civilisation abhors thought that it cannot vocalise,
and therefore monitise - it abhors it! it vilifies such
thinking as a form of mental  illness, or something akin
to such a statement; talk to any psychiatrist
and he'll tell you that psychiatry is, quiete frankly:
a variation of demonology - shadow people -
the "retards" everyone is quickly to defend
but easily strap into death-rollercoster rides
and the famous bon voyage adieu salute!
civilisation stamps it down, as i already said, abhors it,
whenever cancer is involved is a hellraising
fundraiser moment... come the sickness of the mind?
or the abstracted brain: we have parasite,
tapeworm people.
     and all because of our own cause in having created
the skivvy like residuals to brush under the
carpet of what's otherwise glitter:
   people who are without narrative:
                    without the marathon fundraiser public:
a macho personification of how to abuse
state authority but never wishing to do so:
but nonetheless being punished for it.

the central figure? fiction isn't written these days,
take a break, come back later.
        if you can't be honest now: you will never
be honest in a hundred years: forget it!
but you know what i find? sniffer dog that i am:
i find people like *Faustino Barrientos
a.k.a. not Pablo Neruda - and god i'm jealous,
there's this pristine exemplified variant of Adam
and i'm petrified with jealousy at
his 45 years of solitude in Chile -
               i'm mad by it,
why? because the so-called civilised world has
literally cut off all my limbs to embody such
a life: my grandfather and my father lived
under the laws of conscription auto-suggested
by the rubric of social preliminary bulletpoints:
i'm jealous of them too!
              i'm an Auschwitz shaven bearded
"thinker", no good to society that needs rigour
of appearing nice and selling bull's *******:
i wish i was (most of the time),
       i got a chemistry degree and was told to
work in a supermarket... there goes my love for
learning:
                i am, evidently, a pseudo-hermit,
self-imposed isolation but still seeing people:
or as i like to call them: ghosts - in close
proximity; now, if ever anti-social behaviour went
on unpunished, i'd be a gladdened example
of such feralness.
                    oddly enough, atheists are cultured
creatures,
                 but, not oddly enough: they have
nothing enabling them with self-preservation;
the argument goes along the lines of self- (hyphen
opening necessary)... as a prescribed form of
automation... in a variety of guises:
         this hermit from Chile has nothing of this
sort, he simply has a godly competence of
the environment, someone like Christopher Hitchens
can walk into a crowded space and give you
theological nausea -
              because could you find enough whiskey
metabolism while shearing sheep and
milking cows? no! atheism is a placebo of what
is otherwise an individualistic stance of
being an individual within a herd -
and what an almighty cold turkey experience we've
been given after Nietzsche killed god:
we're going cold turkey -
               we're theologically cold turkey -
we are still living in rehab, bad move to do it
so quickly: history on amphetamines sort of speak...
             a dichotomy of priestly attire
and politicians all suited tied and booted as
the grey matter: where are the ******* rainbows?
hence the persistence to relapse into hippy,
while adolescence succumbs to nothing more than
a medical circus frenzy: of nature's own:
                          getting rid of the weakest like
one might throw out an out-of-date yoghurt.
  all good and well with that montage of atheism
being the zeitgeist fashion statement -
    but there is no atheism outside of the civilised world:
there's the purity of the self-        automation:
or adaptability to the environment -
only once congregated there was the imposed:
the non-existence of.
                      because it was trendy to speak like that,
we established a cohabitating necessity as
a species and then tried to fake that necessity by
differentiating with enough intellectual sweat to
distance ourselves with a counter-argument:
i.e. not self-   as in automation because of the ever
changing weather and organic octopus auxiliary attachments
for the worth of grit:
                     but a self-    (unit of automation)
   to fill the world with an almost inaccessible
perpetuation of the narrative - but this civilised self-
                 as variant of automation
toward self-sufficiency and independence is completely
lacking in the civilised world!
     we treat people like ****! waiter! cashiers!
                     bus drivers!
         i endear you to think that in the collective of
what's known as the civilised world: the hermit does not,
exist! there is no self- to speak of,
               try milking a cow or lumbering along with Jack:
it ain't there! we're a bankruptcy in terms of limbs!
        well sure: i write, and immediately i'm
in a mess because i like to study -
     which means poetry or poetry aspiring to
philosophy is inherently useless... so is civilisation!
   tribalism has no need for money: because it
has community: cannibalistic or not... is still has
a collective need to survive - unless of course you
remember the civilised world and all those
experimental fetishes to get you starcast with a moovie.
so this Chilean guy, 40 years a hermit,
     and then this article in the Sunday Times
news review section: driven to distraction -
             and my notes as graffiti after reading it:
we are a second behind goldfish online (8 seconds
with cat videos) - goldfish are 9 seconds into
watching bubbles, and then creative dementia
     doing the plateau incremental snap: re re re.
the god does not exist argument is founded on
a banking system: it's the most viable way to make
an argument that provides wages -
          no other reason for it,
or: as according to the Chilean nomad Faustino
Barrientos, begin with the self- unit
                of self-determination and sustenance:
otherwise don't bother arguing that sort of argument
without undermining the collective Disney index
of the people: who are incompetent at ruling themselves
then they congregate to give birth to a Picasso,
end of!
              so just because i studied the sciences i can't
be persuaded to an ulterior version of humanism:
i swear, Kant said that there was nothing nobler than
to concern yourself with god... or an argument for
such a being... maybe i'm misreading things:
after all... it's not all that fashionable to say such things:
because never was sane sensibility akin to Jane Austen
for ******* despicable as to read Jane Eyre.
              well sure, i have my "furthering" notes,
from the trenches of the devil's sulphuring *******...
         again: that statement "god is dead"?
is effectively going cold turkey... shutting off all
the superstitious metabolism of the past: oh, 20 centuries.
   sure, the Anglo Renaissance came, Elvis too,
       but the repercussions of what we "experienced"
at the height of the latter part of the 20th century?
unreplicable, gone, dust, sniff the actual grey dust
death of ash... it's not coming back: here my pessimism
and valour in the name of comedy - realism
and the very mortal hand of the extinguished flame:
it's gone! done!
                and it ain't, coming back with a backlash of
infuriated rigour to keep afloat: or return to / replenish.
  it's gone!  mind you, Heath could also be
included in this ode that celebrates necessary
obscurity of the Chilean to my jealous fancy as having
perfected survival skills.
             but this cold turkey debacle over the death
of god penetrates former colonial, hence post-colonial
societies: it affects the youth.
                  it suggests a quickened pretense of
diminished responsibility within a framework of
the lack of all things "karmic":
sure, so history is without a continuum to ensure
there's transgression for every transcendence
and we all live in an Utopian scenario of
immovable mountains: maybe that's why we're
no longer writing history but historiography:
and there is a distinction:
the former is actually angling and fishing -
the other is counting the number of skiving salmon
dreaming of wings rather than gills out
of the river.
                     among the other observations?
or apathy without origin in blissful thinking,
statement A.
     can you imagine anything more apprehensively
digested that reaching the conclusion:
a- + -pathos (without pathology)
                                 can be interpreted negatively?
negative thinking prior to reaching the consolidation
that apathy is, well: most people treat that as
an abnormality.
                     (if i ever wrote a self-help book,
i'd write one like this).
              you go past bulimia, past self-harm,
past all the negative bull and reach a state of apathy,
a non-disconcerted attunement toward feeling:
but you have been chiseling with your thought
at all the unpardonable negativism of your
identifiable physiognomy from genealogical nuance:
you seem to want to replicate an ancestry -
your heart will not tell you to **** yourself:
but find enough automaton curriculum in your
thinking: and your own mind will slothfully entice
you with a thinking sidewinder that aims at the
guillotine, or the gallows.
                   and after all that negative thinking,
you reach apathy, or being without a pathology?
and you feel an emptiness?
             don't expect to be Nepalese -
your ancestry forbids it...
                        you didn't reach a Buddhist apathy,
you didn't start from a zenith: but from a nadir,
tattooed with so many pathologies:
to reach apathy you had to transcend them:
       this is the bit were i say, concerning your heart:
it's a bit like a Cartesian cogito ergo sum moment.
talking about going beyond:
ever think that foundation of ontology is grammatically
based, if not biased?
        i limit this question toward grammatical
categorisation of words...
      primarily? the usual questions:
why are we here?
                       how? (well, that's outdated
'cos we have all the answers and that leverages our
greatest dissatisfaction, even in terms of writing
a new version of Don Quixote, which we can't).
                i devalue grammatical categorisation
altogether, i don't believe in it,
            for example why is categorised as
both adverb and conjunction... to me synonyms
don't exist in grammar, why is therefore only
an adverb...
              how? also an adverb... (ad- + -verb
         toward an action) - thus toward the municipality
of professions: but that's not a moral question.
       why is also an int. (interjection) and n. (noun) -
all it takes is a missing h to completely it as a noun
(unless of course the Oxford dictionary is wrong,
and i'm not Shylock Holmes)...
             what i am focusing on is the word
is, which is grammatically categorised as a conjunction,
and so it is, and so that is, and so this is:
       that's a canvas for me: mirror mirror, on the wall:
who will the the fairest of them all once i stop
asking the question with rose petals in mind being
plucked in that fateful lottery?
                         i don't care why, i already have
a good enough estimate as to how...
                          i base my ontology (nature of being)
upon the is...
                        where there was jungle, there too is
another jungle made of concrete -
and i don't trust the Quran: it makes grammar too
inaccessible, too holy even,
             you tell me the naked truth of the grammar,
i'll put on a ******* Hijab and prance to the tune
of le trio joubran's song masar down a street:
the weeping man of Amsterdam, two German chefs
tripping out on mushrooms while watching
American Dad in a darkened hostel room,
   and an Egyptian architectural student i spent
the afternoon with; otherwise? don't bother.
      and it really is great how is can't be an adverb
and merely a conjunction (well, "merely"),
      there is nothing that requires is to be a limitation,
or a necessary morphing into: toward doing / being
something... everything just, is;
and if it wasn't for Shia Islam you'd get **** all Sufi...
maybe a Falafel kebab, but **** all apart from that.
                    of course i'd side with the ****** Iranians
on this matter...
                                i can't live without music,
for fare game to Faustino Barrientos, but i can't live
without music, and Wahabbism doesn't recognise
music:      never was hearing a camel hart or a
merchant burp or a woman ****** seem so appealing,
and worthy to fight for! (italics for the sarcasm).
do you think that if i clap my hands for a year
i'll hear a minute's worth of Wagner?
                                         (snigger): probably not.

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)
This year has had plethora of public worries in Africa over broken English among the young people and school children. It first started in the mid of the last months  in Nigeria, when the Nigerian government officials displayed public worry over the dying English and the strongly emerging slang known as pidgin English in Nigerian public offices and learning institutions. The same situation has also been encountered in Kenya, when in march 2014, Proffessor Jacob Kaimenyi, the minister of education otherwise known as cabinet secretary of education declared upsurge of broken English among high school students and university students a national disaster. However, the minister was making this announcement while speaking in broken English, with heavy mother tongue interference and insouciant execution of defective syntax redolent of a certain strong African linguistic sub-cultural disposition.
There is a more strong linguistic case of broken English in South Africa, which even crystallized into an accepted national language known as Afrikaans. But this South African case did not cause any brouhaha in the media nor attract international concern because the people who were breaking the English were Europeans of non British descend, but not Africans. Thus Afrikaans is not slang like the Kenyan sheng and the Nigerian pidgin or the Liberian krio, but instead is an acceptable European language spoken by Europeans in the diaspora. As of today, the there are books, bibles and software as well as dictionaries written in Afrikaans. This is a moot situation that Europeans have a cultural leeway to break a European language. May be this is a cultural reserve not available to African speakers of any European language. I can similarly enjoy some support from those of you who have ever gone to Germany, am sure you saw how Germans dealt with English as non serious language, treating it like a dialect. No German speaks grammatically correct English. And to my surprise they are not worried.
The point is that Africans must not and should never be worried of a dying colonialism like in this case the conventional experience of unstoppable death of British English language in Africa. Let the United Kingdom itself struggle to keep its culture relevant in the global quarters. But not African governments to worry over standard of English language. This is not cultural duty of Africa. Correct concerns would have been about the best ways and means of giving African indigenous languages universal recognition in the sense of global cultural presence. African languages like Kiswahili, Zulu, Yoruba, Mandiko, Gikuyu, Luhya, Luganda, Dholuo, Chaka and very many others deserve political support locally as well as internationally because they are vehicles that carry African culture and civilization.
I personally as an African am very shy to speak to another fellow African in English or even to any person who is not British. I find it more dignifying to speak any local language even if it is broken or if the worst comes to the worst, then I can use slang, like blend of broken English and the local language. To me this is linguistic indicators of having a decolonized mind. It is also my hypothesis that the young people who are speaking broken English in African schools and institutions are merely cultural overtures of Africans extricating themselves from imperial ploys of linguistic Darwinism.
There is no any research finding which shows that Africans cannot develop unless they speak English of grammatical standards like those of the United Kingdom and North America. If anything; letting of English to thrive as a lingua franca in Africa, will only make the western world to derive economic benefits out of this but not Africa to benefit. Let Africans cherish their culture like the way the Japanese and the Chinese have done, then other things will follow.

from the simple email, to now a pitch-perfect complication
of the internet - no performance poetry found here -
performance meaning singing, meaning cascade of rhymes
to help you memorise sentences and shake your hands
about - ekphrasis (εκφρασις) - performance stand-up
but not stand-out - i'm not complaining, i'm just feeling
the fear and loathing too - or according to M. Schmidt (
no, not Martin Schmitt, the ski-jumper, but then again
the two seem almost indistinguishable when said -
counter e.g. gnome - 'nome and schmi'dt'dt'dt'tt stutter
at the end of words rather than at the beginning before
the dam gates open for the word to flow out from).
besides the point, can you imagine Kant using the phrase
a fortiori in his work that uses only a priori and
a posteriori? i only came across it today - but given
the big *** systematic approaches, you'd find it hard
to squeeze in a fortiori into the complex narrative -
an entire blackboard of mathematical proof concerning
disallowing the end product to be ∞: in philosophy that means
explaining something on a universal basis, the entire human
concern for things said, things done, things owned -
inserting the term a fortiori where once came a priori
would be a disaster for the Kantian narrative, he'd
have to write another critique all on its own to insert that phrase
among a complete systematisation of that phrase -
well the funny thing is, this expression goes in line with that
i observed about left and right, hands eyes whatever -
indefinite a- and the definite -the articles and then an ism -
i sometimes feel funny or at least embarrassed that i keep
repeating this notice from time to time -
but you would expect me to include gravity too,
or how i used to be a flower thief in spring bordering
on winter, plucking the eager flowers in the frost around
the countryside - well, i revived that practice today,
plucked two stalks of lavender (they were pinching my
nose when i walked past with a beer) and something
resembling lavender... google-moment... if only they
created apps that could tell you what flower it is you're
trying to identify, search engine impromptu -
well... it's either a coin-toss between
summersweet (clethra alnifolia) or butterfly bush
(buddleia davidii) - but it could be something else -
cigarette, beer and sniffing lavender, just my kind of night -
i swear to god i once drank a lavender-flavoured beer,
or cider... i can't remember -
but by definition, when i look at philosophy books i feel
they're much too bound to something said earlier
and followed by something to support it -
or in the case of a fortiori the expanded-upon basics,
i.e.: from a / the stronger (thing) - which means
it's a dual-carriage way of saying what you want to say:
from a stronger thing - from the stronger thing -
in real life that's like: what we get from a telescope,
or? what we get from a microscope -
stars aplenty - G-Rex 5571 in the Zodiac constellation,
U80802Z from the constellation of Poseidon -
i mean, flimsy answers - sky's the limit - then
the azure cage hovers over us during the day and
we turn to daydreams packing apples into crates -
telescope: oh airy-fairy, somewhere far far away -
microscope: got that needle and thread with you?
well, whatever we have, we know that our minds are
not build for the omni- affix when affixed to anything,
esp. god. Jews never bothered with it - there are just
as many necessary limitations of a deity as there are
as many unnecessary limitations of our freedoms -
that's how you move away from big ideas and narratives
of a Kant, with his chequers of analytic / synthetic
a priori / a posteriori and concern yourself with
knives (indefinite) and scissors (definite) articulation of
language - hell, we can go down the road much further
and say something about indirect and direct articles -
pronouns are the prime subscribers -
you wouldn't talk to a Jihadi directly as you'd talk about
him indirectly - i shared that curiosity with a local
stranger-mate in a park once walking his dog,
an ex-banker - those boom-bomb boys are being prescribed
the same thing that the Lufftwaffe pilots were prescribed
(pervitin) - but i doubt they got their hands on the pure
medical stuff, they're probably on amphetamines...
oh the R.A.F.? yeah, drunk like skunks.
but just imagine rewriting the Critique with a fortiori
and a infirmiori - disobeying "correct" definition,
as already mentioned the pronouns composed from
articles, as in condensed to indistinguishable parameters -
a fortiori - from something stronger            -
             a infirmiori - from something weaker -
(as already stated, the original definition of
  a fortiori was - from a / the stronger [thing]) -
so the articles disappear and couple themselves to the word
thing (word meaning, no grammatical classification is
really necessary, because if grammatically classified it would
be too obstructive) - but because of this lack of
grammatical classification of the word thing,
we are already associating the definitions via only the
indefinite pronoun - rather than a definite pronoun (i.e. nothing),
it would be pointless to write definitions using a definite
pronoun - well, up to a point, i suppose that
suggesting both a fortiori and a infirmiori to be defined
as: from nothing stronger and / or weaker we can create
a self-mechanistic-propeller, a way of self-overcoming that
in the end arrives as self-knowledge, obviously the
ultimate purpose - and this goes against all solipsistic despair,
as it also goes against making too many comparisons
with others, some who are weaker than us, and some who
are stronger than us - for the stronger will make light
of one set of propositions as the weaker will make light
of another set of propositions to suit their demands -
this can only be seen in light of Kantian-Darwinism,
survival of the fittest and what not -
Kant had in mind something simply said historically in
a condensed sphere of reality, Darwinism kinda did away
with historical realism, soon after the English Renaissance
after the second world war, Darwinism picked up again,
as a way to shut off the murk of the Holocaust -
Elvis did his bit, the Beatles too, but once the imagination
dried up, people decided they wanted to travel back
in time to 10,000 B.C. - and you think artistic expression
will end up a concept prog rock album, or a cute 3 minute
synthesizer song while M.T.V. turns into a 16 year old's
******* of a baby? i'm going keep the acronym, and instead
call it MORAL TELEVISION, or? how to buy a ******
or pull out early - but obviously i'd get a wisecrack comeback
from Juno - see a preacher man anywhere around here?
Kantian algebraic (big words, small people, Belgian waffles
too):                                                    ­              a. / s. after
                                           (event) x.
a. / s. prior
                                     what qualifies?
                                    - historical hindsight -
                                    - the current historical catalyst(s),
        THE BIG BANG... or as i like to call our current history,
an interchange on the words: BIG BANG BLACK HOLE...
BANG A ******* HOLE... get a BIG CLOCK...
******* HOLE... which is what it looks like at night...
two catalysts overall - and boy we're speeding
to Groundhog day - the biggest changes in history were
some celebrity's haircut - that's relative to
what happened when the Treaty of Versailles was signed;
BIG HOLE BLACK BANG (and that's thanks to dark matter) -
but to be honest, if i'm given only these two historical
vectors to work with... i'm not surprised so many
Islamic youths are disfranchised, choosing a third,
Jannah - it seems like a natural thinking process that
will never make it into popular media -
just thinking about it probably warms the heart,
obviously to an extremely violent end -
but this is gone way beyond the heliocentric and
geocentric arguments - because up there, where you
can see the earth where the hell is Copernican East
or Copernican West? it's nice to know that the earth
isn't flat... but that won't help you reaching the Panama
Canal from Portugal... will it?!

Blood!

It’s coming from my right toe. I did not understand what happened at first. I took few more steps. It’s when I reached the door of the balcony, that I noticed that the tea cup, which ought to be in my left hand missing. I turned back.

Blood was there on the marble floor. In equal intervals of space, where I must have my toes pressed while walking. Looking at the blood, I felt ***** in my throat. It’s suddenly like I lost my senses.
“In the land of Mordor, in the fires of mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged in secret, a Master Ring to control others…”

Do you think it’s the Voice of Galadriel? No. I know. But at that fateful time, I felt certainly like hearing Galadriel’s voice, from The Lord of the Rings: The Felowship of the Ring.

I shriek might have escaped my mouth. My hubby, who was sitting in the balcony, reading the newspaper, turned towards me. Placing the newspaper on the table before him, he came to catch me from falling on the floor.

Why all this had happened suddenly on this pleasant Sunday morning? Yes. There must be a reason. I had seen it. What was that it?

“Wife killed husband with a Saline bottle.” That was the headline I read by chance in the District special which was on the floor on my way from kitchen. The girl in question is known to me. Not known, she worked as a maid for us, and we loved her. In the shock of the news, I dropped the tea cup from my hand. The rest you know.

My hubby made me sit on the bed, and dressed the wound. When I explained what happened, he pinch stroked my chin, and laughed like hell.

“Well, what she did might be right. I won’t pass a judgment.”

Just then my mother-in-Law entered the house. She went to the nearby temple.
>>>

After a couple of days, I met Subbi. She smiled innocently. I took her hands in mine.

“What happened?”

“I could have done it long ago akka,” she said.

She explained me everything then.
>>>

Subbi worked as maid for us when we were in Guntur. My hubby and I were lecturers. As we both of us had to go to the college, and my mother-in-law had to be home alone (hi, you might have counted many mistakes in my English. I forgot to mention, I am a science student, and my English is poor ;-) and I love to watch movies. Home Alone is my favorite movie :P) we hired Subbi to her assistance.

Attamma (I call my mother-in law like that) is very sharp. He makes friends with virtually anyone. Subbi got attached to her quickly. She used to tell her story to to Attamma. Subbi calls her Amma (you might have understood it means mother).

Subbi was married and had 3 girls. Her husband was furious because of this. He wanted boy child. He used to beat her. He always drinks… (right? I mean grammatically) and abuse her, and the children. Attamma told us all these things at the dinner time. Once I asked my hubby to warn him.
>>>

It was a hot evening. I was in the kitchen. My hubby was teaching to the students. We maintain tuitions for additional income. He was explaining the concept of reproduction, I think.

“If X chromosome combines with another X chromosome, it will result in female child (In between us :P he too is weak in English :P). If X chromosome combines with Y chromosome, it will result in male child.”

“Sir, don’t they result in Woman and Man? Is it only children?” some guy cracked a joke. My husband playfully hit him on the back of the head.

All the while, Subbi, who was assisting me in the kitchen, observed them. She asked me, what was that big joke, and why they were laughing. I explained it to her. I noticed a change in her. She was silent rest of the evening.

When it was the time for her to go home, she talked to my hubby. I observed them from the kitchen while serving Attamma dinner.
>>>

After a couple of months, around June 15th, we shifted to Vijayawada, as we both got jobs in a bigger corporate college with higher salaries. At that time Subbi was pregnant. If I remember right, 3 months. Attamma felt sorry for her. She instructed Subbi to inform us if…
>>>

Subbi had an abortion that time. Another year later she became pregnant again. Her husband warned her if it’s again a girl child, he would **** her. Subbi felt shivers.

It was then time for the delivery. She was again warned by him. As fate might have been written for her, it was again a girl child.

Her husband entered the room where she was… furiously. Subbi had sweat all over her. He was about to jump on her…

Subbi took a broken saline bottle, and

“You mother ******* *******, why didn’t you send a Y chromosome?” her words echoed there…!
>>>

I returned home and explained all this to Attamma, and my hubby. After I finished, my hubby laughed.

“She did the right thing,” Attamma said.
I said to my husband, who loves to have girl child, “If you don’t send an X chromosome, I’ll **** you. Alright?”

This time it’s Attamma’s turn to laugh.
>>>

PS: Phew, I’m through with the story. Gitacharya asked me about the incident. Whether he edits my narration, is in his hands. My hubby’s calling me. Bye :D

I seem to pass time in a daydream,
Waiting for the hour to pass, the day to end, the night to be over
My movements drift by as smoke
My mind, is always on you.
They poster their images in the foreground
And try to distract me and my thoughts
But you're always there, always.
They feed on sadness and loneliness, and I find it hard to fight
But the never ending struggle adds beauty to our love
And perseverance to my cause.
You complete me
As if we were destined, mind mates as it were
I feel invincible when my mind allows your entering
And I save the strength of our union when they rip you from my thoughts.
In time I know we will be together
We will live out the future I have envisioned a thousand times.
I told you, mi amor, I will never stop loving you
And that is set in stone
But there is so much more to say
And I've yet to find all the words
I promise to you our future, our family
I vow to you that I will always try to be the best me
I swear to you I will never give up.
I will never give in.
They will never have me.
I love.
I am yours.

I shake with every cell
Oxygen does not easily flow
Dancing in indiscretion
Inhaling every woe

Cancerous to nose
Infected by smokey lips
Adorned in selfish prose
Doctored with defying quips

Acted out in Fable
Characterized in yellow stone
A sure thing to bite
Pieces lost in clothes  


Hiding in a wake
Eyes of goopy pus
A manmade offense
The anti-verb of us

Every course should be marked on content.
In todays schooling we ask students to write final essays or regular essays to discuss their knowledge in a specific topic. However, marks are deducted for minor sentence errors, grammatical errors and style errors. But does that mean they don’t have sufficient knowledge about the topic or that the content of the essay does mean standards? No. Students lose marks for unrelated reasons. Grammar is not content. Grammar is grammar. Content could be excellent while the grammar is horrible. Philosophers potentially had the worst grammar ever, however we have glorified their thoughts for centuries.
This is where schooling has changed. And this is how schooling needs to change. Writing an essay is irrelevant to knowledge about a topic. Writing skills and understanding of content do not intertwine. If I wanted someone to apply knowledge they learned from a topic an essay is perhaps a very irrelevant way of doing so. Why judge someone on something that is, in today’s society exposed to interferences? Interferences such as grammatical errors.
If I wanted to know someones knowledge about a certain topic and wanted them to apply logic and theories they learned from courses, why not talk to them rather than using paper as a pigeon to share ideas? If it was spoken I can’t say “you lost marks because you didn’t put a period here and a comma there.” If it is spoken, you will still be able to notice if the student understands the topic. This way there is not interferences. It is strictly about content of knowledge and the students ability to apply what they have learned into specific views about a question I would have for them.
If I asked a teacher to have a class discussion where everyone had input, how would the teacher grade them? On quality of their answer, and clarity. Clarity being their ability to get to the point. However, if it is not clear, can the student make it clear for the rest of the class? Because what sometimes isn’t clear for one person, could be unclear because they are not as intelligent to be able to understand. The other student might not be so stupid because he said it in a way that is unclear. Maybe the listener is stupid because they didn’t understand? However, if the student can make it clear then their quality of the answer enhances and they will receive a higher grade.
For instance, if this was a formal essay that attempted to answer “What is wrong with schooling?” I would lose marks because I asked questions. Asking questions for some reason is not allowed? Is it informal? No. But society tells us we shouldn’t ask questions we should instead assume something and make a statement because that imposes confidence in a thought. But, if I was questioning certain aspects of something would that prove that I have sufficient knowledge towards one topic? Wouldn’t that impose that I have enough knowledge to understand details and question them? But hey, don’t formulate that statement in a question. It’s stupid. Question everything because you will never know all the answers regardless of all the resources.
By discussing a topic, the answers are direct. Content may vary depending on how much the student learned (providing the teacher is good at teaching and the proper course are in place). If the student struggles to understand a topic it will be evident in the quality of their answer. We can still see if the student is trying too hard (which is never a bad thing to set the standard high, shoot for the stars), or if the answer they have is someone else’s because they aren’t necessarily answers that they would have or words that they would use. But that is an assumption. Never assume, instead question. We can still notice if the student paid attention the course lectures and successfully answered the topic question with detail, reference, questions, relations, and application of knowledge that was taught to the student.
Just because a student can’t write a thought out on paper, does not mean they didn’t understand it. **** I used contractions, I would lose more marks there as well. See what I mean, a highschool teacher would tell me that I can’t say “Can’t” I was supposed to say “Can not” because that is formal. What is formal? Who said that is formal? Jim Joe Bob down the road? Who cares, does the student understand the topic or not? Stop docking marks for things unrelated to the subject.
If this was a writing course it would be understood why a student would lose marks for grammar and word choice and sentence structure or clarity. But students lose marks in History essays for word choice, and in political science for forgetting a period and in gender studies for saying “you” in a final essay. These are unneeded reasons for losing marks. At the end of the day does the student understand the historical importance of the topic? Or does the student understand the importance of the judiciary amongst the political system? Or does the student understand that sexism will only negatively impact society? If no, then he or she gets a bad mark, if yes, they get a good mark. Stop making up reasons for bad marks.
However, one will say; “Well what if the quality of the essay is so ****** I can’t even understand their knowledge?” This proves the instability of essays. Don’t ask for an essay. Ask to talk to the student about the topic. You’ll know if he or she understands. Just like when you go to a retail store and ask for advice about a product. We know if the associate knows what they are talking about, if they have no idea or if they are just telling us what they learned from training (which isn’t bad). Teachers potentially train students in a certain area. Why not ask a question which enforces them to apply the knowledge which they gained from the training to their answer? The teacher will know if the student knows what they are talking about (because they paid attention in training/class) or if they have no idea (because they did not understand or pay attention). Even if they retell you everything that was taught to them. Don’t they know something about the answer? Yes, it’s not the most enriched content because it was your own words but the student learned something right? Isn’t that why they go to school? To learn?
Another will say; “But we can’t escape writing. We have to do it everyday. A person must know how to write.” Fair. But why not teach writing in a writing course? One where the student will be marked on their ability to be clear in writing, or their ability to be grammatically correct, or their word selectiveness, or the sentence and paragraph structure. This seems like an appropriate course to deduct marks for incorrect application of knowledge. However, another person will ask; “then how do you teach structure and grammar?” Through exercises. Ask them to write a paper. Go through assignments as a class, encourage class participation and discussion. If the student doesn’t talk, the teacher will know what they understand therefore, how are they to give them anything but a bad mark? It’s at the student’s discretion but the proper systems need to be in place.
An example; how many people have gotten a paper back, looked at their grade and put the paper away? Did not even look at the corrections or suggestions for reasons why the mark was so poor or decent? Every one. Why not give a student a second chance? Why not scare them to do their best? Try this: Ask students to answer a question, any question. Have them hand it in 10 days from the assigned date. Students who want a good mark will use their time wisely to proof read, get the proper references and apply the correct knowledge. Students who want to get by will start two nights before. Once the papers are handed in, edit them. Once finished, return them without a mark. Wait for the students reaction. They will come up to you asking “what’d I get?”, “why isn’t there a mark?”. Tell them that, they aren’t getting a mark, they need to read the corrections and implement them. Have the paper due in three days. Once the papers are submitted, grade them. There will be less grammatical errors. At least for the students who took the time to read the corrections and implement them. The students who did not, will not receive a high grade a potentially face the threat of a failing grade. Hand the papers back with grades. Once this is done, ask for them to write another essay on a different topic. A topic such as “Should capital punishment be reinforced in Canada?” This topic is ok because you can write about any topic, its still writing. Writing is not confined to topics such as grammar, story writing or essay writing. Writing has infinite topic possibilities. But once the essay topic is given out, tell them they have 10 days to hand it in. Once handed in, give them a grade. Don’t give the chance for editing this time, and see if there is less errors for each student, ask to sit down with them and compare the errors that were made. In this way the student will learn and most importantly remember why and why not to write in certain structures while adding certain grammatical content.
With this exercise the student will learn how to clearly write, but it will take a while. It should be mandatory that students take a writing course throughout elementary and secondary school because the statement is true “we cannot escape writing”. Everyone must know how to write. But in society we struggle to remember that, just because someone can’t write something doesn’t mean they do not understand the topic. If I was to ask Einstein to write a topic on the differences of between time and space in APA format, His content would very well achieve high academic standards but his grammar and format would be god awful. It would be horrendous. He did not know how to write in specific manners, he would use his resources to learn but that was because from what we know he wanted to achieve in the highest manner possible. But he understood the content, and isn’t that what is most important? O the other hand, if I asked him to tell me about the topic, would it be more credible? Would it blow someone’s mind because they couldn’t take away marks. He would receive 100% on everything because he understood the content. That’s all that matters. For those who want to write, take writing courses. Or in today’s society, every context course is a writing course, as students are not be graded on their quality, rather, they are being graded on writing abilities. So to conclude, are we teaching history, science, politics, law, child and youth studies or are we just teaching students how to write without expanding their knowledge of the topic. We can’t base content off of what is written down,  interferences are infinite. ****, I used “can’t”. Sorry.

Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer.
To each their own
(a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect),
But sometimes I find it hard to understand
The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements.
The usual answer, if I dare ask:
     I'mhxpressthinmythelf.
Good for you.
Does the diaper pin through your cheek
Tell us you're a Dad or something.
     Na.
The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear?
Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something?
     Na.
The doll-house plates in your lips?
Are you a Duck Dynasty fan?
A member of the Audubon Society or something?
     No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth!
Sorry, what was that?
     I'mapontingxprschmyselpth.
I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying.
I don't mean to be rude,
But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

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

"I love you"
should be a little more difficult to say.

There should be advanced language classes
revolving around complex sentence structure,
advanced clauses and arrangement,
complicated syntax,
so that
"I love you"
means more than loving anything else.

Ich liebe dich.

Te amo.

Je t'aime.

I love you.

Saying "I'm sorry" in German
is more difficult
than "I love you."

Why is it that in order to apologize for something,
I first have to learn about reflexive pronouns,
and reflexive verbs,
and that the same word for "the"
can also stand alone as the subject of the sentence?

Das tut mir Leid
is more grammatically complicated
than Ich liebe dich.

And yet one wonders why love
seems to have become so clichéd.

given the zeitgeist, well, what can you expect, bad punctuation, even worse grammar, and a complete of "raining from above" diacritical appropriation, can make anyone quasi-dyslexic, even if they are said to champion a high-level of proficiency in a native tongue; which always made me wonder: why did i turn into a speedy gonzales, outrunning the majority of natives in the tongue? i guess it came to a dedication to a craft, like any carpenter with a block of wood, english, represented by a block of:
                                               a b c d e f g
                                               h i j k l m n
                                               o p q r s t u
                                               v x w x y z.

sorry, i'm taking over, i've had enough,
enough of these poncy natives speaking
their native language as badly written
as a rap, or as naive as a *simon & garfunkel
song, i don't care for your little english degree,
i know your little scheme,
to ensure the H is mutilated, mainly bound
by promethean chains of surd -
only apparent in laughter...
that alphabet you see before you?
it's my version of sudoku -
i look at that "square" and get **** out -
i never write from the heart,
i write from the perspective of my *** -
**** it out, forget about it, move on,
move on...
            i rearrange what i see and don't see...
and yes: you learn from the best,
and the best being? the ones that allow
you to think, make-up your own little narrative,
you pepper the writing with nuance,
with ambiguity, with a: huh?
   along the the day you also channel in
a tarantula's bite of disorientation -
narrative has seized to be worth a linear
geometry -
  there's no point (a) through to point (b) -
we're talking literature in einsteinian terms,
not newtonian projectiles...
           any ******* idiot can draw a straight
line, this deformed kid i knew from being
a child: hugged the **** out of me,
could have made a brussels pâté out of me,
i liked the ******: his ****** ****** his
wife's sister, and, being a ******,
he supported the whole family with
the benefit cheques...
          couldn't say a word without a ******'s
grin... but i do remember his favourite
pastime - precision of a pair of scissors,
he would sit and tear up newspapers all
day long, sometimes walk the dog,
  but you couldn't cut paper the way he ripped
it in streaks like spaghetti...
       hell: nature abhors a vacuum;
ah, ol' robbie.
                but that's beside the point,
what i learned from my pict english teacher
was: digress... he always digressed,
i learned the art of english is via: digression -
he's the one who got me into jazz -
i can't say i listen to jazz all the time like
some pompous aragonite of catalonia -
       but when the mood is right,
and there's no woman, and there's no wine,
and there's only the identical twins
ms. & ms. pepsi & amber - and it's october,
and the wind is warm in the night,
and i feel like: these headphones are becoming
too claustrophobic, i put on some miles davis
and feel like: like a politician in davos...
   still, i don't believe in linearity of dialogue -
after all, the earth doesn't travel in a straight line...
so why bother with a "beginning, middle & end"
style of storytelling? why not tell a tale high
on a tarantula bite, completely disorientated?
the best english you're going to hear is:
via digression -
     and as i recall, up to the age of 16 -
the pict made us sit through about 2 / 3 hours
of curriculum, i.e. in english class that means
learning grammar...
     ****, we learned about 0's worth of grammar:
his motto was something like:
  hey, if you speak it grammatically,
there's no point learning any grammatically
grammatically grammar, written, or spoken.
fair point.
     so he taught us by digression -
and no one can teach you better english,
  than a glaswegian... hey, you want a great memory
of school, and not turn into some soppy
         morrissey? learn to build up an
affection with your teachers...
           ****, i even remember the teachers
in primary school, everyone feared mrs. hetherington;
she once told us a story of being shipped out
from london (due to the blitz) into
the countryside... the old "hag" is dead by now,
but, although the rumours: she was a gem;
school wasn't a problem, as long as you
didn't buy into this whole famous obscure,
weird yada yada yada, frozen prune on
a popsicle *******, you did fine...
                as long as you had respect and
some sort of weird admiration for a teacher,
or +2, the other kids just, seemingly, drifted
into the song of ambient music - akin
to refrigerator humming.
seriously - the best time of your life is
the time you have in school, esp. given the currency
is nothing more than brownie points / peanuts...
no, i know a teacher's pet when i see one -
but dabbing into the personal life of a teacher,
say, seer thomas! what's your jazz collection
like? and then you get a c.d. to burn
the next day jazz on a summer's day album,
with the opening track being
    art blakey's song moanin'...
but that's beside the point (once more) -
let's just say that solving the sudoku allows you
to clear through the claustrophobia of thinking,
notably, given that all mental illness is
a form of cognitive claustrophobia -
     well...
    there once came an argument against
the godfather of existentialism, JP sartre -
who said: existence comes prior to essence...
so we live a life (borrowing from kant's rigidity)
             vita est a priori
  subsequently esse est a posteriori -
  i need to degrade everything into cartesian
terms, with that eternal formula
that has reached a mathematical pinnacle
of 1 + 1 = 2, i.e. 1 (cogito) + (ergo) 1 (sum) = id,
no matter how much you'd like to shake
it off, you can't! everything in philosophy
zeniths and nadirs on the cartesian sly cat
of expression...
                 what are we though?
do we exist to think, or do we simply,
                           essentially think?
well, if we exist to think, we'd be nothing
more than a brain in a pickle jar...
and we wouldn't get up to moral transgressions
and general idiocy of making mistakes...
    and given the aura and the fauna of
our environment, and the number of sport
disciplines available for us to practice:
thinking is non-essential,
it's a byproduct of existence per se.
before writing this i was actually going to
channel an argument against sartre,
  but given the ongoing arithmetic of the end
product of this writing...
  i kinda agree with him...
       existence is a priori to essence,
as essence is a posteriori to existence -
   nice, look at 'em siamese twins, butter-rubbed
greasy and all...
                 could slide into a chimney
prior to santa (anagram of satan)
          prior to santa saying: bishquits und quackers
and a handful of rollie-pollies to add the
extra, crunch!
    thinking is essential, i admit,
       but it's not exactly an existential absolute
i.e. uniform in: the omni sphere of things,
plants don't think, parasites don't think...
    hence the antithesis of the cartesian
res cogitans is the res impetus -
   phototropism being the best example...
           shlime of a honeybee in the ear
of krampus...
                    how can essence come prior to
existence, given the cartesian reductionism of
pivoting the argument on thought?
  thought doesn't even enter the picture,
once the senses are fully formed,
  and that lesser celebrated cognitive faculty
of memory finally lodges itself on the hamster wheel...
first we memorise, then we imagine (so many
games in childhood) - and we start to think: lastly.
as the world around us suggests:
   thinking isn't exactly essential -
   it's existential...
      wait wait, too many O 0 O 0 O 0 O squashing
of doughnuts and rollings wheels...
                      essence comes prior to existence...
so, by saying that: i am to be born an
essentially good person?
              this is theologically speaking an
inversion of the protestant concept of
  predestination...
        now the spaghetti muddling revision...
       i had it! i swear, i had it!
                         essence can't "predate" existence
since existence has no universal analogue replica,
no uniform coercion of all given examples...
yes, in essence we should all be universally
well off, rich, beautiful, perfect skin etc.,
that would be the "utopian" essential component
in arguing: essence comes prior to existence...
but the reality is: existence comes prior to
the essence of things - given we experience
the odd bouts of daydreaming...
        essentially that, but existentially: this...
trouble with certain counter-arguments
      to doctrines is that they leave the argument
in the jaw of a chimera,
   and never bother with real-life examples of
counter,
          like in poetry,
            with its array of technique,
   philosophy has but one sunshine moment -
   take the abstract road up to a point,
and then ask that age old question:
give a man a fish and feed him for a day,
or teach a man how to fish?
               as any parasitic business model will
tell you: give the man a fish, make him
indebted, and then tell him to mine for diamonds
to make for the first, and subsequently
second fish you're going to give him;
as was my concern:
  if no idea, no concept, can't be made
infantile, or rather, to be reduced to a level assertive:
well, you know, that "serious" thinker was
also, once a kid... what's the point
of taking yourself seriously?

there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it.*

a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?
i'll be cooking a turkey curry later,
a whiskey prior noon,
too soon, too soon,
too soon?!

rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter
in Dante's trinity of rhymes -
poetry of the near-illiterate,
who never read as much as could
have been -
thinking it out as origin and originals -
a man without influence is
not worth reciting -
                                   he'll still have to borrow
the life of a Henry VIII somehow,
whether he has or hasn't read a book
concerning the man -
while the Vatican emerges as the gossip
library of all the European royal families,
and indeed Henry VIII dubbed
Anne Boleyn's cow dangler *******
duckies - i think it's due to the fact
he quacked while he suckled the *******
like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** -
seriously, no milk;
and as honesty goes, ******* literature
does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth -
self-education moulds the self into a
pristine sequence of surprises -
there the pop of a balloon,
there the weeping clown...
there the giraffe on stilts!
indeed even at university entry point
where i deposited my self
i came back with debts!
idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised
version of language,
as language per se simply called grammatically
sound, in politics simply versed "correct";
two satans from Syria while Solomon
had his harem,
                          a third from Poland,
they say the holocaust,
6 million if not more citizens of the world
with polish passports - mind you
they took the Diogenes quote
into left and right parallel readied for a march -
Apollo listened then laughed at
the failures counting to 13 - laughing
while the words 'too the moon!' were eased
out from his helium filled lungs.

or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah
this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.

It bothers me so much
When I become an i
Or your face becomes you're face
You are face
No, I am Sam.
It bothers me even more
When definitely becomes definately
Or defnatly
Or definitliy
Oh, it hurts to write that.
I understand the need for speed
To get the point across as quickly as possible
But we are writers, whether we call ourselves so or not
And paying attention in English class
Won't do any harm.
Oh, also, while I'm thinking about it,
When you insult someone online?
"Your a idiot"?
"Go dye i a hole?"
"U don now nothin"?
That's the worst thing of all.

The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire
Hangs low upon the horizon,
Its fiery glory reflecting orangely
On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea.
  
The late afternoon sees my love and I,
Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach,
Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment
When sun and sea join in mystic communion.
  
And yet, all is not golden:
When one mentions the word "legs"
Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet
One does not convey the true situation to the reader.
  
You see, my lover is the sad possessor
Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department,
Whilst I have a full double complement.
And thus to so-called act of generation
(Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods)
Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium.
  
However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly,
An admitted visual defect most times)
Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs,
With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity.
  
Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex,
Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot,
A passable **** can usually be achieved.
Only the halitosis appears irremediable.

We put our teachers on a pedestal,
Until we age, and mature, and stifle.

They wear cardigans and reading glasses,
While teaching spelling and grammar classes,

And have an impeccably insufferable wit -
A world of puns amidst the world's dark grit.

So who would think that life's next station
Would involve discussing punctuation?

And passing that, believe it far -
Sharing drinks in a grotty bar?!

But here I am amidst my friends
(Despite not knowing them at ends)

Discussing the art of lesbianism,
Islam, clowns, and feminism,

How men are pigs and life is ****,
And how innuendoes always fit,

How therapy would be depressing
(Despite depression being the issue pressing.)

Oh, how girls can dance whilst sitting down
With words, and lips, and laughs and frowns,

With obscene gestures with their hands,
And tongues and drinks, and stories grand,

By uplifting life to a higher beat -
A rhythm that can trap your feet
And click your fingers.

English language teachers don't
Dance how I imagined them to...
And yet, I'm sad when the music's through
And my memory of them
And that simple, yet brutally important night
Lingers...

i always wanted to
try listening to the
debut album of
a british goddess
while ironically
killing my own
pair at sunrise --
but as plans often go
south for mice and
men equally, so do
my own;
               languid
wakefulness ran
down my gullet
like seconds on
a smooth cocktail
seasons too late,
and moreover,
my addled brain
forgot the catalyst
the night before
last when i was
trudging along
in the dark and
some saviors in
a cheap white
chariot pulled
into the parking
space beside me,
telling me to
get in --
like they knew
or i knew, or we
all had some odd
mutual feeling of
positive vibrations;
like reminiscing
about early in
last august when
a mysterious scarf-
clad traveler with
sacred arabic
etched into his
hands slipped
me an equally
sacred slip of
paper with
nothing more
to give it purpose,
reason, definition,
or validation, than
that single glorious
and grammatically
incorrect pairing
of expressive
awareness.

i don't plan to meet
the pilgrim again,
regardless of our
unfinished affairs,
but sitting on that
little square of cloth
on top of manicured
lawn in cosmic harmony
with strangers, new friends,
serenaded by sigur ros
and kept company by
grouplove, i've never felt
more enlightened,
more awestruck,
more tuned into
those frequencies
above human
perception,
broadcasting
the only message
we deny ourselves
indefinitely --
*happiness.

After what feels like
a plethora of years
I've fallen in a hole
that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it
because once in a while
after a plethora of days
or hours
I am pulled apart by emotion.

No, not emotion--
the repercussions
thereof

The repercussions,
the repercussions of those repercussions,
and the repercussions of those--
A plethora of consequences

Have you ever been so stressed out
that you actually vomited?
Me... neither?
Instead I sway
from side-to-side
like a swing pushed
in the wrong direction
and as the sky turns
I make corrections
only hoping my wisdom is
"grammatically",
structurally sound--
unlike a skyscraper
pushed in the wrong direction--
As my eyes begin to burn
I wish the sky
would just stay dark
and that morning would never come
so I wouldn't have to meet
my daily migraine
nor the time of day
when I have to stop
wait
listen
learn
work
negotiate, speak, drum, impress,
produce, create, multiply
add and subtract
all in one sitting
all in one hour
every **** hour

Nor the time of day

when I start

to think

about

you.

That's when my mind
finds my heart.

They don't speak--
They just listen to one another
smiling sweet as Tupelo honey
I can almost imagine it
through the blood rushing
in my ears when I close them--
But it just feels
like a fist fight in my chest,
and the rage of it burns in my throat
and the spectators cheer them on
which resonates in my hands
which are then unable to write
which is a sad fact
that keeps my eyes from shutting at night,
at least not as soon as I want them to--

You don't have to tell me I'm crazy--

It screams at the back of my head when
you stare at me like that
thinking a plethora of
things that I can't keep in
a jar so that I can spread it
on my toast in the morning--
Saying a plethora
of things I misinterpret
to silence this
plethora of thoughts
that fall from my eyes
without ever reaching the ground
and the plethora
of grass-roots
who wouldn't know how to drink them
if they did
The plethora of times
I passed opportunities
without saying a word,
disguised them as reasons
not to say a plethora of phrases
in reply--
The plethora of plethoras
that communicate through an alphabet
of more than twenty-six letters
so that, in the middle of the night--
when I don't know what to dream about
and therefore must think instead--
it can irritate me
in more words than belong
in a dictionary.

But sometimes there's just one word
and the word that haunts me tonight is:

Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
That's the flat sound of Pl-,
a soft, tender eth-
and the gasp of an -a
Plethora--
Plethora--
A hundred things yet to be said
Plethora--
So many crises
so much time
Plethora--
Not quite enough to make you mine
Plethora--
Plethora--
Plethora--

Plethora...


Ple­thora...




Plethora...




Plethora...







*Plethora...­

Alphabet soup

I could never tell their order, for they all came out so fast
All the letters in the alphabet, all came with a blast
Words I did not recognise, words I did not choose
All of the letters they kept scrambling
All of them amused.

I see them all before me,
A vast ocean full of glee.
Words becoming sentences
Grammatically painting pictures
For one and all to see.

I see pictures from the present
I see pictures from the past
I see pictures in natures many guises
Some of them cast to last

I read of the mystical meandering, that comes from within Pandora’s Box
I read of the mythical dimensions, of Devinci his ruse that seekers seek to unlock
I read of the magical new beginnings, in nature as seasons produce its flocks
I read of the wonders of the universe, bequeathed by scientists since time started the ticking of its clock

All the wonderful letters bequeathed to those that note,
All the wonders of the mind, its senses from which the stories float.
All these special visions’ artists choose to collate,
All these special pictures writers choose to paint.

(c) 12.14

A flow, a pen, an ink stained palm.
A life, a story, all gone wrong.
A spark of hope in the night, maybe?
No, your hope is grammatically incorrect.

"This is where your sentence could have ended
but it didn't," see?
Nonetheless, it wants so desperately to end.
An incomplete thought, a fragment -
A fragmented existence with an expired due date.

Can you pick up the forlorn pieces?
Use your calloused fingers to avoid getting cut.
You continued the sentence,
But you used the semicolon wrong.

(Litos)
Hey yo start the beat
I'm Coño mixed with “pardon me”
and part of me thought to see
the kid behind the harmony,
where’s the scholarly artistry?
you burn my chest so viciously,
Caught heart disease,
these bars, emcee
are so clogged into your arteries.

(Yeshua)
I know its hard to be
as raw as me
and still rap consciously

(Litos)
But your consciously
conflicted between honesty and modesty.

(Yeshua)
Well honestly
I'm probably a prodigy
just trying to make a profit
of this prophecy
so I can feed the body
of the God in me.

(Litos)
We stay calm
with made bombs
and grey palms
Im saying what I say, calm!
But know this is my song.

Your the kid by the bricks with his homies to smoke ****.

(Yeshua)
No! I’m the kid in the back of the class getting no sleep.

(Litos)
Same story different penmanship
but this sentence in irreverent
Your browner than the cypher.

(Yeshua)
I'm In tune with my sentiments.
sonically logical
grammatically accurate.

(Litos)
Quick the masking
get off that fashion
you know you have to be disastrous.

(Yeshua)
You know my life
we hold the mic
my flow is to bring the soul to life
I met faith face to face
and that's the reason I roll the dice
I’m prolific with the written
and that’s the way you know its me
perfect with the poetry
and we don’t need to know to read.

(Litos)
Hey yo Yeshua do me a favor and elevate those decimals
and watch those foot soldiers dismember your generals

(Yeshua)
You promise me you'll forget it
but the feeling is unforgettable
but now I’m trying to get it
cause you said I wasn't ghettoble.

(Litos)
But I don’t need a step up stool
to ****** you off your pedestal.

(Yeshua)
Shut up!
My mother use to make me eat knowledge
instead of vegetables,
but now I grab a fork and knife
what ever metaphor is right,
Don’t swarm me like locust
You know I really don’t like to fight
i’ll beat a dead pig to life
don’t catch my photons
you’ll burn with light
cause I have skills like your favorite Emcee

(Litos)
Before the Hype?
now the locust is scattering like roaches
guess they saw the light
make them look so bad
you think they would want to fight?

(Yeshua)
Cause' when they see me speak
they start to laugh at me a first
then they get shattered
and they beg for me to do a verse

(Litos)
Dude? Your brain is disproportion
You have three endorphin?

(Yeshua)
They work when I
write words
perform words
or record them
and do it with no sleep
and beat breeze

Don’t ask me what that **** means
its a riddle with a sick scheme,

(Litos)
So put me on your playlist
don't put me on your **** list!
If you are just in this for business
then skip this.

(Yeshua)
But soon all you fools
in this
just witness
that this kid is gifted
like rich kids on Christmas.

(Litos)
The sickness with which I'm afflicted
is lethal
Yeshua be careful what you shoot up
through that needle.

(Yeshua)
SHUT THE **** UP!

I don't give a ****
You won't win this fight
cause' I won this fight
get off my mic...

i find the fact that you edit out little mistakes in typing hilarious.
you get high out of your mind and say the weirdest ******* **** i've ever seen
all over facebook
but it is ******* grammatically correct

brian,
you complain all over the internet
about how in love with me you are
you whine to anyone who will listen
but you are so unpredictable
irritable
******* out of your mind
that i can't love you
you're like loving a flippant breeze
and i don't have time for you

get off your marijuana horse

I used to speak French
to protect myself.
impressing those around me
with grammatically incorrect insults
hidden behind a smile
to make them think I just
said something beautiful.

C’est la vie.

My mother lied to me.
My father hid his lie from me.
My brother thought he was lying to
me when he was really
telling me the truth.

I used to draw blood in order
to feel something when in
actuality I was feeling
everything.

I have a notebook, a pen
and a bag of pretzels; the
tunnels of light to escape these
walls.

A wall I can’t see.
Strangers I don’t trust.
Friends I send away…

Maybe I should have spoken
Spanish, that way more
people would have been
able to call my bluff.

Funny.
I prefer Spanish food over French.
Save for Wine – Tequila makes me sick.

I hate teenagers.
I’ve discovered this in the past year.

Maybe it’s time to learn a new language.

transcript from a cult movie

bolec: O! zobacz bracie! spójrz jak oni sie ruszają; nie sądisz że polskim chłopakom też by sie przydało troche luzu? przykómaj te kocie ruchy! mogliśbymy sie od czarnych wiele nauczyć... koko-dzambo i doprzodu! to moje hasło, dobre nie? czasami żauje że nie urodziłem sie czarny. hej! chłopaki! a może macie ochote objerzeć film? ja ogłądam po kilka filmów dziennie: pościgi, strzelaniny, wojny gangów, to mój chleb codzienny... mam nowy zajebisty film... "smierc w Wennecji", nieźle brzmi, co?                spokojnie, zaraz sie rozkręci...

fred: ty jak ty sie nazywasz bo zapomniałem? kolec? stolec?

bolec: bolec.

fred: no, więc posłuchaj mnie teraz uważnie, bolek... byłeś w stanach?

bolec:  nie...

fred: no właśnie... a ja znam kogoś kto był... i opowiedział mi to i owo... w iesz skąd przyjechali czarni do ameryki?!?

bolec:  z afryki...

fred: no właśnie... handlarze niewolników przywieźli ich z Afryki... A myślisz, że to taka prosta sprawa wysiąść na plaży w Afryce, złapać w siatkę zwinnego, silnego murzyna i wywieźć go za ocean?!?

bolec:  chyba nie...

fred: no jasne, że nie... udało im się to zrobić ponieważ wywozili tylko takich co albo nie potrafili spierdolić przed siatką, albo byli największymi głąbami z plemienia i wódz sprzedawał ich za paczkę fajek, bo i tak nie miałby z nich pożytku. i ci wszyscy nieudacznicy pojechali do ameryki. pożenili się, porobili dzieci... świat poszedł do przodu... pojawiły się komputery, amfetamina, samoloty, ale co z tego, jeżeli ich serca pompują tę samą krew, są potomkami człowieka, który na własnym podwórku dał się złapać w siatkę, więc nie uważam, że naszym chłopakom brakuje luzu... kapujesz?!?

and it takes just another big **** to have a one night stand,
and a big enough heart to have a relationship
so the soul enmeshes the juices - that famous
W.D. 40 moment - and a cheap U.B. 40 moment too -
it's a drag like that, he can run a 100 metres in under
10 seconds, but when he swims you just hear
dolphin cackling in the background - not **** aqua
for sure, that's me, with the myth of Atlantis -
orderly, please! line up! take your badges and disperse,
we'll be back here again at the fire-evacuation point
in the the near future - in the meantime do whatever
it is you do, and do it. shame really - you ever see
the fire equipment of 1666? a large water bucket...
people either had a lot of common sense back then
or had magnanimous airs about them
(see how many lawsuits were made in the past decade),
primitive technology - i guess people thought a lot
back then... no talk of dementia - they were hardly literate
but they thought a lot, becoming literate meant
becoming aristocratic degenerates - excess wine, *******
***, scab and crawling ***** on the cranium
intended as barbers - then too many synonyms came,
you said barber and he knew the beard and moustache
was an extension of the head - sure, softer keratin, the harder
version being - i've ***** on my face! i've ***** on my face!
short and briskly - freshly mowed lawn... mm, nice -
fiddle the other part, i'll take a Sikh's beard and make a
violin's bow on the sly - see how Mozart sounds after
that. the Mongol stank and conquered the Alexandrian
Dream - before the arrows pierced, the stench overpowered.
it's just a dreaded affair - in order to give pleasure
i have to give my inner life up - the Greeks called it
barbarism the over way round - words from a *******
as if implying i get really jealous and bring out a knife -
the wonderful phenomenon of the schizoid condition,
or as prior worded, premature dementia, yet such people
continue to be fully functioning in a sense -
language debris - a meteor's tail - politicised psychiatry -
the easy route - say the noun hammer and you know
exactly what to do, unless it's Heidegger's hammer
and you realise he's implying two labourers talking
philosophy while working manually - in that
the ego (nail) should be hammered into a plank
of wood (thought) as easily as the reverse - the reverse
being the hammer (extended into the profession that
uses it frequently - i, carpenter) utilised (being, a) -
i.e. i, being a carpenter, nails, hammering in.
i didn't think this through - what's bugging my certainty
in how to explain it without conversation between
two carpenters discussing philosophy, which never happens,
is not what i'm bothered with, the real issue is i have
with the inherent negativism of subjectivity in English
interpretation of philosophy, crudely:
subjectivity is bad, wrong, self-indulgent, pseudo -
this stress in English thinking with its glorification of
objectivity is, to be honest, strange...
it comes from a book review of Wagner's Ring of
the Nibelung - equatable words: banal and subjective -
banal - trite - well given the "success of the human species"
i'm surprised it's not a universal truth that
we've come a bit trite given the numbers - i've seen
cucumbers fresher than people, we're bound by
an approximate of 70 springs, cucumbers are bound
by 1 spring, you get fresh in a supermarket,
you don't get fresh in books, what with the third butterfly
species σκoνιςμυγα (skonismyga - so not -muga?
up Saigon? i thought you cut off the bits you didn't
want and put the other letters with the cut offs together?
no wonder - upsilon [u] isn't said - just like in Latin
in English we have why - iota not y - dust-fly, i guess
Babylon did survive, in the variations disguising "dyslexia")...
but why is subjectivity so horrid? i thought
we all had our take on things and none of us wanted
to speak for the whole of humanity? Nietzsche warned
and defended individualism like that - who
would want to speak for the entirety of humanity?
in the political realm in the west subjectivity is defended
rigorously - because if you begin championing objectivity
in politics the Iraq Invasion was a bit stupid -
despotism, d'uh - yet in England the tradition is to
have a culture of literature that shuns subjectivity
and champions objectivity - why is subjectivity so
negatively perceived? oh, you're afraid someone is
so ardent on their choice of interest they they might
by accident speak-spit into your face?
subjectivity can't be so ****** negative, it's an expression
of an escape from what objectivity already
defined in the pinnacle by Descartes: res cogitans,
(a) thinking thing - we only write subjectively because
we've been caged in that little no. 2 of a waiter's james
bond tux - we staged an escape, a self-worth fanaticism
on the subjects we love rather than "have to" investigate
without passions, just hubris - which is what
critics use - hubris, disdain - the study of language could
have a similitude to the math of
1 (hubris) and x 1 = hubris, 1 and x 2 = audacity, etc.
in the synonymous table - the lubricant factor.
so, anger over, back to Heidegger's hammer -
nail (ego)            plank of wood (thought)
hammer (therefore)                   a table (existence) -
so why need proofs? why do i need to prove i necessarily
exist (when i don't) or that god unnecessarily exists
(when he does) - why prove something?
so another million schmucks can come along and
prove it either way? it's the nonsense attributed to
Descartes - he stressed an impossible objective-subjectivity
(grammatically more understandable, rigid:
noun-noun doesn't work, ah, objective-subjectiveness -
noun-adjective, pencil-sharpener, pencil-needs-sharpening)
in terms of others - hence the existential other -
well impossible for anyone else to have thought it up,
the impasse of wanting to plagiarising it - a real cul de sac -
well, that's me done on the topic - sonic -
as far as i'm concerned most people keep rigidity
a tight collar of using language not coming across a speedy
suggestion to not think about:
the speed-game of preposition juggling and contras etc.,
the acquisitive use of a language v. the inherited use of a language,
two different ballparks - what i acquired i thus express,
what the organically-historic entity inherited he
will primarily convene to call Poles vermin - a little
perplexed by a more labyrinth style of language used -
it gets personal day by day - but of course the ******* are
a protected species due to their colonial roots - at least
with skin-shallow discrimination you have the obvious bang,
and the immediate retort... this **** is swelling, slowly...
slowly... slowly... those were 8 million or so
Polish-Jews... also vermin... this **** already imploded...
it hasn't exploded... it's a dummy bomb... it imploded...
it's swelling... slowly... slowly... slowly... and when you
won't know it... BANG!

He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.

Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.

“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.

A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.

What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.

A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.

I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”  
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.

I don’t want near your pre-k rhyming stanzas,
your backstabbing friends, your sky-scraper tall tales,
your hopelessirrevocableunrequited “love”, or your non-beating heart.
I don’t want to know why it breaks when your significant other of one week
ends your relationship with a three worded grammatically incorrect sentence
without punctuation.
You aren’t a magazine and I do not want a subscription to your issues.
You want to cry? Fine, but don’t do it here.
I wouldn’t touch your “Feelings” with a ten foot poll,
not your heart, not your head and most certainly not your soul.
So don’t ask. I might actually punch you in the face.
Find somebody who can stand reading the words
“u r mi luv an now I h8 u” more than once.
You want expression? Go find an art room.
This is the English language. There are rules.
You don’t like rules? They don’t like you either,
but they’re the reason you’ll still be alive when you’re thirty
and not in the bottom of some ditch.
Don’t come at me with your this and that,
your purtty, purrty words or your excessive, use, of, commas,
because I will tear you apart. And it will hurt.
You want to whine? Do it somewhere else. I couldn’t care less for your 2-d crisis.
I am not your mother. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise.
Tell me “but-but-but he said please” or “my heart is a dark pit of shriveled mushrooms”
and I will jam a pencil in your forehead.
You will probably cry (and bleed. A lot).
I will laugh.
You want to brag you cut yourself?
I want to cut you too.
Sit down, shut up, and stop.
You’ll find yourself loudest in the quiet.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Think, listen, hear, see.
Are you still alive?
Can you still hear me?
Is it still the end of the world?
I don’t want your problems.
I want your quiet.

What's with this phrase, 'come at me bro'
What does that really mean?
People use it to provoke, but why?
There's nothing particularly threatening about it,
And it's not even very grammatically correct
One could just as easily say
'Get thee away from me, ye dark angel of hell'
And it would be equally offensive
Or more so, if a bit befuddling.
But why not say 'come at me bro'
As a request for affection?
I know I would much rather say this
And receive, instead of a flurry of blows,
An armful of sweet affection

We were up in the air,
Or it was love,
Maybe the heat rising as the night set into place.

In the parking lot that glowed with the moon reflecting on the cars,
He brushed the hair from my face with the tips of his fingers,
And cradled my head in his lap,
While Bright Eyes serenaded the night,
Kissing my tired eyes in the middle of all the songs.

I felt specks of lust in my heart,
But more of a sense of adoration,
Affection,
Which is rare for me,
The girl of stone.

I stopped thinking for a good three minutes about how I couldn't offer myself or even a part without the constant anxiety of possible loss,
How the words he would write in the morning love notes weren't always grammatically correct,
How earlier he grabbed my hand without knowing it held a coffee and led it to spill on my sleeve.

He buried small pecks in my hair,
Taking breaths of the floral scent still present from yesterday's washing.

I sat there in the humming of the car radio with a rapid heart beat,
And soon, a feeling of guilt.

"I don't deserve someone who is this good to me."
And while I couldn't think of the reasons why,
The statement stuck in my head,
Forcing me to sit up and stare out the midnight window as if I was expecting a familiar face to show on the other side.

Abruptly leaving was my only option before eating myself alive.
I drove the whole way home missing the eighteen goodnight kisses I ran away from,
And the brightly lit possibilities that hung from the stars.
All because I didn't think I deserved them.
But I did. And I do.

i was wrong when i said poetry is dead, i'm more right in saying that poetry is ****** - everyone's eager to lip-up and de-numb the english stiff upper-lip with rhymes; but poetry became overly technical, and the study of it became an abomination in terms of dissection, unnatural medicine: too technical, too rigid as to be conscious of techniques by way of defining what poetry is... hence most schoolchildren put off by it... too technical, too grammatically-akin-to-technique laden... but i ask you, have you ever paid an extra £10 to a ******* to perform oral *** on her? have you ever eaten this forbidden fruit, and later kissed her lips? have tasted the forbidden flower, oiled up prior with cream to ensure that even if she's not in the mood she's still working and can provide the synthetic ***** juices of arousal? have you? we'll have a chat when you do, after eating that forbidden fruit, and then becoming a thief by kissing her against those absurd codes of conduct of prostitution.

this is the only method i see fit
for filtering our scientific facts
and going at it alone:
mishearing lyrics of songs,
turning them into humble mumble,
like in the song *alive alone
by the chemical brothers from the
album exit planet dust...
'and she shines, she shoe-shines for me...'
then the stitches on the abdomen
and a Chelsea grin...
my grandfather worked in the steelworks,
happily retired after being a brigadier
on one of the production lines,
resory (springs) for trains and tanks
and steel pillars for the stade de france,
pretending to be death, but actually
filtering out what he wants to hear -
you know, after years of working
among sounds of clatter and clamour
hammering and molten iron sizzling -
older men have the benefit of the doubt
of others, seeing old age gracefully,
while old men have the benefit of denial;
and indeed true virtue isn't afraid
of critique... it's afraid of compliments...
the last to learn this are actors
who loath hecklers...
if i were an actor, i'd ask a heckler to come
on stage and act with me,
i'd become the sufler (prompter);
ever heard of the band (the) prompter's booth?
you know, in theatre, the guy in a shady
place unseen with a manuscript whispering
out lines to actors should they forget them...
thank god politicians have the autocue...
because imagine in the democratic model
how many people would have to fit
into the prompter's booth, and they'd hardly
whisper out lines for the grand act...
they'd be screaming like lunatics criticisms.

I’m so nice, I’m so nice
Poppin’ ‘bout life and poverty
Saluting freedom, then liberty
Barbering ‘bout broken homes
Police brutality and fake politics
Then, puttin’ one shoe, upon a petal stool
Next day, breakin’ da number one rule
Shakin’ da jewellery, just like a toff
Makin’ the op-po-sit-ion, just take it off

I’m killing them, I’m killing them
Soap operas, sports 24/7, real life reality
What has dat done, to da young ones mentality
Expect da government, to pay for their new home
Pupils wide open, but grammatically ****
Blaming Putin, instead of Democrats cockiness
While Trump and Republicans, are gettin’ on with business
Wake up USA, land of da free, but nothin’ without a fee
Be yourself, respect your elders, dats wat ya wanna be

You said, in small text:

<p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p>

<p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p>

<p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p>

<p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p>

<p>Good ******* morning. </p>

<p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little ****. Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p>

<p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p>

<p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p>

<p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p>

<p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p>

<p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p>

<p>

Appearance of the New Courier
(with namesake "Georgia Ives")
flew into the courtroom
faster than Bold face WingDings!

After the judge opened
the waxed sealed envelope stamped
with the official legal imprimatur
sound of silence filled the courtroom.

After perusing highlighted principle details,
a noticeable con jug gay shun
didst Impact countenance of attired judge.

Recess announced at authority decree
(spelled out with quotation marks high
lighting dotted i's and crossed t's)
figuratively a nouns sing moratorium
for those accused of run on sentences,
split infinitives, then versus than...
incorrect usage of ellipses, et cetera.

The justice of supreme court
critically espied quotation marks
(underscoring reductio ad absurdum
Times New Roman regulation)
against stiff penalty asper those
who commit rhetorical perturbations!    

This lenient fiat occurred immediate
by innocent omission of a colon,
which subsequently, naturally,
and immediately affected
every future jury presiding over
a defendant applying incorrect punctuation!

A favorite comma cull anecdote
often repeated by my late english
grammar (a palliative to me psyche
despite the multi-generational
difference in age) happened
when she celebrated twenty  
and counting punctual marks, whence time
in utero came to an end period.

Many question marks still abound
as per the specific circumstances
of this generally uneventful birth,
only that she seemed to dash
from the womb (of her mother –

mine great grandmother christened
Latina Greco) with a pointed
exclamation declaration
of independence while ****** constitution
adorned with supposedly shimmering
invisible golden braces
and a full set of teeth.

Somewhat averse to authoritarianism
and mores of assuming the sir name
of the groom, she maintained nom
de plume affixed on her birth certificate.

If born that way today, and ready
to pledge marital vow, would
probably follow the common custom
and hyphenate name of beau similar
to newlyweds of this day and at this very moment.

Back in those days though,
town’s folk exclaimed with
pointed superstition that a baby born
after being bracketed nine months

within the womb (which seemed
like an eternal sentence), and equipped
with the means to chew would
most likely experience little colon difficulty.

As a dignified divine dowager,
she willingly shared her cradle
to graveside tidbits (populated
with many wisecracks and
marked quotations from a life
that spanned more than a century21.

Smart as a whip or pin
(the latter term somewhat out of vogue),
this independent woman
(who married into nobility

from humble roots) frequently evinced
el shaped lips when the un
suspecting recipient ensnared
of her harmless ingenious pranks.

Aside from what many considered
childlike antics (which characteristic
salient trait appealed to this grandson),
she excelled at verbal adroitness

and could spin a jesting lightly
mocking pun, which seemed
to quiver with an invisible
apostrophe shaped blackened barb.

Though privileged per parochial parents,
her inherited empire and peers, the people
of the proletariat class felt
figuratively parenthetically
included as persons of concern
to this genteel dame.

She exemplified and wore that moniker
noblesse oblige with utmost
august excellence, and whenever
the need or wont arose to address
the madding crowd (this
crowned empress) resorted
to non-verbal communication ala semaphore.

Her lily-white hands (most often
remained sheathed in Palmolive
clad ding silken gloves - exuded
a faint patrician touch) partitioned

the air with arabesques accentuated
with sign language for those
among the teeming masses
unable to hear or in fact deaf.

Regular adherence to being grammatically
(yet not necessarily politically) correct
witnessed the air being sliced with even
less familiar punctuation symbols
such as the emdash, en-dash.

Even doctorates of English and
strict task masters (whose
frowning scowls strongly resembled
semicolons when even minor indiscretions,
infractions, transgressions, et cetera
with english language observed)

never found fault with this
former bohemian, whose rhapsodic,
melodic, linguistic voice ameliorated
dark memories from dereliction dis
played by former queen.

She also received the treatment of
a champion lyricist, whereby every lyre
(got set on fire) from utterance akin
to a choir of hells angels, yet this

chanteuse voice rang thru the
azure vault causing the small hairs
of the spine to experience a pleasant
electric shock therapy.

One's and Three's

Grammatically obscene
To be one and to be three
To be it and to be them
A me and a we

A lonely *******
Natures experiments gone wrong
The beast dances with man
And the man cries in awe

But the man shows the soul
And the soul feels it all
But cannot take it in
It’s conscious wails within

The beast thinks he wins
But without purpose is he
To the soul he will reach
But with the hopeless he sleeps

So the animal is free
The man lets us see
And the soul makes us wonder
But all three suffer

For each others role we fiend
In silence i scream
So jealous are we

When everything is said and done
you logged on and went straight to my page of
poems the one, you thought was grammatically incorrect
verses of encouragement, verses of noticeable texts


I am a poetess: I am the daughter of a man who
chopped down mahogany trees just to earn a living
  to feed his big family: a mighty man was he
he was a person not to be reckoned with:
A wired pressure cooker: a ***** with a switch

I tell my story in form of words
I will compose them quite clearly, just follow the lines
Because, the tongue is more to be feared than my words
I am afraid of the ocean, it doesn’t speak my language
  It’s has a long history of chemical: Sea salt

Who’s to blame not the ocean, only me?
I go to visit it; it never comes to visit me:
So when everything is said and done,
Who logged on and came to visit who?

I don't think that I have the power
to relate what I know of you
through the prism of a narrative.
I tried to tell your story yesterday
in my carefully constructed
grammatically correct way.
Failing miserably at a proper
biography, as you deserve,
I must recount what I know
in the only way I can.

Within my heart live a series of images,
memories burned into me
by the intensity of our meetings
and the ferocity of the late night
phone calls born of that chemical
with no name, equal parts sorrow and flame.

It was easy to find you,
but God it was hard to leave.
From the first kiss to the last
and everything in between.

I don't know how many times
you called me crying so hard
that you couldn't even speak.
How many times you told me
that you wanted to die without
even a second thought for what
those words did to my heart.
I accepted it all though,
every single strand of you,
gave you all the love I knew how.

There is no word for the sorrow
that comes with knowing that
I couldn't save you from yourself.
It didn't matter how many razors
I took from your trembling hands,
how much blood I wiped from your thigh
or how many tears I shed for you.

At the end, that last night and morning
just a week ago now,
you looked right through me
with eyes that didn't see.
I took you in my arms and there was nothing.
The girl I knew and loved doesn't exist anymore.

I'm sorry that you had to die in my heart,
but know that I loved you enough
for it to be killing me inside.
I guess that the boy in me is gone now,
since I walked away anyway.
I didn't cry, I don't regret it.
You're just one more ghost after all.