the greater technique in writing poetry,
is not really associated with the
scholastic, well at least not with poets-in-residence
at university institution, esp. with the current
curb on free experience of expression
having to walk a ballerina sort of walk on
tip toe, even though a ballerina walk on
hard surfaces is an elephants stomp (swan lake?
the drumming of the ballerinas deafens the
music, what a crude sadistic art-form),
and should ballerinas practice the art-form on
cushions they couldn't do their tip-toe...
a ballerina sort of walk to not cause usurping
apathy by the bullish heart is a paradox...
because hard topics with a ballerina tread will
still become a piano hitting the ground...
and soft topics with a ballerina tread will
only become the agonising loss of firm footing,
and a torture of the trivial having to be danced
upon with such seriousness as the samba would
otherwise allow... the tip-toe having not firm
rooting... if that makes a sensual impression on you,
so be it, it's hardly senseless to write such words,
since you see the symbolic encoding with you words,
so unless these arrangements don't make you blind,
i'm assuming you will not allow anti-geometrics of
certain painters... and instead you're embracing
satisfaction with squares and triangles...
a rigid narrative of pre-planning an expedition to
Antarctica asking for the right provisions of fur,
tents and water and food... it's not up to me to play with
these words for interpretation, i've made the interpretation
a freedom only you can behold, i can't always be found
willing to interpret the arrangement for you,
i'm not into thought ******* and shackling,
and if you're into that... then you're just plain ******* lazy;
i mean, if i was a poet-in-residence at a university
and told to mind recognisable poetic technique
in the range of onomatopoeia and metaphor
and not accept a higher technique, the digression
via the kaleidoscope, the many diversion,
changed subject matters... i'd bore myself to death...
of course there's the rambling technique of
a poetic narrative, a sudden caffeine injection of
the elevated moment, but that technique calls for
a single subject matter - i'm talking explosions...
a return to ballerinas, if poets mind hard subjects,
heavy subjects, and they want to treat on them
gracefully like ballerinas in agony
they will have to embrace the fact that such
"grace" is actually an elephants stomp...
it's no good asking ballerinas to practice their
art by dancing on cushions... the two graces -
one of dance and the other of grace will never allow
you to walk around on tip-tope...
oh come on, interpret it with images of some sort
of comparison, like a ballerina on a tightrope...
i'm not going to be spoon-feeding you
anywhere from the page.

spring clean, the boiler-man came for an annual
check-up, i was working and kept my room
a bit un-kept...
cleaned the windows, hoovered the floor,
steamed it, cleaned the bookshelves from dust,
it smelt like a mint-conditioning comic after,
changed the bedsheets,
took all the empty cups from the shelves,
spotless clean...
but i'm telling you, if i get to see 2015's
best film *inside out by pixar i'd give you
a clear analysis on the specific points,
at the moment i have this **** of thinking
about how the optics of man
only start engaging in memory after 4 years
upon birth...
spending nine months in the waters of the womb
(imagine coal miners trapped in
perpetual coal-mine for nine months,
they'd re-enter the light of day like moles,
having to wear sunglasses for the same number
of months before the eyes adjusted) -
it's no wonder that the parts of the body
passing fluids (well, **** in the form of
diarrhoea is pigeon ****) are weak...
why the ***** i'm saying...
why the mushy pulp of the apple purée
because the oesophagus is weak too and needs
to develop like bones, become hardened,
indeed these soft tissues need to become firm
paralleled with bones, baby bones are undeveloped
in terms of how we can't walk at the beginning
but crawl... forget the drawings of darwinism
of shortened historical explanation...
our's isn't with tail and hunched spine...
we're crawling...
but the pixar film inside out i will write a detailed
analysis when i see it again...
at first i can only relate one fascination...
the way we only become to actually consciously
see aged ~4... prior to that we have no
optical impression of the world with memory...
memory and seeing only enjoin
aged ~4... prior to that all the senses are based
in the unconscious, once the senses emerge from
the unconscious, actual faculties develop,
sight develops with memory...
i could say that speech develops with sounds...
but ba ba goo goo ma ma da da is actual
gibberish to consider since we become so eloquent
after, aided by the fact that we capture sounds
with phonetic optics of letters...
i'll stick my ground,
the first symbiosis is that of sight and memory,
which also becomes a symbiosis of
sight and memorising-imagination, or memory-in-itself...
and the clash of these two symbioses
creates a paradox of what actually happened
and what happened upon re-imagining...
like i said, i could expand on the theories within
inside out, with my re-evaluation as alt. outside in,
and i can say about a 1000 child psychologists could
be spawned from this single film...
but you never know, i might even theorise further
tonight once i drink enough and get a toilet break;
and bear in mind i'm about to cross the threshold
of being awake for 24 hours, after i miscalculated
my doctor's appointment for an amitriptyline (25mg)
prescription; the depth of the film is immense,
but i think it's harsh for so many psychological
undertones to be shown t children,
i think that it's a film for adults, even though
it's rated U... and indeed, more like a U-turn in
terms of thinking about life than suitable for
the under-aged,
at first you get the early stages of child development,
by the end of the film of hopefully seeing adolescent
development, but that's cut short when
puberty obstructs sensitive sensible matters that
lead into sadomasochism in certain cases,
and in others into ****** carelessness as documented
by grooming examples in societies, like the ones
in england... or two girls today in mini-skirts with
the still cold spring nights, one ******* crouched
in an alley, the other trying to ease her on
while i walk past to finish it quickly...
i could, really could bombast you with my little
theory tool-kit... when joy becomes jealous of
sadness and wants to rob sadness of a prime memory...
the simple cutting of the umbilical chord of
being born in one place, but moving to another...
the sheer thoughtless release of tears in a classroom...
then the imaginary friend encounter...
never take short-cuts with that third cat,
third elephant, third dolphin character leading
you into the world of imagination,
the imaginary friend is actually a placebo figure in
this realm, he can't have imagined it all,
we couldn't have been the first prize pundit in it all...
he's the thief of ownership...
and then dragged into the cyst pit of those
characters real in life, celebrating your third birthday,
still blind to the world... the rainbows of life
and the darkness of the foetal mine...
the clown who's less horror but more a 5 year
student of acting reduced to cheap party tricks...
distorted not in life, but in your dreams,
as proof that you really didn't see the world
so early... you couldn't have, because if you had,
the dream world would not distort so profoundly...
and upon re-entry into the foetal position of sleep
your first 3 years are reflected in sleep...
such that when joy and sadness walked into
the realm of the imagination i thought they'd wake
the girl up by going to the cinema to watch a horror movie
like the one joy tried to block when the family
first moved to san francisco...
oh indeed the over-layering of the five crude expressions
of thought, memory and imagination...
i wonder why these chose those five...
and there was no hope among them - and hope's
triplet shapes of hope itself, love, and fear...
and when suddenly the imaginary friend dragged
the poor girl into the abyss of forgettable memories,
it dawned on me how the girl sat there holding
memories she wished to remember, a motherly
narcissism as to say: my own child...
but it felt so strange to imagine this child
holding onto memories like that, when in reality
without the five crude impressions of feelings
she would be unable to do so... this melancholic
reflection of joy suddenly dawned upon her
that the real sadness was the it too was sadness,
for if natural selection exists... so too much
cognitive selection, however dear some things are
to us... some of us have to remember
being able to give surgery, learn to drive buses,
teach mathematics... to be truly enjoined with humanity,
and not simple childish solipsists;
even as such... write poetry and weep.

circle scars
and you circle scars
all along the lengths of your arms
black where red once
did the trick
got enough to take your pick
crisscross patterns
round your wrists
there's no patch of skin been missed
said you'd stop
so now you take
a pen instead of razor blade
cigarette stays
in your lips
safer than your fingertips
but inside out
you're still the same
circle scars
and you circle

grammatical geometrics, first words serve best,
a couple smoking marijuana walking into
tinsel town, by myself, drinking, lone wolf
drinks a pact's share of harvest of midnight growls,
they say fear the man walking into a forest
at night by himself: if only his ambitions were
an acquirement for more human fossils...
i could never account for some idiot correlation
linking me to the primate form...
grammar geometry though, imagine it!
nouns are linear consolidations taking for tangents
in trigonometry of slang;
grammar is a Christopher Columbus' worth
of star gazing, overshot the mark from Portugal
and landed at Cape Horn...
bring back 1980s disco! i'll give you epileptic seizures!
honestly, ensure grammar is coupled with geometry,
hard to decipher shares with suffixes
                          -ish or                      -able.
some might say nouns are squares, and adjective are
triangles, while others would say hexagons are
verbs along with pentagons - horseradish scandals
and chicken scratches;
but when it comes to rigid grammar categorisation
you will wonder at the re-categorisation
of certain words, as Nietzsche stated, a disbelief
in grammatical arithmetic counter Cartesian
2 + 2 = i think, therefore, i am. a three times table likewise,
a horse with an apple in its mouth is also a horse
without a stable.
concerning god, i mean to suggest that re be regarded
as a pronoun, uncoupled from garçon service as a prefix...
that clean napkin and a Parisian accent of Dover,
i mean to suggest re be akin to the recycling of
sunset, sunrise, summer, spring, repeat,
the idealised pronoun formulation of any if no activity,
hence grammar and geometry,
shapes from adjectives and shapes from other categorisations;
but still the facts: to speak of god's pronoun usage
is to speak in terms of re, the repetitive cascade of
the many to come from such suggestion:
take for example standing on a bridge over the eastern avenue,
looking at trees and looking at street lamps,
the delta equilibrium balancing the analytical knowledge
of trees, and the synthetic knowledge of street lamps...
if our analytical knowledge of trees was perfected
we'd hardly think of chlorophyll incubators of photosynthesis
with solar shields on suburban roofs in Chernobyl...
we've analysed trees to such an extent as to be
ably providing illumination of "trees" for constant traffic...
term it as revision of ontology, variant:
expressing the relationship of a set to its image under
a mapping when every element of the image set has a
reverse / chiral image in the first set - hence god, in pronoun
categorisation with the standard duo function of
equilibrated thinking with being as neither owner nor
discarder, rather applying some sense of
the grammar complexes with geometrical explanations,
the prime pronoun, sunrise 1996 of may,
sunrise 2006 of may, altogether re - re is the
clarifying pronoun, of course a cause of concern leading
toward Kantian pantheism, but better the pronoun re
describing history and the obvious repeat,
than having to ascribe omni a pronoun status
with the verbs / shapes of both thought and being -
who will decipher the assertion that,
                              geometrically-and-grammatically
sp­eaking an adjective is a square? well, me an Raza
were talking about the European Championships:
- who you supporting?
- Poland.
- ah.
- who you supporting, Turkey, obviously.
- well, kind of.
- i think Iceland will bring the carnival, conquering
the Spaniard Dutch in qualification.
- i'm betting on Italy or France.
- what about England?
- ah, England has a **** team.
- true, the best English squad was 1996.
- andreas möller 1996.
- true - best squad since 1966.
- **** squad after.
- completely; when do you think Turkey will finish,
after the group stage? quarters?
- maybe.
- you think Poland will come out from the group stages?
- valiant Northern Ireland, i wish,
  a bit like agnieszka radwańska hearing the practice
of Japanese culture and lost honour:
lost a bet, early retirement, which is why a Pulitzer prize
is such a gagging instrument ensuring you keep
on speaking a trans-grammatical word going, i.e.
blah blah blah.
but still, the way the pronoun category is exploited to argue
the existence and the non-existence of:
pantheism - omni cogito (all manner of thinking provides no
                                             individualised ref. sigma-replica
                                             that might guarantee
                                             a differing between muscle flex
                                             and ego strained),
theism - re cogito (thinking, again) -
monotheism - mono cogito (thinking, alone) -
                                                      it's like neo-liberalism
politics and... the name of the father, after 2000 years
and we still don't know what his father's name is...
odd, isn't it? is it Jaspers? or is it Tickling Architecture in
Timbuktu? there were some serious problems prior
to 632 of the certified era... like... when what who?!
Phantom of Golgotha... i still want to translate geometry into
grammar - or at least,
what once was tree, that became a lamp post,
what once was onto logic, and became second nature,
what was once the nature of being,
that later became, solely, and purely, technical logistics:
whereby using a smartphone became more complicated
than rigid arithmetic, or checking the twelve hour clock-face.
whatever thought you ascribe the pronoun re,
it instils an apathy, an easily multiplying being,
and whatever thought you ascribe the pronoun omni
only means too much is encapsulated in the individual,
usually translated as an individual with debt
and an amputee story of hurt; i treat re and omni as
higher tier pronouns than i might treat the orthodoxy
currently presiding - after all, in existential parameters
i can affirm myself presiding over ****** functions
of taking a **** in whatever disguise i care to make replica
of the syllables e' 'go, or later, with subsequent theory,
the polymer of all possible affirmations, the anti-theoretical
cuckoo.

i've started to absolutely loath these shifts at Oxford...
for one: compared we're talking about a league one side...
the ****** stadium is one thing
but... just the drive there: and back...
out of the house from 1pm until 12:30am...
and for what? there's that coughing up for fuel
which has increased from £10 to £15... hell: my pay
hasn't risen...
   on topic: i was talking with my father about this...
inflation... the prices of commodities increases,
but the wages do not...
    fair enough: i might seem gullible at times...
given my grandfather was a member of the communist
party... but then communism in Poland
(a satellite state) wasn't the same as it was
in the actual Soviet Union... i'm no romantic of communism...
but surely if there's a concept of inflation:
there ought to be a logic around a concept of deflation...
but there isn't one in economics,
i.e. when wages go up: but the price of commodities
stays the same...
yet... the work of dairy farmers is the same: quality
and quantity-wise... economics it not my strong point...
i'm just thinking out-loud...
and i like thinking-dumb...
              my recent fascination comes in the form
of Confucius < Mozi < Mencius < Zhuangzi | Huizi
i.e. Kong Qui < Mo Di < Meng Ke < Zhu7ang Zhou |Hui ****...

i leave the house for roughly 10 hours and bring
back about £35... sure... it's the easiest shift on my list...
i get paid £35 to watch a football match...
but? today... the sky above Oxford looked more
entertaining than the football match... so? for the majority
of the time while the sun was still clinging
to reign over the sky: i was just looking at very pretty
clouds in the distance... i sometimes can't stomach
these base human foundations for society:
entertainment... i'd rather drink a bottle of wine
and just watch clouds behave like sloths...
or... perhaps not sloths... more like when a jellyfish
****** a cauliflower....

at least there was banter with my "manager"
en route toward Oxford... i ate a McDonald's in the alley
while waiting for him to pick me up...
banter... oh right: code words...
we call them the PLATOON... there's about 40 or so
"banana boat" folk... Daniel is the guy who conjured
up the expression: black don't crack...
what does that mean? you can't tell a black person's
real age... since you can be looking at a black
person who's 50... and you'd guess their age
to be 30... black don't crack...
i really think cosmetic industries should look into
the genome of both black people and people
with downs syndrome: those ******* hardly age...
you can't tell if there's a wrinkle on them...
seriously!
                  white boy humour... white boy
British humour... i'm writing this in complete earnest...
it's not even a joke: well... it's funny in a conversation
when you can crack jokes without a CCTV crow
on your shoulder...
so we cracked jokes about the PLATOON...

Daniel played that famous video of the ventriloquist
with that Ahmed the dead suicide bomber
puppet: I **** YOU...
i laughed on the verge of tears...
it's almost like that Dave Chapel sketch about
uniforms: a woman all tarts and no choux pastry
stuff... and Dave's like: pretending to be a police officer:
excuse me, ma'am... i may be dressed as a police officer!
but it doesn't mean that i am, a police officer!
or Team American's Durka Durka: Muhammad Jihad...
i just said to Daniel: are any of these ***** from
Rotherham? where? oh you know...
that Rotherham grooming gang scandal...
i'd love to get my hands on one of those *****...

a former prisoner officer talking to a former
chemistry student... seriously... those organic chemistry
schematics of electron migration were a bit pointless:
until i realised: they showed me loopholes in
the language... call it the rearrangement of vowels
and consonants... absolutely ridiculous:
since all theory and very little practice...

oh sure... the PLATOON was there...
i started it calling it SLOW-IQ from cousin-*******...
which is true... you have to start calling out
taboos at some point...
i mean: these guys were slow...
Ha-HMED! hark the H... draw a longer breath
and forget that the R was ever associated with a trill
of a rattlesnake...
oh sure... we get sold that puny story-detail
of low testosterone levels in European men....
these days? i was signing them in...
i had to ask 2 or 3 times for them to repeat their names:
they spoke their names so delicately
i couldn't understand them...
and i'm the one who picks up sounds...
my auditory hallucinations sometimes speak louder
than these people, "these people"...

i checked up on some theory...
the length ratio of the index finger to the ring finger...
i look at my left hand... then at my right hand...
oh **** me... no wonder...
i'm a *******... a promiscuous *******...
my ring finger is much longer than my index finger:
much longer on my left hand than my right hand...
ergo? a shorter index finger implies higher levels
of testosterone...
   am i to be, now, what? self-congratulatory...
no... it's intrinsic ontology: i can't help what i am...
just like i can't help with being a raw-red Caucasian
in mentality that's deviant from the British-compact
model...

i cleaned the house in the morning really focusing
on repeating the song My Friends by
the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
hey... listen... if these ******* have the audacity to
march in with their mosques... blow themselves up for
no grand attaching reason to further each and every one
of our plights: again... life isn't that terrible...
reality isn't unshakeable: unmoveable...
only people unto people make this life difficult:
usually out of complacency... laziness...
a solipsism that doesn't begin to factor in a fact
that solipsism could be a theory: a testing ground
of understanding autism...

but i abhor these Oxford shifts...
i leave them spent... the egress is magic though...
i'm more time-wasting than time-investing...
i still don't understand how inflation works
and i still don't understand why deflation doesn't exist...
the worth of goods increases:
but the method of producing these goods stays
the same... i have to admit...
i'm thinking about going out of my comfort zone...
looking into the thinking of economists
and not philosophers...
after all, my name was once allocated
to one famous tax-collector...
                     mind you: i like thinking about money...
not that i have a stash of it...
just enough to enjoy thinking about it...
i like thinking about money because i don't think
about spending it like most people do:
like most people who spend it frivolously and therefore
don't have enough of it and therefore
are in debt: these people are in debt because
they spend money on credit...
i have money, because i spend money on debit...

i couldn't never allow myself to accept a credit based
system of expenditures...
it made no sense to me: sure, you have more protection
using a credit card than a debit card...
after all the current system focuses more on creditors
than it does on debtors... then again: like for like...
you need less creditors than debtors:
you actually require more people in debt than
those willing to provide credit...
but then there are people like me who hyper-focus
on an earning-spending dynamic who
avoid building up too much credit:
by not building too much credit...
you can't exactly build up your... "debit score rating":
there's no "debit score" rating...
money turns into water...
you behave like your wallet if a dam...
that's a "metaphor" for savings and expenditure...

it's impossible for me to spend on credit...
why? i can't earn on credit:
well... i can earn on credit of my performance:
but that's a different sort of credit:
it's a credit i earn... rather than spend...
but i spend exclusively on debit...
on the basis of a debt i'm owned for my work...
i like money...
in philosophy there's that scared word: THING...
and NOTHING...
in economics there's that word too: MONEY...
and NO-MONEY...
oddly enough nothing is a categorised as a pronoun
while thing is categorised as a noun...
ergo? money is a noun and no-money
is a pronoun...

                    it's not even about being poor...
broke-***... it's about having enough money to do...
whatever the hell you want...
without a co-dependant... no woman: no children...
i can ******* from a shift... ask to be dropped
off at a petrol station... rather than the usual pick-up
spot... buy a £3 platter of sushi...
three ciders... a 10 packet of cigarettes...
eat... smoke a cigarette... then take at least two
bottles of cider dancing into the night...
i used to love swimming... now? if it's not cycling
it's walking... esp. come the night...

there's nothing quiet like it...
i hate these Oxford shifts... if it wasn't for the humour
i don't think i would have ever bothered...
focus on perception...
it's all about the TILT of the EARTH...
from the winter months and the summer months...
i was admiring the night thinking about
just that... this one... constellation...
in the summer months she's up-close...
you can see her enlarged (yeah?
things in English are generally asexual...
but you can ascribe *** to them...
like in most sensible tongues of the European
continent, there can be a sense of
the masculine and the feminine in nouns...
there's no need for gender-neutral pronouns...
there can exist gender-provocative nouns...
constellations are feminine)

   right... so there's this one jaw-dropper
of a constellation...
it's massive in the summer-time...
can't miss it... what the naked eye can't miss:
the mind ought to write about...

you know the constellation i'm talking about:
during the summer months it's enlarged...
but during the winter months it's squeezed into
its compact representation:
it's the same ******* constellation...
but since the earth is tilted on its axis...
that tilt generates a "disparity" of vision...
it's microscopically viewed in the summer months
and macroscopically viewed in the winter
months... when you sometimes walk the night
streets... tilt your head left to right...
and watch a bonanza of frost settling on the pavement
like it might be the glitter of paparazzi's cameras
eventing a strobe light effect of frost
glitter paving your honoured walk back
to a cold bed where only you or perhaps a cat might
be sleeping in...

no... it's not the constellation of cancer:
it's the constellation of scorpio:

                    •
                •
            •

­                   •
                      •
                          .
           ­                                  •

    •

that's most definitely a scorpion...
the tail... the torso... and the two pincers
extending...
but i'm not referring to the constellation
of scorpio... i'm refferering
to...the trapezium with a tail...

the big and little wheelbarrow constellation are
one and the same...

•
                        •


                                                                ­            •
                                            •


                                                 •                  •


it just depends on how the earth tilts...
call it her the little and big wheelbarrow...
microscopic in the realm of summer:
macroscopic in the realm of winter...
not a rhombus with a tail?
and what about the constellation of
scorpio...

three days by: Jane's Addiction...
always with the bass guitar that gets me...
now admire the tilt of the earth as this one constellation
all the same moves in and out to to an even greater
focus... "flat earth" expert as myself
ought to know... knowing one's own geometrics of
not having the luxury of parodying
movements that
demand the rigours of traffic...
such is a man's luxury of trailing behind night...
trailing behind dreams:
behind dreaming...
such is this world: that affords me so much
luxury... so little mediocracy...
            
tonight i brought back an acorn...
no... i wish i brought back an albino mulberry...
then again: i wish i brought back an oak conker...
but i prefer acorns more...
those hatted pebbles... oak? chestnut...
a corn that's not corns... that's acorn?
conker then... no? a nut with thoughts of
pirate X-marks-the-spot-chests?!
etymological tested grounds of frequented nouns...
hammer... table... mosquito...
            sun and moon...
                        sun as a he and moon:
although however stressed asexually: will be a she
in Ing-Leash.

i believe that there lives a counterpart
of me in Spain and in France -
equally critical - not me per se,
but two individuals to compensate
my efforts in England,
Eastern European, hell-bent
to overtax the happy meal and frozen foods
for "the busy lives of 21st century love-e-dub-e's;
a seance of unification might be far away
mind you;
they say they cite the Bible as if it
were an Encyclopaedia -
you reared the African as subhuman,
you think, that other European nations
will succumb to the African systematisation
necessary for integration?
you actually think i'll abandon my
mother tongue to engross myself
in your filthy history and sing god save our queen
like a kindergarten sing-along readying
myself for Oompa-Loompas?
oh i'm sure that's just due to your genetic
makeshift tents on the steppes of Mongolia;
any news from Mongolia? none.
any news from Kazakhstan? none;
except irony... or the great Tao principle:
forget the world and let the world forget you;
i'm not too eager on the Heidegger octopus either
having to be in the world and care for it -
or at least tax my existence with a concern for it.
but of course it's like an inbreeding principle:
little Britain meets the Empire,
Darth Asthmatic... coo khhh... coo khhh...
H vocalised is the best painting
of ancient static in televisions,
motivational ashes lost with digitalisation,
the kaleidoscope of flies and 8-eye spiders
hacking the flight with spider-web geometrics...
prolong the first two letters of the word Khan...
and i'm sure you'll genealogically stress
the origin of Pakistan as being in Mongolia.

well O... well... O, give me life! i need no beggars of the cyclone to repeat the foundations of seasons and things tectonic! O... well, O! rounded-up by rugby geometrics for an oval symmetry of the orbits... O... might i add - oh? well harp me a sigh with it too - or play me the ******* violins... i too might add my toes in the muddy sands of the Calais of India that's Goa: with toes clenched inward like a grip of a crow, or the antics of a ballerina; indeed Calais, the footnote of the Angevins... tell your integrating dogma to successors of william the conqueror's behaviour, as by-way dehumanising righteously - such the tongue spoken, such the tongue rebelling - via the term identified with utmost against the irish post-stamp claims for a peace treaty: rōnin; no, you be sub-human teaching me the language and then venturing into treating me as a simple cashier - no education system is necessary to craft the near robotic professions! why crave capitalism in the educational system when all might be happier un-educated for the professions the lazy aristocrats intended for them?*

i'll march against your little
utopia...
by god i'll march against your
Parisian Disney fairyland
with teeth clenched and fingernails bit
to a manicure!
for the chastity of white
lacking colours of a rainbow -
since on white an imprint,
and on black an absorption to stack-up
the many lacks of expression.

“Sanity is not statistical.”- George Orwell

The tour guide elucidates black and white scenery.
Unamused clients grow weary of following blindly…

Beyond the barren trees lies a horizon of dirt.
The patrons’ eyes assume a bedraggled trail
Ostentatiously drawing them into its depths.
Unable to sense the malignity; compliance is inevitable.

The seemingly infinite nave reveals a peculiar door,
Hexagonal in shape, displaying no visible ****.
“This heavily armored door hath been open since
the dawn of pandemonium. Enter if you dare,

my humble insanitorium.”

Their dreams have intruders,
Infiltrated by an obscure entrance
Remote in the fact that even they
Are ignorant to its location.

The intruder takes hold of,
their brains, hearts and blood.
Drives them to brink of insanity
Then leads them back home.

Metamorphosis: their messiahs
Were once smiles and gold
Now they are maggots, cole
And decayed linen for skin.

They are the peaceful violence
That occurs among the leaves
Existing for a short time in beauty.
Than drying up and withering away.

Obscurity is a terrifyingly beautiful renaissance
A peculiarity that rock them to the core.
The ghosts that occupy their souls,
And the cavern that’s missing from them
Experience is theirs to have or to lack. For they
haven’t much time before the dirt takes them back.

An elegant yet dismantled courtyard comes into view.

They.
Know not of the geometrics that seem
To have replaced the techni-colour trees.
Once overgrown in the tainted court-yard
Roots overharvested and interconnected,
A corn stock maze burnt to the ground.

She.
Used the finest twine, sharp and strong.
To tie her soul to the cage that houses her heart.
“Two mad rabbits were dancing by a tree.
Before one vanished down the hole,
I swear he looked right into me.”

They.
Watch in dismay as her chest is scalped.
The unsound artist tugs (she does not protest)
Bones shatter and he eats the remains.
Soft fingers caress the pulsating red ball.
All the women cry as he claws at her soul.

An aghast audience enters the house in
Hopes of a less unsettling spectacle.
A tiny jar sits on a wooden table, curiosity
Causes a member to remove the lid.

“To exist in the subconscious is more terrifying.
The flame’s lick the nimbus and I am calm.
An angry cockroach lodged in my trachea.
The soil is more sinister than it was yesterday.

An abstract design, the lines infinitely overlap.
The drawing continues and I try to unravel,
the circles and squares but I simply cannot.
They are now in my blood, a pentagonal paradise.

It would be lovely to hold my heart in my fist.
Squeeze it until the blood becomes a fourth
Of July spectacular. The circles and squares would
Be emancipated from the charred remains of the jar.”

Prying is never rewarded. The jar goes up in flames.
The great herd is lead to a theatre-like abode.

The tourists snap pictures as they assume their seats,
The Insanitorium’s owner makes a gut-wrenching speech.

“I’m wandering aimlessly through the in-between.
The face-painted crowd watches with open mouths.
As I search for and seek out self-fulfillment.
On the edge of their seats, waiting impatiently,
For my humble home to self destruct.

They gnaw on my self-worth, ripping and tearing
My well-though out decisions into tiny,
Unmanageable quadrants that I cannot repair.
The herd is well aware of what lies along the line.
But I strayed long ago and am of a different time.”

The applause drowns out the sound of the speaker’s screams.

The patrons are lead through a dimly lit hallway,
Another peculiar door materializes, triangular in shape.
The room is a vessel for conscious and unconscious ramblings
Of minds left to rot and decay like rabid corpses.

“Enter respected patrons and feast your eyes upon the truth.”

The first trembling hand finds its way to the door.
A striking man is seated, muttering cloud-cuckoos.
His hands and feet bound to the ancient wooden chair.
The blade hovers above his hard skull threatening to fall.

His brain is dissected; life-long deception is evident
The black cats in his mind are visible to probing eyes.
Sinister felines stretch their brittle bones; it is not
Long before they’re biting and scratching his insides.

Like all apparitions, the vision returns to the dust from which
It was created. It’s true home among the asteroids and
The planets that contain the same star dust that once
Composed flesh and bone. Not Reduced, but reused and recycled.

Before the disappearance is final, he chokes on his last words…

“A pearl that is flung,
From the stars overhung
Will dislocate like a plastic doll.

Alas…

One pearl turns to millions
And a million turns to dust.
The doll’s expression ,
remains stagnant.”

The tourists are angry and appalled at what they have witnessed.

They have not come to the harsh realization,
That in order for a man to see, his eyes
Must be pried open. Stunned into epiphany.
Become aware of the demon residing behind them.

“You are not sane devil woman,
For your tour reveals horrors of many kinds.”

The woman’s mouth contorts and her eyes darken.

“All entities, dear guests, hath been drawn
from your own mad minds.”

by the time malachi wrote of elijah's half, god split too, and then the embodiment happened on two roundabouts worth of twirl: god was a third's worth of christ's trinity talked about, recognising india in a symmetrical summery of applause for anglia's capital norwich - exchanged in overcoming autumn into similar wobbly within grasp - stornoway - to pinpoint an x for some lapsed tongue twirling less hollywood and more of the towing dimensional twins: diaper dipped innocent and sunk into welly fudge wet sludge slurps of onomatopoeias, exchanged to boot pivots for the weatherman handling insignia of coordination with a queen's lazed approach to care for the public's handy utility: shaken the plumber shaken the electrician, but gloved the hand ordinating trickles of tubular artery and sparks of the veiny rarity skidding into pressurised suicides named.*

as i said it once: by the time of malachi elijah was half of what jesus became,
a trinity of thirds; but by a polytheistic nitro of interests reincarnation
was not much for the oneness: with malachi in oath
to claim elijah in half, while jesus stole a prophet's book,
which endowed a testimony, such that much of the greek "god said"
was roman "let me ease into it and regurgitate."
so while malachi wrote of elijah's re-incarnation and spoke heresy on
the pulpit of polytheism for a crowd of monotheists
not allowing a seventh of the same pool draw
of sunken chlorine breathed as a matchstick sparked,
it was malachi so many years prior
anticipating the many gods ridiculed by a singled out earth,
while jesus stole isaiah's book and hiding it near the dead sea,
and having his own testimony
of being integrated into egyptian alimony
sold and paired revealing the sorrowful desert winds that the desert
in toadish engulfed the nearby architecture. so i tell you: jesus stole isaiah's testimony,
was crucified for it, because within the penta- framework moses wrote
like a true outsider - and we prefer narcissists holding a mirror rather
than gripping a nail to a placard of steadied wood of ennobling statues
of geometrics. why then the many narcissist messiahs empowered by posing
into a polaroid fake and the lost oedipus plural theorised?
once malachi came with the heresy elijah was halved with god,
and once jesus came and the people began deciphering babylonian madness
so that the hanging gardens were architecturally sound
and the pyramids were proven higher than the eiffel:
without a sweaty wrinkles' river taken aqua vivo, we thus conversed.
elijah was a third in the form of jesus who begat one as a trinity
to further the heresy of malachi.

and now, i too, can jest, waving the brick,
the 20th century's Odyssey,
so too Ulysses, father of, this cantos poet,
it's a well worn book,
to make books like leather, the older
the better, lost the colt stink of freshly
peeled, leather rather than fur,
so too, i, can now close the book and leave
it's ancestry in lost conversation among
the living in cafés and pubs,
so now i can give you a bewilderment i too
am aware of: the chaos of kept Latin
geometrics, style, indeed orthography with
accent here and there, but to dwell on
the past like that, per se, prae se or any such
coercion to disregard the general public,
no surprises with such a pompous raucous,
elephants and stilettos, mass and weight,
bouncing on the moon, the sheer chaos
of how the barbarians lost runes and incorporated
the gaps, i.e.: a, e, o, p, R, b, B, Q, g, d...
                       with Hindu 0, 9, 8, 6, 4...
or as Arabs say: our ten commandments.
but still the chaos, once meaningful now meaningless,
hence programming, encoding, data structuring,
fish tanks think tanks, and SLANG, or SHLANG
as i call it, impromptu youth too cool for school:
still don't know what you're talking about...
the lettering survived because their arithmetic
that gave us beauty like the Coliseum and marble
testicles (later missing with castrato hosanna
in excelsis deo - o took a baritone stance) -
the fall of the Roman empire? all due to
                      I + VI = VII
                      XI + V = XVI.
                                               everyone was like... huh?
can you really **** around with these symbols
in modern physics and mathematics?
... no thanks... we'll keep the alphabet but bring
you down on your mathematics...
but have you seen the Appleton Tower in
Edinburgh? or the library in George Sq.?
you haven't... both are hardly Islamic mosaics and
minarets. as many curves and glitches of beauty
as the models on a catwalk during London's fashion week;
anorexic imagination: keep it square and bony,
me and my godforsaken x-ray vision.
so suma summarum:
it began with: and then went down to the ship...
but ended up with the ship being a gondola
i.e. you in the dinghy (piccioletta) astern there!
i'm not even going to read the drafts & fragments
section (CX - CXVII - C X C V - or the curriculum vitae).

given the digitalisation, i've become less a poet and a lesser entertainer, and more a drug-dealer.

where do you levitate with this, hmm?
well infected mushroom's *dracul,
the laughter,
                                             the laughter,
you're lost for words, making Descartes modern:
cogito ergo rideo - both are verbs meaning both are
active ingredients - therefore being a mathematical
modulator akin to + or ÷, thus the twins nearby -
tell a joke without actually telling one
and laugh - fork in the road
****'s sake concerning thinking
as proof of existence:
make it out as: i think therefore i laugh,
give thinking a higher tier of expression
other than from crafting a theory of relativity
to not crafting one and reduced to menial
tasks the sri lankans would gladly accept -
still the chicken moon, the cloudiness
and the laughter, not self-love mind you,
and still the lighthouse warring with the cliffs
to spare a ship -
i just said a joke and laughed, there was no
joke to be heard for 5 miles apart to be made apparent,
but still the laughter came -
i ended up reading an article about the pharmacological
prince - pains and aches - died aged 57 -
indeed think therefore laugh rather than
be spotted thinking as a way to qualify yourself
to be recipient of stars and sun, moon and tides -
it came when i thought too much, having dislodged myself
from making choices i let thought scream narrative!,
and the only narration worth expressing came
with laughter - it didn't come with hideouts
of thought coupled with existence having lost
the pleasures of cartesian thinking not having
discovered the theory of relativity -
thinking as basis for being conscious became hidden,
no longer a twinned analogue for parallel comparisons,
existence needed some emotive expression
against the apathetic sum, it was necessary to
craft thinking into an existential parameter greater
than a unit recipient of being aligned with
                    the planetary chronology
             of mercury, venus, earth, mars, jupiter
                 and horoscopes defying geometrics -
laughter sprinted to be minded -
                          above existence per se, which
thinking is not part of, per se, since no one can prove
thinking exists akin to the proof for the existence of god -
car crash, ******, slaving, i can tell you
callousness exists, that slavery exists -
but i can't tell you thinking exists -
given the example and the murk custard of
hallucinations, the ****** of the senses
                                     and intuition... i.e.
too many particulars to be minded,
in terms of evaluation
particulars are governed by thought,
              while universals are governed by god;
i know poets hardly memorise their output -
they have a page with scribbles in-front of them
rather than having memorised their lyrics with love
and contentment and a guitar -
we can't be theatrical to say the least -
poets are not engaged with arenas and epilepsy
inducing stage lights, their instrument is a page
rather than a guitar - what's missing is the self-love
akin to memorisation - but as i say:
you can never know if you wrote a good poem
if you haven't written a 1000 ****** ones.

as an antidote to the poetic of onomatopoeia, i simply won't allow such a desecration, the ruinous cloud of plum purple hangs over language with this one poetic technique, just before the barrage of rain falling like a vertical tsunami, as i found myself fishing in Poland, the white-precursor of Mickiewicz's castles turned into horses' gallop... and then foo! a monsoon in 5 minutes... the fish? quiet big, but since kept in a reservoir, a bit fat... actually... too fat. seriously, the onomatopoeia has to go, we can't be found imitating sounds of inanimate things... or debasing our use of phonetic encryptions with sounds of edible creatures... why... if we kept at it, you'd see monkeys building the coliseum and man playing the Mongolian harmonica of vibrating lips and the index finder moving up and down to their tune; plus i think onomatopoeia is the culprit of excessive spelling in english... i know, the keeping of necessary aesthetics but come on... moo vs. μ?

and i wish to lessen the optic strain for continuing
subject matter non-italicised...
you know what's more interesting than paying attention
to the use of onomatopoeia like that, the crudest
musicological element of poetry (well, rhyming is
also up there) - English is perfect, it's a-diacritical
(ah or a? never mind) - you have to start to imagine
the language like a blank canvas, but not necessarily,
what's more interesting in this vector rather than
clinging to onomatopoeia technique is that you
can apply anti-onomatopoeia, distinctions, accents,
yesterday it became revelatory,
it's roland garros on the television, after the days
events there's a program with Mats Wilander
(Swedish no. 1, seven grand slams between 1982 and
1988) and a blonde woman presenter,
i picked up my loss of interest in using onomatopoeia
to profile her origin... she could have been of any
European ethnicity... but the accent... it just landed
in my ear... German... and indeed, without an information
bracket on the programme's description, it was
Barbara Schett... you see, you paint the accents, it's
more interesting that way given the nakedness of English
compared with other siblings of the alphabet high-jacked
from Roman; you end up pricking your ears to attune
accents that than ol' McDonald had a farm.

that was my initial fascination, the lie of Eden passed down,
like Voltaire on his deathbed being read his departing word,
his own encoded as: this is not the time  to make enemies
he was referring to the devil)...
also: you'll find it hard to find his *éléments de la philosphie
de Newton... you will find Candide,
and Letters from England... but the elements of Newton's
philosophy will be a holy grail... oddly enough, contrary
to common belief, Voltaire never alludes to an apple
falling on Newton's head, but the book is a joy,
given that it includes diagrams... a bit of an Alice moment
for me: what's the point of books without pictures?
i could give you a chapter-by-chapter schematic of
what's being included so you don't think i'm bullshitting you,
the first chapter is about God... i know, ha ha, Voltaire
the ardent atheists... the third chapter is about the
freedom of the deity and on the great principle of sufficient right;
hold on! i'm digressing again, this was a debate concerning
onomatopoeia! you're probably asking why i've started to
use runes again... imagine what lied more, the tongue or
the eyes... this is crazy geometrics! geometry precipitated
when human went wild encoding sounds, it needed
something rational and coherent to attach itself to, to find
a cure for this crazy phonetic encoding, Pythagoras
attacked (Δ, δ) - i'm sure of that... i mean, can you just imagine
two drunk vikings sitting there, ******* themselves
sound-spotting and dissecting their mouth? which shaped
what, and which was to be cut-off / trimmed after they
poured wax into their ears and started to lip-read?
i mean... how many ****** shapes came from all
the soul-cages being opened with the shape of the mouth
from O?
ᚺ - hail             ᛖ - horse (and i'd say camel, but no camels
so far north)       ᚱ - journey         ᛟ - heritage
      ᛚ - water               ᚷ - gift
                                 i mean, it's amazing how we managed
to cut of subsequent letters we ascribed to things
and create a distinct sounds... but can you the torturous
road toward this end? to have created ~20 distinctions
from nouns? no wonder Aristotle asked to debate
proper names... i'm more inclined to ask a debate about
proper sounds... but still... so many wild geometric shapes
from just one... O... or - (a shut mouth)...
no wonder mathematics emerged: you couldn't really build
a longboat using ᚠ - ᛞ, or a house, what mathematics emerged
was probably when people thus dispersed interacted
via the merchants' enterprises and saw a gold nugget
of applicability write in how so many different people interpreted
looking at the mouth talking...
but i'm but one man, and this is a mystery, for i wonder
how the mind worked in order to write mandarin and
also qin **** huang's wall - i accepted many people died
doing it, and that the Mongol invasion was inevitable,
and that Japan was spared by a tsunami...
but how they took snippets from O to write a phonetic
encoding like 政 (Zheng, which also ascribed the
tetragrammaton at work, with one atom being a surd).

8:43 AM // 6/27/14

I don't know what it is about you but you make me feel something I've only seen in movies, you know how right before the big finale there's an uproar, a ******, a point of no return, or the kiss of a lifetime? Well you make me feel that in every inch of my bones, right down to stubs of my toes, you're smile sends chills down my spine although I have never been a fan of the cold you make my heart melt. When I hear your voice telling me all these sweet things I've heard millions of times before for the first time in a long time my gut is telling me to trust it, to trust you. Although letting people in has never been hard for me letting people go is what seems to be the hardest, I guess nobody bothers reading the fine print anymore, although mine clearly states that "I am an enigma of joy that will always put your needs before my own and shower you with affection even when the world is being cruel, I'll be the sun beam that shines through your window even though you haven't seen the sunshine in quite a few years and last but not least I will love every bit of you...even the parts you thought nobody ever could" so when you embrace me I hope you don't break me, by that I mean my heart, it's paper thin although I miss it being my favorite shade of purple velvet, oh yeah and that's another thing: skin. I love the feel of your skin, the way you ran your fingers in a circle along my lower back like geometrics and finger painting were your best hidden talents. the first day I met you i layed on your chest and listened to the rumble of your heart beat while the grogginess of our stomachs sang an entirely different tune, I guess we found even more things in common. So far I have found so many things I can't wait to love about you including every weird fetish and habit even if I have yet to witness it. Like the way your voice sounds when you sing and if you sing in the shower and if your favorite song changes every week or hey maybe you've had the same anthem for years now or how your laugh escalates and falls as you laugh at your own inconvenience or what you do with your hands when all you have to hold is air or if you pout your lip when you get upset ((like me)) or if you even do anything at all when you get upset, I want to learn why you love certain words even if it's just because of the way you pronounce them and what shows you still love to watch on Saturday mornings, do you even have breakfast on Saturday mornings or are you still dead asleep till noon breaks? What hand do you write with and how big your handwriting is, do you like letters and if so, how often can I write you one? Do you mind if I ramble or even tell you about the color of the sky or even coffee shops I've never set foot in. Do you value moments or are you a fan of the bigger picture, do you analyze things and if you don't then, i totally don't notice how tight you grip my hips when i kiss you too hard or how cute you look when you squint your eyes... if not then i am sorry for noticing these things. How often do you like to cuddle and if your not in the mood we can just lock pinkys, that'll be enough. Do you scare easily and if you do, pick a movie that scares the living hell out of you just so I can see how you let your emotions effect you, do you pick your nose when no one is looking or do you think that's gross (because if you do I so DON'T do that). I want to know what tv shows make you laugh and what food makes you happy and what things make you sad, does anything scare you and if so is it something cliche like the El Chupacabra or is it something more serious like what cereal you wanna buy tonight or the future or heck even dying because whatever it is everyone's afraid of something, I can't blame you for being human.  Are you ticklish? do you like nose kisses? can I use you as a pillow or a chair when I'm too lazy to move an inch Do you like silence or would you rather talk until sunrise, whichever is fine with me. I'll listen to sound of your voice or the sound of your breathing as long as I get to hear it forever.  

*(v.m)

Behind the window and through the blinds lies a man, who
stands and perches, naught but a silhouette outlined by the
brown, nicotine-stained glow of the sheets-called-curtains.
Anyway, there's a man there, peering into my window as
measures necessary to enable sleep are taken, but he's
not doing anything, I mean - I'm not sure he's even watch-
ing me, but the hour grows late and try as I might, the mind
runs
wild -
drawing demons from crevices and hands of memory
from the bizarre December thunderstorm winds, and
it's always hard but right now becoming impossible
not to draw lines between nonexistent floating points and
shadow the underside of spinning geometrics. I
don't know how people do it, although I imagine
this ******* guy that will not stop looking at me - ab-
solutely, undoubtedly, has some notiong of how to ..
Hey!
Listen!
I shout, but I'm starting to wonder if he's really there at all
or if maybe he's not a pseudo-******* floating dot-point
construct, designed and developed and implemented by
some crazed group of people to -----------------------------no!
that is unlikely, and probably impossible - really,
I believe that I'm better now and see ent8irely that said
lying-yet-standing isn't a man, no, but that he is
an
illusion!
Looking around at the soft yellow glow from the low-
yield/high-power bulbs as it leaps from sad chair to
stained and scarred electronics and into my
cerebral cortex, the lack of and maybe .. I can
see now a palpable, blood-like desperat-
ion for wont of any sort of human contact - it is
wretching, but ever-present - because, currently, that
cannot
be.
And really is there ever anything nearly as damaging
and damning and, I think I'd argue, driving as the desperate
drive that comes from knowing that what you know is impossible to
rationalize? The terrible tragedy is the way that vile
data manifests itself, corrupting and poisoning pure s
streams, but becoming aware of this wasn't half so bad as
realizing that man you just spent hours learning to hate was
never
there.

unlike painters, poetic sketches
are rarely written down,
they're spoken,
it's not necessarily a psychiatric
worthy evaluation of a lack of health,
poets levy all the possibilities
of anti-matter (the compromise)
to sketch - you can spot them
incur constant defeat, writing on
a sheath with their inky sword,
on a colour of defeat, warring with
the word, but to no avail,
yet still ram-persistent-ignorance
remaining to be utilised;
learning the english language
from the age of 8,
i meet a Cypriot in a pub in the
irish "quarter" of greater london,
and he tells me i'm posh -
self-taught elocution that
allows me to slur posh when drinking,
i had it coming, learn from scratch,
scratch your way in to the aristocratic
heights, but have a stiff-left **** cheek
and the whole cheek affair will
bubble-foam through;
aspiring Sadduccee said:
'but not because of the babylonians
or the egyptians had we such
a massive influx of religious debate
and religious intellectualism,
as under the romans...
their image-engraving system
serves the polity, they ignore
the engravings, but do so nonetheless
for some odd principle,
there's the point of gesticulation
amiss, only the ****** females
gesticulate with incense and ****** -
none dare cross the threshold of
argument, unless they head to the
undiscovered lands of the north,
by such distance allowed to be crossed,
a crucifixion would seem but a torturous
tickle, compared to the blood eagle execution.'
indeed the northern numbness of the heart,
lest anything else prevail, this alone will...
but the larger the society, the less chance
of tribalism and justice eager to sentence
culprits... more thieves and cowards...
a thief will not steal your arm or leg,
but the by-product of your arm's or leg's labour,
cowards and thieves rampant.
so indeed, the poet sketches, but sketches
with his mouth, onto the canvas of clouded
skies, bird cries and howling foxes,
he sketches like a painter might,
although respectably announcing the numbers;
a Pharisee said:
'we invented this mode of communication,
these letters these numbers for only
one monumental reason, stationed
in the Bastille, envisioned our fate we did,
we crafted this little abstracts into
as many units as there are,
for the sole reason as to complicate
our imagining of things...
strain the mind to read, un-strain it to
imagine a higher reality of a child's impromptu -
for we crafted these symbols of curbed sound
to craft incision upon incision
and create the only anatomy of the mouth:
one H fills the vowels, one H to hollow them out,
and there you have a W like a crimean tatar piñata,
god's fat **** sitting on a naked alphabet
reveals diacritical geometrics ascribed to
the four letters.... the Y?
that's a bit like:

          scythe                     cyst



                       cauldron

it's technically chiral, s, k, c....
but then they interchange like some quantum
physics explanation, the odd affair.'
indeed socrates or jesus couldn't show you that,
they only wrote an ancient form of signature
of being present (X), and with their death a full-stop...
but in times when only a minority where literate
it was rather becoming, rather expected:
to shout into the tier of the literate ones,
a message, so profound, it would take
enforced suicide or torture to get something across...
but now we're all literate... i guess the only way
to shout a message is to shut up...
a glorious time to think, by my standard of interpretation.
so in terms of sketching poetically,
leave the would-be haiku-upon-haiku aside...
europeans can't write a haiku,
they don't write them drunk...
you get a chinese drunk on your dosage of whiskey
by the first round... he'll write you a depth
of philosophy parallel to the oddity of
spring blossoms blooming throughout winter
on the border between a home county (essex)
and east anglia (capital norwich);
glutton glob gob tearing in argument,
which is a heated discussion;
so when you see a "madman" talking,
he's not addressing his self (himself),
you obviously only read in the enclosure of fiction,
so you divide it into a third party associate (the narrator)
and imaginary friends of the narrator (characters,
first person heroes, second person: people
speaking about the heroes)... and by that definition
you haven't touched a single philosophical novel...
yes, those books... written by pedants wondering
how best to syllable a little pause...
how to stress, de-stress, including over provisions
of optics.

a day a bit like sarah mclachlan's
thumbing toward ecstasy album,
not much too it...  some say frailty, some say the
plumbing,  some say apathy breeds no pathologies,
well, not musical enough for rhymes,
a vast vault opens, there's a piano
inside but no pianist -
let's say without education and training
in the art someone comes to the piano
and gets a natural feel for it,
feminine hands, anaemic and frail,
thin fingers, not something a labourer
could sustain his work with...
a poet became jealous of Liszt...
but no one became jealous of Chopin...
the japanese adore him more than
his fellow countrymen... after all, they
took his heart out and entombed it
saying: 'this is your place, this is our pride,
sit here, forever!'
horrid story, akin to the one where a president
in an unfortunate plane crash received
all the honours of a kingly burial in the Wawel (vavel)
castle... not in the cemetery for presidents,
perhaps near the Belvedere (the white house
of the east) - that skromny pałacyk -
an entombing procession of faithful people,
yet no crown in sight, simply a tie noose from
the political suit... and that's why a distant
voice almost wants to trip up on the question
whether there's democracy in that shady part
of the world... or as the canadians put it:
america and it's lollipop women - tartan tarts
of criss-crossing ventures back into adolescence
and opening up a macabre wardrobe -
we have the aces, they have but four queens -
the fifty five belgium sized countries in the
mid-west... open fields and tornadoes -
but these sort of moments do not come directly
from you - it's bound to happen
upon the plough of dried ink on page  525
of the LXXX... so many influenced J. Joyce,
T.S. Eliot...and his own work rather, crudely -
left to rot in the slaughterhouse,
an animal slaughtered for no reason other than
to hang and rot... sheered by neglect,
or the ad hominem principle not understood -
obstructed - a thousand black-shirts from
the Mussolini tribe left the world in lesser rags -
it takes a lot of patience to not see certain
pop-ups of words are directing, geographically
orientating in the mind - it's not an instruction
manual sometimes, there's no 4x screws of such
and such to put-together a table... sometimes
music takes over - and the sounds escape like
helium from balloons in an air-tight room -
one person in it, maybe two -
not necessarily an instruction manual, a worth
a copy manual - but still canto LXXVII or LXXVI
were overcome like his overcoming the
cage-cell he cited in at Pisa in the heat and
wet-donkey-slobbering of the snout -
they say it's all downhill after the escape from Pisa...
well... an intelligence in an asylum will hardly
make compliments on the matter, hence a second
return to the land of ice cream and Renaissance
painting galleries... where they craft a beauty from
stone like the mountains majestic... very few geometrics
were minded for the finishing touches -
they kept the buildings low on purpose,
not unlike the sky-scraping majestic but left with
a ² grid: ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
               ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ,
where then the Roman Belshazzar? nowhere,
not even with the first roman-jewish war,
suckling up to the **** of Nero's oblivion in song
on the lyre while comparisons were made
between him and Casimir III of Poland -
in proverb:
zastał Polskę drewnianą, a zostawił murowaną -
after the great fire of 64 a.d. -
rome, rebuilt in stone and marble...
hardly a reason to claim equal the incident of
the Reichstag fire of 1933... only in remote places
where much harvest is to be done,
does a solitary house equate itself to a city -
we'll never mind the baker,
but we might as well mind the words:
                we have a pretty witty king,
                and whose word no man relies on,
                he never said a foolish thing,
                and never did a wise one -
after all, why not insult when no one recognises
the insult - for fear of being reminded
of the guillotine... no, the guillotine was yet to
be invented... imagine all the lumberjacks of
spiny bone having to desecrate an entire host
of de Pompadour all pampered - then suddenly
without wig or perfume on the scaffold.

the earliest dylan works
in the outer-reaches of suburbia -
it works in a way
that you could almost plough
to a fold of summer -
it works -
but the troubling news comes
with the article
about how humanities students
don't finish books,
all the academics are forced to
feed short-cuts and footnote
wormholes for an A grade -
or something in the kinship akin.
where the cherished crumpled page
or a crease or a half begun
paper-aeroplane of the edge
acting as bookmark?
you know there's this alternative
hinduism in the library -
it doesn't make a cow a deity,
it's a book - to never fold edges of
pages to create a false bookmark,
easier to stamp the ants,
the snails, and *****-slap to death
the flies -
but this western hinduism is not
bound to animate beings of lesser
attempts at being crowned -
eastern hinduism is hierarchic
in terms of animate things -
western hinduism is hierarchic
akin to bargains, antiques and
respects -
                 so too the question
of moral relativism abhorred by the
last ancient greeks -
and so too aesthetic morality of
table manners concerned with
proper cutlery use at a banquet with
a king minding neither fork, spoon
or knife, but rather his crown
that can't be used as a soup-bowl -
yes, aesthetic moral- -ism -
impatience held sway once with many
stimuli, in our age so few are
worth stimulating us -
                        the sources -
even words are coerced whereby
the roman geometrics of the Y akin
to the splintering of trees -
but indeed debase your humanity to
something lesser than what you might
call a labourer or an accountant with
your princely function - what will you see?
ask the dog to not bark politely rather than
with scorn of a smack or kick -
bark with him in his annoyance in the night
being left outside as if to presuppose
him being born into a ritual of scorn -
for if hinduism is the only polytheism
worth inspecting, not necessarily revising,
but necessarily borrowing to craft a sense
of oneself -
tell me then, why would i care to concern
myself with the faulty monotheism,
the malachi heresy stating an adaptation
of heresy? is this a copernicus moment,
should a return of elijah be accounted
for in judaism, and a return of isa in islam,
then monotheism falters:
in fractions: a 2nd elijah could make
the monotheistic concept of oneness a half,
since there would be two elijahs to mind,
and too akin to a 2nd isa would make
monotheistic concept a half...
and a third: 3/1    would only craft a third...
and i dare say in writing such
encounters of repetition are to match-up to
the repetitions of summers, days and nights,
and should such repetitions be scolded
then it would be "wise" akin to Xerxes I
to make command of men to lash the sea
to sit still and become as a lake -
so please do not look into the modern man
for micrometre proofs of madness...
look elsewhere! look elsewhere!
stop itemising modern man with that
study of psychiatric endeavour looking
for micrometre proofs of earning!
look into the kilometres of madness
that our history is bound with!
take pick of the proper canvas to compare with!
i endear you, please! a micrometre is a millionth
comparison - don't induce the idea that
a nervous twitch is suddenly an epileptic attack!

indeed the plurality of the word swans leaves it (the expression) duo-******, for both widow and widower are expressed; a reader of poetry has to become an orchestra, he has to intermission instruments, learn punctuations, learn greater patience, learn the non-existent fluidity akin to what philosophers championed: the river... he needs to learn the bumblebee's flight buzz impromptu... he needs to learn his own language... the river has nothing to do with poetry... it can't be simplified to simply deterministic meanings that probe with vectors via telescopes into vacuum or at the stars.

to leave but a breath,
seems more to us than to have
left a proof of the monogamy of
swans with the widow spider
entangling us into a boa web of
coils and constrictions of geometrics
(poets elaborate and seemingly
profess "nonsense" because of *φιλοσυμφωνια -
which means a love of arrangement,
esp that of arranging letters in a way to avoid
using stress, or diacritics, although unavoidable,
a love of grammar doesn't exact the expression,
love of arrangement φιλοσυμφωνια does
do away with what philosophers do,
expressing compounds of -logy stating a trumpet
is a trumpet but hardly differentiating
a trumpet from a trombone):
or 10 steps worth of footprint
on a beach, which the tide will
nonetheless take to erase rather than keep
another analogue of us to take to imitate...
that everyone after us could state
a walk as equal, in "original" intent an original
intended, to therefore be erased subsequently and "originally",
and leave this life as worthy a placebo for others
(O kept memory akin to Marcus Aurellius):
to make room for others to make equal share
likewise, in sequence to be kindred likewise
as an "original" intent with the unknown and unfathomable,
for each of us to know, yet nothing more than ourselves,
and to be crowned the highest prize of the world
having known us.

tylko, albo... *asz.

        or that's what translates
into the anglophone translation
when life and existence
are differentiated, toward the point
that the two are set apart,
rather than incorporated...
as if "life" was something more than
existence; of the two, which is
more concrete?
   that's why i said the intro:
         existence: only, or so much.
forgive me on the regional variation on
the latter word (asz), since in some regions
it's spelled aż (er zed)...
             the point is that anglophones are
almost phobia prone to the expression of
existence, for the simple reasons that
thought per se, is a modus operandi of phobias...
    this really begs a cartesian-like revision:
   ego cogito ergo ego metum...
   or exact - cogito ergo ᚠᚨᛖᚱ.
                       it's sad that it has become this,
then again we fear the fact that
we are using pieces of technological
advances that have an exponential diameter,
in the sense: we couldn't replicate
creating such examples.
          ᚠ: look up
     ᚨ: look down
              ᛖ: tie the two together
           ᚱ: riddle the rest.
like any jew might, create a 4-letter complexity
that can fall into the lap of a "latin" man
and make perfect sense due to the lettered
geometrics (a subtle version of geometry,
beginning with Δ, or delta);
   and the 4-letter variation will fall into the lap
of a "latin" man in an instance, when he
recounts his mother caring for two old jewish
ladies: ms. rockhmann  and ms. roßhandler...
            oh this **** can go on and on,
  we can cherry pick any 4 letters and also
acronym it into n.e.w.s.
      (and the ******* equator for centre)...
                       so where are we now?
             i'm at five past one in the afternoon,
about to refill my glass with icecubes to down another
***** and coca cola.

god I need need a cat to
catch a projection of
by body to be caught,
and made in into
an infinite mimic  worth
of "ego" in lunar
geometrics...
    and that: "           "
enclosure is not because
of misnomers or
synonym alleviation
    proximities...    
     perhaps metaphor,
or perhaps...
    a political dosage of
ambiguity....
     which is a less stern
depiction of,
    doe-eyed-myopia of
lies...
    what it is, iß...
                  all the above,
aleviated by the banner
of a-,
            as such:
       the gorging prefix
in an otherwise, open,
conversation...
       women should be taught
the frivolousness of
youth after they've been
taught the leash;
once upon a time,
I met men, who were taught
the leash, before they ever
inherited the frivolity of youth...
  both sexes died the most
unhappy lives...
   mortal,
    naturally succumbing to
a prayer for quickened
anaesthesia of death...
   leveraging on coma and...
a dream of Benekux laws...
what a sombre affair of sorts,
no one will
even master a still life on...
as they say:
  better trust crafting
a replica.

Wanna know what’s wrong?
Well I’ll sing you this song.

Cause I’m already sick
So you can **** a word that rhymes with stick
Why don’t I get to pick
I hate getting the short end of the actual stick

Singing this bit
Makes me feel like… “something similar to dung”
It’s made me exacerbate
I’d rather at home, sit in my chair, and master- geometrics.

just when you thought you could
take some archaic joy out
of Christianity,
the secular, protestant, western
narrative takes over...
and always at Christmas i am most
content putting away the Christmas tree,
the sadness of putting away paganism
and listening to some rabbinical schmer,
occult kabbalistic murmurs,
to later write out the holiest of
the holy names,
if the Hebrew will not utter the name,
but curse like a cobbler,
i have no option other that shy
from looking at it in latin geometrics,
namely, hiding it in braille:
   ⠽ ⠓ ⠺ ⠓
                    just when you could
get some fun out of Christianity,
notably eastern catholicism,
   not the relaxed iberian type,
just shy of the Mediterranean sort...
balti sushi, because as the saying goes:
a herring is not a fish, a herring is a herring,
baltic sushi...
          bothersome "heretics"
in the protestant lands, bothersome gnats
screaming till their larynxes do d' pop...
jesuit rigour and discipline,
if not a saint, then a saint in waiting,
Ignacius Layola... rigour, discipline,
tradition, or just enough to laugh
at the little devil's curiosity of grown
people walking with wicker baskets
parading having just castrated
  the golden calf before the altar of
a wooden lamp, in modern abstract art
a lamp that took the form of a crucifix...
just when Christianity started to become
fun, as it always does during Easter,
****! Christmas is so miserable. ..
      just when you thought it could be fun...
you have western Christianity,
    protestantism, those sorry *** Jacobites...
morose clad in black Victorian prunes
who really get into ***** talk during
***...
            doubling up on the word made flesh...
**** no! I'm not buying into this godforsaken
narrative...
           because we know what Christianity
is translated into in the western world:
the secular term for Christianity
      is sado-masochism...
                 at least in the remaining bastions
of catholicism we still know a bella
   from a ******.