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?

I dreamed of Yuri Gagarin straddling an atomic bomb,
I dreamed of grace and annihilation weightless and atmospheric
I dreamed of gravity as the tyranny of man

I dreamed of a view of this world from the sun, ashes in a cosmic crematorium
I dreamed of ice and fire, winter and war
I dreamed of mutually assured destruction, eyes watching the sky

I dreamed of watching from on high, all glory hallelujah and twinkling giants
I dreamed of falling back down, arms spread in unbreakable faith
I dreamed of Yuri Gagarin, alone among the stars, saint of that great abyss, smiling as he met God, and asking him in a calm and reassuring tone, where he's been all this time

could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

Portal To Infinity
for Yuri Gargarin
respectfully
by
Jude Kyrie


The explosion erupted like an inferno below him.
Not a naturally religious man he prayed to his maker.
Then the rush as he lifted off from the sweet earth
At the edge of the atmosphere an invisible barrier
Eons old untouched by mankind but not this day.

As he moved into orbit he saw the wonder of Mother Earth below.
The first words uttered by our species in the vacuum of space
"I see Earth! It is so beautiful!"
He witnessed the Earth for a single orbit

Over Africa the ground control shut of his engines
And he re-entered the earth’s atmosphere
With no power to slow down the craft.
He ejected above earth and parachuted to fame
As The first man in space the pioneer of space travel

When the American astronauts landed on the moon
In July 1969 the crew left a commemorative medal bearing his name
Warmth of mutual occupation and respect melted the ice of the cold war

From Russia came this special man
Thank you Yuri Gagarin



Author Notes

On 27 March 1968, while on a routine training flight from Chkalovsky Air Base, he and flight instructor Vladimir Seryogin died in a MiG-15UTI crash near the town of Kirzhach. The bodies of Gagarin and Seryogin were cremated and the ashes were buried in the walls of the Kremlin on Red Square.
Gagarin was survived by his wife Valentina, and daughters Elena and
Galina. Elena Gagarina, Yuri's elder daughter, is an art historian who
has worked as a director-general of the Moscow Kremlin Museums since 2001.[25] His younger daughter, Galina, is department chair at Plekhanov Russian Economic University in Moscow

I conquered vast pieces of land.
I ruled green patches and sand.
I am Akbar, I am Aurangzeb, I am Alexander, I am emperor,
I am man.

I discovered places which were unseen and unknown,
sometimes with my friends and sometimes alone,
I am da Gama, I am Polo, I am columbus, I am explorer,
I am man.

I constructed beautiful mosques and castles,
see this Taj, as if it was built by Angels.
I am Ustad Ahmed, I am Master james, I am Sinan, I am architect,
I am man.

I take rational approach to solve life's mystery,
through biology, physics and chemistry.
I am Jabir, I am Newton, I am Einstein, I am scientist,
I am man.

I have turned upside down many nations,
my thoughts and writings can inspire generations.
I am Marx, I am plato, I am socrates, I am philosopher,
I am man.

I crossed boundaries of earth to reach space,
Even on moon you can find my trace.
I am Aldrin, I am Gagarin, I am Armstrong, I am astronaut,
I am man.

I shape words like a sculptor with delicate touch,
my few words can convey so much.
I am Iqbal, I am Kabir, I am Wordsworth, I am poet
I am man.

I Stayed for nine months in her womb,
her love and kindness made a man in me to bloom,
She is sister, she is wife, she is mother, she is woman,
Yes, I am man because of a woman.

.sure sure, the Holocaust... but they were 6 or circa Polacks prior, prior to their religious convictions... the real party starts, when the last of the Holocaust survivors are wedded to their graves... then we can enjoy the company of the Jews conscripted into the army for a year or so... that's when the party takes off... wait for it... when the last Holocaust survivors die... a new history... oooooooooooo lookie lookie! a spaceship!

describe, a ******,
via a thesaurus "filter",
in the fewest number of
metaphors...

oyster!
                       seafood!

takes the flagpole out
of a ******, for sure.

p.s.
i'm like a painter,
i succumb to a reveling drive to revise...
a word, like a color,
and i'm pretty sure there are
many more colors
on the palette of vocabulary
than on an actual
pH scale palette of colors....

****... i forgot my original
intention...
         to write a p.s.,
****!
                double ****...
  no, nope...
              i'm "dementia" prone
when it comes to
immediately testing memory...
there was a spark,
that fathomed the labyrinth
of the given narrative...
but the original idea?
              lost...
well... "lost"...
it's not like even stars / suns die...
they just become black holes.
what's the electric charge on
those things?
i'm guessing negative...
pushing away...
         negative... while suns are of
a positive gravitational charge...
are black holes the reason that
the universe expands?
you know... like...
no meteors, no planets,
comets orbit a black hole?
aren't black holes the propellers
of the expansion of the universe?
so there's no positive attachment
to black holes...
other than a ******* in a wheelchair
(Hawking)...
               so... anti-gravity...
and isn't the black hole
the genesis proof of anti-matter?
i'd better start calling death
a trans-morph stature  incubated
by a perpetuated stasis...
       oh.... ****!
now i remember...

   yeah...
now i remember...
   sunglasses...
  
  who the **** dons sunglasses,
during an overcast afternoon,
in England,
             cold, nibbling on November...
to, "supposedly" ease up on
seeing "too" much?

so yeah...
what's the electron interaction within
the confines of black holes?
the electrons have a positive charge,
and are the drive for the expansion
of the universe?

all theory, and subsequently
through belief...
   it's not going to be tested...
it's not like there was a second moon
landing...
             even if there was a first
to begin with...
in science...
   you need... at least 2.... TWO...
zweimalbeweis: twice proofs...
science doesn't work on
a champagne "miracle",
or how an albert hofman
bicycle ride happens only once...
you can't exactly draw a straight line
with only one coordinate...
dear Apollo...
      dear Apollo 18...
yes yes... and the Mercury missions
are dated late,
with either Laika, Albert, Gagarin
or a Tereshkova...
    funny... well... Darwin...
the H'americans would send a monkey
into space...
while the Soviechi sent a dog...
man-dog | monkey-woman...
and that's not necessarily chronological
coupling.

it happens rarely, but nonetheless it does:
an alcoholic walks out from his cave,
he walk the sticky wet cement from the onslaught
of rain, laughs-out-loud at the brew
of conjurings in his mind,
enters the supermarket, buys him ***
& pepsi, asks the cashier for some pen & recipe
paper,
scribbles something down -
   and then returns to his abode, less an alcoholic,
and more: a tornado.

what was scribbled down?
  a *******, rather than a thought -
psychology gets away with much
abuse of the ego,
    there's much to be said as to why
"ego-tripping" is underway -
the super-ego is abusive per se -
giving its origins in procrastinating
parents, that dreaded looming shadow -
and the id? does it expand into idea?
i thought not, no, it doesn't:
the id is by no means a worthwhile
segment of the psychological trinity,
it's not an unconscious ego "formality",
it quite simply is: a psychiatric form
of a scalpel: the probing - *it, the probing
vector that - hardly something
worth keeping:
that "benevolent" honing in on /
probing aspect of the "ill mind":
and the no-too-destructive doctor...
but what i wanted to find was a unit,
something specific...
  something that turns an alcoholic
into a tornado, when walking back from
a supermarket...
              a unit? yes! a unit of thought!
to craft a mathematical orientation that cuts
and measures "thinking"...
  i could only come up with the Φ-Θ
complex...
              since id becomes idea, and sometimes
the idea does not last, i wanted
to find the abstract...
  please mention the key & door analogy,
please... so much for omicron and zero;
but it's much more than that,
honestly, it's about heliocentric historiology
and geocentric historiology:
and history per se.
  when did one history end,
and the other history begin?
does it begin with the fail-safe idea of
the anti-christ, that precipitated into anti-matter?
or was it october 4, 1957, with sputnik 1?
or was it april 12, 1961, with yuri gagarin
in vostok 1? or was it that the ancient
maxim ringed true with laika beating
  albert?
this anglophone existentialism of puritanical
and exclusive darwinism is a bit like
shoving by ******* into a monkey wrench
and shouting: sneeze! (rather than ease up
on the squeeze).
   anglophone existentialism has become
nothing any intellectual should attempt
from the european continent,
believe me, i've been watching it for some
years... the anglophones have reinvented
existentialism by blackmailing the 20th
century movement, given the maxim:
you have to! whether in bed or in haystack!
you know what? *******!
you stop blackmailing my need to reproduce,
one thing's for sure:
darwinism & existentialism: don't *******
mingle, my dearest suga-pups (shoo-gah
paps, for posterity)!
     and we're talking jackie nicky joker's
sunset boulevard makeover.
hold on, hold on, when did heliocentric history
begin? surely you can stress the theorists
with copernicus or galileo...
  so the heliocentric history began in
the 20th century, mid-way...
and? didn't humanity simply enforce
geocentrism with satellites?
                        i still feel more orientated
around a geocentric historical realism,
than these mundane sci-fi heliocentric
ambitions that: mind the quake:
seem posthumous realism in...
              about 20 generations later...
i never understood why everyone who
"believed" in a flat earth was stupid...
well... "stupid" enough to be able to read
a map, and not rely on a g.p.s. *****...
    like i said: you navigated a car from england
to a remote part of poland, passing
the ****-hole near dortmund in germany?
   that's a ******* blast...
try navigating a car through that ****-show
of ******'s **** of the autobahn...
              but sure, if imagining an orab
from outer space helps: go for it!
i'm a man, a flat earth is practical!
   i get from a to b, i don't suddenly launch
a ****'s worth of monkey goo into outer
space asking for a meteor shower in return!
and that has to be said:
did satellites enforce heliocentrism,
or did we regress back to geocentrism?
   ha ha... what, a, funny, question...
        obviously the latter forest!
dip *****, plonkers, gits and gumps...
the whole lot of them!
       heliocentric history is infantile!
imagine: was that theory conjured up on
three-dimensional paper,
   or was that the best we could come up
with: in terms of abstracting the imaginative
sphere, i.e. on a two dimensional canvas?
it's not like copernicus conjured up
the heliocentric theory, while scribbling
on a statue, or making break-through
graffiti on a building...
   so? is it such a bad idea to interact between
the two perspectives?
                it's what i always asked for:
the humanities replying to scientific relativism,
i.e. perspectivism!
   a dog is man's best friend,
   while a monkey is man's worst enemy:
hence laika beat albert to claim
  the heavens above the allure of azure,
looking down, and licking its genitals...
my my, heliocentrism began with a dog
licking its genitals... what a mighty event!
and it's not even a century old...
seriously, don't people think that
heliocentric history making is a bit
of a loser's game?
      history is, and will remain,
for the most part, a geocentric affair,
even if star trek advancements come along;
i simply lifted the heliocentric curtain:
since, for most part, history
partakes in geocentrism,
    and heliocentrism as "history" is best
summarised by the news talking heads,
always coming last,
        along with cute, puppy stories,
or that panda that gave birth in some zoo
in china.

my polyangular spring,
please don't breathe
while sleeping,
lay down so that
the sweet cotton milky way
would be along thy shoulders,
you're gagarin
all alone by himself.

do you remember
glaring lights of august?
i must be lost somewhere there
and secretly nobody
knows how to find me
i'm all curled up, blurry
and you're my slow motion
dancing wild
in the spectrum of life.

every time you loose light
i wish to be a sound
of breaking ice in the lena river,
thus myriad light years
would seem to be nothing
for a northern snowfall.
you grew up like a flower,
sleep pattern on my face.

you would never say about a Kandinsky: where's
the Mondrian?
                 luckily we have enough information
     about Goldberg's sardines,
without asking another poet (other than O'Hara)
to sniff out Billingsgate -     and so too:
if Burroughs said: all writing limps behind painting
       by 50 years -           enough said,
     hence came speedy Gonzales
with his shotgun and his canned paint...
  and i know just as much as sardines in
see-through tins -
                          well: it was worth a joke,
someone was bound to **** into a champagne
bottle at some point, and celebrate:
     in abstract - or to the point:
in concreto - ecce artifex!
                            at least enough
humility would be worth the same dosage -
   specialisations are such:
demanding concepts as aboriginal
in anthropology -
    likewise anthropological:
schizophrenics in urbanity -  after all...
a concrete jungle - like any half-wit
and ****-naked in the Amazon...
                    applause for
comrade Gagarin and Laika -
                   and if Darwin wrote in
cyrilica - then it too would have been
Mohawk and Brain - salutations and applause -
    and if ever in doubt:
call it versailles - to denote all forms of
                     luxury -
     i know: versailles better hides luxury
than the hermitage -
                     or as King Duck could say
being a burden on the Vavel Mount -
                                 even the Vavellian
dragon died from laughter, even though
he was given a sheep stuffed with sulphur -
and drank the Vistulla dry...
but only when King Quack was laid to rest:
and the volk - the naród said:
         Katyń 1 - Smoleńsk 3...
                                    and there was even
a composition by wojciech kilar.
    so then... 50 years lagging?
    disorientating? muddled, spaghetti loops?
   well, as the introduction already mentions,
painters can't write - suddenly everything
has to have geometry!
      any geometrical instrument
      in an art's class is seen like a Sunni in Iran -
or a Buddhist, at a Bar Mitzvah:
                                          boom-town slap-head -
choppy waters, brightly illuminated
                                                     by the polished
cranium sheen.
   so why except a Mondrain from a Kandinsky                          
                             ­  ?!
                                     what a brain-drain!

I'm folding origami birds
from old envelopes

                                                      ­                           with stamps from the US
                                                              ­                   as if hoping they'll fly back

there & greet my friend
& blowing bubbles in my tea

                                                            ­                                     Yesterday I heard
                                                           ­                                 Yuri Gagarin's voice


for the first time
& thought it strange

                                                        ­                                       that such a simple
                                                          ­                            sounding man should've

been allowed into Space
rather than picking a Poet

                                                           ­                                   who could've made
                                                            ­                               more of it than him
the last three letters I sent
to my friend

                                                               ­                                      didn't get there
                                                           ­                             so I don't trust the Post
anymore & rely
on e-mails & phone

                                                          ­                       sometimes we don't write
                                                           ­        or speak  for months or even a year

& then when we get
back in touch

                                                          ­                                                 it's just like
                                                            ­                                  hearing from Space

When I was young
I saw Gagarin
Waving through a moonbeam

That same year
A single electron
Went from my finger
To the doorknob.

She was a radical.

In those days
I was convinced that the
Cocoon was a casket
Would bury it whole
When it came back empty
You thought it went to heaven.

We built homes
For the salamander
Picked them from the mud
Moved them into plastic boxes
And swore to never let it
Live in such poor conditions.

How could they live like that.

When I was young
My eyes saw so much love
It spread in every direction.
We called it the love canal,
Because it was so toxic.

Sometimes if you would listen
You could hear the trees
Whispering wisdom to the pine cones
Singing lullaby’s about
fireside farmers.

We would hide them from the spiders
because we hadn't yet learned
How to commit ******.

I used to think
That the raindrops were lonely
Because they were always
Holding themselves in.

You'd collect them in a glass jar
Thin enough for their worries
To creep up the sides,
And convinced me that they had
Found someone to talk to.

Our hands were stained with blackberries
Tasted sweet like the honeysuckles
On the other side of the thorn bushes
Where you found the fattest bumble bee
And told me that honey came from its throw up.
I still eat honey.

In the winter
We built a snowman.
Named him jolly old saint ****,
And I sat inside until
All he left me was coal.

At the north pole
There were three elves
Who in the summer
Built sandcastles
In their dreams
But over Christmas
They made salamander
Soup kitchens.

In a cornfield
I found myself.
Three skipping stones
I kept them in my pocket
Until it reached the shoreline.
They're still drowning.

Here's to the kids who
Never got to go
Trick or Treating,
But were **** good
At being someone else.

You and I,
We did our math in pen.
We never made the
Same mistake twice.

We didn't smudge,
We smeared.
And there was never
Any doubt
That you and I,
Were here.

jak sie nie ma co sie lubi, to sie lubi, co sie ma / if you don't have what you'd like, you like, what you have.

my maternal uncle (brother
of my grandmother)
used to collect beer bottles...
now i wish
    i didn't start to collect
cigarette packets...
           i know, pretty much as
"nerdy" as collecting postage
stamps (you should see
my grandfather's collection...
pretty impressive...
     i think he owns a yuri
gagarin special edition) -
anyway...
    it came as a shock when
i was buying tobacco
  at the supermarket once
upon a time (2 months ago) -
the packaging, the packaging!
it's so ugly!
     you sure i'm in a supermarket
and not in a russian gulag?
marmite lungs,
   coughing blood,
black and white all over
areas, all over...
           they really know how
to put people out their jobs
when trying to
           redesign packaging,
don't they?
luckily though... luckily!
i'm in possession of the last
of the last...
   an empty packet of
   *benson & hedges (gold)...
that's a keeper...
    i'm not giving this one
up...
   i'll use whenever i have ten
remaining in
that ugly packaging,
      and take it into town,
and turn into a peacock...
look'e 'ere... see,
     original packaging,
dating from the year 2016...
     but like with anything
you drink... esp. the whiskeys...
it's nice to read an anecdote
printed on the bottle...
  the benson & hedges packet?
nothing like it is now...
  in the old days
you know:
   (a) sourced from premium
                  golden virginia tobaccos
  (b) consistently rich & smooth
          taste
(c) as approved by apache chief
    naked-****-pointing-at-the-moon
   & his distant half-cousin
the sioux chief hairdressing-wind;
  but there's also
(d) the british american
                         tobacco group
   and there's also and address
  so you can send them fan mail
(e) old bond street, london.
  smoking used to be fun,
well, it still is... if you managed to keep
one of these of packets
          of cigarettes...
now i wish i still had a packet
of yella' camels...
                 or the red marlboros,
oh well.

when Margot met Circe: bah bah black sheep,
St. Bartholomew's chicken ****
                for the puff of leg-room...
duffos... 1996 made so much sense;
hence the days before teen-mom
m.t.v., hence the days before
   teen-mom m.t.v.,
              is that revising the opposite
of the caveman within journalists
who'd have no imagination to
carve out a hammer?
               but who still celebrate
that origination of all future history?
there's never too little history to revive,
there's only too much of the wrong
history to bookmark,
    and subsequently revive...
whatever happened to culture of
things seen on t.v. when marijuana
was illegal?
            ted the magic talking bear?
or is that ted'x talks? they legalised that ****
because because there were apparent
geniuses in s low mo t'yo née -
   or: ****** dooby do... where are you...
magic monkey juice...
                 let's make america nostalgic ultra!
        as the german poets and philosophers
tried to revive classical greek and came back
with a ******* clock for what really did become
good luck...
                 because they made marijuana legal
for non-high purposes as in extracting
something akin to Great Ormond kids ingesting
the green morphine monster...
  but where's the fun in that when it's all legal
and couch-potato bound and never daring
for the jazz communes and spontaneously
propped poetics?
but i also grew up with
Wilk i Zając - Odcinek 13 - Olimpiada 1980
       w Moskwie /
wolf & rabbit, episode 13, olympics 1980 in
Moscow... very ******* sputnik in terms of
tunes comrade Gagarin...
i once knew the meaning of the word: harasho...
i think it means: i understand.
я ci pokarzała! (i will show you!)
nu pagarzni! (no you won't!)
o' Ronald re re re, *****! i wielki flop!

palyak...
   gwoopi:
palyak...
  pierdu
wart piotr,
    lieb pavel!
palyak:
gwoopi
           palyak!
czekoor!
   czaj!
   jemu
zwe, cykor!
  zwe! gagarin!
zwe! kitaj!
    kitajec!
pan szamb!
    ruszkin puszkin!
zwajce pijajce!
    szto?! szu szu
szarania!
        moskiw!
bamboula:
bratek bambo!
ukrajnin: bohun!
  sto stokortek
nad grobem:
   KACAP!
  ка'тсап!
     HORONWIEG
zgranego
młota i kilofa!
oj barket:
ty raz jeszcze
będziesz
żegnać glebę:
            jak chleb!
gryź ty:
    tą garść piachu,
na twój ząb
jak modlitwe
    na swój zór!
          i mów mi:
słotka,
miękka bółeczka!
       kajzerka!
niby:
wilhelm kaiserschuh
tap tap...
tippentanzen...
mów mi że to tak!
jak zawsze:
    warta propaganda.

a two tonne viking frying taco shells thinking he’s Louis Zamperini

a cracked slate roof leaking acid rain onto photo books of artists who have
dark minds and
black eyes and
lips made of pewter and are
brilliant,
because they are
troubled.

tiny Mexican rabbits
******* on fresh bedding and
snowboarding with packs of salted butter on the new
screed
floor.

The Spider.
mushrooming her web around every crack on your hands
spitting marmite
drinking bitter bitter tea and ******* on The Vikings’ **** like it were a
Tarocco
orange.

bank loans
RSJ’s
a plague of aphids and
diesel, so much diesel but
jellied.
no glow.

the lime between the bricks bearing this system are
oppressed,
and mouldering.

the foundations are screaming, yet RIGHT THERE
at ground zero
The Bonsai Tomato.
tunnelling.

a green Yuri Gagarin set out before the final frost and
robbed,
of his wings.
stripped and proffered scuzz by a society run on
injustice and
pelf.

yet, somehow. still sure.
surrounded by the web but not tangled in it
haunted at night by the blood orange but not jaundiced by it

sea salt from a yellow grit bin.

another Oxfam jacket for a funeral.

six million blackouts painted by builders but The Bonsai Tomato is
STILL.
THERE.

eyes set on the next bend.
unshakeable.
holding his own.