1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o

I hate the beach
I'm eighty six and I hate the beach
Hate the sand, not a fan of the surf
Face it, I hate the beach
Last time I went there
I had just turned 18 years old
June sixth, Nineteen Hundred Forty Four
God, I hate the beach
I was in the 5th Regiment
Régiment de Maisonneuve
and I've never been to a beach since
I'm from Verdun, Quebec, Canada
Not many beaches around there
Thank the lord for that I say
We'd been training for six months
Operation Overlord it was called
We were coming in on troop carriers
It was to be a beach head landing
I'd never seen a beach before
At least not for real
Never want to see another
We arrived early June 6, 1944
I think I said that already
You must forgive me,
I'm 86 years old and I hate the beach
fourteen thousand Canadian Troops
Bursting out of armoured troop ships
Like, the young, virile, brahma bulls we were
Coming in, all I could hear was the waves
I was in front, well...close to the front
I remember, there were no birds
who ever heard of that?
A beach with no birds
At least not at this beach
I could smell the salt in the air
And I knew I could hear the surf
And my heart, I could **** well hear that
But, no birds, I couldn't hear the birds
Gunfire, nope...cannons and mortars
But birds and guns, not a sound
Weird huh?
I remember running forward
Always forward, past blocks
Wood barricades and barbed wire
And bodies, lots of bodies
I knew that I knew some of them
I just didn't have time to stop
And say goodbye,
I just ran
Emptied my weapon at least once
I only know this, because it was empty
when I hit the beach
God, I hate the beach
You know in the movies
or in those flowery books
where they talk about someone being shot
and how "there was a bloom or
they're chest flowered red where they were hit"
I never saw that, never looked back
Just ran forward, saw the "bloom" in their backs
Don't like red, or flowers or the beach
I don't remember much after that
Could still hear my heart
That's a good thing, I guess
I got tore up good with the wire
but I never got shot
Never, "bloomed" for anyone
A few of my buddies were lost
I toast them every year
Never at the beach though
I hate the beach
Wife and kids used to go
I never did, never will
I remember the 50th anniversary though
Wife and kids went back
Not me,
Went into Montreal to see a ball game
Montreal Expos 10, Houston Astros 5
I remember Will Cordero hitting a homer
It was the sixth inning, I toasted the hit
I thought about that day 50 years before
And went back to watching the game
I hate the beach
My name is Gilles Roquefort
I'm eight six years old
And I can still feel the sand and taste the salt
On a bad day.

Gilles rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the knife
slashed it across his throat and dropped it on the tile.

Coming to his knees, he felt a faint relief,
Liquid Crystal Display leaked out of his neck,
and down onto the tiles in a puddle
he touched the mercurial 'it'

It pooled onto the floor and images appeared
an image of a beautiful man with a perfect body
an image of endless money, cash and credit
his childhood home, mother and father.
a kissing couple,
an image of hi-
                          -mself
and seeing these,
he had the queerest of feelings
a false déjà vu

as the last drops of It leaked down from his neck
Gilles finally came to -
a large pool of blood,
and blurry vision
to black.

commentary of a bunch of photographs uploaded showing the dilemma of the A's in paper size... exhibits a - f show a lesson, well, you remember that old depiction of the idiot of the class, standing on a stool at the front of the class with a heretic's coned hat? well, they revised the hat, now it's a once green eyeshade clerk's hat via interpretation of a cricket cap.

it's quiet easy, words fill never justify the images,
the dunce was just saying: you could make one
toothpick from a Sunday newspaper's double spread,
that's what got him canonised perched on a stool,
no one exacted how many anyway,
like they never teach your the chemical formula for
wood, if what has a H too two Ohs, then wood must
must have something in the strand of including
carbon, a cabaret of elements with carbon the prompter
poking his prickly head once in a while due to
acting tremors and cold sweats of sudden amnesia...
the point being, to further the first point about
the size of newspapers on Sundays and whether there's
such a thing as A0, or an architectural sized paper,
i guess architectural spreads are like breast sizes...
imagine looking at schematics of 30F through 32E
and onto 30D past 38DD... you never see the sagging
in these diagrams, because they're abstracts of
the two hangmen... you see, the bra... did anyone tell
Freud that Anti-Oedipus as proposed by the two French
philosophers mixing up Nietzsche and Marx with
Freud on the side anticipated this Anti? it's the bane
of my existence, English black humour mixed with
giggles at words like: bottom, ****, ****... i don't know
how you can get seriously randy afterwards...
it's atypical English humour, *** jokes... the notion
that Oedipus can't laugh at *** underpins the very
basis of the unconscious, i.e.: that something sinister
is lurking in the depths and reaches back into childhood
and it's subsequent destruction. the opposite of
the theory proposed by Freud (as evolved from the already
mentioned *Gilles Deleuze) is at the same time frightening,
because it almost presupposes Oedipus' father
in the version of Saturn, best exemplified by
Saturn devouring his Son painted by Francisco Goya...
and the basis of this eventuality due to the woman's
madonna-***** complex: mini-skirt ***** lollipop
but a saintly mother beneath... jooke.
**** it, i deviated from the topic of periscopes but more
importantly of the size of sensible paper, A0 being
the spread of a Sunday Times... architectural scores
must therefore begin with B5...after architecture come
advertisements probably beginning at around
B3 or B2... football stadiums are filled with these passive
sheets of material, and that's talking way down the
alphabet of categorising size... you know, when they
pull down those massive club insignias.
in the end all i can do with a A4 paper is cut a kippah
or make a momentary mask... but with the
sunday spread of newspaper... i can momentarily
turn into a newspaper ghoul, or if you prefer:
a newspaper ghost!

When i see your smile…
    Hope grows in me like eggs in a fish
    When i see your smile…
    My heart shines like fireworks in a new year’s eve
    When i see your smile…
    I imagine you diving in a wave…
    The wave of my happiness!

/if there is but one use for Freudian theoretics, for a man who has jargon for dreams, or a man who rarely summons a need to dream, for a man who does not have the luxury of a dream worth interpretation, for a man who has not dreamt a recurring dream...

it is far easier to summon
a woman, within the hour,
to the confines of a brothel
room,
    unshackeling her
from the vengence of
artimesia and binding her
to: breaking the sacred
taboo of swallowing
a kiss...
      
        than it will ever be...
to summon a woman to the liberty
of equal fortitude in
playing the role of atom,
  father, son, brother...
      
far sooner a woman from a *****
comes, than a woman
from the ivory tower, cold cut
marble, halo labyrinth,
spotless "madonna"...

   for whatever the need for Freud these
days, i am adamant on
this one church gong echo...
   that Hades could only shed tears
when Cerberus died,
and Charon replaced him in
claustrophobic confines of deity...

after the wake, having slyly laughed
at my great-grandmother's funeral,
i gnashed my teeth hard enough
to scrub off a chip off my incisor,
and toyed with a red rose,
tickling it with a candleflame,
until i, managed to persuade
a bozo cardinal to step into a role
of a humble bishop,
    attired in a rare hue of burgundy,
namely a blood-purple
      mishap of what would otherwise
become: that glaring,  ******* red
of those would-be Kippah donning
Vatican mafiosos...

however much the tedium of a German
thinker, as far removed he might have
been from the airy fairy pancake square-i.e.i.e.  
starry ******* stay-ree?
    squack-diddly- a ******* toobah boo -
Belshezar receiving the paranormal
scribble in Timbaktu?
     squarry... rhombus... alias:
   some sort of etching resembling 90 x 4...

nonetheless: even the most tedious german
thinker.... will be more fathomable
to me, in techniqlaity over style,
over the hot-air balloon contra
zeppelin London bombardment of
french thinkers...
          
          as ever: building on national
stereotypes...
                       sure, had I been native geboren
und spreschen...
the French would appeal to me...
as novelists? hands down...
      no tin drum (perhaps
due to the eng'flush)...
                  or suma summarum
ping (cogito) | pong (sum)
                       Thai for:
**** 'ou lon' thai'm,
                       and then the *******
juggle and gamble
asking for a new version of
the niqab to, expose
the feminine parts...
     chubby Arab mama's hands...
who d' pretty niqab fwend eye
if not rottweiler hazel...
   swarovsky inorganic crystal
blue... hence the Madonna
and the halo labyrinth...

   far easier to stomach the tedium
of a German technician,
than a fence-tinkerer...
   namely gilles deleuze
                      and félix guattari,
since no one is about to call
out names,
   the western plague of premature
depression...
   ontologically old age is predisposed
to melancholy...
    the joy of building a home,
and the sadness, of settling in it
up in completion,
   but depression, and so early?
synthetic, unnatural,
                            cognitive malnutrition.

far easier to summon a woman
from the depth of prostitution,
than it is to summon a woman
from the height of the ****** birth,
and countless the number of
ways a woman can show her honesty,
than act out a juggling act...
how close am i to the materialistic
reading of Oedipus,
   by prodingoutside
              the siamese gene pool?

not far from the mantra of the mantis:
to stand a woman,
a man must disappear...
    hence the madonna reign...

monogamy among animals is more
mysterious than the thought
of god in man...
                   each to his harem and
a pound of flesh each night, thoroughly
funfaired...

      a woman from the depths
of prostitution, even if for an hour...
    it's enough that I have to stand my own
thinking, let alone
            to act in devistion from it...
that I'd have to submerge beneath
   the caucus of agony aunts and astrologers
to amplify,
    what remains,
     otherwise hidden,
   an executioner's transaction...
                    as the remnant daughters
toy the nest.

perhaps this is all but a puritanical
cleft of exhausting youthful swoons prior
to the plunge into responsibility...
     odd... i don't seem to recall ever
signing a contract,
     whereby I,  as an "individual" stressed,
was somehow to rationalise
the efforts of the collective in continuum,
who, somehow, magically found
Genesis Africa...
      but... somehow... can't tell me...
whereabouts, that Dodo Rock actually
fell and made such a great indentation...
dunno... maybe Sahara was
a great mountain range akin to
the Himalayas, given the transition
period of:

Himalayas - Dead Horse, Utah - Sahara.

"Existence is but a deception," thinks Mister Sen,
"a ***** little lie, a junkyard of loss created by all men."
With cellophane dreams in restless hearts,
Mister Sen contemplates "to- comprehend, this or that."
"But everything is as zero as good,
and all are as one as bad."
Mister Sen thinks to himself, "I ain't no ***** little rat..."

Thus he walked out, and right on to the door, and,
With fancy biggy dreams,
stopped once or maybe twice to check out the store,
A store of books which sold fiction and all those upon a time, just at once,
Mister Sen, therein and herein, thought of having a slightly furtive glance.

He has read a lot of Sartre, Beauvoir, and Gilles,
He has read of Toni Morrison, The bluest eye,
But he has never read of himself on any given day,
He has never read of himself within any story to say.

Thus Mister Sen thought to himself-
"I am all old and a bit too shy to be told, maybe...
In any drama or an in any such way, to be too fictitiously wavy,
Existence is but a deception, and a ***** little lie,
Even in fiction and philosophy, I Don't have any right to look
around with my eye,
Why won't I have a chance to say any goodbye?"

He walked home, all cold and tired, and all,
With nothing in the world which seemed to be so good as true,
Mister Sen but never thought of himself,
That he was a story, combined to form a million things, untrue.

Mister Sen, Well this one's for you!
"It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew, They were all really blue,
Dreamy And wavy like scented flowers at night and bright,
Bright as white and pearly glow,
Mister Sen They were all really blue,
To be honest at heart, they were, Meant to be only for you."

Mister Sen,  this one is for you!

It was all in the cold winter air,
Where all the answers blew

the monochromatic anaemia of current culture with such journalism as is reflected (it’s all unneccesarily american): there’s more english history outside of england than in england itself... in england the history is only a question of stigmata in how medical professionals are stuck in the pits of cartesian theories of the disembodied brain of the theory posed by gilles deleuze & felix guattari - like is prescribed to individual, so should be unto nations: inward looking, inward searching, reflective... rather than reflexive.

I carry a casual carapace,
A character trapped in ambience.
Amble the alleyways and ascertain an avid state in acid rain,  
The product a revision of charisma corrected conditions,
How I've come to envision a victim or a villain.
Attach the cataracts to collapse to a tone of grey,
We're all the same under the sages, same as saints.
Geared to the gutters, I greet in mustered mutters,
I mumble through humble structures,
The tongue erupting ruptures.
                
I'm sure they see me as a background actor,
In the shadows of a flagship,
The character on mute behind a selective scene of laughter.
Is this disembodiment, or an echo of the cage?
The skin, bones and flesh under the semblance of a face.
Amazed by the growth of atrophy,
A passenger passing passively,
Impactfully passing passages,
Just practicing for a classic scene.
Fit in, camouflage, play ******* chameleon,
The inner truth a Gilles suit, where this mere meat is measured in a meager mediums.

I'm certainly a circus of surplus circuitry,
I could be less of a mesh of flesh,  with a sense of urgency.
Here a golem strung by the clockworks of a blueprint,
Chiseled in with details and a little bit of hubris.
Pistons Positioned to pivot, pin, - all inclusive,
Grinding on the causeways of abusive truths in future,
Joints cracking, hinges at their thresholds,
Attention to the details, a trend to tend to tenfold.

ever the death, lazily demanding,
  consecrating one's thought
on the altar predating life itself,
     clothed in shrouds, thick cloths
and shadows,
            came bugging life
       with an impeding delivery
            upon the shattered altar of
such boorish nuances of:
     a killing of time,
       and the american "fascination"
with the anti-thesis of claustrophobia...
up, up their *****,
            they cascade into heaving
a "person" as well as a "safe" space...
             not even a Peckham plonker
would mind a grip of the collar
             whenever enticed to a private
conversation in a public sphere...
        but here we are...
                 how shielded we've become
by irrational fears,
           that the only rational fear there is
to ponder, namely the mortal
   grief lost to a waiting line,
                   is, and has to be, hidden
beneath a layer of irrational fears,
           for the one rationale:
    with life, comes death,
                  to contemplate the immediacy
of the awaiting of,
              is somehow trans-phobic,
         because a fear of spiders or fear
of tight spaces can be better excused
       than the sole mortal wound...
                     american's and their inverted
claustrophobia...
                   touch too soon, touch no less,
far beyond making ****** contact,
let alone speaking with hands to boot...
             an old man can corner you
and you will feel not inhibition of sharing
a space that contains within itself
a boa manifestation of ****** interaction...
h'americans are apparently not rude,
unless, of course, they have occupied
a large urban environment and *******
rude remarks:
               ever the most prying nation
becoming the most defensive with lies
about its openness -
        back in st. petersburg you can
hitch-hike in an urban environment
paying a stranger a few rubels to move you
in the same direction he's heading via,
your finish line...
               because the most profound
understanding of melancholy, in musical terms,
is reserved to the northern men,
attired in the sun,
               because only they can cherish
this depth of sadness,
that sparks a sudden chance at: a joy
of being melancholic...
                   no profound truths ever came
from happily invested abodes of
a people...
                  happiness can return to
a lunatic's guise in spontaneous laughter,
such said impromptu,
       can never balance an inquisitive
sadness,
           a sadness that has a phoenix spark,
waiting right until the very end,        
  to reveal itself in a haunting presence,
a disembodiment of form,
   when the shadow suddenly escapes
the prejudices ascribed to the body
in the eyes of the other...
                     i imagine the myth
that is already the illogical study of
preserving temporal events...
               myths are only rhythms of
space...
              inherited,
          rather than imitated to preserve
the yester-year as also true,
  to the year to pass...
                of the anti-narcissus
   who fell in love with his shadow...
              well... if, félix guattari
                              and gilles deleuze  
could write their thesis on the anti-oedipus,
i too can contend with
the french pretentions...
             no grander movement
in self-introspection than a fascination
with a shadow,
                    that being:
the unbearable stare into
           the reflection in a water, as also in glass...
what a haunting reflection,
      so diluted in the still water,
    in the later invested in glass...
              i can only see the love-affair
with ghosts, half-formed studies of
       a reflection, unclear as to why
narcissus was poseidon's son,
                  rather than a son of hades:
from what became clearer
                in unearthed metals...
                 and to just think,
that glass is derived from handling sand...
            the paradise of the lake,
the life of the river,
                 the chaos of the sea,
where the paradise of a lake
is a discussion of man and the gods,
   where the life of the river
is a discussion of man and man,
where the chaos of the sea
         is the discussion between
   gods and their fathers, the titans.

Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois,

Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours,

Tournez souvent et tournez toujours,

Tournez, tournez au son des hautbois.


Le gros soldat, la plus grosse bonne

Sont sur vos dos comme dans leur chambre ;

Car, en ce jour, au bois de la Cambre,

Les maîtres sont tous deux en personne.


Tournez, tournez, chevaux de leur cœur,

Tandis qu'autour de tous vos tournois

Clignote l'œil du filou sournois,

Tournez au son du piston vainqueur.


C'est ravissant comme ça vous soûle

D'aller ainsi dans ce cirque bête !

Bien dans le ventre et mal dans la tête,

Du mal en masse et du bien en foule.


Tournez, tournez, sans qu'il soit besoin

D'user jamais de nuls éperons

Pour commander à vos galops ronds,

Tournez, tournez, sans espoir de foin


Et dépêchez, chevaux de leur âme :

Déjà voici que la nuit qui tombe

Va réunir pigeon et colombe,

**** de la foire et **** de madame.


Tournez, tournez ! le ciel en velours

D'astres en or se vêt lentement.

Voici partir l'amante et l'amant.

Tournez au son joyeux des tambours !


Champ de foire de Saint-Gilles, août 1872.

i once saw a play:
stones in his pockets at the West End...
two actors performing
a share of 20 odd roles between
them...
nothing unlike
milan kundera's essays
or...
    gilles deleuze and samuel
beckett's bicycle
"metaphor": mein gott:
obwohl ich bin sterbern(d)
zu lesen das bux...
i'm writing english
i'm teasing deutschezung(e)
i'm evidently trespassing...
conventionality and "something"
that stipends an completion
of "geometry" with a suffix
-oon and -oonz...
breathing ice...
breathing ice in his hands...
atmung eis im seine hände...
the stones that were his pockets, also..
were an encouraged drowing
mechanism...
deus ex machina
**** in machina...
one left the "other"
with one of those secular jokes...
a priest, a rabbi... walk into
a bar...
order a baritone
cosmopolitan...
the bartender is probably
transgender,
                 evo-******...
a castrato opera mongrel sign-up...
or a giuseppe belli
sonnet:                e io:
                   und ich, and i...
             i ja...
    it's like this gargantuan fullness
of a breath predisposed itself
to imagine itself awake and with
untold misery a tugging alongside
i as why...

once i wrote chicken scratching(s)
with a loot out of the scruffy tending
to... limits ease...
now this damning trickle of water
like the most probably inevitable:
sojourn panicky quest
across the north sea
to arrive at the norwegian fjords
attired in adam's feather
and shivering to ease
at touching either candle...
a puddle of ink... chicken blood
*** the Aztecan decapitation
ritual... cannibalising their own:
poor crooks of the dawn...
****'n'****-a-******-doo'ah...
entre... i.e. to begin with: "debate"...

if memory serves me justice:
i was a reader once...
i'd write what little conversation i could have
but otherwise: wouldn't have
for clarity's sake...

giggle... chandelier...
worship of st. peterburg...
           to make doll...
and a franchise of something
from Vienna... something:
Viennese...
like a Hamburger is not something
pork: readily available via
ham...
but... something lost to the association
with a Hamburg;
exemplum est.

Bitter sweater weather full of ice and broken heart. Haunting thoughts, hunting you with a mind of memory. Memories Gilles with laughter and those pearly, white smiles. Flashes of that yellow hoodie, I remembered how perfectly it was fitted to you. Flashes of yellow hoodies, and warm hot chocolate we drank to **** the frostbite. The taste of sore strawberries, turned spoiled, as footprints along shore, marked the exit. The one you used when silence drowned, the one you used when my face drowned you.

‘sister played outside with a broken arm
and the wind turned her into a constellation.’ – Allie Gilles

a piece of ice
in my mouth
I’m kissing
a screen door
in Ohio

eternity
is a doll
reading
a menu, memorizing
a license plate

and doll
the first

eating disorder
in space

and i would have to find myself
a heaving...
a heave... best equipped
to acquire... all that was to become
a conjure for the welcome
parade of the grand eloquence:
democracy of man...
        this dying of god...
    this birth of man...
               this lost feud of the first breath...
this last loot of a same burden:
that same...
                squandering fool!
           my attire! squire! squire!
lacklustre: doubly heave a riddling
of crown:
anything with a tow:
of this looting goth...
                  if only... elizabeth was
given the youth of the shakespeare
counterpart...
and i were given the chance
to make similar odes...
make my sins a litany of:
tax revenue... squandering: feats...
the rich are: roach...
probably worse than then poor...
come being vexed...
and what the notable reason for
taxes invites...
yes... then the rich are...
            bruised...
                      borrowed...
b­reathing: half-murdered...
                     itching and burrowing
this... crease in...
               forgotting how to...
"leisure"...
        
   i tend to... listen to horror movie
soundtracks... to fall asleep...
and... to be honest...
to... ******... gilles de rais...
no... spaghetti atheist credo:
work-up loitering feud...

              as many as the people
have had a voice...
there have always been
so few: to strive for the accomplished...
purpose of... furthering...
the narrative...
          an ugly affair to mind...
first and last: beginnings...

what if... i owed the reigning party...
a painting... rather than...
this... antithesis of rhyme?

i'd own... a closure of...
the lesser geoetry...
and the heightened enclosure of...
rhyme...
of that: i have nothing...
to rhyme... with...

and that my lesser...
my leveraged... of any sort:
all to be borrowed...
excess of neck:
in length...

there is no culture war to
be currently excavated...
what there is?
what there is... is...
culture sparring...
one feeds...
auxiliary... culture is 2nd...
within the confines of what
begins its life as iron ore...
and... behaves as arrived at:
silver schpoon!

         dexter-safe-havens...
because... anything...
anywhere... and... anyhow...
only and would only ever...
happen... to h'americans...
the little people such as us...
would and could only...
beg... for... the lesser horror...
in terms of...
      the adequate entertaining
extreme: loss of east-berlin...
the knee came: withered!

         i somehow forgot...
pearl harbor... it happened between
service-men...
nagasaki = auschwitz...
       but... less... cinema... less...
judeo-trait: loitering *******...
      
  nagasaki = auschwitz...
paying the price for... soothing
with bacon-stripping the bavarians
of... pennsylvania:

   loiter lost bwo: of... fowm'eh:
bwo'tin'tin... pause: please...
slobbers: interlude: 3rd persons...

nagasaki = auschwitz...
blink blink... "something new"??
     a death of a people in a blink of an eye...
pearl harbor:
you mean: when...
army contra army...
            counter to... when...
the infidel... civilians are at stake...

       nagasaki hiroshima = auschwitz...
care to concern oneself with what
did happen: in a blink of an eye...
**** your grammar no best or better grammar...

pearl harbour: samurai mentality:
war items... contra war items...
but... eugenics u.s.a. -
          etc.
                 to attack... the civil pop.
it's not like the atom bomb was dropped
on an area the same worth of pearl harbour...
******* savours of the world:
the soviet union the warsaw pact....
already left you: undermined...
this... pristine... ****-show!
who am i... not think...
that... the chernboyll...
disaster... wasn't... instigasted...
by the overtly-hard-on-hormone
working of the h'american egoism?!

oh... truth... "truth"?! yeah...
hiroshima... nagasaki...
        auschwitz...
                      same ****... different cover...
but the japanese had a concept of
both shame and pride...
which... the jews of auschwitz... didn't...
it's not like... the jews of...
the death-camps were prone to....
suicide... were... they?

the same problem concerning
the h'americans...
plaing war games...
pearl harbor...
any civilians?
             yes... shield: the civil population:
entry level... palestine!

drop a nuke: give auschwitz 4 years...
einstein claimed:
it's all relative!

                     well...
problem... what "problem"?
no problem! godzilla on the fiddle!
casimir! amon goeth...

     are the jews supposed to play...
the lesser minding...
the lesser: this... lesser god...
of a people who suppose themselves
vermin... and this god:
the rat-god...

                              it's not a question...
esp. when noting...
this... it's already dwindling...
h'american
cultural superiority...
it's gone... it's dead...
it's a ******* whim and a wish...
and a... regurgitated...
constipation!

.subtitled: soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...

the freeing voice - any voice for that matter -
something has been completed -
a year's worth of credit...
   / invested in bone churning...
crrrrr'ah'imes of crunch...
              point for point...
       "they" tell you... you're a loser still
living with your parents...
lucky for me i've been feeling wanted
for the past three months...
working on the garden...
there's a new shed... there's a fence...
all the bothersome roots have been dug...
"loser" and - a man is supposed to
hate his parents... at some point...
well me the forest and the slump...
tourist attraction... flatmates: sitcom coming...
a tent in trafalgar sq. -
pigeon **** for luck: luckier if i had
a bowler hat and an irritating suit of formality...
but, what, other, options?
to abhor one's mother and father:
chances are: sometimes to be wedded
to the in-laws...
                     and i was thinking that coming
from under the iron curtain:
from behind the berlin wall...
    from a former satellite state....
    i wouldn't be hearing this postmodern spin on
communism...
     it works: it works i'm promised!
it works... but there's no spine of a metallurgical
industry... no sweaters knitted in ireland...
no shavers manufactured in holland...
   the germans "lost" the war...
     somehow they still managed to pay
the reperations to the hebs...
             the germans "lost" the war...
but they still make the cars...
                   the germans "lost" the war...
but kaiser came up with...
the new currency... and there were some:
slightly distrustful of eew-oh-rrrrrras...
          there's so much conversation
above the drowning line of the invisible...
haven't dated since aged 21...
                 since 2007...
              the chance brothel entry...
the chance "one night stand" -
   confused thai surprise from a park bench
****** in the garden and walked home -
totem for proof...
         easily interrupted music:
or rather - music with punctuation...
like almost punk... but: not really...
             what a mighty project: brexit with
the pound in the wallets...
can you imagine a brexit with buying and selling
in euros? ha... 3 years...
ol' lizzie on the guillotine of currency...
bland currency...
              3 years of brexit followed up by
a year and 3 months of corona carano
        cuckoo-ra curune curini kuru kuru
chicken: cuban - coup d'état - corono - corone -
core: and... the bread is 'ere...
the circuses are gone... and so is the jihad...
- whatever happened to rival schools:
united by fate - nothing of what never happened...
to the chime of bell and the vibrating
uvula gong -
        
in summa inanitate versatur:
perhaps... perhaps i should have stressed:
looking for the geometry of a paragraph:
not a square... a rhombus...
          / here devolves........................
any and all.........................................
the draft of - and for.........................
all manner.................... of..................
"pressing"............... impetus: via......
impetus.... salvaged... via some.......
variant of darwinism........................
a history... on the basis of only.........
frequenting.... etymology.................
for... "sources" - sourced materials...
citations! ..............................................
by all means: anything......................
written... for the medium of.............
journalism.......................................­....
is not a dickens - an armchair..........
a sunny... afternooon.........................
............... more.....................................
a commuter's hour on the tube........
tum.... tum autem..............................
..... tum./
                           at one time... at yet
another...

    idem idem etc. etc. (again) -
major major - drifter from catnip 23...

the leisure of writing... once upon a time
a brothers grimm' invested themselves in:
the leisure of reading...
no oration is a leisure too...
tongue does the work of feet... and hands...
imitation octopus: solid ink out
of a fear...
     lack of friction: therefore...
arachnaphobia and: scuttle! scuttle!
and all those limbs you could almost break...
but not hear the sound...

    yes... writing can be... this blank canvas
is... my hands and fingers extended...
i admit no clenched fist...
no knuckle ditto heads...
                      a yes... and a no... a maybe...
a kiss that sounds like
slurping spaghetti...
                  coming from the 19th century...

yes: the next time i feel bad about
doing a no. 1, 2 and 3... the 3 being the genocide
into the whrilpool just below the throne of
thrones... i'll remember...
in the 19th century?
   ******* was as much taboo as jerking off:
big ******* hands:
no wonder there's "some" ***** envy...
and those camera angles...
a hand the size of being able to hold a basketball
all on its own...

which is a shame... what hands can...
and can't: guillotine the phallus and bowl...
with a talking head from the grave...
the torso and limbs too:
holding the spectacle of eyes rolled back...
bertrand de born...
                gilles de rais... not included...
come to think of it...

     eos eventus, qui acciderunt...
if that can be said: of what happened...
and it is hardly believable...
any time between the orthodoxy of darwinism:
ahem... "history" and geology...
and the ping-pong of the stars...
         yes... but what of the mythology:
come 100 years from now:
no one will believe what: apparently...
never took place...
                  or that it did...
                 the currency of inflation:
over-inflation of details...
a drowning man will grap the edges
of a razor... perhaps now: science...
and facts... is the necessary razor edge
for the docile and: the adventure of drowning...

- mind you: it's worth confusing...
albrecht dürer with gustav doré...
   even if these two men didn't pass on children
and grandchildren - genetics -
they did pass... something...
seeing how evolved - almost indistinguishable
the two are... i.e. if the former had the technological
access of the latter...
well...

no... i'm pretty sure...
i couldn't have had this sort of conversation with
anyone... solo project:
and yes... impromptu...
              a painting it is not...
some minor details: better kept as omissions...
soliloqui looking for a pretty ******...
     now that is raising the stakes;
yawn... the end.