Amid fear and suspicions,
with agitated mind and frightened eyes,
we melt and plan how to act
to avoid the certain
danger that so horribly threatens us.
And yet we err, this was not in our paths;
the messages were false
(or we did not hear, or fully understand them).
Another catastrophe, one we never imagined,
sudden, precipitous, falls upon us,
and unprepared -- there is no more time -- carries us off.

Mesons, quarks, neutrinos, too
Drawn inexorably
Into eternity
To a finite point
Called singularity;
Rushing, streaming
Toward one juncture,
To a destination
With unknown structure.
Swirling, speeding
Into the abyss,
Reason, logic
Cease to exist.

Space and time
Merge in disarray,
Matter altered too,
No night, no day.
Warped, transmuted
Realities,
Become twisted, melded
Finalities.
Inconceivable dimensions
Reign supreme,
Nature’s laws violated
To extreme.

Crossing the event horizon,
No turning back,
Into the precipice,
Down a void of black;
Facing the vortex,
Light gasps in disbelief,
A terminal journey starts
Without relief.
Stars and galaxies
Give a sigh
As they spiral in
And begin to die.

One day we too
Will meet this fate;
The only questions are
The place and date.

you'd know if ******* with you, you're only ******* with precise time
taking all that my heart can take, i'm losing pace so rerise mine
thinking that now that is true is that of the past is concedence of back
i'll ****** you ******* talking like if i didn't know my own being collectively, i warn your future like i say again, i'll ****** you ******* like ratting you out in packs
pack the steel rather than back was feel, what that, "I'll ****** you *******" like if mine was real
hype poppin **** like if was women was owned
i'll display the images of the future like sacred ideas of your own rabbit assed mind'll condone,
I'll ****** you ******* cuz it's a balance,
you feel pulse in ambivalence so stop poppin attitude cuz you're raising me wrong redeeming forgiveness in balance
you muthafuckahs gotta know you're living in soul like you were ever alive in my home
******* with all of my phones, i'll belt your *** like i owned every satellite sat saturn turned up when i'm burned up when you're ******* with all of my phones standin
capacity roam your tenacity's shown every capacity at being stolen of my life like all finalities owned
mistakenly like balance you're shortening truth as each different wife is being lied to indepently told
my capacity growth is closer to death now that my finalities owned
redeem it like i didn't reveal em ****:
so your now reading everything dear closer to you now cuz you're enlivening ****

CLOWNS DYINGFIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions of laughter from behind rouge-red lips and powder-white face.

STEAMBOAT BILLWhen the boilers of the Robert E. Lee exploded, a steamboat winner of many races on the Mississippi went to the bottom of the river and never again saw the wharves of Natchez and New Orleans.
And a legend lives on that two gamblers were blown toward the sky and during their journey laid bets on which of the two would go higher and which would be first to set foot on the turf of the earth again.

FOOT AND MOUTH PLAGUEWhen the mysterious foot and mouth epidemic ravaged the cattle of Illinois, Mrs. Hector Smith wept bitterly over the government killing forty of her soft-eyed Jersey cows; through the newspapers she wept over her loss for millions of readers in the Great Northwest.

SEVENSThe lady who has had seven lawful husbands has written seven years for a famous newspaper telling how to find love and keep it: seven thousand hungry girls in the Mississippi Valley have read the instructions seven years and found neither illicit loves nor lawful husbands.

PROFITEERI who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who saw ten old mothers hand over their sons to the nation anonymously, I who saw ten thousand touch the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human glory-why do I sneeze sardonically at a bronze drinking fountain named after one who participated in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?

I. LONELINESS

Her Word

One ought not to have to care
   So much as you and I
Care when the birds come round the house
   To seem to say good-bye;

Or care so much when they come back
   With whatever it is they sing;
The truth being we are as much
   Too glad for the one thing

As we are too sad for the other here—
   With birds that fill their *******
But with each other and themselves
   And their built or driven nests.

II. HOUSE FEAR

Always—I tell you this they learned—
Always at night when they returned
To the lonely house from far away
To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray,
They learned to rattle the lock and key
To give whatever might chance to be
Warning and time to be off in flight:
And preferring the out- to the in-door night,
They. learned to leave the house-door wide
Until they had lit the lamp inside.

III. THE SMILE

Her Word

I didn’t like the way he went away.
That smile! It never came of being gay.
Still he smiled—did you see him?—I was sure!
Perhaps because we gave him only bread
And the wretch knew from that that we were poor.
Perhaps because he let us give instead
Of seizing from us as he might have seized.
Perhaps he mocked at us for being wed,
Or being very young (and he was pleased
To have a vision of us old and dead).
I wonder how far down the road he’s got.
He’s watching from the woods as like as not.

IV. THE OFT-REPEATED DREAM

She had no saying dark enough
   For the dark pine that kept
Forever trying the window-latch
   Of the room where they slept.

The tireless but ineffectual hands
   That with every futile pass
Made the great tree seem as a little bird
   Before the mystery of glass!

It never had been inside the room,
   And only one of the two
Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream
   Of what the tree might do.

V. THE IMPULSE

It was too lonely for her there,
   And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
   And no child,

And work was little in the house,
   She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
   Or felled tree.

She rested on a log and tossed
   The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
   On her lips.

And once she went to break a bough
   Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard.
   When he called her—

And didn’t answer— didn’t speak—
   Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
   In the fern.

He never found her, though he looked
   Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother’s house
   Was she there.

Sudden and swift and light as that
   The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
   Besides the grave.

Set aside the formalities                      
Put behind your brutalities                    
Forget about the finalities                      
Throw away all moralities
Come hide from your realities
Forgive me for my irrationalities
I plea not for practicalities
I know of the abnormalities
Do you know of the totalities
Just listen to the modalities

It's becoming a lethality

A student weary from the week cries out, it's like
"We're trying to one up each other in misery"
Day by day,
Every single one, lines up straight, and rigid
Takes the time to confess and lays down
What's going on, around in this town?
The culture that is spreading is toxic.
Similar to a disease, where is our CDC?
Who is supposed to protect my life from me?
From my destructive, wasteful ways
From those long and uninterrupted days
Why do the teens have less and less life jumping between their minds?
Less and less excitement found in their blurry far too tired eyes
Dull, dreary, and exhausted
Walking into here feels like pushing against an immortal force
We trudge through the mud afraid of what comes next
I'm wondering if the girl next to me knows.
If she believes that the way we're going leads to the cold
To the undeserving, to those that remain untold.
I wonder and wonder for hours, but it's in my mind and I know.
This life style that is so widely encouraged and yet also frowned upon.
The controversy sets up success almost as a paradox.
Impossible, not achievable at least in this reality.
Should I sacrifice my health for a good grade in a class I don't even like.
Education, the path to freedom, but it feels as if living our lives in a hell.
Consuming coffee with enough sugar to make heart spike far above normal and to pump my adrenaline.  to get me going
My heartbeat is pumping too loud for me to hear.
“I despise where I am,”
the repetition of my statement is nauseating
I mean I do what I can, but it seems to never be enough.
And yet so many of us find ourselves relating
Why would students today rather die that go to school this way?
Why would I rather stay home sick just to avoid the stress?
How do you change our system, our very broken system that is no where near the best.
I don't know how to fix the problem, if I even can.
May, the time of finalities, whether it be exams, projects, or tests.
A performance scheduled during AP week, what a brilliant idea
Why don’t you just sign the forms to drive the students completely mad.
I'm not good with time management.
I’m not good at taking math tests or test in general that is.
So why have I taken 5 standardized in this week alone.
That seems a bit absurd.
We’re giving it our all, I promise.
Please give us a break, please let’s change the mentality
The toxicity of the prepatory student mindset
If not for me, or my fellow students, for the future.
Please the pressure is capsizing our success,
And our SOS doesn’t seem to be getting through
So I hope this message reaches you.

promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:

•
                  •


                    •
      •



           •

•
    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.

as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...

With your dignity at the bottom of a bottle
you shared with me your sweet nothings.
We weaved around secret feelings
and waded through shallow fears.

Warmed by jungle juice we growled at misconceptions
and spoke in cirlces, and circles and circles.
We wandered off paths long lost
and discovered life's finalities
- and finally -
we found our way home.

I am not good, I am not great,
I do as I should but as a fake,
Getting by on my anxiety,
Guided by sure finalities,
I am good, God is great,
Both do as we should but so full of hate,
Meanings here and meanings where,
Meanings rare and I’m stuck there,
You’re in one, I’m in two,
Masks are fun to hide the truth,
Focused on self-defined tragedy,
Self-obsessed professed insanity,
No relief or relax from the dark,
Bruised by bottle caps and teeth marks,
Bats and owls curse spiritual slurs,
The Sleep of Reason greets Goya’s monsters,
Stuck in a poets phonetic wasteland,
Letters scattered like grains of sand,
Hunched over tables convulsing religiously,
Punching out feelings for depressions vanity,
Mutters of memory’s shadows,
Patterns of clarity in charlatans clothes,
Search for a meaning of proof,
If any as denial and distraction wage a truce,
The Artist’s Reward was always a lie,
To defy life first you must die,
Continue this imprisonment in institutional prostitution,
Reverting, perverting once innate constitution,
Create an ornate human and visceral solution,
Refusing the fusion spit out prose pollution,
Confusion in this constant cyclical conclusion

As I stood there,
Full of thoughts so thoughtlessly thinking,
Drinking deep with an inclination that I do not think was ever there before,
Though never there but seeming very real in my despair,
Unwittingly I stood there,
Sinking still forevermore

Wherever from I do not know,
Forlorn for far too long, long ago,
Labouring lonely on my own,
Finally finding some sort of sedate sedition,
At last some affinity with forever’s finite infinity

And, I do recognise the conflictions and oxymoronic oppositions,
But as such it is a necessary dereliction of definitive definitions,
And yet it all still makes so much sense to me,
Profanity in profound insanity,
What gravity

What gravity the vulgarity of these verbalising vultures voicing victorious vitality,
Before banality and such boring finalities,
Then suddenly one’s head grew heavy, hence and thus, dropped into dust,
Deep into the darkness ****** to which only few have ever been privy,
There lay the bust of Miss McHale

Though long pale and so frail in death’s derail of life’s long trail,
Beauty somehow still prevailed in such a sorry sickening tale,
In time long lost to those foreign and some still long mine,
Destined besotted are entwined,
In life and death we tumble and take turns to stumble into things we cannot perfectly define

Love, love was inclined to go through,
Adversities, I had to climb to try and find the only word for you,
A word that can only be mine and said once and really meant for you, that one time
To us that word will confine, but I cannot find,
Nor conform or confide in any known way to accurately represent my mind

Though sometimes that can be just fine,
That word can escape me, but you will still be mine,
And along with finite infinities,
There is the very possibility that we are something that just cannot be defined,
Although I do not understand it, you will still be mine

And yet you crave to climb that rail,
Atop a limousine after your tumble through an Empire’s gale,
States of life try to live on in death but always fail,
As blood runs still and last breathe exhales,
Though immortalised now evermore prevailed,
In beauty and brutality ultimately availed,
The immortal end of the ever humble Miss McHale

Not just the day
not just the night
but the year
give it to me

Let this year last a lifetime
let this be the last of me
let me disclose my finalities
and show my secret strengths

Time has called me to account
so I must stride fearless
into the realms of the unknown
from the world of the known


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris
© 2012 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

Here I sit
In my beautiful home
With my wonderful family
And then it hit
All the things that could go wrong
that do go wrong...
All the bullets that need not be fired
All the blood that need not be spilled
All the mothers children who slip away everyday
Every fathers daughter who closes her eyes on the final high
Every bomb dropped, shooting done, overdose, all the finalities of this world.
And sometimes it feels hopeless
But perhaps its the fact that we still feel enough hope to recognize hopelessness that saves us. As long as we never reach the point where not caring is normal. As long as being alive is feeling pain for all the losses, even the ones that aren't ours. As long as we can sit in our blessings and recognize them as exactly that. Maybe there's a chance for us.

dotting the Is and crossing the Ts
drawing lines under finalities
saying goodbyes surreptitiously
inconspicuously thanking my serendipities

He is not without dreams, without aspirations;
He simply knows them by their true name,
Knows they are alloyed and somewhat compromised,
The musings and misapprehensions of mortal men,
And he knows that his finalities outweigh and outnumber
Such things he has yet to realize,
Those lesser grails which tantalize and tease
Even though he knows their possession is far outweighed
By that gleaned from the pursuit.
But no matter, then--he has duties to fulfill,
Tithes to pay, promises made and, as such, to be kept.
There is the sun, after all, and the warmth of day
Sometimes not unlike that of mid-August,
Though the nights have lengthened perceptibly,
Their depth and chill implacable in their advance.

the entirety of the english tongue's
"finalities" are nothing but,
banalities...
                  and yes, chris isaack,
could have been the new elvis...
  try or no try, there was no
train from st. petersburg to moscow,
and however women love party...
men are always in love with
a wrinkle...
  what of thinning hair,
         men age into lizard people,
women age into the graeae...
      the last one laughing stands...
   i'm thinking of conjuring pasta with
a poached egg akin to heston...
but it is as it is...
that gateway into the affair,
heidegger,
     VI, LVI,
   we really do live in an unquestioning
age...
     i love that phrase:
spiritually determinate...
no one is actually asking a question,
everything is "seemingly" intact,
readied for some glorifying plateau...
but we live in times when there is no
question, worth answering to,
in that there are too many answers,
and hardly a question to craft a usurp action
(usurp-tion)...
                    the tragedy being that:
we don't live in a questioning age,
we live in a paraphrase age,
             in an age worth reclaiming
an "original"...
                        you can fry lard all
you want, but after a while the game is up
having tasted the butter...
       chris isaak was the new elvis,
but he wasn't, because he got the J.F.K.
treatment;
retrogative in an age of completely unquestioning,
an age where the only question is
questioning perpetuated?
there's a possessiveness of "being there"?!
apart from journalism?
can dasein ever reach a dasein's dynamic?
thank **** not a lot of pdf. existentialists ever
read kant...
            i'd be worried had they ever done so...
sartre's novels are fun, his thinking though?
about at dry as an overcooked doughnut...
but we really do live in the age of a lost question...
          aetate quaestio amissa;
and for an age filled with answers, as ours is...
i find it obnoxious, too certain,
       too "truthful",
but also too fricative in what scientific
     fictionalisation provides...
    summa ut...
          age of a question omitted,
                  summed up to perpetuum sors:
id refero qua quaestio
    ut quaestio qua refero,
                 *** finis ping pong logica.
            and it is true:
why are we left so completely unquestioning?
as heidegger noted with my own
reinterpretation,
why is history simply a delayed end,
                   as it is: a falsified beginning?
falsified by the count of:
   the unglorified estimates of poetics
being allowed the burden of the images
cleaving to a claustrophobia of space...
we can't live for the next 100 years
by being satiated by the already "certain"
answers...
we never managed to call the planet
mars inhabitable, when we already stated:
earth was once uninhabitable...
   the once upon a time schematic needs
revising...
      i never bother a latin friction of
a "dictionary": i write pig,
i snorkel in piggish, and then i snort
a hog's affair of "compensating" grammar
in english grammar schooling (private)...
we live in an unquestioning age,
    an age riddled, rather than filled with:
all the answers...
      if i were my own, in the contemporary sense,
of being sharing a tempo history,
i'd begin to sound the bells of suspicion...
  i never warmed to this age,
it's neither road nor highway,
but a cul de sac...
                 and i will never warm to this
age, i will always be nefarious towards it...
because it has been oh so blatant in treating
a case of awe, as a worthy take on the carousel.

that kindness i'd extended
withdrawn
i hoped you'd be different
i hoped wrong
you dont know what you want
dragging this on
want me soft enough to crush
want me easy and gone
i dont care at all
but i still do
tell myself
i dont want to hear from you
but there's nothing wrong
with the truth
a small part of me wishes
you're wishing too
struggling with accepting
that i'm not wrong feeling these ways
the highs of intimacy
and the confusion of space
wanting all the beautiful things
strewn about my brain
quite far from reality
but it's an addicting escape
from the depressing finalities
set in stone
i listen to logic
but i also don't know
it all makes sense
but i still don't
want it to end
but i won't stop you though

i took all of my chances
and its your turn to walk off the ledge
backwards
and blindfolded
just trusting me to catch you
and who knows
maybe i just would
or maybe you'd fall into the same trap
but you'll never find out
because you don't find me worthy of such
probability

foremostly: drink a little, and then write something,
there's absolutely no point in drinking
and rummaging an abdandoned house,
better still, what use would a spider have for
an abandoned spiderweb,
   that hasn't been kept in order, for two months?
what of the old hunched
crow-shadow posture in a chair?
            in poland i remember having trouble
associating myself with writing
in turkish akimbo on a hard communist concrete,
and the bare minimum of what
could be called a carpet...
              let alone the insomnia grandfather
snooping around at 12, 1, 2am...
     begging me to pretend to be falling asleep
while smoking cigarettes indoors,
   writing by candlelight in the kitchen...
it felt as it feels now:
               having lost a limb... but subsequently
having regrown one...
      there is no technique to what's
               closely associated with: rigour...
drinking is one thing:
                     writing habits? quiet another!
for starters there are offshoot verses
of nonsense, or: exploring the consequence
of simulating alzheimer's of some
sort...
              less metaphorical than the romance
with schizophrenia, the romance
that is a razor blade thrown to a person
drowning from anxiety...
                list: US consumes 50% of Xanax
production,
          the UK consumes 22%...
                            2017 sore 240 call-outs
for Xanax abuse by children aged between
11 and 14...
              half of mental problems
begin aged 14, three-quarters come
sober 18...
                         70% increase in rates
of depression in >25s...
   2 to 1 (:) ratio of women hiding
the same problems men have...
                50% increase in suicides in
England in the past decade -
                                hello Bristol university!
now that we juggled with the facts,
    like we might pass taking shots from
a bottle of ***** like some rude
teenagers in a playground in a park
   come the last solar hours of
                                         a sunsent...
facts: you can plagiarise -
          that's what they're there for -
no need for citing where i got them from,
one source is as good as the next.
         now... routine and writing...
   england is so different from poland -
namely, big town small town ergonomics -
small town? good chance you'll
get a romanticism bug... read a book
and start seeing swans in clouds...
               big town?
                    no real chance...
            talk-the-there's-no-talk scenario...
i had to remember how i used to function
in england, when the tactic i had for
treating anti-depressants as sleeping pills
actually worked...
                and no... it didn't involve
                 the affair of a bottle of ***** per
     night to imitate an executioner's axe...
or a mike tyson upper-cut for:
        seeing black-holes, of former stars...
god!
             death?!
                        black holes are the death of
stars, and yet they fascinate physicists more
than actual stars, which they reduced
                  to a hydrogen-helium interaction...
what i clearly forgot is my routine,
and the rigour involved in ushering in some
worthy blah-blah...
               my day constitutes of 48 hours...
which technically is two days,
                           but that's debatable...
stay up for a minimum of 24 hours...
                  actually, 24h is a breeze,
   not even worth contemplating since i only
stopped myself shy of doing a 48h+ stretch...
but, see... i became bogged down in
   video-books...
                    billions: ******* genius soundtrack,
very much akin to baby driver...
   but **** the precision of acting...
    favourite character?
                       WAAAAAAAAAAAGS....
a bit like snooping in on the wives of
european footballers once every four years...
binged the ******* that ****,
    finished season two and just waiting for
the next two installments...
            and?
                           versailles: on a techical
note... addressing Kant while watching
this ******* of a show?
                      power is better understood
than knowledge, visually, when contemplating
power: a priori,
                            so much easier...
   knowledge doesn't have the same rich
                                 association attached to it...
because? knowledge a posteriori
diffuses into perfecting replicas -
                    say the original cobbler...
        and subsequent cobblers and, "cobblers",
or trivial Cains...
                 visually speaking,
    since the dynamic of power, a posteriori
     is just blinding in terms of hierarchy...
         well, "blinding", i mean: illuminating...
another welcome routine prior to writing
something down and drinking at the same time?
solving a sudoku.
           this is the sudoku interlude -
   scatter-brain sequence (if you like):
           visually speaking power a priori creates
a more sensible visual explanation of
                            of power a posteriori...
          given that a priori power is a vacuum -
a priori knowledge doesn't exactly have
an agreeable imagination basis -
         to the pop. scrutiny...
                    ****... even retards know how
to laugh, even though they might not even concern
themselves with stand-up schematics
of a joke...
                  knowing how to laugh, is just like that...
the a priori knowledge of laughter
         is not designated to an exclusive
            a posteriori knowledge of laughter...
intellectual brown-nosing is the same
    as a ****** laughing: although i bet my wet-winkle
that i'll laugh with the ******,
                       than the intellectual pop-****.
power though...
              god, where do you even begin?
       the power that comes prior to
      the subsequent compenetration of
the anti-cartesian: res vanus replaces res cogitans,
yet res extensa remains intact...
           louis the 14th and the "thought" project
that became versailles...
                 and it would have been a "thought"
fabien marchal...
            it used to be monsieur philippe I,
but then i became bored of
my irritability of being unable to assimilate
the deviances to such carnal finalities...
best of all, just recently,
  the appearance of marquise de montespan
with her keen observation -
        purely a priori, well, 3's the lucky number...
the inverted crown woman...
  the crown of thorns woman...
       how she took hold of bouffon gossip cueues...
and became...
          sorry... she can't be defined as
          the king's favourite "mistress"...
          ha ha! she was the ******* madame!
feed the hydra another hungry bite at its
neck...
            and you can make a brothel legitimate
without the concept of money...
                   worded-"bribes"...
if she was a mistress of louis xiv
then i was the nun
           in the rocky horror show, if there was
any nun, in that movie...
            madame through and through,
because she became more obliged to the queen
than the king:
             misconcept of pushing women
rather than allowing them to fester
like sores?
                       heart becomes detached...
less... clingy...
                                       boyish...
packed with dormant dynamite lodged
in stone...
             but without the fuse of
an authentic woman's tongue that asks
for bribes in acts outside of the most piquant
affair of carnal festivity...
               endless ******* "metaphors"...
       which is no wonder why adultery is
what it is: an emotional and an even cognitive
investment in a: story, rather than
a mere body...
                          which is not to say that
the body isn't cherished:
                   last time i checked...
     i forgot to take my genitals with me to
the brothel... left it in the dollhouse
                                 of Barbie & Strappy...
yet what's persistent is the rigour in
writing the casually sporadic...
                    sleep deprivation and a diet of
decent video-books...
               a drink... a sudoku...
                    and the chance to catch up
with about 10 hours...
                             and having the ******
decency to do minor things that involve
other people's boring trivialities...
            like cooking dinner...
          feeding the cats...
                            watering the garden...
and trying to figure out:
                      that teenager who gave me
the ten quid he probably found
  (since it was so scruntched up) expecting
me to be his "good uncle" while buying
*****-juice?
                         ****, i thought i was gullible...
he didn't think i was going to
buy something beginning with vod-
                  as anything less than 37.5%?
he screamed and shouted at me...
                apparently the "good uncle" was
on his way, and instead a drunk father stood
before him, telling him:
         now you can take it from me and run
along to what's going to a heart-break
since the other guy and the girl you're trying
to impress have already run off
and you're standing with someone twice your age...
or?
        so putting the goods on the pavement
taking a step back and putting my hands
on my head said: your choice...
           it was your choice to give me the tenner...
but hey, i even put in a little extra
            because i probably misheard you...
just a madman's luck that he was screaming
at me as if i was scalping him
   which allowed for the attention
     of the supermarket
security guard to be prompted
         and some people in the carpark...
rare event...
      very plain... nothing too spectacular
                         like climbing mt. everest...
if he started screaming:
           you're buying alcohol for minors!
what, with my own money?!
            i gambled putting in 6 quid of
my own so that he wouldn't take a litre of
*****...
    hence he shouted: theft!
                           which made no sense since
he voluntarily gave me the ten quid...
          fascinating conundrum...
                   like **** i'd buy minors
                 alcohol using my own money...
some, the bigger the group:
          are smart enough to know the difference
between a common interest,
say, 5 guys and then the scenario becomes
         two pipsqueaks and a smurfette...
i already said it once:
                   me, beer, straight road...
some honest cases you can work with...
teenage tantrums of that sort?
lucky madman loser...
                 saved ten quid on a bottle of *****.

syncopate a sentence succinctly
take that thought and
slice and serrate across lines
synth steady and stolid syntax
stitch surrealism to sanity symphonically
scatter sadness, sow sunny spirit
slather language with excess
dole diction in dearth
depose dialectical dogma
dredge dreary dreams and not so drearies
foment formidably
froth and fracture finalities
syllogise spectacular speculation
simplify abtruse abnormalities
whet words wonderfully

i don't know what to feel
skipping through varied presentations
from unmatchedly detached
to being suspended in world-bending self realization

jumping realities
like seats on a bus
the one where i mattered
others i wane to discuss

trying to find meaning
where there may be none
assumptions are the extension
of problems i can't outrun

even in my dreams
i'm turning on the spit
no repose from settling finalities
mulling us over until we're but its and bits

but i'm still breathing
but i'm still bleeding
day after day
belonging is fleeting

maybe i'll rubberband into a new normal
or maybe i'll snap trying
all i know is i can't just be here doing nothing
it almost feels like dying

i don't know what to feel
it's foolish to speak out of frustration
but the lonelier i am, the scarier it gets
is it wrong to hope i'm not invisible in my devastation

   𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐡!
my fairweather friends are calling
i'll just let the phone ring and ring and ring
i'm too tired to be Me™
when everything is not what it seems
  genuity don't mean a thing
  did it ever really
  was it nothing more than pity
  off to make some other history
     would you claim this as a victory
     are my questions falling worthlesssly on deaf ears
     i never want to see you again
     and i wish you were here







uiɐɓɐ sɐʍ ʇi ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ǝq ɹǝʌǝu uɐɔ ʇi