before i pull this one out of my *** (again - listen, these words are not coming from either head or heart, it's best to pull them from the bowels, a gut-wrenching-feeling is more potent than that "something" that "something" delusional pulled from a clenched heart... as far as i know, the brain is incapable of emotions, it doesn't understand them, and since it doesn't understand them: it ridicules them)... which brings me to point:

(a) perhaps the idea of a soul is out-dated... why wouldn't it be, 21g worth of breath does not equal a soul... hence the autopsy of man, each detail studied seperately, the cardiologist knows the heart, the neurologist the brain etc., but some items work in a solipsistic mode... the heart is robotic, automaton pump queen (and not the kind of pump you'd get from Shveeden) - thump thump thump! come to think of it, most of our bodies are robotic, automated... lucky for me: i don't have to think about the heart doing what it does, it just per se does it... i'm not even sure i'm gifted with the a.i. brain functions... but there's an underlying principle that governs all of these items... some call it the self... i prefer: the Σ ultimatum... some would call it soul... but there has to be something akin to the Σ ultimatum that allows me to become detached from this body, while at the same time be bound to it: high blood pressure, heart attack on the horizon... take the high blood pressure pills... ****... what was (b)? oh... yes...

(b) i'm sorry, virginity doesn't cut it for me, lucky me that it was isabella of grenoble that allowed me to move aside from: god, prior to losing my virginity.... roxette: do you feel excited, you're still the one (shanaia twain), fade to black - metallica... i was such a romantic before i lost this dreaded curse... i was a romantic... 19th century style romanticism... but you really can see past this sort of romanticism unless you haven't ******... these days the right complains about cultural marxism: plenty of things to complain about... it makes as much sense as a pickle in a dollop of custard... or cooking with pale indian ale to make a stew: bad idea... wine, brandy, cider? fine... beer? terrible idea to cook with... but unless you haven't lost your virginity, you can't see what cultural marxism chose as its opponent: cultural darwinism... you know how little you hear about darwinism outside of the english speaking world? zero to none, yes, it's an accepted fact, but this fact does not permeate outside of the fact per se, the fact contains itself and the whole subsequent narrative because subconsciously stored... no other people than the people who found it ensure there are subplot proof statements of a reconfirmation of the validity... the whole social science bogus trap of rating people on looks... contradicting the meritocracy of that old Socratic saying: let me be as beautiful on the inside as on the outside... if you haven't ******: you're still the same old romantic i was at puberty... once you ****... well... cultural marxism dwarfs... yes yes it's there... so? but at the same time you can at least appreciate seeing the antithesis: cultural darwinism... the romantic needs to die the most carnal death via experience... all my ideals were shattered, this perfection of woman... i very much liked the idea / not even the ideal of a woman... but when the idea fizzled out and there was no ideal to begin with... i saw cultural darwinism for the very first time and... it was as ugly as cultural marxism so heavily criticized by the conservative right of the west... so... i decided to walk the middle ground, ignoring both sides (of the argument).

(c) i wouldn't have come up with a point see, unless my favorite square schematic didn't pop into my mind, Kantian, as ever: the best philosophy is the antithesis of English pragmatism and overt-politicisation, so it has to be German, ergo? i will not explain these terms, i figured: if i nail a decent example to fit each category, that's enough: since you can then visualize the concept via the example:

analytical a priori                           synthetic a priori
there's a need to throw                   learning
a ball at                                                to throw a ball
a target                                                 at a target once
                                                            ­  the need has been
                                                            ­  established...



synthetic a posteriori                    analytical a posteriori
there's a  need to                           perfecting to throw
      throw a ball at                               a ball at a target
a target, in order
to perfect this need...

                                            baseball..­. cricket...
at least: that's how i define knowledge of something
simple without having to use mathematics
that Kant used to explain... 2 + 2 = 4...
mathematics isn't exactly a man's best friend
at explaining philosophy...
you write philosophy that alligns itself
to mathematics... no wonder: moths in books...
yawns, unfinished works...
i found that sports work just as well
as mathematics... and you have the already
primitive objects to work with...
rather than pseudo-objects: i.e. numbers...
the abstracts of perception: i'm actually 6ft2...
not 6ft1... karolína plíšková is 6ft1...
       as noted when watching her today...

  i'll admit, i'm always a bit shaky when it comes
to this sqaure, whether it's over-simplified,
notably the top left corner: analytical a priori,
i'm always of a mindset that wants to associated
this definition with: analytical a- priori...
  i.e. borrowing from atheism:
    to analyse something without there
being a prior to example...
               analysis without a prior example...
i guess that's the mojo of science... the driving force...
back to sports... bow and arrow...
   tools: target...
       whether a bow and arrow and a deer
to begin with...
or a hand and ball and a wicket to end with...

there's a need to throw                  
a ball at a target...

            and cricket was the precursor of
baseball, but prior to cricket?
   there was archery...
              and prior to archery...
   there was forever a fundamental need,
e.g. to go from point X to point Z...
   see... as much as Kant wanted...
   numbers don't really solve the "problem"
of explaining something: algebra would be
better suited... x + y = z...
                    with numbers either hovering
above, or below (in the instance of chemistry's
subscript)...

talking of squares... sūdoku...
well, if at any time the french were to receive a hard-on
in terms of inventing something,
the english: rugby, cricket, football, tennis...
the french really did read some of the hebrew
qabbalah literature, as i am doing...
magic squares...
       the secular version of this puzzle
first appeared on july 6, 1895 (the modern version)...

it came to us from India and China...
again... why do western cultural darwinists
always tell our genesis from
the perspective of: "out of Africa"?
aren't there elephants in India?
            i will not believe i originated in Africa,
i'm not an "out of Africa" sorry state of
incompetence... i place my origins in
the sub-continent... at least that's where my
current language originates from...
the great migration across the Siberian tundra,
rather than some African savannah...
after all the Bangladeshi and the Sri Lankans
(the tear of India) resemble burnt cinnamon
in tone, some even as dark skinned as
east africans...
   if the germanic people want to stick to
the "out of Africa" narrative (notably the English):
let them have it... i place my origins in
India...

   never mind, now i'll write a name's dropping
history of how july 6th, 1895 happened...
the "magic" squares...

    from either India or China (chess from India)...
moschopulus of contantinople
  introduced them (the "magic" squares)
in the early 1400s... apparently ancient qabbalists
had knowledge of them
  (so... a trip well spent)...
                             rabbi joseph tzayah (1505 - 1573)
magnum opus: responsa...
             rabbi joseph castro: avkat rokhel...
tzayah in jerusalem wrote his major work
Evven HaShoham (the onyx stone) - 1538 -
   a year later the book: tzeror ha-chaim discussing
the Talmud: he never really bothered about
the Zohar...
               the hebrai word for "letters": otiot...
divided into two:
                         tav aleph (a line of aleph)
and tav yod (a line of yod)...
                   one is to never concentrate
upon the keter within the realm of the sefirot...
hence the matisyahu expression:
   king without a crown...
                         one example of a "magic" square
later dictated into a 9 x 9 newspaper puzzle?
      2     9     4
      7     5     3
      6     1     8     (up down across = 15...
my date of birth? 15th may 1986,
no coincidence, just stating an oblivion's
worth of a "point)... 15 x 3 = 45...
   and that's about as significant as any
                               insignificance can be...

album of choice?
    old horn tooth - from the ghost grey depths...

and without even associating the arabs
to the hebrai practice of gamatria,
i once inquired an old pakistani (who tried to convert me)
what: Alif, Lam, Meem
implied in the opening of the al-baqarah sutra
implied?
   he replied: god knew...
        so i thought, you don't know what
alif (letter) what lam (letter) and meem (also a letter)
means? you have to search for god
for the answers? good look making me into
a proselyte... mind you:
if the jews abhor proselytes,
while the muslims are so so oh so *******
welcoming... isn't that a tad bit suspicious?
how can a muslim convert me
when he can't explain to me what
alif lam and meem implies at the opening
of al-baqarah?!
            let's play some hijāʾī order game...
and the three letters...
       28 letters in total...
alif (28), lam (6), meem (5)...
    i'm not even going to go into the gamatria
mental gymnsastics related to any
"significance"...
   point was made upon the question being
asked... if a muslim tries to covert you...
and he can't explain to you
the significance of alif lam meem at the beginning
of al-baqarah... they're letters...
well... how is he going to explain to you
what's bothersome about those letters
to begin with? ALM... does that imply: zakat?!
to give alms? zakat being one of the pillars
of islam?
  **** me... i haven't even converted
and it would appear: i know more than the person
who tried to convert me!

.i. Yuri Gagarin and the yo-yo

if ever the potency of a "keyboard crusader"
existed, it's now -
   i can dangle a mouse above a bear-trap
and tell an elephant of a phobia concerning
mice any day of the week,
          when in fact i'm talking about
a mousetrap: nothing more.
     hence the exaggeration in the imagery
comparison:
        or it begins with a story told in the 20th
century:
             when women put down their mascara
brushes, men put down their swords:
never mind the voice in the wilderness:
       mind the voice in the crowd -
there's absolutely no reason to speculate
urbanity and tribal environments without
addressing, or regressing the crowd,
or as i like to call it: what Nietzsche said,
minus the Wake... but now inclusive of the wake
and the Bacchus cult of fun fun fun.
            the Wake in condor terms?
we congregate praying for something to die...
      i don't pretend to be whatever
that sachet of concrete-Cartesian labels entitles me
too:        for the most part
        people say 'i am' without a thought to
govern the rain shaman telling you what thought
is required to 'be', oh, a very old ontological
stipend: you need people to experience a collectivisation,
a herding, a "bound together" sort of mentality
before the critic arrives and says: well, that's not
what i'm really about.
                    a bit like the **** firs, mouth second
debacle...
                but what heart they had, our predecessors!
what heart!
             they'd wage war over a woman,
a Helen,
                  would you wage a war against
the feminist version of Helen these days?
would you pluck a Scottish thistle over an English rose?
      true: you might be a bishop
and of lesser rank... but would you wage a war
over the women of these days?
my **** is in a pickle jar anyway! we have become
a *** of a species unburdened by an obligation...
             finally! we can become eternal bachelors
sort of ******* that we're here, and hear less and less
of sayings about the "things that matter".
            you know what vile? really really vile?
oh i know my contemporaries when i bother to
hear them talk, oddly enough never bother when they
think, i'm quiet content with a Godot stage of
a park bench and an old man as my company,
      i know Douglas Murray,
               i know the wild-eyed Icke,
but a thing that concerns me is why: the safety room
parallel to the leftist thesis of offensive speech
was put in play when a discussion took off
concerning feminism, between milo yiannopoulus
and julie bindel - that's like saying:
ask a pederast to talk for a heterosexual man
with a woman safe-space...
                                no one wants to hear
the heterosexual side of the argument....
  you'll sooner see heterosexual intellects have their
marriages come undone then get paired with either
side of the argument...
     little richard is in the pickle jar anyway,
and he's not coming out...
                it's a bit like ****** for dummies....
       hence i have to succumb to violence without
the glory, tongue waggling blah blah
when i'd gladly take a weapon and shove it into
a shattered cranium bone: had i the ****** chance to
do so!
           no heterosexual is taken seriously:
and won't be:
    of a woman to be like a rosy cushion on which
i can lay my head after the darkly toils of
    roofing, or laying bricks, or excavating the sewers...
no! let the Chinese do that:
the basic argument of slavery, although imported
therefore ****** ******* fine.
                         cryogenic fathers,
      pickled *****:      where's the middle in all of this?
     a coconut just fell from the Boddhi tree:
money!           and those that defend it,
don't know squat about the tribalism of squatters!
but hey! they have the ****** stage!
         i have a bench when someone approaches me
and talk, doing the best thing possible:
               knitting opinions -
i don't want the truth of opinions: i want a sweater,
or a pair of socks! that's metaphor for something
different altogether.
  keyboard crusader? really? can i ask you for
directions to the high street, in every single town
across the country? i can't find one!
         no one hears a heterosexual argument
on the various topics: because there isn't one -
                     as of the end of the 20th century,
working classes in the west striving to ensure
there is something mundane to do during the day
and kick back with the family in the evening
are the "inferior" neanderthals: who
haven't jacked into discovering a 3D reality
of what's otherwise a 2D computer screen and
aren't hooked on #crack;
honestly, so much debating ought to be opera,
and so much opera ought to be debating -
    ah: that famous tingle of utopian paradoxes
never in duality, but always in dichotomy.
   keyboard crusader?
really? i thought people were always moaning
about how many emails they receive:
   and never a single postcard from, say,
someplace like Venice?
           it's still early days,
                   and already we're brewing enough
cliches to replace all known nouns in
    the surrogate mother that's the dictionary
of our completed version of a soul -
if ever to be experienced upon meeting the omni-vocabulary;
jigsaws, i know my idiosyncratic version
of events, he says photosynthesis within parameters
                            of photon deconstruction of hydrogen;
'cos' it's sub; d'uh! i say god i say this perfected
version of nearing telepathy - you say god i hope you
don't mean satan's clause - great anagram to frighten
children with: the Babushka surprise of a Pumpkin head
laughing it's way toward: how easy life would be
if we had all that time to think it through as being hard,
rather than that mortal fleetingness in both thought
and body.

ii. Macbeth

it really dawned on me, when i was watching the film
Macbeth (2015) -
            there was an eeriness to it, a near perfection
of Shakespeare on screen...
           honestly? i'd rather read Kant early on in life
while i have the vigour, and leave old age to Shakespeare...
but it truly was eerie all over the place.
      i do recall seeing Romeo + Juliet
          and reading the script, and imagining the fallacy
of word for word translation from theatre to cinema
of the script: the narrator a news channel anchor,
and everything said, word, for, word.
that film with DiCaprio as Romeo and Claire Danes
as Juliet - it just felt itchy, uncomfortable -
                            Shakespeare, word for word, on screen?!
     (surprise, then astonishment, not !? or astonishment,
   then the surprise, because: it didn't really work);
and it didn't! you can't adapt Shakespeare to the screen
and put everything in! i noticed it at that ******
generous scene in Macbeth concerning the battle
of Ellon... so i was like like... this isn't typescript...
(and thank **** it isn't) -
you can't depict Shakespeare word for word,
to be honest, Macbeth (2015) is the only worthy
translation of Macbeth (the text) into Macbeth (the movie);
all this scientific exactness in previous examples
like Romeo + Juliet, the Merchant of Venice
and a Midsummer's Night Dream don't work,
it's their precision making,
     a theatre cast can take it, but a cinema going crowd,
with all these cutting and copying and repasting
    succinct moments? it doesn't work!
maybe because there's no actual narrator in the staged
examples? narrator as a necessary character understudy:
surely Puck and the news anchor are there:
don't know about the Shylock scenario...
           but these screen adaptations didn't work for me,
too rigid, too formal... in the case of Macbeth?
finally! the long awaited piquant version of Shakespeare:
all that matters, and the rest is thrown into
poetic technique: imagery, metaphor,
                everything that's necessary can be given grammar
as image and not word!
       want an example? from the text...
the Royal Shakespeare
  from the text of Professor Delius
  and introduction by f. j. Furnivall, ll.d.
         vol. v (special edition)
Cassell & Company, Ltd.
        sure, it feels like a Roman Polanski moment
akin to the 9th Gate scenic affair of a bibliophile
fetishist, and it is:

     ... (the only enemy of enso poetry
is the bladder) ...

well the screen play first:

banquo: what are these?
macbeth: live you? or are you aught
                          that man may question?
       speak if you can - what are you?
1st witch: macbeth! hail to thee
                    thane of Glamis!
2nd witch: macbeth... hail to thee,
       thane of Cawdor!
3rd witch: all hail Macbeth! that shalt be king in-after.

but such disparity, such **** as if once
of Lucretia, then of the authority,
for i have before me the original composition:
which is not worth cinema -
nonetheless, a **** takes place:
an assortment for the abdication of a king:
or as ever suggested: the wrong footed path:
never was tossing a coin in a gamble
that of tossing a crown into the air
for a court jester to appear less amusing
and more scolding.

act i, scene iii: post the battle of ellon...
  if ever the refusal to give up Greek myth,
then Macbeth's witches
      and Perseus' Graeae -
                            or naturalise a myth:
like you might not naturalise a strengthened
economy.... canonise the nation
with Elgin Marbles - Elgin: less than
what's said to be the exfoliation of the Aegean -
a municipality somewhere in Scotland:
west of Aberdeen, on the Northern Sea's
battering of the coast...
but word for word? or how to write Shakespeare
into cinema?
                 herr zensor must come into play -
you have to bypass imagery in poetic tongue
and relay it with actual images, a direly needed
necessity:

just after the three witches arrive,
enter Macbeth and Bonquo...

   Macb. so foul and fair a day i have not seen.
Ban. how far is't call'd to Fores? - what are these,
     so wither'd and so wild in their attire,
that look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth,
   and yet are on 't?
             live you? or are you aught that man may
question?
                  (how word for word, but the words
waggle from a different tongue, namely that of
Macbeth, and not that of Banquo, hence
italicised).
                   continuing:
       you seem to understand me,
by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her
skinny lips: - you should be women, and yet your
beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Macb. speak, if you can - what are you?
         the witches. all hail, Macbeth!
     hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
         all hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!
         all hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
            
so does he really belong on the psychoanalytic
couch? is he really that necessarily wonton of talk?
  Cawdor v. Gondor - it's an ongoing narrative.
but is he in need of a couch?
                 what sort of talk is talk when
in fact the only talk that's need to be said is the talk
of man's sexualised naturalisation for strife,
and here: as if knocking on a door:
you want to simply hear the onomatopoeia of
the Kabbalah in a woman gasping for breath
while puny Jewish boys under strict rabbinical
studies study?

                mama, take this badge from  me,
i can't use it, anymore,
            it's getting dark, too dark to see,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door -
      my big mouth and man as a piston
                                               Ferrari acrobat

(even the soundtrack is a shrill, a strangulation
variant of higher pitch of the bagpipes -
not that braveheart ****** of whisking out
a song like for the love of a princess addition to:
  and can i have a madonna to boot too?
it's piercing, a whale sonar above refrigerator
white noise hum for the new age Buddha -
and that's because all the poetry has been excavated
  to suit cinema: not theatre).

and this is the first adaptation of Shakespeare i actually
could stomach...
     the genius was in how Macbeth spoke the lines
of Bonqua - so the character didn't start smacking
the narrative ****** in terms of solipsism:
even Shakespeare can be attacked on this front...
        if in the movie Banqua said all that was in
the typescript: the film wouldn't have worked...
i don't know what the big deal is with Lady Macbeth:
i thought that in the olden days
Macbeth suggested to King Duncan that:
can i leave the warring if you **** my wife?
i can go on the contract that you **** my wife
and i stop serving you?
      first impressions: strange English.
well, i'm sure she's important as it might be said:
within the programme of Orthodoxy,
            but never catholic (metadoxy) tradition of
saying: way hey! ensnare the mare in a funfair!
       and play the game: pin the tale on the donkey!
heads or tails?      it looks pretty damnable
     in the first place: as all honesty hogs to pout and
***** a hoggish sneeze out of the story.

iii. shaken, not stirred

and indeed, how many a times
did not a neon blossom sprout,
thinking it might rattle an oratory
with an oak in autumn, and behold
a swarm of leaves descend -
not out of passing ease,
but out of wishful thinking
that some indentation might be made:
with whom the hands of will reside,
and yet: to no gratifying effect,
to whatever atomic-centralisation
dream, be that ego or be it hydrogen
(lending hands: so too
electric or thus negative, neutral and
thus proto) - shake foundation
and give a revising repertoire of
              the covering dust humanity
that once made famous: never
again to learn the humility of the start;
        to whatever centric dream that
does not waver in demands of orientation,
be it father (sun), son (shadow)
  or the holy spirit (night) -
  make them earn! be obscure!
            or simply say: in the community
of the stated congregation:
  i find all to be as night,
   and safer that plague the father:
  i am not akin to the shadow:
                   but the shadow in mirror.
so, a centric dream that does not
waver in demands for orientation,
has ever or will be enthroned in man's
heart as the stability of Sabbath's demands
       for less, oh so much less to agitate with!
as too, when the ancient appliances
were adorned by countless demands of
mimic, so too our modern
fibbles are to stage a usurping of
such things demanded and their mimic;
for with such disclosure does all fate
of anewed become burdened in what
history could be: shaken,
rather than simply a stirring of the void,
nothing more than the unburdening
of sweetening a cup of coffee, of that and
the layers: or bitter at the top, drank
through toward the sedimented sweetness -
and all that: hoping i could have retained
that silver spoon lodged in my ***
          when i first met her and thought about
consolidating marriage: so fresh, eager prune
of the flesh embodiment as first
    watered ash, then entombed in marble
and the eternal... ah
               but it was all just the faintest of dreams;
so lumberjack sleep ensued,
                      as did a kindred worth ethic:
we are a long way from Eden...
      there is but the idyll of the absurd fruition of
albreit macht frei... or a redefinement of
such stakes as: what occupies our days?
                    if not war, if not disease,
if not the Chinese... what does, occupy our days?

We say we have given up and yet we hold on,
How did we get here and when?

Sleeping with one eye open
And keeping the porch light on,
Not even knowing what for

Cause no one is coming,
No one ever does for people like us
So why do we hold on to this self abuse?

Take limbs by limbs out, Till we are nothing but a mass of puddle laying on the floor. Why after lots and lots of trying we can't love ourselves? Why do we look at others for a nod of approval, or desiring validation? Why don't we believe that who we are can be worth being, too, no matter what the little voices in our heads say.

We go to bed crying, overwhelmed and wake up empty, drained and we beg others; we snap, weep and yell, just to feel anything, but there is nothing to be felt.

It is like screaming from underneath an ocean. You try and try and try but no voice reaches an ear, or, maybe the world has long gone deaf to others' wailing. This is not how you thought your life would be, but that is how it is, that is how you have made it.

And how you wish some nights someone would hold you and sing a lullaby that will suddenly make you wonder why, all of a sudden, is wind giving you caresses so soft. But you have to understand before that happens, you have to get up now, and sing yourself to sleep.

Because we will find what we reflect and you don't want to seem too clingy, you don't want to be the mat that everyone stomps on. Because, you are worth more. You are the sea, you are the hurricane and why should sea care for the castles made in sand? Everything external fades, and you know this all too well.

All your life you complain about the fleetingness of a moment but you are here to stay, how could you discard the thing that will stay with you throughout the life?

Radiate the love you always wanted to have. Try and try and make the trees envy of how you take care of yourself and gently let go of the parts that no longer aid.

many days have passed since the 2nd and this 3rd night,
from silken grey of frost attaching itself
to stiffened grass, to pathetic snow,
to now, a thick milkshake fog enveloping
a lost eyesight within reach of thirty metres;
i love winter, no disease or parasites survive,
the keen goosebumps like sprouting mushrooms
are no more, reduced to pinching and needle patterns
of the cold on bare skin.*

you can take winter from a european
and advertise ski resorts,
but you can't take winter's attraction
from the bone-skinned ones
who repose on the heights of the mirror
that feeds.

so as an introduction, i confess,
i'm not one of those would-be poets
who write about being inspired,
about being loved, about coffee,
i didn't take the concentrated form of
caffeine (water leaves dry residue at 180°C,
caffeine leaves dry residue at...
don't know) to write... sniffed an ox
while i was at it - cleared the nostrils it did,
esp. the whip of the ox's tail.
i don't do that, bothersome poetics i call it.

you know what the Sibyl inquired of socrates?
she said: know yourself.
sure as hell that's true,
but modern society has to teach that to know
yourself, means reflective (your self)
and means the reflexive (yourself),
given the common over-usage of the word self,
esp. given our current celebrity culture,
we know plenty of improper nouns
but forget proper nouns, e.g.
you tell me leonardo dicaprio i say blanc jonquil,
the former are improper: almost gone,
but the latter have to remain and be absorbed
into a vocabulary universally,
the former share a particular ordinance of care,
guarded by ***-plots and admiration
based upon artistic skill of acting, etc.
to know yourself therefore means to compose
knowledge with a certain anonymity,
after all there are many examples where knowledge
is doubted for the Sibyl's maxim is a quarter of
the real truth:
a. the self is stable, but experiences of realising a self
    are unstable,
b. the self is unstable, but experiences of realising a self
     are stable,
c. the self is unstable, hence experiences of realising a self
    are unstable too,
d. the self is stable, hence experiences of realising a self
     are stable too (realisation for a knowledge of).
but still the anonymity, socrates didn't work from the
standpoint of the academic account of himself,
socrates the noun is something worthy of a third person
analysis / engagement / synthesis,
but socrates the pronoun is a too complex investigation
that's a desert of "allowable" personification,
making the hindu theological concept of reincarnation
impossible, considering the many deviations of
self-experience when other selves dignify a presence:
as i said - a certain anonymity if one is to endeavour into
knowing oneself - with existential quickness
and fleetingness the expression is assured a fluidity of
ambiguity, as sartre is prone to use: to know one's "self",
which is an e.g.

enough already, why would anyone care to quantify
the limit of one's expression to such a degree as to be watchful
of voyeurs? i don't know, but i know that
narcissus spawned two demigods: one superior
to itself, and one a lesser -
the superior alt. of narcissus was known by the name
solipssus (he who's egoism blinded him from experiencing
others, or simply denying their existence / via solipsism);
the lesser? imagine narcissus looking into the lake
of calm reflection, imagine him looking into the turbulent
sea, if only echo and he by the sea, rather than the lake,
but this lesser form of narcissus is a modern ailment
of selfie-sticks and duck-pout lips of girls:
αγαλμιδιος - who was the son of hades and medusa,
and it meant: sudden (αιφνίδιος) statue (αγαλμα).

which breaks the faceless crowd
a gush of blissful warmth
soothing as autumn sun
fiery as raging storm

the earthiness of fields
and scent of blooming slopes
the wilderness of sky
a bustling city's soul

she is the riddling key
hint of a dreamy life
window which breathes the sun
blesses my being with shine

a nebula of birth
crucible of synthesis
my sermon on the mount
my fall into abyss

complexity of life
simplicity of smile
the fleetingness of wind
purposelessness of time

a father's solemn wish
a mother's selfless prayer
immortal as the sea
lover's listless despair

patience of dormant seeds
the certainty of death
innocence of a child
preciousness of breath

vapors of firmament
helplessness of loss
a tease of sun and clouds
the curiousness of God

she is the judgment day
a dream of languor warmth
the solace of my pain
cast in a fervid form

for she is all there is
and all there'll ever be
an era of romance
the reason for my being

as tranquil rainbows dim
and stars bestow a treat
my muse forever sought
i yearn the day we'll meet

There are those who’d curse the paintings
That held the highest beauty
For being formed from something
Impermanent as oil and paint
Intangible as light.

There are those who’d curse a romeo
Cast in stone relief
For such vanity, and hubris
For how could such a man
Begin to know such beauty and
The truth of open feeling?

There are those who would cut this holy wire
That tethers us across the world
For fear of some lurking evil
Some banging in the dark
That’s bound to take our souls away
Some lack of love or depth

There are those who’d see the flesh on flesh
And cries like angelsong
And **** it for it’s fleetingness
For their father’s love was purer.
For their father’s love was strong
Their poor and lonely fathers
Cursed to loveless love

Oh brave new world that I have seen
That has such people in it!
Who cry for long-forgotten men
Yet **** the ones before them!

Two scholars discuss life in a gray library.
They dissect beauty into precise compartments,
They speak softly of fleetingness of time.

Outside a breeze is blowing through green paddy fields.
A clump of wild flowers have blossomed early.
A goatherd lies in the grass with nothing to do.

Time is passing fast in the dusty libraries.
But in green fields Time lingers, half in love with spring.

Diptesh Ghosh

drawing, soft grey lines against off-white paper
scultping his face with delicate arcs,
the stroke that tells a story: an artist
that fell in love with their subject

that was the plan.

twelve of the longest minutes of my life
tipped half upside down,
face pressed into metal bars—no, not a metaphor
actual metal bars.

left arm wedged between body and bed,
heartbeat hammering in my throat
echoing in my head, pulse jumping
in my neck. stop

playing hop scotch at the hinge of my jaw

i remember the shape of your teeth,
passionate, possessive,
marking me as yours.
but here's the truth

as reality faded around me
save for the thrum of my existence
and the caress of piano notes,
i was alone. my own.

i've never belonged to myself more
than just there, half on my bedroom floor
dissociating from everything but
my scattered thoughts and

proof of the life in my veins
pumping and beautiful but
also ... pain, so much of it
acknowledging life and its fleetingness

swift and soft, that's how i want to go.
i lost myself to my own head for an hour
wondering if life is as grey and removable
as the carbon collected on off-white papers

huddled together between a fold of black leather,
a universe with a beginning and an end,
both are black and definite as each other
are we linear or rounded? are we exploding

every billionth year, a billion billion billion suns
burning so far away we have to call them stars—
maybe that's why you're my star light
and i'm the darkness you keep bright

and hopeful, maybe

this wasn't supposed to be a love poem
but it feels like one anyway
who are you? i don't know who i'm writing to
i just remembered

see, i dissociated again; i don't mean to forget you

"you can't think while you're faded"?
i'm telling you i can
can't move, can't live, but think?
i sure as hell can, sure as hell do, sure as hell

it's hell sometimes
though not tonight.
i didn't feel quite so turbulent,
listening to my bloodstream and

okay, there is a limit, i'll give you that
i admit i lost some time
i wish i'd lost myself in sketching but
i lost myself in my mind

i only knew it'd been an hour
by the time stamp on my timeline
who says social media is useless? not i
i know how many minutes slipped into the void

oh how i envy them,
thoughtless and forgotten and empty of feeling.
i'd take my brushes and paint me into the sky
if i thought it might take me to heaven

artist i am, fell in love with my muse
but my mind's a two timer,
slipping off to spend time with darkness
even as my heart screams in my chest

*"what about your star light? what about your life?"

i never imagined i'd be a poet, not
even likened to frank o'hara's
reminiscent astonishment back
when he played in the school play-ground,
i never intended to be a poet,
although i did write ****** poetry
on the sly, in books, in between
exams and lectures, but i came to poetry
in all earnest when everything else was
impossible, and because of the virtues i had
amassed prior, it became a "drug addiction;"
to state my virtues that precipitated into
poetry i'd choose three at the most:
compulsiveness for a need of repetition
(day by day, a day without a poem
makes me sick, to think of such days
as if i never made a step, made a footprint,
peered into my shadow),
love of music as greater than any kind
of diet - like a wild animal in reverse,
indeed stressed by the need for the daily
breadcrumbs, but soothed by music to
the extent of a satiated gut;
finally? i loved thinking, i don't know why,
not the sort of thinking that might exploit
others or give you things... the sort of
thinking that made my company acceptably
bearable, my own, the sort of thinking
that doesn't deserve company, friendship,
but deserves itself, to be staged for others
as if on the command of its own fleetingness,
scarcity, and perhaps qualified to be
given the adjective identifier of fulfilment,
as once noted: what's the meaning of life?
live it. in revision? what's the meaning of life?
your self. i don't mind rejections and upheavals
sycophants and lost ideals... but i'll tell you
what i mind:*

on such a dreary day as this one,
where a wintry shadow lost torso head and toe,
and settled in the air like a diluted
smoke of a fire, with auburn scents and
cinnamon mingling with ashes,
while i picked up the sunday newspaper
for the style, news review, culture and
magazine sections (the best day to read a
newspaper) - i took to sitting in the park,
bench, alone, looking south across the bulging
depths of seen but never travelled to
distances of my clever myopia,
i smoked two cigarettes, and felt the london
gloom rise, rise rise rise, above all expectation,
only because i had sunshine in a bottle
for company from dutch bavaria.

An immortal flame
Absent, yet enkindled
It resides in me and you
An awareness we gave
eachother when our eyes met
When our smiles opened
the windows in our eyes
and we could see the same candle burning
How could we forget?
We never have
It's just the drama of going through birth
The fleetingness of life
and the wisdom of us as a child
that was washed away to time
Because let's be honost
we both were a long way from home
But our candle still burns my dear
And our home is still ours
let's spend some time together
I've missed you and I wonder how your day went.

But lets sit down to dinner
I imagine we will sit upon the floor
Curly hair and wispy eyed
So much has changed
Lets allow sweet nostalgia in.

And though I've got rattlesnakes
Hissing at the core of my heart
When I feel as though I should
Beware my footing
Deep long breaths
Or big sighs remind me
Of all the times that none of it was perfect
And I don't have to claim responsibility
For anything other than my own two hands
And feet.

Wings spread wide
A choir of resilient women around me all say
So glad you went your way
And the painful thing about year two,
Is that I so completely have
And did.

But perhaps it doesn't have to feel so bitter
Perhaps it doesn't have to be met with
The crystal ball
Of ticking clocks
Whispering stories into the night
Fearful their execution would never occur
And I wish, like venom
I could sever the part of me that hurts, feels anger, still
At what was and is left unfinished.

But whats the point?
My hair transforming color like a flip book
That sank into a puddle of mud
And I will look around me now
I've got major pieces of the puzzle that I truly want
As the fear of the fleetingness of everything that has happened
Filters like the air blowing around me
And I'll hear my best friend say
You can't eat the apple because its going to become a core.

A cabbage dish
Just like I use to make
I worry everyday that I don't know enough
About everything
What a long way we've come.

i would have never guessed it that Flea would be a Sheffield United supporter, then again who would have thought that Ryan Reynolds would become the owner of Wrexham...

and sometimes: even if you're working an event
and not a spectator you're still like:
**** it, i need to get a t-shirt...

i can't remember the last time i owned something
that did have a tag: made in China...
i still have this shirt from Gap that reads
made in Ireland...
    now i own something that reads: made in Honduras...
the quality on this thing tells me...
if washed properly will last about 20+ years...

when was the last time i saw them?
did they just come out with By the Way?
2002...  so they must have played the London Docklands
Arena circa...
they were great then: but today they were
like the Beatles...
               Flea on par with John Frusciante...
you have to give it bass players that are on par
with guitarists if not somehow surpassing them...

back then at the Docklands... what was it?
12,500 seated and 15,000 in concert mode...
today? my guess is in the range of 70,000+
      they might be getting but that's when people
are at their best... esp. ageing rock stars...
               it's this last push at greatness...
                             i sure as **** wanted to hear
Dani California live...
                  and it wouldn't be me if i wasn't disappointed
at them not playing Warm Tape...

but other things happened...
                  i'm sometimes almost sure that my interactions
with spectators do not go unnoticed by other
spectators or the security team in general...
now... i'm used to hugs... having selfies taken...
but... i truly wasn't read for a guy to walk up
to make: steal my hand... kiss it... hug me and go
on his merry way...
    as if invited the Chillies to London...
oh sure sure... yeah... i organised this event...

but it's not that:
people have been really starved socially after the past
two years... it shows...
   i'm just wondering when all this luvvy-dubby
attitude of the public will return to the old complacent
drunk-rude attitude...
then the post-pandemic honeymoon period
will end... it's bound to happen at some point
with enough people having attended enough
public events like football matches and concerts...
when the security services will return to being
invisible traffic-cone jokes...
                   unless of course it's just me...
i don't see other stewards or security officers
get their hands kissed and get hugs and get asked
for selfies...

then again... i wonder if i've met someone who
read any of my ****** "poems"...
   i look at the viewing counts...
if i managed to pull over 15,000 examples from my
***.. split between several websites...
where on one just one has gained 48.1K traction...
and i add up some of the more popular ones...
i've reached viewership well over 100K...
so i'm thinking... maybe some of these people approach
me like they know me...
     or know of me...

am i being full of myself?
               i'm just not used to strangers kissing my hands...
or playing with my beard...
how much of this is post-pandemic socialisation-starvation
and how much of it inherently authentic
based on the ontology of individuals is:
perhaps... debatable...
nonetheless: Casanova could have boasted about
his adventures in and outside of the bedroom...
i'm hardly hurting anyone's ego by citing how...
how familiar people can become...
   even though they are strangers...
                        let's not get anyone's hopes up...
we're not talking the complications of friendships...
having drinks in a pub... talking about our highs
and lows... it's not about the shallowness of these
interactions... but the immediacy and the fleetingness
of them: the almost democratic nature of them...
"democratic": there's 8 billion examples of man /
woman on this earth... and London can hardly
compete with a small village, with the Archers'
claustrophobia (the Archers'?
   this radio soap-opera on BBC Radio 4...
               in my most low i used to tune in...
    i'm not old enough to tune into BBC Radio 4,
i don't think i'll ever be...
    i tried BBC Radio 3 for a while...
                   i still prefer being my own DJ) -

well... i tried listening to Anderson Paak coming in...
after seeing him live?
i don't think i'll be able to...
     you need to see him... he's a performer...
he's less a recording artist...
                  his recordings are stale compared to his
entertainment qualities...
    part James Brown part: obviously himself...

or anyone not liking what i write can just switch
to something from the poetryfoundation.org,
or the tabloid press...
                    even i think this is mediocre...
i'm less worried about but i was really worried
whether the train strikes would mean that
the transport-chain-lock would work in my favour...
whether i'd get the central line to Newbury Park
on time from Stratford...
whether i'd catch either the 296 or the 66 bus
to Romford and get one of the last three 103 buses
after 12:00am to Chase Cross...

but i just bought a t-shirt from a concert
and put it over my work clothes and walked with
the rest of the fans grinning-like an idiot:
i've been paid... and i saw a band i last saw
back in 2002... and i'm going to see them again tomorrow...

sure... who wouldn't want to be a mysterious
poet who dies at the age of 30
like Kathleen Tankersley Young from Lysol poisoning...
who wouldn't?! the public would archive
two poems by me and i'd be... immortalised...
Bukowski put a nail on the head when he said:
when you write into the thousands...
you realise... that you have written very little...

right now anything to push me sitting up until
2am and getting up at 9am...
drinking whiskey and soothing my legs
from standing up for... however many hours
i stood rooted...
     but i was smarter today...
        i decided to eat something on the shift...
i highly recommend the steak pasties at the London
Stadium... they're only £6 a pop and that's
not overpriced for a London venue...
i would never ingest that free-cheap-*****
sandwiches provided by companies...
mind you... i did manage to "steal" a free bottle
of Fanta from one of the kiosk managers...
          or if you're at Wembley... befriend a Bangladeshi
security guy... or a Somali...
not stereotyping... they can smooth-talk
any member of a kiosk to give you free food...
or rather... the people working in the food kiosks
are probably also Bangladeshi or Somali...
so...                  

          win win...

and of the people you work with... word quickly spreads...
i come in bruised from a bicycle accident...
obviously i had to tell people that "some ******" cut
me off... that's not true...
i was cycling drunk... the last time i ever did that...
i lost control when the road started becoming uneven:
***-hole this swerve that...
it was a spectacular accident of my own making...
i flipped forward across the handlebars...
even if i was wearing a cycling helmet: which i never
have and never will... a beautiful looking
imitation of a Francis Bacon painting...
but today: some guy approached me...
oh... looks like you're healing nicely...

         and i am... it felt so good listening Scar Tissue
live... i'm gently pinching the scab and eating it...
like a dog...
but i was having this conversation with Harini
and about her falling off her electric scooter...
how she would never get back on it...
and i told her: my bicycle was sort of my fault too...
but it's different with bicycles...
so i started telling her about those two glorious
summers when my grandfather was alive
and he'd take me to Pętkowice (Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship,
Ostrowiec County, Poland)
for horse riding...
            oh yeah... i'll never own a car...
i love buses, bicycles and horses too much...
i will never own a flashy car...
so i told her... this mare almost threw me off at
full gallop...
   see... it's different when you have a bicycle
accident and something rather different
when a horse throws you off...
bicycles are dead things... it's up to you to not
be drunk (idiot) and not spotting a ***-hole
early enough...
            but a horse is a living creature and has
its own rules, whims...

i think i'm rekindling sleeping genes in me...
i must have come from a lineage of horse-riders...
after the first lesson
having jumped me and this guy went into
the fields and the forest for a "stroll"...
my god... riding a horse at full gallop...
it's almost a bit like riding a bicycle down a hill...
no... it's not the same...
       sleeping genes of a Mongol? a ***?
                     Winged Hussars?!
who else where the great nations that heavily relied
on horses?!
    i just remember: put right heel pressure
on the horse's torso while pulling at the reins
of the left hand for it to turn left...
and if you want to move the horse to the right...
left heel digging into the torso
and right hand pulling at the reins...
and if you want to gallop?
    both feet dig heels into the torso
  and the reins are tightened...

                    and she looked at me like:
well... i wasn't expecting you to be a type that rode horses...
so much for rock stars... down on the ground
this is probably enough to impress...

i come home i find my maine **** readied for
a nap in my bed... wake up tomorrow...
root myself in... un-root myself...
drink some whiskey... have two days off...
wait for the boiler mechanic come Monday...
then head off to Wembley for the Ed Sheeran gig...
like any modern man i'm addicted
to the urban landscape...
although... i sometimes wish i could live
on the Shetlands... or the Faroe Isles...
be a lighthouse curator...

                               live in a cave: live in a cave:
breathe like a cave when a shout shouted
into it excavates an echo...
           i'm a terrible DJ... second night running
and it's still...
  
i can move mountains
i can work a miracle, work a miracle
ooh, oh, oh, (i'll) keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us (a)part

she wants to dance like uma thurman...