free ranging via the GPS systems.

Big brother can't see you
that's why Macron banned
the Burka. So why all this
talk about ****** recognition
in times of Covid ?

Mass surveillance is being
finalised while we are in
a state of simulated security
behind surgical face coverings -
before they decide to De Mask Us.

Full exposure is coming soon
          Watch the birdie

                      (˚<
                       &
               S I M I L E