Giants of Manuka

Johnny’. Hello and welcome to the cold Manuka oval in Canberra for the last giants home match being played here and tonight, the opponent is the mighty Adelaide crows, who were last years runners up, and this year they meet with giants are 4th while the crows are on 12th, it should be a great game this evening and hopefully we won’t get anymore rain but we very well might and now at the gate here is Gil tucker, well Gil have we got any happy crowd members
Gil’. Yes Johnny we have 4 people from rivett singing a jingle they made up this morning
4 from Rivett’
Come on giants, the crows have had their chance, they lost last years grand final and we fell one game short but who cares about 2017 when the giants are still up in the 8 and if we win today we will be pressing to beat what we did for the last 2 years so carn the mighty giants mate pile the pressure on mate
Carn the mighty giants never give up without a fight
Go giants, Adelaide are finished
Go the mighty giants
Gil’. Thank you for that lovely bit of entertainment here at giants at Manuka and Johnny, I think it will be a lovely night for footy here at Manuka
Johnny’. Thank you Gil and now both teams are out on the ground training and getting a feel of the ground and there is no sign of rain at the moment but who knows what will happen later, now the banners of the giants and crows have just arrived on the ground and mate there are a lot people who are part of both teams especially the giants, playing to get themselves back to the top 4 and the mascots have come on the ground as well, this is very exciting ready for a footy party mate and what a party it is, first of all the giants running on, and then came the crows, this is going to be a great night for footy, and now over to Gil, with some more spectators chants
Gil’ thanks Johnny and here is Bradley Simmons from Queanbeyan with a song for you
Brad’ ok we are cheering loud
And also strong the team is the mighty giants
They will put on the power to get back in the 4
Where they ****** belong
I know the crows are good
But they have had their chances
Yes we must go one better this year
So the way we will do that
Is to win our last match here
In Manuka
Go giants of Manuka
Gil’ thank you brad and now back to Johnny
Johnny’ yeah,what a chant and I hope the giants have what it takes to win this evening
So let’s get ready to party dudes, let’s see if the giants have what it takes to beat the crows tonight
Quarter time
Johnny’ welcome to the quarter time show and our giants and the crows are head to head
Giants are 4 4 28 just 1 point in front of the crows 4 3 27 and it is a crackerjack game so far and dance cam has just started and they dance holding the ball in the air and meanwhile the giants and the crows are still in their groups and here is Gil with his fan
Gil’ yes here is rob
Rob go giants keep it up
A close first quarter now we must break away
Go giants
Gil’. Thank you rob and now back to the match
Johnny’ yes what a match this has turned out to be the crows are 7 7 49 to our mighty giants of Manuka 6 9 45, a very close match for both teams tonight and now over to Gil with some spectators with their chants, hopefully these chants will inspire our giants to play a good second half
Gil’. Thank you Johnny and yes it is a very exciting game and now here is Jane with her chant
Jane’. My name is Jane and I say right here
That the giants are good enough to win the cup this year
You see they need to hold their marks and kick goals rather than behinds but if they do that
The sky is the limit you see
So if you are enjoying this close game the giants are definately going to claim the fame
Go giants
Gil’ thank you Jane and now bob with his chant
Bob go go go go go the giants must win
Go go go go go go they are the best around
In every single town oh yeah
The mascots are having fun
But they prefer us to be leading
We need to cut them up till they are bleeding go giants go
Gil’ ok thanks bob and now back to Johnny
Johnny’ love the chants and now queen are blasting the stadium as our giants of Manuka have entered the ground as well as the crows and umpires, oh well here is the second half
Go the mighty giants
Johnny’ welcome to three quarter time and a great match with the giants getting back in front the giants are 11 14 80 to the crows 10 9 69, 11 points up and I can tell you that the giants have the power to win, but Adelaide are keeping it close
What a great game here is Gil
Gil’ thank you and now here is a chant from jack from Sydney
I love you I love you I love you said the umpire to the crows
I love you I love you I love you
We are counting all their wohs
The march has a quarter to go
So go the giants give us a go
Gil’ thank you and now time for the final quarter go giants
Johnny’ welcome to the full time wrap and what a win for the GWS, over the Adelaide crows
GWS 15 16 106 to Adelaide 13 14 92 and the giants of Manuka surely reigned supreme and here is Gil with some of the spectators
Gil’. Yeah what a win for the giants and that put them back in the top 3 and now here is Peter from Campbelltown with his victory song
Peter’ it is the big big sound
From Canberra town
The team is the mighty giants
They won the match
The crows will splat
In the boots before the giants
We jump up to our highest peak
Better than the rest
We are the greater western Sydney giants
Stronger than the rest
Gil’ thanks Peter and mate it was a great game
Peter’ yeah what a win by the greater western Sydney giants
Top win better than the rest
Go giants
Gil’ and now here is olly
Olly’ go giants we have won
We knocked the crows to kingdom come
Yes we’re great and we can make the grand final
We will be ready for the tigers
We will win
Go giants go giants go giants go
The team from Sydney with a lot of get up and go
Go giants
Gil’ yeah thank you olly and I can say just one thing go the mighty giants for 2018
And now back to Johnny to sign off from giants of Manuka
Johnny’ yeah, what a win
The giants 15 16 106 to the crows 13 14 92 and I want to say to all the kick to kick dudes
Just one thing, are you ready dudes
Kick to kick people’
And now we draw the final curtain
Yes it’s the giants triumphant against the crows
There were a few hiccups
But at the end it was totally wild
Everybody cheered forever
The party was pretty cool
Now let’s go home or to our parties yes go the giants yeseree
Go the giants
Johnny’ thanks for watching giants of Manuka and go the giants for the rest of the year ok
Catch ya dudes and dudettes

Gil-galad was an Elven-king,

Of him the harpers sadly sing:

The last whose realm was fair and free

Between the Mountains and the Sea.



His sword was long, his lance was keen,

His shining helm afar was seen;

The countless stars of heaven's field

Were mirrored in his silver shield.



But long ago he rode away,

And where he dwelleth none can say;

For into darkness fell his star

In Mordor where the shadows are.

Mr Dodd paid a visit
to the man in the tree;
he asked the man to tell
of the sights he could see.

The squat little man—
who spent his life behind leaves—
shook a bough by Mr Dodd and said
“You would never believe.”

“But why would you live alone in that tree?”
asked old Dodd, and he began to climb a branch.
But the man in the tree lazily
warned Dodd to stand

Where he stood—
from a high-up limb, the man’s voice
wandered down to Dodd’s ears.
“There is a road that slices

Through miles of fields,
herds of cows and small houses,
and leads to a hulking metal city
where lines of gloomy people trickle out.”

Back in his cottage, Mr Dodd dreamt
of the road and the fields and the cows;
but the city unsettled his sleep,
and he woke at last knowing how

Little he knew.
Then Dodd made breakfast for the millionth time:
a buttery bun and some cornflower tea—
he couldn’t smile at the noise of the kids in the town.

He went through the day in his usual way:
he tapped on his xylophone,
he painted his thousandth self-portrait,
he read from his book in a slow monotone.

After lunch he liked to sit in his garden
and smoke from his chestnut pipe
with the eight-inch hickory handle
and the green green herbs inside.

The sunlight pressed the smoky stink
into the weave of Dodd’s vest
When Gilbert—Dodd’s groundskeep—appeared,
seeming so distressed.

“Your sunflowers’ stems have all broke!” breathed Gil;
“I hit them with the mower—”
Mr Dodd saw the sunless stems
and nervous Gilbert cowered.

But Dodd looked Gil straight in the eye
and asked him a question instead:
“Have you ever seen the city, old Gil?”
“I only heard tell,” the relieved Gil said,

“But what I’ve heard is that they that go
can’t come back alive.”
Dodd sent Gil home, who leaving said:
“I also mowed over a gopher; I think he might have died.”

The next day, Dodd went back
to the man in the tree.
“Hello again, Dodd” drawled the voice from the leaves.
“I’m leaving today for the city,”

Spoke Dodd towards the voice.
“But how much nicer it might be to stay
with me in my tree; you could see everything—
all here for you on display.”

No, Mr Dodd thought better of it—
he threw his pack over his shoulder,
nervous of what's new and unknown
and the thought that his life here was over.

TO PUT the art and talent of Mindanaoan fashion design into the spotlight, Kagay’anon fashion designers put their hands together to organize the 5th Mindanao Fashion Summit at the Limketkai Center Rotunda from August 4 to 6, every 4 p.m.

“Being a core event of the Higalaay festival, the opening salvo, the Mindanao Fashion Summit can really highlight fashion designers here in Cagayan de Oro and also in different points of Mindanao to let everyone see what they can do in the world of fashion design especially now that there are only so few opportunities for these designers to show off their works to the public. This is why we have the Mindanao fashion Summit because Kagay-anon designers believe that even if they join national fashion shows like the Philippine Fashion week, most of them still aren't getting the right encouragement as a fashion designer.” said Robbie Pamisa, the overall organizer of the event.

The Fashion Summit is a three-day event composed of seven sub-categories such as the Mindanaoan collection, the Menswear collection, and the Ororama orange collection for the first day, the Guest Designers’ collection, the Fashion Institute of the Philippines collection and the Loop Lifestyle Fashion Show for the second day, and the Holiday Grand collection for the third day which will serve as the culmination of the fashion event.

Mindanaoan Fashion designers from Cagayan de Oro as well as Davao, Butuan, Iligan, and Bukidnon have come to showcase their talents. Some of the fashion geniuses of the event include Alma Mae Roa, Angela Soriano, Ann Semblante, Benjie Manuel, Boogie Musni Rivera, Gil Macaibay III, John Mark Magellan’s, Joshua Guibone, Juniel Doring, Kiko Domo, Mark Christopher Yaranon, and Mavy Cooper de Leon.

One of the highlights of the event is the Oro Fashion Designers’ Guild and the Designers Assembly featuring a collection of clothes using Mindanao material such as the Mindanao silk. Sponsors such as Ororama and The Loop Towers will also be showcasing their products in the fashion event.

“Even student fashion designers from the Fashion Institute of the Philippines have been encouraged to participate so that they will be able to experience how a fashion show works. This is also a way for us to fulfill our mission to be another avenue for fashion designers to show what they have,” Paisa said.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

My technology nightmare
Leaves me euphoric this morning.
Addicted, like drug trials,
I knew the risks going in,
Got hooked in The Cloud &
Now it always seems easier,
With diminished psychic chafing
Whenever I go with the flow, as the
Hipsters are saying again.
Yes, the hipsters:
Finally, some kids I can relate to.
At least on some level, their music e.g.
The first thing I did this morning,
Waiting for my laptop to boot,
Was put a CD on the stereo:
Matrix Reloaded: The Album.
I set the shuffle function,
Looping back between
Linkin Park’s Session &
Team Sleep’s Passportal.
You can tell a lot about
What kind of day it will be
By the soundtrack you choose,
Your infinite play list,
Don’t ever say these kids have no culture,
Or nothing to share with us old farts.
Old Farts: an apt, Baby Boomer term in 2015.
Kids’ music, some of it quite good,
Quite 60s-worthy if you catch my drift,
As we used to say while grazing in the grass with
Hugh Masekela & his Naai Mongoe-Swazi red,
Surfrikan homeboys & band mates, & that
ANC Kwa-Guqa Township posse,
Shadowing him since Sharpeville.
That’s right, Babaloo,
Go with the flow.
Don’t fight it. You’ve been spared the unintended
Consequences of government shenanigans &
Free market meltdowns.
Consider this a CEASE & DESIST NOTICE:
Cease swimming upstream Mr. Phelps.
Desist fighting tide & current, Michael.
A mariner’s distinction, yet serviceable &
Purposed for this narrative.
“And away we go,” croons a Gleason levitation;
Aloft we go into the wild blue yonder.
The Cloud: an exalted playground.
You are atop the slide,
Kindergarten lord of all you survey,
Sultan, Chinese Emperor & Venetian Doge,
A 90-caliber Duke of Earl,
You are euphoric, Mike.

The descent into the humanoid condition
(See Paddy Chayefsky’s Howard Beale),
Is slick and precipitous.
It begins when you first finger ****
A pocket calculator or touchtone phone,
Or use a Xerox machine.
From there it’s a quick slide down
The technology ****-shoot: video games,
Spreadsheets & word processors,
Emails, texts & tweets,
Laser projection keyboards,
Wi-Fi amplifiers,
GPS navigators, &
Apps for No-Strings *** . . .
By “****-shoot” I editorialize, of course,
In a state of future shock,
Resenting planned obsolescence,
Contemptuous of shrewd **** kids,
Wharton School sharpies,
Scoping out price curves & flowcharts,
Colluding at industry trade shows,
Powwows & confabs,
Releasing newer, more versatile
Models & spinoffs, according to a
Scheme planned three years in advance.

I salt the inevitable wounds of technology,
Taking my fight to the streets, realizing too late
My sole means of alerting the flash mob
Is by so-called smart phone,
*******!
Even the revolution has gone digital.
Poor Gil Scott Heron, dead last year at 62,
Poor Scott Heron, channeled into the
Harlem Renaissance by that loyal Chicago Defender,
Subscriber & reader, to wit: his Grandma,
A “Rainbow Conspiracy” co-conspirator,
Cooking ham hocks & collard greens for that
Mythical coalition of Young Lords,
Black Panthers & SDS.
Heron’s prognostication was wrong:
“The Revolution Will (In Fact) Be Televised!”
We’ve witnessed quite a bit of it,
Lately, prime time lately,
Live by satellite from once exotic places,
Places like Tunisia, Egypt, Libya, Syria & Ferguson, MO.
I say “once exotic” because it’s hard to be
Visually intoxicated by images of screaming brown men
Sporting New York Yankee ball caps,
“Vote for Pedro” T-shirts and
$200.00 Air Jordan footwear.
Admittedly, the production values of
Revolutionary journalism have improved,
Action reported Hollywood-style,
Narrative arcs, scripted episodes,
Drive-by Potemkin villages & battle scenes,
30 or 60 or 90 day shooting schedules.
Spontaneous proletarian uprisings as Reality TV,
Riveting dramas,
High Nielsen ratings & $500K
Per minute corporate sponsors.
Let’s view the new fall line-up:
(1) “Mustafa Behaving Badly!”
(2) “Tunisian Tear Gas Talent!”
(3) “Gaddafi Gets Sodomized!”

i only started collecting a library, because, would you believe it, my local library was a pauper in rags and tatters; apologies for omitting necessary diacritic marks, the whiskey was ******* on icecubes to a shrivel.*

ernest hemingway, e.m. forster, mary shelley,
aesop, r. l. stevenson, jean-paul sartre,
jack kerouac, sylvia plath, evelyn waugh,
chekhov, cortazar, freud, virginia woolf,
philip k. ****, dostoyevsky, aleksandr solzhenitsyn,
oscar wilde, malcolm x, kafka, nabokov,
bukowski, sacher-masoch, thomas a kempis,
yevgeny zamyatin, alexandre dumas,
will self, j. r. r. tolkien, richard b. bentall,
james joyce, william burroughs, truman capote,
herman hesse, thomas mann, j. d. salinger,
nikos kazantzakis, george orwell,
philip roth, joseph roth, bulgakov, huxley,
marquis de sade, john milton, samuel beckett,
huysmans, michel de montaigne, walter benjamin,
sienkiewicz, rilke, lipton, harold norse,
alfred jarry, miguel de cervantes, von krafft-ebing,
kierkegaard, julian jaynes, bynum porter & shephred,
r. d. laing, c. g. jung, spinoza, hegel, kant, artistotle,
plato, josephus, korner, la rochefoucauld, stendhal,
nietzsche, bertrand russell, irwin edman,
faucault, anwicenna, descartes, voltaire, rousseau,
popper,  heidegger, tatarkiewicz, kolakowski,
seneca, cycero, milan kundera, g. j. warnock,
stefan zweig, the pre-socratics, julian tuwim,
ezra pound, gregory corso, ted hughes,
guiseppe gioacchino belli, dante, peshwari women,
e. e. cummings, ginsberg, will alexander, max jacob,
schwob, william blake, comte de lautreamont,
jack spicer, zbigniew herbert, frank o'hara,
richard brautigan, miroslav holub, al purdy,
tzara, ted berrigan, fady joudah, nikolai leskov,
anna kavan, jean genet, albert camus, gunter grass,
susan hill, katherine dunn, gil scott-heron,
kleist, irvine welsh, clarice lispector, hunter thompson,
machado de assisi, reymont, tolstoy, jim bradbury,
norman davies, shakespeare, balzac, dickens,
jasienica, mary fulbrook, stuart t. miller,
walter la feber, jan wimmer, terry jones & alan ereira,
kenneth clark, edward robinson, heinrich harrer,
gombrowicz, a. krawczuk, andrzej stasiuk, ivan bunin,
joseph heller, goethe, mcmurry, atkins & de paula,
bernard shaw, horace, ovid, virgil, aeschyles,
rumi, omar khayyam, humbert wolfe, e. h. bickersteth,
asnyk, witkacy, mickiewicz, slowacki, lesmian,
lechon, lep szarzynski, victor alexandrov, gogol,
william styron, krasznahorkai, robert graves,
defoe, tim burton, antoine de saint-exupery,
christiane f., salman rushdie, hazlitt, marcus aurelius,
nick hornby, emily bronte, walt whitman,
aryeh kaplan, rolf g. renner, j. p. hodin, tim hilton... etc.

to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine) for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

i jumped. i dived into that lonesome pool my tears created. finally after it all, I'm emerging and all i wanted was to drown, that way i would know it meant everything to me. but i survived, i swam and struggled and even though i made it, it means next to nothing now. it transformed me into a broken piece of person. a semi functional human. one that only lives in the past tense, obsessed with sorrow. looking eternally backward, hoping for a glimpse of my love. (commence saxophone solo)

It started with the Sumerians
well before Christ
Sumerians passed the joy plant on to Assyrians
Assyrians in turn to Egyptians
Where the Sphinx sat
in the desert
watching the way to sea decked in poppies
the symbol of sleep and death
feeding Cleopatra's ****** fantasies
Some say she died by the kiss of *****
not a snake
The power of ***** led it on
down the Silk Road to China where it went to war
***** dens spread near and far
Poppies lift poor Afghan farmers out of poverty's embrace
fields of color
fields of blood
In Flanders field remembrance was born
fields of blood red poppies
embrace the bodies of the fallen
The only thing standing between death
and remembering
the symbol of piece
a white poppy

For two weeks since he's been home
He lost most of his conversation
In asking me or himself what needs
Done in the house or around it.

He watches the news alone at midnight
In the dark looking for war updates,
Always up before me to avoid any
Kind of pillow talk or otherwise.

26 years old and tireless
Back from four years of God knows
Because he won't say a word to me,
But I've never seen him more alone.

Last night I tried to make love to him,
He winced at me like he didn't
Know how to he with a woman any
More, which I found at first kind
Of nice, but really depressed me
Later on thinking about it.

Everyday during lunch, Gil breaks
Out his hand gun and rifle,
He breaks them down with such
A delicate touch, sometimes I get
Jealous of the way he handle them.
Still at the very least I like to think
That he knows how to touch a woman,
And he just misplaced his passion,
That one day he will put the energies
Back where they need to be.
We talk everyday, but the ts like
A mechanical response,
J just let him be.

We had a laugh when we shared
A movie together, the first one we saw
When we dated as teens,
He smiled at me like he did before
He left for the war,
He even gave me a kiss that lasted
More than the usual pecks.

In our bed I stare at this man
That I couldn't breathe without,
I try to understand that maybe he
Will come home some day,
Maybe he will remember himself,
Maybe is my best hope.

Meeting a renowned Pinoy designer, Michael Cinco, was the highlight of my nth trip to Dubai last month. He is so unassuming that I almost forgot how famous he is. Some of his A-list Hollywood clientele include Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, Jennifer Lopez, Kylie Minogue, Mila Kunis, Paris Hilton, Tyra Banks, Rihanna, Toni Braxton, Fergie, Nicole Scherzinger and Christina Aguilera.

Michael’s regular clients are Anne Curtis, Marian Rivera-Dantes, Kathryn

Bernardo, Liza Soberano, Ruffa Gutierrez and Bea Alonzo.

Miriam Quiambao and I immensely enjoyed bonding with Michael. He treated us to an authentic Lebanese dinner at the resto below his plush condominium right across the world’s tallest building, Burj Khalifa. Kudos to Michael for being the only Filipino designer who was invited to present his collection at the Paris Haute Couture Fashion Week’s “Couturissimo,” held last July 3.

He’s world-class yet down-to-earth. That makes him all the more remarkable. Pinoy Pride is something Michael wears so well. CincOoh la la! (Visit michaelcinco.com.)

Here’s my chat (via Facebook) with Michael:

What was the Paris Fashion week experience like?

About 15 years ago I was strolling along the beautiful Jardin des Tuileries. I was so in love with the place that I had a vision and a dream… I said to myself, one of these days I’ll have my show in this stunning garden. So when Asian Couture Federation approached me to have a show in Paris, I immediately begged to hold it in Jardin des Tuileries. Showing my collection in Paris Haute Couture Fashion Week has always been my ultimate dream. Seeing your collection on the runway of your dream garden is one of the greatest achievements in my life.

Among local celebs, who are the five best-dressed on your list?

Marian Rivera, Anne Curtis, Cherie Gil, Kathryn Bernardo and Liza Soberano. They all wore my couture dresses and they all looked amazing.

Any memorable moment with the celebs?

To be honest, I never met any of them. I dressed up some of the most beautiful Filipino Celebrities and Hollywood celebrities wore my clothes on the red carpet and in their music videos. When the producers of the movie “Jupiter Ascending” asked me to go to London to meet Mila Kunis and Channing Tatum, I declined because I was too shy to meet them. The stylist of Jennifer Lopez asked me to meet her backstage. Also, the manager of Kylie Minogue asked me to go to her room for fitting but I just sent my assistant because I was scared and shy.

Who is the easiest celeb to dress up?

Most of them are easy to dress up because they all look fabulous in my couture dresses.

What are your three fashion do’s and don’t’s?

Do’s: Be yourself; create your own style; wear something that will make you feel confident.

Don’t’s: Don’t wear a dress two sizes smaller than your body; don’t follow someone else’s style; don’t try to achieve what you see in glossy magazines—they are all photoshopped!

If you were asked to design an outfit for President Duterte, what would it be like?

A bullet-proof couture barong.

What’s your advice to aspiring designers?

Young designers of today should realize that fashion is not all about glamour. The fashion world is very cruel. You will be judged, criticized and rejected.

It takes hard work, patience and strong determination to achieve your goals. Create clothes that people will wear. If you want to create art on clothes, make sure they will sell.

Lastly, be humble and never give up. Believe that anything in this world is possible. Believe in your dreams and if you have faith and confidence in God, all of your impalpable dreams will come true.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

I went through the sidewalk on Pedro Gil and Taft
The blaring red and green traffic lights
Sort of obscured the view through my spectacles
In the early Manila evening

The smell of cancer in the air
Complimented the noise of the jeeps
That raced through the intersection
As the sun slowly sunk at the sight of the moon

I saw faces less and less
As the broken street lamps flickered
Some people were minding their own business
Others shouted and laughed in the street

I saw people gripping onto their bags
Like they gripped onto their lives, because the city is never safe
Especially at the dusk
Where all the thieves come out to play

The noise may reach above heaven
And the air may be as ***** as the sewers
But there is no other place
That I would consider home

I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think  and dissect the word
Lackadaisical
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And  it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Insouciant
Careless.
Translated into  more French I was nonchalant and better said
Jemenfoutiste.
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******* to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic !  You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.

De qué sirve, quisiera yo saber, cambiar de piso,
dejar atrás un sótano más *****
que mi reputación -y ya es decir-,
poner visillos blancos
y tomar criada,
renunciar a la vida de bohemio,
si vienes luego tú, pelmazo,
embarazoso huésped, memo vestido con mis trajes,
zángano de colemena, inútil, cacaseno,
con tus manos lavadas,
a comer en mi plato y a ensuciar la casa?
Te acompañan las barras de los bares
últimos de la noche, los chulos, las floristas,
las calles muertas de la madrugada
y los ascensores de luz amarilla
cuando llegas, borracho,
y te paras a verte en el espejo
la cara destruida,
con ojos todavía violentos
que no quieres cerrar. Y si te increpo,
te ríes, me recuerdas el pasado
y dices que envejezco.
Podría recordarte que ya no tienes gracia.
Que tu estilo casual y que tu desenfado
resultan truculentos
cuando se tienen más de treinta años,
y que tu encantadora
sonrisa de muchacho soñoliento
-seguro de gustar- es un resto penoso,
un intento patético.
Mientras que tú me miras con tus ojos
de verdadero huérfano, y me lloras
y me prometes ya no hacerlo.
Si no fueses tan puta!
Y si yo supiese, hace ya tiempo,
que tú eres fuerte cuando yo soy débil
y que eres débil cuando me enfurezco...
De tus regresos guardo una impresión confusa
de pánico, de pena y descontento,
y la desesperanza
y la impaciencia y el resentimiento
de volver a sufrir, otra vez más,
la humillación imperdonable
de la excesiva intimidad.
A duras penas te llevaré a la cama,
como quien va al infierno
para dormir contigo.
Muriendo a cada paso de impotencia,
tropezando con muebles
a tientas, cruzaremos el piso
torpemente abrazados, vacilando
de alcohol y de sollozos reprimidos.
Oh innoble servidumbre de amar seres humanos,
y la más innoble
que es amarse a sí mismo!

I want to live on a beautiful island
Where it's warm all the time
And on this island I want it to snow
Three months a year
And I want those three months to be
November, December, and March
And when it snows I need it to be seventy seven degrees
And I want the snow to stick
Here I imagine Jack Johnson, Jason Mraz, and Zach Gil will sit around playing music
They'll play from noon to around ten
That's when Kwali the local pool boy ends his shift keeping the oil out of the ocean
Kwali he plays the Ukulele and sings about beaches no one's ever been to until around midnight
When the perpetually burning bon fire dies down and the island falls asleep
As for the rest of the music here on the island
Every morning there's this old steel guitarist
He's from just south of New Orleans
A place called Under Pressure
Really it's just the hull of the broken fishing boat he was born on
But he calls it home all the same
And a kid who used to play trombone for the high school jazz band
But he picked up the harmonica after he found out chicks don't dig trombones
And the two of them sort of play old dixie
With a steel drummer who never seems to find his shirt in the morning
But you never really mind that
And on Sunday mornings this really old woman
Ssays her mom was Harriet Tubman
Which we all know is a lie
But she's got scars from head to toe so you might as well believe something
Man she wails
For two straight hours
She wails
Wails to God, to the heavens, to Jesus, Georgia and the first row of church
And when she wails her tears are a lost language from the tower of babble and we all understand it
And on Wednesday
Wednesdays
We waltz
We waltz to really old records
That we play on the only turntable on the island
That Mr. Lee drags all the way from his house to the community center with no walls
And the whole island shows up in summer dresses and Matthew Mcconaughey shirts
Even the one we call grandma
And her husband who everyone calls Uncle for some reason
Come dressed to dance
And we all leave our slippers at the door this place doesn't have
And the sand warms our feet while we waltz
Sometimes it's the Tennessee Waltz
And sometimes it's the Viennese Waltz
But most of the time it's just the waltz we all learned in eighth grade
Either way
Every Wednesday there is a beautiful girl
She's five five, maybe, five eight I don't know
I've been lying on my drivers' license since I was sixteen so I don't know how tall people really are
She's got south pacific features
But with my track record by the time I actually make it to my island she'll probably be a red head
We waltz
We waltz until the records skip
And our legs turn to Jello and all we can do is collapse in each other's arms
While the ocean tickles our toes
Our finger tips tickle each other's palms
And we let that guy in the moon do the rest
So when you see me set sail
If you can catch me you can climb on board
And if you can't
Then
Wave goodbye

I perceive
the shadow
of your
imprisoned
face
watching

eyes
peering
through
iron rods
that
cannot
contain
your
visions
of freedom

the force
of your
righteous
halo
frames
a
presence
of light

you are
a blazing
apparition
melting
the steel
cages
releasing
the world's
hostages
of justice

You Tube Music Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Third World Revolution

2/17/11
Oakland
jbm

[Justin Vernon - Bon Iver: Sample From "Woods"]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time
I‘m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
I’m building a still to slow down the time

[Hook 1 x2]
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night

[Kanye West - Verse 1]
You're my devil, you're my angel
You're my heaven, you're my hell
You're my now, you're my forever
You're my freedom, you're my jail
You're my lies, you're my truth
You're my war, you're my truce
You're my questions, you're my proof
You're my stress and you're my masseuse
Mamasaymamasamamakusa
Lost in this plastic life
Let's break out of this fake *** party
Turn this in to a classic night
If we die in each others arms we still get laid in our afterlife
If we die in each others arms we still get laid, yeah

[Hook 2]
I’m up in the woods, I’m down on my mind
(Run from the lights, run from the night)
I’m building a still to slow down the time
(Run for your life, Down for the night...)
I’m lost in the world, I’m down on my mind
I’m new in the city, and I’m down for the night
Down for the night
Said she’s down for the night
(Run from the lights, run from the night)

[Bridge]
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America
Who will survive in America

[Hook]

[Gil-Scott Heron]
Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution
People don’t even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel
Because God’s whole card has been thoroughly piqued
And America is now blood and tears Instead of milk and honey
The youngsters who were programmed To continue ******* up
Woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys
America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes
The signs of Truth were tattooed across our often entered ******
We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried In the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume
America was a ******* the illegitimate daughter of the mother country
Whose legs were then spread around the world and a ****** known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice
Were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country’s crotch
What does Webster say about soul?
All I want is a good home and a wife
And a children and some food to feed them every night
After all is said and done build a new route to China if they’ll have you

Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?

hello.
hi.
how are you today?
ok, as usual i guess.
just ok?
yep.
would like any tea or water?
no thank you.
ok. well, how was your weekend?
fine i guess, i went out with schuyler and his girlfriend and austins girlfriend. i guess their friends now. we went to the beach. i didn't eat anything and drank all day so i work ****** the next day.
you don't sound very enthusiastic, didn't you have a good time?
sort of, cora brought a friend and i apparently wooed her somehow.
well that's exciting. are you interested in her?
not really.
why?
i don't know. she seems really nice and smart, i just don't have any real motivation to go through all the dating hurtles right now.
can you explain?
(long exasperated sigh) i'm just tired of being disappointed. the person i'm in love with dosen't love back anymore, i don't really want anyone else and the idea of meeting some new person that somewhere down the line will tell me i'm "perfect" and then leave when i've invested myself into them sounds pretty awful.
what about all the parts of dating?
what about them? i guess i'm just tired of going out with people and thinking of willa the entire time. it makes me feel boring and crazy. i try to hide it and not focus on it and you know what happens? i get asked like 4 times a day if theres something bothering me. i'm just too transparent.
i understand, how you feel but you have to move on.
i know that. i want to. i deleted my facebook, my tumblr, i took down all the things she gave me and put them in a box, believe me, i'm trying. but despite everything, i have these moments where some random little thing reminds me of her, a song, a youtube video, a street, something someone says. and all i can do is think of how amazing she is and how much it hurts to not have her in my life.
...
i understand.
...
how was sunday?
...
...
i'm tired of them.
why?
i don't really feel like talking about it.
(light scoffing sound) well, i hate to break this to you gil, but that's kind of why your here.
(slight smirk) yeah i guess that's true. i'm tired of them because of they make feel fake. i have to be this different person that is nice and helpful and almost chipper. and it ***** when im in a bad mood and i just have be that way anyway.
does pretending ever trick you into being happy?
not really.
do you like your job?
sometimes. 60/40 these days. but since the breakup, i have to see her pretty much every sunday which kind of *****.
really? that must be difficult. why do you say "kind of *****"?
its a bitter sweet thing. i like seeing her cause she was my best friend and the person i loved more than anyone and its nice reminder that all it was real but at the same time its a reminder of how its gone now.
plus she doesn't get it.
what do you mean?
i don't know, shes just so ok with everything. we're on apposing ends of it all and i bet she doesn't even think about me anymore.
i'm sure that's untrue.
yeah maybe. i don't know. she just seems so happy whenever i see her and i wish it was cause of me.

end

Night bus
And the pug nosed guy in the suit over there
Staring me down
Is a thousand broken dreams
And the young girl down there
Who looks weird
But my kind of weird
Is a thousand unexplored
And the ***** with the cap trying to finish off his crossword
Is Gil Scott-Heron
And no one sits next to me as I spill my poison through the keypad into a cracked screen

Die waarheid

In die nag se doodse donker
is selfs die krieke stil
, maar saam met honde huil
-Bloedstollend- weerklink haar gil

Die waarheid breek die stilte
die buurt slaap onversteurd
sy knaag weg aan my siel
... los my stukkend en verskeurd

Teen haar aanval is ek magteloos
, met net die wapens van die gees,
mens kan haar nie oorwin nie
want waar jy nog moet beskerm -
was sy alreeds gewees

Sy laat haar droewe spore
in die kamers van jou hart
en met vlymskerp, rooi vingernaels
los sy letsels van die smart

Teenstander. Díe is sy nie-
retireer vir geen swaard, nóg gebede
haar verwoesting : jou eie toedoen
slegs spoke van jou verlede...

Tog , selfs in waarheid lê daar leuens
-versprei in dit wat sy voorspel
, want die einde van jou storie
is joune om te vertel

ja...

*** droewig okal haar verhaal
bly dit jóúne om te bepaal

Sabi mo, walang magbabago
Pero ngayon, halos hindi na kita makilala
Hindi mo lang ako basta isinabay sa iba
Ipinagpalit mo pa ako
Hanggang sa tuluyan mo na akong kinalimutan

Sabi mo, walang magbabago
Pero ngayon, ibang-iba ka na
Minsan, tinatanong ko ang sarili ko
Katulad ng pagtanong ni Liza Soberano kay Enrique Gil
“Pangit ba ako?”
“Kapalit-palit ba ako?”
“Am I not enough?”

Dati, halos walang makapaghiwalay sa ating dalawa
Ang sabi mo pa, “Ikaw lang at wala nang iba pa”
Ako mismo ang naging kaagapay mo sa pagkilala mo sa kanila
Pero bakit ako mismo ngayon ang nawalan ng halaga?
Bakit ako mismo ngayon ang hindi mo na binibigyang pansin?
Nagpaka-layo-layo ka’t ibinaon ako sa limot
Ibinaon mo ako sa kahapon
Kung saan kasama ko ang mga iba mo pang itinapon

Pero tama na
Tama na ang pagiging Liza Soberano
Hindi na kita kukulitin at magtatanong ng isang milyong bakit
Hindi rin ako magiging si Piolo Pascual
Na hihingi ng explanation at acceptable reason
At lalong hindi rin ako magiging si Bea Alonzo
Na hihilingin na “sana ako na lang ulit”

Dahil tanggap ko na
Hindi ko na hihingin pang ako lang ang piliin mo
Magpaparaya ako’t papayag na isabay mo sa iba
Isa lang ang hihilingin ko
Na sana ‘wag mo akong tuluyang kalimutan
Na sana ‘wag mo hayaang tuluyan akong mawala sa buhay mo
Dahil gaano man kahabang panahon ang lumipas
At gaano man karami ang nagbago sa pagitan nating dalawa

Ako pa rin ang tunay na laging andito para sa’yo
Ako pa rin ang Wikang Filipino na kahit nagbago man, ay nandito pa rin at nananatili para sa’yo

Have you ever have you ever wondered how you decided to go out of your youngster which cannot sit down even so, in to the older exactly who can't get going? Specialists myself this not long ago while i required my own 3-year-old son on the playground in the fast food fine dining. The girl likes play areas and for that reason can i. Within an practically chaotic charge, this woman started degree each and every crawl for the equipment, and i surveyed all the location all around me personally. Issues i found happen to be young people learning and fogeys either working to disagree their kids from the play area, or even receive their children by sitting still and finish his / her nutrition previous to they success all of the play ground. None of the little ones were definitely employing an important recliner seeing encounter. These folks were as well participating in the application and / or anxious towards. A lot of kids are afraid and fearful, keep in mind, however, the mind-boggling predatory instincts of kids is always to begin and then perform that is likely, perhaps even from the cost creating a their bodies. They seem to possess little the fear of exploring scary or getting on, in particular the newest of which. What actually transpired to us older individuals? Any time made most people turned out to be reluctant? While does you shut down the youngster within people and get started to imagine very much? Anytime have done we decide that we had to increase right up? One of the most popular instructors in class taught and practiced focusing. An actor themself, your dog stated one day this individual hoped he never become adults, because your childlike intuition usually are everything that prevent the contentment in addition to contemplate in the work Fitflops Malaysia. That will sense of perform and additionally make-believe is normally genuine for any very good actor and also we'd better not get rid of the idea, he said. Designed for celebs, childishness is actually a closest friend. We were young is without a doubt high risk. Doing it steals everyone of our liberty and the drive to never miss almost everything. It really is . u . s . nervous and suspect and even unsafe. It can make usa check out completely new most people while folks and not potential associates. Most importantly, doing it helps keep you through located to complete capability. So what happened to all of us? I do think it absolutely was a little something generally known as anticipation -- more specifically, other people's targets amongst us.

Whenever we're also tiny, out of origination to a few and 4-years good old, the only therapy in life is usually to enjoy. Much of our merely job might be darling in order to really like. Areas is just play the game. What could be more effective? ; however ,, even as we grow up, starting to possess presumptions have on people. We will need to produce much of our base, we will have to pay a visit to education, we surface finish a lot of our research, rinse off the automobile, acquire a project Fitflop Thailand, for example., and so on. You need to become older with our family members, employment, assignments plus obligations. Not forgetting any skilled constraints who travel united states accomplish the property or truck as well as gadgets that produce the best opinion. Pretty soon our personal sensation of bold along with marvel sheds with what were "supposed to remain.Inch Being concerned about whatever we are should be inhibits the young child within us all, posessing obviously that will his or her main objective on this planet is usually to enjoy yourself. Who seem to pointed out you could not are located your whole lifespan with that stunning electricity of audacious and then enjoyment?

Growing up ought not to suggest letting go of the most basic nature. We all need not allow for themselves to end up being controlled through much of our the fear of not really surviving roughly other people's requirements. Of course this does not mean you might want to setback your expenses not to mention accountability favoring the use of performing regardless of what feels good through the decisive moment. The things I am telling you to ultimately conduct rather is to help to make selections which often provide pleasure and even happiness. Decide on a profession that will fills up a cardiovascular with your bank account. Appreciate all your family members and people on you in addition to value the whole set of connections for you. Potential earnings you have to reside lifestyle exclusively on your own stipulations. Dwell your own fact. In the event that other people's expected values be a control in the products that you use, you allow out the facility to view your special happiness. A fellow called Gil Bailie and once mentioned, "

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In die nag se doodse donker
is selfs die krieke stil
, maar saam met honde huil
-Bloedstollend- weerklink haar gil

Die waarheid breek die stilte
die buurt slaap onversteurd
sy knaag weg aan my siel
... los my stukkend en verskeurd

Teen haar aanval is ek magteloos
, met net die wapens van die gees,
mens kan haar nie oorwin nie
want waar jy nog moet beskerm -
was sy alreeds gewees

Sy laat haar droewe spore
in die kamers van jou hart
en met vlymskerp, rooi vingernaels
los sy letsels van die smart

Teenstander. Díe is sy nie-
retireer vir geen swaard, nóg gebede
haar verwoesting : jou eie toedoen
slegs spoke van jou verlede...

Tog , selfs in waarheid lê daar leuens
-versprei in dit wat sy voorspel
, want die einde van jou storie
is joune om te vertel

ja...

*** droewig okal haar verhaal
bly dit jóúne om te bepaal

¡Viejos olivos sedientos
bajo el claro sol del día,
olivares polvorientos
del campo de Andahicía!
¡El campo andaluz, peinado
por el sol canicular,
de loma en loma rayado
de olivar y de olivar!
Son las tierras
soleadas,
anchas lomas, lueñes sierras
de olivares recamadas.
Mil senderos. Con sus machos,
abrumados de capachos,
van gañanes y arrieros.
¡De la venta del camino
a la puerta, soplan vino
trabucaires bandoleros!
¡Olivares y olivares
de loma en loma prendidos
cual bordados alamares!
¡Olivares coloridos
de una tarde anaranjada;
olivares rebruñidos
bajo la luna argentada!
¡Olivares centellados
en las tardes cenicientas,
bajo los cielos preñados
de tormentas!...
Olivares, Dios os dé
los eneros
de aguaceros,
los agostos de agua al pie,
los vientos primaverales,
vuestras flores racimadas;
y las lluvias otoñales
vuestras olivas moradas.
Olivar, por cien caminos,
tus olivitas irán
caminando a cien molinos.
Ya darán
trabajo en las alquerías
a gañanes y braceros,
¡oh buenas frentes sombrías
bajo los anchos sombreros!...
¡Olivar y olivareros,
bosque y raza,
campo y plaza
de los fieles al terruño
y al arado y al molino,
de los que muestran el puño
al destino,
los benditos labradores,
los bandidos caballeros,
los señores
devotos y matuteros!...
¡Ciudades y caseríos
en la margen de los ríos,
en los pliegues de la sierra!...
¡Venga Dios a los hogares
y a las almas de esta tierra
de olivares y olivares!   A dos leguas de Úbeda, la Torre
de Pero Gil, bajo este sol de fuego,
triste burgo de España. El coche rueda
entre grises olivos polvorientos.
Allá, el castillo heroico.
En la plaza, mendigos y chicuelos:
una orgía de harapos...
Pasamos frente al atrio del convento
de la Misericordia.
¡Los blancos muros, los cipreses negros!
¡Agria melancolía
como asperón de hierro
que raspa el corazón! ¡Amurallada
piedad, erguida en este basurero!...
Esta casa de Dios, decid hermanos,
esta casa de Dios, ¿qué guarda dentro?
Y ese pálido joven,
asombrado y atento,
que parece mirarnos con la boca,
será el loco del pueblo,
de quien se dice: es Lucas,
Blas o Ginés, el tonto que tenemos.
Seguimos. Olivares. Los olivos
están en flor. El carricoche lento,
al paso de dos pencos matalones,
camina hacia Peal. Campos ubérrimos.
La tierra da lo suyo; el sol trabaja;
el hombre es para el suelo:
genera, siembra y labra
y su fatiga unce la tierra al cielo.
Nosotros enturbiamos
la fuente de la vida, el sol primero,
con nuestros ojos tristes,
con nuestro amargo rezo,
con nuestra mano ociosa,
con nuestro pensamiento
-se engendra en el pecado,
se vive en el dolor. ¡Dios está lejos!-.
Esta piedad erguida
sobre este burgo sórdido, sobre este basurero,
esta casa de Dios, decid, oh santos
cañones de von Kluck, ¿qué guarda dentro?

what i've learned once treading on this path of the writing endeavour: i've become more of a stranger to myself, and a friend unto strangers; perplexing as it sounds, it nonetheless is the foremost acquaintance in experiencing, and fiddling with the medium.

which is, i dare say, so anti-socratic -
but the socratic method is all talk -
writing? hardly the reason to designate
a knowledge of a self -
primarily? a method of unknowing -
or, should i say: the nautical perspective
of searching unseen & unheard of sights -
perhaps even a 5 blind men's guess
at an elephant, or quiet simply:
mining; imagine, to the distaste of the local,
how a "posh" accent sounds in
essex, the land of dubious tongue-effigies...
how the english language *in totalis
looks like a disfigured tongue sculpture,
but if i were a native: there would be
no outsider ref. to cling to with
crab-like pincers,
                  or bullterrier jawline grip;
first you break the spirits, then you
settle on sniffing crushed ivory.
  and yes, i'll always think of the nigerian
chinua achebe calling joseph conrad
a "****** racist" - by now i'm past being
concerned being called out in some bogus,
if not macabre bingo game...
     that "label" is worth to me as much as
a hello, my name is... badge -
there's no honour in it -
           then again, i think about a white man
being racist over the spilled-beans of
looking at an albino... esp. one with an afro...
i have this memory, you see,
this mongrel of a polish girl in school,
art class, and she mentioned something
that still sticks to me like a leech...
no, not the similarity of south asian and african
noses, with the flattened lateral cartilage,
say any african and the malaysians...
this ***** dug deep...
    she said: oh, these poles don't have the perfect
african bone sculpture of the africans,
do they? what she meant, and yes, i agree,
was the not-so-protruding occipital -
yes, it's not as well "formed" as other skulls,
i guess that just adds to the pressure of
whatever the back of the brain is intended
for... a deformity? don't know -
                           what does that matter?
but these early quasimodo implants of perception
i.e. akin to the toothfairy / red dragon
start to bug you after a while -
      what's imperfect is celebrated -
and what's almost perfect: well -
that just goes into the dumpster -
   a pile of hot ****, a feast for fly dump of
concentrated maggot(s).
            which coincides with another thing -
i can stomach german existentialism,
   i can stomach the pish-poor french version
(compared with the richness of the russian
novel)...
i can stomach swedish cinematic take on
existentialism...
             what i can't stand is the english version,
i.e. primarily the aversion to the already
stated versions...
       english existentialism has become
a desperate cry - to me english existentialism
is not fit for conversation,
   it's not lecture and it's most certainly not
cafe talk, there is no: in the time & in the space
occupied...
                 english existentialism is
   non tempus non locus - sure, a precursor of
philosophy, but also the same mouth that
bites into a chicken bone with gums, but no teeth!
to me, what i hear is an existential blackmail,
   and the skipping rope chaos of moving from
the three prime pillars in the anglophone world:
evolutionary biology, the big bang and
(depending where you are): either the magna carta
or the declaration of independence;
   me? my universe began yesterday,
it will end today, and will begin once more tomorrow,
heri, nunc, cras...
            yesterday, today, tomorrow;
and frankly, i'll settle for that,
  but i'll also settle for akin to voltaire's observation
that the english are a nation of shopkeepers...
sure... and they're also the most ardent
naturalists.
              as we know french love pastry dough,
the italians love pasta, and the germans love metal;
further east it's ***** baby, *****.
    - a pole and a hungarian:
  bracia, do kieliszka, i szabelki (brothers,
  to a glass and to a saber).
              besides that?
(look, i have to make this quick, i've got
a mushroom soup going, but i'm missing white wine,
parsley and double cream for the main course
of mustard chicken - sarekpsa, dijon &
  bavarian mustards) -
                      and further will a kettle or
a stuffed toy travel from china to anywhere in
the western world, than a western idea
to china...
     there are limitations on the export & import
of ideas...
              esp. those that have no ethno-centric
"importance", rather an ethno-centric
  trans-literary impotence...
                   sometimes language can't be managed
by a translation that's global / universal -
sometimes the black & white really does only
sink to the depth of skin...
     after all: a white psyche is not a black psyche...
there is no universally robust uniformity of
a psyche in either jungian or freudian sentiments,
black music i can adore above classical,
but i have, perhaps only one or two books by
a black author...
  will alexander & gil scott heron...
       and that's about it...
      hey, same ****, different cover elsewhere...
then again i double up on perplexity -
  if this medium is the undifferentiated balance
of extremes i.e. white in all and black in lack -
        what the hell could possibly be deemed
"racist" - notably the denial of one's nationalistic
struggle with the hindsight of that
current year, under either a tsar or a tsarina in
1857? and to think i loved a russian woman
once...                                    once is enough.

/political correctness is a term used for people who have forgotten, near-archaic social formalities... oddly enough, social-formality is still obliterating political debate,  and is only existent, when met with political "dialectic"... since ancient Greece,  dialectics has been the enemy of politics, since it curbed the stampede of orchestrated, pristine, rhetoric... which is why politicians stutter, or mishandle... what was once a fact, has now become a statistic... which is... something you call: diluted ****, or diarrhoea...

political correctness?!
    what is "political"
about an ontological
focus of a priori
   social formalities?
   political correctness,
id est:
    satus quo prolongation?
as far as i know that
ship has sailed...
perhaps like the Titanic's
maiden voyage,
not blessed with a champagne
bottle christening...
a Kantian revival against
the Hegelian "dialectic"...
after all, he was the Copernicus
to what became the Marxist-
Galileo fiasco!
    if only Copernicus
became a martyr for looking
down the whirlpool of
a flushed toilet... who knows?!
*******... spaghetti
al fresco and Venitian blinds...
fatso mafiasos and
Marlon Brando dyslexia
due to cotton buds shoved
into his cheeks like
a ******* jerbal...
             gallows the schmuck,
hence came Zodiac Leo...
i'm actually apprehensive
about the fact that political
correctness is actually
an: apolitical statement...
seen that khaki attired king rat
scuttling about giving
shadow commands?!
me neither...
   but at least in a dictatorship...
some *******
doesn't have a choice,
but own up...
    illusion of the emperor's
new clothes...
you're right... the clothes
are rented...
   because there weren't any
to begin with!
   no wonder there's a shadow
spine to the "pristine"
idea of democracy...
chivaraly was also,
once upon a time, a novel idea
and an idea with a span of
history (ideology, vogue)...
      but came the undertaker
and buried that *******
with the maiden's hankerchief
he used as target practice for either
*****, or snot...
    political correctness is any ugly
term for what is otherwise
a root of social formality,
   laughable, even still...
  political correctness has no
a priori root to pivot on...
   political correctness attempts to
be a form of social formality,
but it's... kinda hard to
speak about an unspoken rule
that has been passed on
and is anti-political,
id est: intuitive... hardly the curious
child with a stick and a wasp hive...
      people feel unhinged...
no wonder!
        a social formality is within
the ontological a priori focus...
an inheritence that's silent...
but, politics, is never exactly
   an a priori focus...
              tinged with a posteriori
artifacts, it usually cites
Napoleon, ****** and Russia...
             to be "politically"
incorrect, is to what? what?!
                    momentarily relaxing
social formality?
                gender neutral pronouns
of the western world... ha ha!
a much older debate about
pronouns exists in the Slavic world...
made concise be the use of
the pronoun you...
     and of course,  i...
       which focuses on a loss of the title
herr und fraulein...
              ha ha...
told you that nag hammadi library
shepherd and pivotal St. Thomas' gospel
was going to be a hit...
              Chinese whispers in Judea...
the current... thrill of bi-cis-dunno...
doughnut?
    - only two people worth
admiring in the 20th century:
Lenon and Kennedy...
   the sort of people who true... fans!
i make a falsetto,
some Hannibal Lector will be
on my heels, thinking up
a ritual where, I'm actually eaten,
in a snippet of my body, akin
to the tender-bits of my liver...
   way to go... a sabbath encore
of those ***** ****-takes of beauty
Scotch banshees!
       fifth limb and the word: USURPER!
nope... make my tongue
into a ***- (yes, like
****** I might call the urban
of what is a renowned country's
worth of Billy, hence
the hyphen attaché)...

     whatever is politically correct
(mind you, german idealism,
rigidness of vocabulary,
only 3 definitions of a word
are utilised, the fourth
becomes a writers' scurvy
or a ***** tattoo in a thesaurus)...

whatever is politically "correct",
hence the ambiguity of -ness
is an orphan of both social
formality & informality...
who the **** would asked
for a political butcher,
let alone a member of parliament
take on a rabbi's son?!

nooooo....   oooooone....
       lovely,  ain't that
the pretty siht:
sight of a tightening
of a cravat prior to
the folded napkin in heavy cotton
before the state dinner...
minus the China and
the yardstick worth of... silverware...

came the ümlaut...  
the closing of the parabola...
the shy messiah...
the rollingpin of omicron,
the ******'s worth of omega.
   und?!
          ah...
    the siamese twins of H
in the tetragrammaton...
once a wave (W)...
     once a particle 3D (Y)...
jew counted matchsticks
   and read a book...
Pole has 1 to count,
       afro-boy has 20+ raps
for one gil scott-heron
  for every ****** factory
and for every if it came to:
this revolution, lardy lardy,
was televised...
now we're praying that it
could please! please! shut! up!
            
the toying with Greek and
a crucifix that became the tongue
of the golgotha-cranium?
   do the sons of light caste
a shadow?
       surely "we" read the light
from shadows...
   night, however...
is... without form....
        devoid of the triangle
and the square...
    the universe is ever expanding
is the closest they came to
giving it a geometry...
and then they finally settled on a:
linear proposition...
   came the "big" and the "bang"...
and then the, "supposed"
sparrow eater worth of vacuum...

there is an understanding
of social formality
  (a priori)
     as there is a knowledge
of social informality
      (a posteriori)...
    political "correctness":
a claim of being...
       politicians should learn this
mantra:
    to be politically "correct / incorrect"
is to be... apolitical...
   what?  
                just because
the church bred atheists...
a parliament can't breed apoliticians?
  granted...
     the parliament has a luxury
of a god on a string...
          and a suddenly materialised
"god"...
             the church is already a warm broth
of gurgling **** in the shadows...

for whatever the audacity of
youth apparent,
the fervour in me is hardly
as Dynamo for Alt.    
        in what remains an inherited
burgeon of power....
   than a plebiscite of gambling...

who speaks of political correctness
is only speaking of
a buffer zone to the ham trough...
yes, thank you,
I know there is no talk of
political correctness in the scenario
of a uniformed police officer
and me drinking a beer on a bench...
politicised bystanders...
****... me...
   can they flip and omelette like
a pancake?
        social formalities don't need
a stray dog's worth of tongue
to suddenly discover
the arithmetic of counting teeth!

yet again a niche topic.

well, it was either the study of the Noumenon (thing-in-itself)
of Kant, or his 20th century successor,
and i too will consider his variant spelling
of being, i.e. beyng - logically? being at bay:
but mine isn't a consolidation akin to
Ezra Pound's with W. Whitman -
          whether an apologist or not:
the newspaper today speaks of the Royal
family of Windsor: and it's associations with
**** Germany, even a picture of H.M.Q.
(her majesty the queen) and her mother making
the salute reserved for Caesars, Tsars, Führers
and Frankfurters;
                     not to mention all other patriarchal
denominations -
    but i'll play on a different word, and chance no
obscurity. the word in question? *ecstasy.
       my play on it? well, there was a time when i
had a very rigid vocabulary, a very in vitro
  sort of vocabulary: experimentally rigid -
i focused on prefixes greatly, and the reflective (mirror)
versus the reflexive (reflex) expressions of
distinct potential - but that was long ago, still...
the language was curbed in a sense of being
restrictive - again this prefix waterfall fascination,
in this case re- (again and again) - a mimic
experiment to paint the res (thing) that the moon
is, in all its phantomic pandemonium eeriness.
this time? from ecstasis: ex-stasis
ex- (out of) -stasis (στάσις), i.e. standing still.
perhaps this is what one interpretation of the concept
of dasein involves: ecstasy of movement -
or as the other interpretation suggests: lack of -
a variant of permanence: or idolatry at variation -
rather than the fleeting moment, insect like
impermanence: or the insistence of the hives -
frivolity and pressurised activity / bußiness (being
busy in a counterproductive way to avoid hoarding).
ralφ myerz & the jack herren band
in the background; now the nomad and the album
concentrated.
              now a return to the narrative, p.13 of
Heidegger's ponderings ii - vi...
           footnote number 6. {unfamiliar symbol.}
the symbol? a crossed-out И (cyrillic / neo-Greek
    / Greek eta H, η, e.g. the /i/ skewed i
                    in machine).
that's the content, but in context?
            'whither with the asking of this question?
  into the (crossed-out) И.
    first suggestion?                 not-i.
          working backwards:
'but how to bring about this pledging?
depth and breadth of the engagement of da-sein
in the question of being!'
     then furthered into a second use of the "unfamiliar
symbol":
          'but the (crossed-out) И must be borne in silence
through the questioning and in the attuned silence
must be gained by struggling toward grace.'
   cf. (conferre / compare) p.8
  the auftrag (mission) of humanity, in the above
cited. indeed the expression: ex-stasis
toward a happening - or as many already suggested:
to fill the plughole that's Buddha meditating.
the man with the crown of myrrh: clearly too painful
to spare a thought toward: what began in Greece
   became entombed in Germany.
me on Nietzsche on Kant: idiot or no idiot:
                                   a hellish read in his later years;
and i could have been more influenced
by Gil Scott Heron, but Malcolm X wrote a decent
autobiography - plus my temperament lies with
sniffing out burning wood in winter:
that husky, smoky perfume only accessible in winter:
where winter is.
                           as a final reminder:
it didn't simply take the aesthetic twins η & ε
(you'd think with a name like eta, you'd use the
scalpel and cut it open into e-     &     -ta
  and write e in words rather than a skewed iota
/ι/, right? well, apparently not)
              or φ & θ                  or           o & ω:
you can to ascend toward the heights like some
Prometheus and bring down the fire of diacritical
distinction too; a bewildering task, in all honesty.
  or man akin to the rebellious gods v. the titans
when used / inserted to bewilder rather than be
kept coherently used: yet again the bureaucracy
of intellectual power.
or so i thought, with this and that above in
a certain hallowed form of despair starting the
chain of cigarettes and tea - or as already apparent:
perpetual night (variant to come) with only one
hour of daylight: fleeting moonshine of
                                                       the spotted mind;
as such, the already stated illumination.

I.

À présent que c'est fait, dans l'avilissement
Arrangeons-nous chacun notre compartiment
Marchons d'un air auguste et fier ; la honte est bue.
Que tout à composer cette cour contribue,
Tout, excepté l'honneur, tout, hormis les vertus.
Faites vivre, animez, envoyez vos foetus
Et vos nains monstrueux, bocaux d'anatomie
Donne ton crocodile et donne ta momie,
Vieille Égypte ; donnez, tapis-francs, vos filous ;
Shakespeare, ton Falstaff ; noires forêts, vos loups ;
Donne, ô bon Rabelais, ton Grandgousier qui mange ;
Donne ton diable, Hoffmann ; Veuillot, donne ton ange ;
Scapin, apporte-nous Géronte dans ton sac ;
Beaumarchais, prête-nous Bridoison ; que Balzac
Donne Vautrin ; Dumas, la Carconte ; Voltaire,
Son Frélon que l'argent fait parler et fait taire ;
Mabile, les beautés de ton jardin d'hiver ;
Le Sage, cède-nous Gil Blas ; que Gulliver
Donne tout Lilliput dont l'aigre est une mouche,
Et Scarron Bruscambille, et Callot Scaramouche.
Il nous faut un dévot dans ce tripot payen ;
Molière, donne-nous Montalembert. C'est bien,
L'ombre à l'horreur s'accouple, et le mauvais au pire.
Tacite, nous avons de quoi faire l'empire ;
Juvénal, nous avons de quoi faire un sénat.

II.

Ô Ducos le gascon, ô Rouher l'auvergnat,
Et vous, juifs, Fould Shylock, Sibour Iscariote,
Toi Parieu, toi Bertrand, horreur du patriote,
Bauchart, bourreau douceâtre et proscripteur plaintif,
Baroche, dont le nom n'est plus qu'un vomitif,
Ô valets solennels, ô majestueux fourbes,
Travaillant votre échine à produire des courbes,
Bas, hautains, ravissant les Daumiers enchantés
Par vos convexités et vos concavités,
Convenez avec moi, vous tous qu'ici je nomme,
Que Dieu dans sa sagesse a fait exprès cet homme
Pour régner sur la France, ou bien sur Haïti.
Et vous autres, créés pour grossir son parti,
Philosophes gênés de cuissons à l'épaule,
Et vous, viveurs râpés, frais sortis de la geôle,
Saluez l'être unique et providentiel,
Ce gouvernant tombé d'une trappe du ciel,
Ce césar moustachu, gardé par cent guérites,
Qui sait apprécier les gens et les mérites,
Et qui, prince admirable et grand homme en effet,
Fait Poissy sénateur et Clichy sous-préfet.

III.

Après quoi l'on ajuste au fait la théorie
« A bas les mots ! à bas loi, liberté, patrie !
Plus on s'aplatira, plus ou prospérera.
Jetons au feu tribune et presse, et cætera.

Depuis quatre-vingt-neuf les nations sont ivres.
Les faiseurs de discours et les faiseurs de livres
Perdent tout ; le poëte est un fou dangereux ;
Le progrès ment, le ciel est vide, l'art est creux,
Le monde est mort. Le peuple ? un âne qui se cabre !
La force, c'est le droit. Courbons-nous. Gloire au sabre !
À bas les Washington ! vivent les Attila ! »
On a des gens d'esprit pour soutenir cela.

Oui, qu'ils viennent tous ceux qui n'ont ni cœur ni flamme,
Qui boitent de l'honneur et qui louchent de l'âme ;
Oui, leur soleil se lève et leur messie est né.
C'est décrété, c'est fait, c'est dit, c'est canonné
La France est mitraillée, escroquée et sauvée.
Le hibou Trahison pond gaîment sa couvée.

IV.

Et partout le néant prévaut ; pour déchirer
Notre histoire, nos lois, nos droits, pour dévorer
L'avenir de nos fils et les os de nos pères,
Les bêtes de la nuit sortent de leurs repaires
Sophistes et soudards resserrent leur réseau
Les Radetzky flairant le gibet du museau,
Les Giulay, poil tigré, les Buol, face verte,
Les Haynau, les Bomba, rôdent, la gueule ouverte,
Autour du genre humain qui, pâle et garrotté,
Lutte pour la justice et pour la vérité ;
Et de Paris à Pesth, du Tibre aux monts Carpathes,
Sur nos débris sanglants rampent ces mille-pattes.

V.

Du lourd dictionnaire où Beauzée et Batteux
Ont versé les trésors de leur bon sens goutteux,
Il faut, grâce aux vainqueurs, refaire chaque lettre.
Ame de l'homme, ils ont trouvé moyen de mettre
Sur tes vieilles laideurs un tas de mots nouveaux,
Leurs noms. L'hypocrisie aux yeux bas et dévots
À nom Menjaud, et vend Jésus dans sa chapelle ;
On a débaptisé la honte, elle s'appelle
Sibour ; la trahison, Maupas ; l'assassinat
Sous le nom de Magnan est membre du Sénat ;
Quant à la lâcheté, c'est Hardouin qu'on la nomme ;
Riancey, c'est le mensonge, il arrive de Rome
Et tient la vérité renfermée en son puits ;
La platitude a nom Montlaville-Chapuis ;
La prostitution, ingénue, est princesse ;
La férocité, c'est Carrelet ; la bassesse
Signe Rouher, avec Delangle pour greffier.
Ô muse, inscris ces noms. Veux-tu qualifier
La justice vénale, atroce, abjecte et fausse ?
Commence à Partarieu pour finir par Lafosse.
J'appelle Saint-Arnaud, le meurtre dit : c'est moi.
Et, pour tout compléter par le deuil et l'effroi,
Le vieux calendrier remplace sur sa carte
La Saint-Barthélemy par la Saint-Bonaparte.

Quant au peuple, il admire et vote ; on est suspect
D'en douter, et Paris écoute avec respect
Sibour et ses sermons, Trolong et ses troplongues.
Les deux Napoléon s'unissent en diphthongues,
Et Berger entrelace en un chiffre hardi
Le boulevard Montmartre entre Arcole et Lodi.
Spartacus agonise en un bagne fétide ;
On chasse Thémistocle, on expulse Aristide,
On jette Daniel dans la fosse aux lions ;
Et maintenant ouvrons le ventre aux millions !

Jersey, novembre 1852.

because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.

the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
  can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
        i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
       for the love of doodling -
              and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
     just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
         making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
                    they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
         and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
        can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
   i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
             and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
   websites... funny concept...
   they're like a library with only blank books in them....
  you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
   or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
   the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
   or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
   and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
     man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
                        the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
     while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
             is my writing perplexing?
  isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
   perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
  and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy...  i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
   when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
       to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
    m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
   into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
    because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
                    that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài          - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
   when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
                 it was never going to work...
    but that's what we're left with...
     a gigantic mess...              every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
   which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
       it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
    skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
                  all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
        we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
            modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
        would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
   phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
    for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
  index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
   headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
  as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
   and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.

(with apologies to Gil Scott-Heron)

You will have to stay home, sister.
You will charge up, tune in, drop out of all activities.
You will scroll through memes, trawl the news,
Skip the tea, you're running low.

The epidemic will be endlessly televised.

The epidemic will be brought to you in a trillion parts,
With declining commercial interruption.

The epidemic will show you pictures of Trump and Boris blithering,
Dreaming of fried chicken at the end of televisation,
"Oka-a-ay...".
"You are a terrible reporter!"

NHS-badged Hancock will look the part,
But cannot answer the question
Should I look after my sick self-isolated seventyish neighbour?

Fauci facepalms
And is gone.

Watch out, guys.
The epidemic will be televised.

The Epidemic (starring Tom Hanks) will not be brought to you on the big screen.
There will be no big screen.
The Epidemic will not play Glasto
Lit by 300,000 Androids.

The epidemic will be brought to you by friends and strangers.
The epidemic will be televised.

The epidemic will not inject fat into your posterior.
You will not need to shave or deodorise.
As it turns out, you are not worth that expensive holiday.
The epidemic will make you a bedroom star
Vlogging your incarceration to ten followers.

The epidemic will be televised.

There will be pictures of coughing queues at supermarkets
Toilet roll riots, thermometer wars.
There will be pictures of you and your best mate
Pushing that cart down the block,
Packed with Branston Pickle baked beans
Though you posted fifty times online about hoarding.
You will not have dressed for the occasion.

You will not care who wins Love Island.
You will not care who wins The Great British Bake Off.
Eastenders will be cancelled
After 35 years of continuous drama.

You will dodge the police for a quiet walk
On a brighter day.

The epidemic will be televised.

Reporters will cough.
Ministers will be replaced
Suddenly
Parliament will be suspended.
Politics will cease to be televised.

The epidemic will be right back, after a message.

You will have to worry about a germ in your bathroom,
Your food supply, the tiger in your tank, your loved ones,
Whether, if you cease to breathe, there will be a ventilator.

You will consider getting in the driver's seat.
Where to go?

Would you like to see your mother?
Would you like to cross a border?

The Caravan Park is occupied
By the Military.

Slowly, slowly
The screens will darken.

The epidemic will no longer be televised.

The Epidemic is not a game.  You cannot return to a previous Save.

The epidemic is live.

Pasea con el luto de viuda de sí misma,
payasa, miliciana,
entre los arces plateados de New Jersey
(o tal vez sean pinos, encinas, jaras y retamas
de Chozas de Sierra... Yo ya no sé).
La navaja del río corta pan y tomate
de la tarde que se evapora.

Don Gil, Jilguero de las calzas verdes,
asado con madera del cajón de la portería,
miraba compasivo
cómo acunan tus brazos esqueléticos,
mientras dan de mamar a la guerra de nunca,
teta arrugada, guerra guerreada,
y todo lo demás.
Y todo blanco y *****. Y desvaído.
Un hombre levantaba su cabeza de ortiga
en el menesteroso anochecer.
Mendigos con fusiles (que yo los vi pasar
porque tú los mirabas).
Y niños muertos que esquivabas para no pisarlos
en la calle de Atocha
(nunca los vi ni quise verlos),
y aquel puente estrechísimo que no es el más con
más
de Nueva York, sino de nieve y de cellisca,
(yo lo he visto, y lo veo, y seguiré viéndolo,
con las mujeres de ébano y marfil arrugado,
porque era entonces todo blanco y *****).
Y ahora vuelve sin Filis, cabalgando su cáncer,
¡hasta mañana, Filis!

Más tarde, en tu memoria cristalizaban sombras,
entre los rascacielos de acero y miel:
sombras de mondas de patatas
que has olvidadoo, pues no quieres morir,
no queremos morir,
y fachadas de catedrales bordadas de palomas,
y que mañana no será otro día,
y otra sombra resbalando sobre una lágrima,
enhebrando una aguja, zurciendo una bufanda
a la sombra de una lenteja.

A Gil in the docks
As always the flock
Becomes a stampede of mindless
Youthism
Like old newspapers
I think of words
Like unequivocal
Or enterprise
And find the omission
Of interest
Constant and timid
Like paper bins
Or rootball images of day and night

Someday the seances of youth will fade away
Like films full of hatred and lives full of war
Or seething castes of poor old folk
Wishing deaths hymn sing aghast them and benign