.i have come to realiße that... it's not so much what you write about... but the mere fact of writing... i can't imagine myself being subjected to something, like a narrative, or furthering a character study... i can be the object of whatever is whimsical enough to come into my head of its own accord - i want to forget forcing something to come into this puncture, this dam, this incision that i am coordinating... and it's not that i'm objecting to something, but i am not going to subject myself to - no more than a whim, of its own desires... with no attached: i think so too... it's not about what i write anymore: it's the fact that i write... if i'll be able to spew 3 thousand words tonight... i'll be content... because... i know that i have crossed the threshold of not being left "satisfied": nonetheless constipated by an instagram haiku... mind you... that's a very troubling hindsight note you have in there... wouldn't an object the size of the earth... in a vacuum of space... create its own winds to imitate movement? there is no wind on the moon... yes... and we're talking hindsight from 420BC... the moon landing happened in the 20th century... let's give it some times before that becomes an obvious hindsight too... do you feel movement - rotating - did the turkish dervishes help at all?

the fine line between: competition and corporation,
otherwise known as a: very, very, naive poo'em...

by a definition alone:
it's not so much concerning whether this
would ever become a capitalism vs.
a communism "debate"...

after all - i'm ref. walking a tight-rope...

of the latter, verbatim:
'an association of individuals,
created by law or under authority of law,
having a continuous existence independent
of the existences of its members
and powers and liabilities distinct from
those of its members'...

can i just point out, foremost,
in an environment of competition laws can be bent...
to add to: the spectacle...
the athletics doping scandals:
it's within a spirit of competition...
the sprinters are not corporating for give
a spectacle... they are competing...
for the the spectacle...
ask me again the difference between...
what used to be a competitive event
done during leisure hours...
and what was a leisure event akin
to reading...
and ask me again: the difference between
taking part in the event of competing...
and watching a competition -
and what had to be involved to give
the spectacle its architecture...
i don't think it was so much competition
as it was corporation... never mind for now...

after all... how many times have laws
been bent when watching a football match?
the passing of law is hardly an objective
crux that so many "rational" and logic-"riddled"
people stress - can be made by one man...
sure... laws in vivo - science and what not...
these objective safety-nets...
that can lead to endless to-and-fro...
but i hardly think... man is capable of passing
objective laws: in vitro... notably in -
           in unum: omni...
unless that's a schizophrenic metaphor...
which is already a metaphor when
tested on a bilingual brain...

how many people did it take...
to pass: the earth rotates around the sun?

the heliocentric model...
genesis in the west from philolaus,
heraclides ponticus,
pythagoras (hindsight...
wouldn't an object moving in
a vacuum of space... create winds of
its own?)
aristarchus of samos,
then onto philolaus of croton -
anaxagoras; whoever was
debunked by ptolemy... then so many years...
until enough time passed...
before people could take the plunge and
be certain: for old time's sake with
copernicus - well the people have been sleeping
for long enough...
enough time has passed and we can pass...
this objective truth... that the heliocentric
model is true and that the pharaohs held
no authority as the sons of the sun
in the static geocentric model...
likes Xerxes ordering the sea to the be whipped
to calm down... and become a lake...
some pharaoh must have had a wild
idea telling a sand dune to stop moving
or seeing some mt. sinai said: shrink!
so instead be said: let's build us a... perfect pyramid...
a mountain that looks... geometric from
both afar and near!

or at least that's what Homer would have
said when visiting Giza: Δ'uh!

so a single man is somehow justified
in passing an objective truth?
unless the mob encores...
but what about the jury - a trial without a jury
is any trial at all...
murky ground if you ask me...
i don't expect man to pass...
judgement for a universal equilibrium...
but what i do expect is that:
he doesn't think he's capable of this: grandiosity!
clearly he's not... the objective reality
of falling... the subjective: i'm right as
allocated the status judge: therefore i'm standing still.

competition in a medical environment...
only in the realm of psychiatry...
and the mine-field of misdiagnosed misfortunes...
but i hardly think... competition is a catalyst
for getting surgery done...
corporation, yes...
among farmers? a rare treat....
a hobby pursuit for a selected fraction of
the crop... the dear-to-my-heart "g.m." tomato...
but all the other tomatoes... need to be harvested...
but this my pet-tomato... which needs to be:
THIS BIG! another matter...

sport and competition...
but work... and competition?
no wonder work and competition,
rather than corporation gives end results as...
who's wearing the most trendy sneakers?
who's social media account requires...
the most editing? who's child is the one with
the smartphone? etc. etc.

the bait of the poo'em is that it's naive:
but i think it is - so there's that to begin with...

i still can't fathom that "capitalism" was solely
promulgated on competition -
i'm still having to address the "model" as...
having to retain a "socialist" aspect akin to corporation
to get away with... what later became:
an all out economic "war" of competition...

naive utopian of me to somehow huddle
at the fireplace of corporation...
work - if so many people hate their work...
what would be the only gratifying
alleviation? and i'm pretty sure some places of work
are less about competition: and more about
corporation - as i write this...
the british national health service...
some people will compete by cutting corners...
competition will lead to doping scandals...
competition is... an Elisium for the few
and... a crab-bucket for the some...
call them the 10% cliff-hangers...

i've noticed it in poetry... slam poetics...
what not... this affair is already riddled with too many
****-up ****-wit window-lickers:
of which i am primo...
but i don't think it necessary to compete...
this was never about competition...
not every work is required to be
tinged with competition...
sometimes... it's just better to corporate...
do... undertakers compete?
do... postmen compete?
last time i heard: each is allocated his volume
of letters... it doesn't matter whether
he finishes his chores before the other postmen...
no postman is stupid enough
to take up someone else's allocated letters...
the first finishes his chores sooner...
the latter works overtime without pay...
it's a corporation of endeavours...
all the same... but there is no need to give these
postmen running orders when
they can walk the ******* mile...

competition within the realm of sport is one
thing... i guess a long time ago...
some people engaged in competition: sports...
to escape the general lagging begin plateau
of corporation... Rome wasn't build in
a single day... others dedicated themselves to
slouch and sloth of expanding the cranium
by reading a book...

the naive is still the bait...
is conscripting in an army...
about competition... or following orders and hierarchy
and therefore: not solely about corporation?
hierarchy you ask...
well... wouldn't that be something borrowed from
plutocracy / nepotism?
competition in an army environment...
what if you're in the royal guard
competing at what... shooting more blanks
into the sky expecting to shoot down the moon
at a wrestling-match fake
of staging of a state funeral?!
the cannons sounded... and that's all these
ever did... they were shooting with
empty wallnut shells! the wallnuts were
eaten by gunpowder gremlins long ago...
before the pomp & circumstance was shot
with: aenemic *****...

this is not a capitalism vs. a communism
debate... communism was riddled with nepotism...
come to think of it...
capitalism is not there yet...
but it's already there...
from what i've heard...
capitalism as this utopia ideal is not a meritocracy:
exceptions are made...
cicero was an exception of the roman empire
under nero...
exceptions and genetic freaks...
is this still a naive poem?

i can understand where competition works -
notably in what jobs it might work...
but most jobs require a stable work ethic
of corporation...
perhaps all self-employed entrepreneurs...
"perhaps" have no corporation in mind...
to a greater degree of orientating themselves...
in that corporation is: outside the bracket...
if everyone was suddenly...
self-employed... there would be no fear of...
the robotic onslought to come...
at least then... the microcosm would open...
and there would no longer be any employees...
just self-employed facets of...
"corporations in name only"...
which they already are...
corporations in name only...
given that... the corporations are no longer
competing with each other...
they have consolidated on a monopoly...
and since they are no longer competing with each
other... they have designated their former...
inter-competition into a hierarchal intra-competition
of "employees"...

can a bus driver, or a tube train operator compete?
by law... you can only drive a bus for 8 hours...
to operate a tube train... you can do X number of hours...
and these include breaks... necessary breaks...
can you find competition in these:
ultra-corporative environments? no!
capitalism might think it is necessary to scare everyone
into: the robots are coming! time to be self-employed
and compete! compete!
but some jobs are still: primed to corporation!

could i ever see undertakers competing?
in times of a spiked demand - during a plague...
what is healthy in sport -
is not necessarily healthy in a workplace -
after all... most people detest earning money -
it's a chore - mind you: do i enjoy writing poo'etry?
am i being paid for writing it?
no... i am "volunteering"... for the love of
the art... for ****'s sake... nothing more!
nothing less!

is this still a naive poo'em: yes... sorry...
i forgot to be caustic and there's no rhyme... my bad...
but this is not a capitalism vs. communism
tirade... from the yoke of the soviet union...
i learned from my mother that...
flues weren't really that prominent...
not until the 1970s...
by then it was a common theme...
biological warfare... while the crown-virus has
yet to claim a life outside of the mandarin
genetics: in the age of propaganda journalism:
you hear a "truth" one day...
three days later you're singing along to your
own "biased" / solipstic narrative...
after a while you have to adopt the "autism"
of solipsism: the world can only bite so much
out of you... you have to turn to standards of delusion
to match to their: from the many, one...

in sport, competition is the "zeitgeist":
it's not a metaphor, it's a misnomer...
but given the " " ditto brackets - i'm tired of looking
for the: "required" word... sometimes...

by the 5th definition of competition...
it's not as direct as corporation, competition
needs to borrow from an -ology...
again, verbatim: 'rivalry between two or more
persons or groups for an object desired in common,
usually resulting in a victor and
a loser but not necessarily involving
the destruction of the latter' -

what is untrue about this is that...
the destruction of the latter is paramount...
at least these days...
am i to believe that capitalism was not,
not ever, tinged with a belief in corporation...
that it was always, somehow, only about
competition?
what was communism born from?
when did the abolishment of serfdom happen
in russia? 1861...
the abolishment of slavery happened
in england in 1865... 4 years after...
but... but!
in russia? the slaves were thought of as...
people from within russia...
in england? the slaves? en route a trade from
one foreign place to another...
wow!
all slavery: either foreign, or domestic...
and to think that communism was a "failure"...
hard to imagine... truly hard to imagine...
given that... communism was born...
4 years prior to slavery in general was abolished...
of foreign to become "nationals"...
what does english he-he-history tell us about
native slaves? four years prior to the slaves
moved from africa to the cotton candy fields...
there were slaves that were not: ***** out of africa...

reperations who's who?!
why didn't capitalism bloom in russia...
why will it never bloom - oligarchs and...
currency of modern western capitalism:
nepotism...
who is jared kushner?
mr. cushions mr. cushtie...
mr. minted in: network baron...
slavery was abolished on the international scale
in england in 1865... four years after...
internal slavery was abolished in russia... 1861...
isn't that the sort of wow you were expecting?!
so when was slavery-slavery abolished
in england?
again... if internal slavery was abolished in russia...
4 years after slavery on an international
stage was abolished...
communism was a failure because: per se...
or... was communism supposed to be...
a short-cut attempt to catch up to capitalism?
was it a failure in catching up to capitalism?
in the 2008 financial clash...
where was Poland? recession free...
again... communism was a failure per se...
but... was it a failure in terms of catching up
to capitalism?
to me... it's still catching up...
when again... we're talking... freeing people...
only 4 years prior to people who would
otherwise still be... rummaging the romances
of Kenya and seeing no albino tourists sipping
brandy on their shores...
perhaps better for the whole load of us...

i ask, again, in my naive way...
that's the difference between competition and corporation?
not much...
a football team needs to compete with other football teams,
but it needs a corporative methodology behind it...
you can sometimes spot a maverick who wants
to be the solipsist in the team and become
nothing more than the top goal-scorcer -
then again: a kevin de bruyne and the number of assists...

if there was to be a level playing field...
everyone was to be self-employed...
what fear from robots?
competition on a ford's:
each man is a cog in the assembly line...
you can't compete... were you supposed to?
i thought that the only reason sport
was fun was to be compete and corporate...
it wasn't solely about competing:
not even in tennis are you ever competing...
unless you're serving a ****-ace...
competing but also corporating:
for the spectacle: with 19shot rallies...

to reiterate: this is a really naive poo'em...
is has to be!
- again... before capitalism became this hell-scape
spiral of: fear of robotics / a.i.:
let's just see if we get enough self-employed
people on board...
oh sure: the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed bus-driver...
i'm sure there was, what's not called:
a "healthy spirit of competition" in work related
niches of existence...

i'm an alcoholic living among workaholics...
not a pretty sight... believe me...

i'm sure that capitalism... must have began
with: a "healthy spirit of corporation"...
that one henry ford would benefit more than
all the assembly line workers: fine...
the brains is allowed the conscious efforts
to move the eyes, close them,
use the jaw... bite... do magic with the tongue...
the liver has no knowledge of alcohol...
the heart isn't exactly aware of either veins
or arteries... fine... a henry ford cigar can get
away with thinking he's not adding
a chimney to the whole affair...
or a rhine-valley load of chimneys...
the stomach doesn't know what taste is...
sure as **** the small intestine knows
what it feels like to be a woman:
should it find itself unfortunate to have
a hitchhiker tapeworm attached to it... etc. etc.

but i imagine the capitalism had a sense of
corporation before...
it worked too many psychopathic sport analogies
into itself... precursor to the fear
or a.i. robbing people of their jobs?
testing people in a self-employed job market...
again: oh sure... the self-employed undertaker...
the self-employed busdriver!
perhaps a self-employed cabbie...
a self-employed surgeon?
how would that work?

        what's that? the cult leader... would not find
a job status match... in a corporate market of ideas?
then a ******* maverick he is...
esp. with such dates as: the brian jonestown
massacre hovering over his head!

perhaps i am naive is reiterating:
work implies corporation rather than competition,
in that work implies chores...
i've seen this in my father -
he doesn't underand household chores
on the basis on corporation -
he understands them on the basis of competition...
and he's to somehow... take pleasure
in the "free bread and circus"...
when the circus is not what it used to be?
once upon a time: the circus involved
men... who were footballers...
but they also did part-time metallurgy work...
they would clock in at a certain hour...
then be let off work to play a football match...
they weren't paid: professional:
disappropriate wages...
because their "work"... was over-inflated
by the gambling syndicate dicta...

there was a utopia in Poland...
it lasted for... roughly 30 years... from 1945
through to 1975... after that the herrings
didn't want to be pickled...
the baltic sea started to boil and the fish
strarted to froth at the mouth...
it's not a nostalgia segment: i was born in 1986...
this is mythology: curating the temporal
standards of modern journalism...
history: what time ago?
50 years? elvis was abducted by aliens...
n'esst ce pas?!

slam poetry competition with fellow:
poo'em eaters...
can i jut take the armchair with Horace?
i don't feel like competing...
what am i competing for?
volume... a new YA novel?
i will not ***** language...
even if it is a language i acquired:
and it's not a tattoo native first come first served
expression...
this is not a capitalism vs. communism
affair...

all the: towel in champions of capitalism
have made it clear:
start a traditional family, start a farm...
milk some goats...
pluck some eggs... living the dream:
brown fingers and all...
                       way way out from competition
in the workplace...
so... no need to corporate...
solo does it...
                                and if i'll be needing some
milk... i'll likewise claim: an autistic
pension and enough barren land to feed
goats organic glue and toilet paper that
magically morph into... a propaganda poster...

olim truncus eram ficulnus, inutile lignum:
once i was a stump of fig,
a wood without use... this is my best Horace:
thank you, goodnight...

what is to be competed for?
rather: what it to be retained, kept, status quo
enclosed... this pride for corporation?
competition in the workplace can only go as far...
not all professions can allow competition...
some will forever retain their base:
corporation...
to compete outside the realm of sport...
sport... those with enough awareness
of the body would pursue it...
those with a bit more brain in tow...
wouldn't... the ghost limb terms:
there's nothing of note
when it comes to competing with i.q. in
mind... or corporating...
there's this ancient feat of "solipsism" and
self-bettering... rather than running
the "expected" mile...
was capitalism always this:
chicken-shack-shackled into... wishing to squeeze
out drinking water... from pig ****?

again... this is not as easy give-away
that it's a capitalism versus communism base scrutiny...
all the eastern european laid-deeds have made it into
their chandelier filled land-allotement sights of
better ****** that gynocentrism...
i don't mind...
      yes... because among the bulgarian strip-party
i'm the ottoman janissary turned
well spoken sheikh... when morocco is given...
a fictional name... and i'm the Ali
that rubs Muhammad's lamp and
averts the... most ****** schism...
oh sure... Islam would be a pure religion...
and they would be allowed to complain about
porky-pies...
but... you see... how long did it take
for a schism to emerge between the orthodox grees
and tha catholic italians?
how long did the islamic schism take
to grovel and dig trenches?
not that much...
after all... Shia... Persians... Ali Woke-oh-Haram...
and the ****'ite... the ***** muslims...
the Saudi bin-Ladens...
well... that schism... didn't take that long...
some whisper about a schism in the monotheism
of the hebrews...
ha ha! i write ha ha... but even i have to laugh
out loud... a monotheism an inbreeding
of something more than genes...
fix the idea... and continue!

by now even i know that christianity has reached
a status of polytheism...
it's the same jesus... sure sure...
via no other than the orthodox,
the catholic, the protestant (calvinist, lutheran)
standards... or the baptists... or the jay-***-***-V-and-G
standards...
next thing you know: the vegans are
the gnostic monks!
because it has to be a joke at this point...
if christianity is a monotheism...
i'm mother theresa and that albanian
that stole george w. bush' mickey mouse's watch
on a state visit...
so to complete the holy trinity...
i'll be... alastair campbell... always for the giggles...

an alcoholic among workaholics...
who always had the satan's postbox concerning
the niqab... the same ones who were to be always
quoted: the beast from the east...
jesus is coming! look busy!

i mean... no need to look busy...
when the high a tide is making a comeback...
would you believe it?
if you saw the words... united kingdom...
england, scotland, wales... ireland...
that this was not moldova?
this is a language these are letters so arranged...
by an island-dwelling folk?
if you're the first, driver...
shotgun! who are we smuggling in the passenger
seats behind us?

imagine my surprise at the rereading,
with the typo: a missing (s) in letter()
and a missing (d) in arrange(d)...
i call them... the lost key of solomon...
or my own personal, hybrid,
hard-on...
oh god kept me with a phallus...
while giving all the angels a proper chopper
of the ol' wood... **** to stump...
i'm the one that wasn't circumcised!

and all i now have to sing about... is...
a forest of pines! a forest of pines!
pines pines pines! yippy caye!

nobody likes the full name.
the class is known simply as "Cell."
stephen king is just as lazy with his titles.
that fool fears blood.

i was listening to rain washing out the gutters
when our teacher called on me,
asking me to explain in my own words:
"How is molecular transportation so highly organized?"
i posited that organelles are not organized.
they are only civilized:
self-governed by apoptosis and a blueprint of proximal culture,
their manuals inefficient, but honed for cooperation through trial and error.
"I'm predisposed to disagree," he said with a tangible glee.
knowing we all adore his berating honesty.
his question stuck with me.
perhaps because i was working
for the office of sustainability
becoming regularly incapacitated
by the shame and exhaustion of preaching.
leading an uprising through the power of teaching.
i decided the only organized transportation
is an axial conduit to the electorate's war,
always social and hierarchal
because that's what culture is for.
at 19 i was loaded up with a sticky elixir
to be protected from being called a *****.
i will never forget how I spotted lightly for three days
-stopped for one week-
and then for two straight months, it was a downpour.

we are only tearing apart the bitty ants
and there is still blood on our hands.

i believe blood looks best on our hands.
but we were taught to meticulously detach
and to prepare our matching bargains
beneath the atmosphere's volatile dance.
poison is in the body and the air
ready to be bottled and batched.
even when i find my friends
whole and happy in France,
my key stays clotted in the latch.

How long does it take for a single thought to disintegrate into oblivion, like a leaf in a stormy tantrum of winds?
Discarding uttered, syllabic hopes and exchanging them for silent resignation.
We must learn to trust the weight of our voices, crying out against the hierarchal restrain of free-thinkers, the infliction of pain upon zealous, revolutionary-born eye-blinkers, altering the stale air and walk of a complacent nation.
A nation choosing easy over beneficial, leaving the actual judging to the judicial minds and entwining quick satisfaction with tangible, ready action, but ignoring the consequential intellect to make lasting effects.
Conquer instant hesitation and favor deeper existence. Learn how to cherish contemplation; Don't be a slave to resistance.
You are more than a work-driven vessel, guided by the ideals of those "in control."
Re-discover your original freedoms and liberation, born from a seed of purpose and self-determination, rooted in potential and power to defy limitation, you are stronger than what you believe you have become...

you come across someone,
who does the "leg-work"
for you, akin to surviving life,
and you,
come across gore...
and then you start to "think"
about...
     'where is this anesthesia
coming from?'
hmm...
   it's hardly a curiosity,
            the acting? oh, no, surely not...
that las vegas ****,
when it can have hierarchy
of staged eventfulness...
when the "tortured" person
is supposedly:
tortured,
but on the point of death,
cared for?
a torturer with a caring voice...
my my...
   concerns were raised,
let me repeat that...
concerns were raised
about the tortured victim's
wellbeing...
             h'allo h'america...
plastic nation providence...
                 with a fwench
       précisément...
why the **** lodge
an acute, on a vowel,
in between consonants?
  was i, going to, "miss" it?
   pro-v-dą-ssssssssssssssss...
point being:
you know what a thespain
hierarchy, "looks" like?
the current state of affairs...
no one knows what is,
and isn't, "real"...
             this is the "beyond"...
whatever is deemed authentic,
is suspect,
and what is suspect:
suddenly becomes authentic...
it's still a thespian "conspiracy"...
   in a culture,
when only one form of artist
is leveraged to state intent...
back in the mid-20th century
is was the musicians,
but now?
   we have, thespians...
who pawn-broke the dictum
of the politically alligned...
in the "grand" scheme of things,
what with collateral
and what not:
   keep your mouth shut,
buckle up...
    as much freedom for me,
as moral constraints are permitted
to keep me free...
useful idiots, useful dodos...
ha ha! ha ha!
   iron curtain... ha! ha!
  what? hard work?
what about the, thespian curtain,
the ηθοποιός κουρτίνα
      ìthopoioos,
oh, right...
    you want a phonetic dissection,
yes?
for some reason,
i sniff, sniff, sniff,
sniffed out choccie hazelnuts...
writing this...
a nasal hallucination...

ac'tor: ηθοποιός

                       ìthopoioos,
          ìthopoiös
   (one is, allowed,
the basic arithmetic of
letters, given this
"transgression" of
the umlaut, replacing
the ωμεγα,
    i.e. the whole "concern"
for a,                           ρωμ?)
   sure,
oxford dictionary,
there are hyphen allowances
for inter-wording,
   but there aren't any
apostrophe allowances
for intra-wording...

   ηθοποιός:
        ήθοποιός:
   η'θοποιως:
     ephopoious...
actor...
     e' pho' "pious"...
        ephopιous...

now watch the cascade,
e to the i, i to the e,

  -eta-
       -theta-
         -omicron-
            -pi-
          -omicron-
             -iota-
                -omega-
                -sigma-

         e'tho'p'oh'i'ous

so much for keeping
letters as nouns,
and...
    no castrato-sing-along
variation.
see!
a pweetty gweek
waterfall!
  mama mia, all over again!
great, now we can all
be fwends,
and on a sober note,
reiterate...

like the byzantines...
they just over-"did"
themselves in diacritical
mark application,
to your standard,
latin, phonetic encoding...

iron curtain...
my my...
             but there's a thespain
curtain in place,
and ******* if you think
i'll move as far west as
japan...

                                        and i,
that becomes an e...
                  η (eta),
    that becomes   ì,
         it's... "complicated"...
the eastern orthodoxy made
diacritical markers "unnecessary",
the western orthodoxy
simply, "forgot", to make application
of them...
hey presto! the modern english!

ό, upsilon, omega...
poo, t'oo'l...
          now you're going to tell me,
that just the iron curtain was lifted,
there's no thespain curtain to lift?
no? no?
  no... ultimate reality counter...
so communism was one dream,
capitalism was another,
an actors' dream within a dream,
and...
what possibly could amount
to a poet / painter?

ah nay nay...
        + side aye,
   minus side: no...
   huh?
              so not nay?
for every aye,
there must be a nay,
but this *******
of ayes to the "right"
and "noes" to the left...

      poet, painter, sculptor...
we're all still living under
a bunch of sophists /
rhetoricians &
             thespians...
           how can that even be
denied?
it can't...
    once upon a time one
lived under the allure of
alchemists...
   at least they,
pushed the boundaries...
at least under the alchemists,
we had, or achieved something...
how far can you peddle
a fake?

          how far can you peddle
a lie?
       back when the west
had an authentic enemy,
   the soviets...
           now? this...
thespian curtain?
              of course i'm going
to be despondent...
after watching a gore video...
with "the man" entering
the room, and the gimps
worried about the state
of the tortured ditto heads?
ha...
     i can't tell the difference
between what is
authentic, and what is,
inauthentic...
   and believe me...
       this thespain curtain...
this anaesthetic of reality...
   much harder to lift,
to topple,
                 than mere iron.

The opportunity to see Artist grow is an experience
Pulling on the strings of imagination.
Ideas mixing with ideologies
While Artist's talent flies yonder people's heads,
Giving the mind a chance to wander with
Loose predictions of predicaments only prevalent
Past current hands of clock towers hovering over
Boston's Freedom Trail, somehow ending at
Caffe Lil Italy.

Artist is on an elevated stage
Holding a piece of mysterious wood
Infront of billows of hairlines,
Presented by
Aliens from The World of Perplexed Tunes
Scattering under the grey sky
While the patient moon waits
Behind a cotton curtain.
  Rhythm was then resurrected.
     The next second,
     Perspective changes.
                                            We are now at
                                 The Show in the art of music
                                     While the crowd awaits
                        The next centennial syllable of the story
                               While an avid listener is caught
                                                In the grip.
Now,
He understands.



I applaud talent in a hierarchal sense,
In an illusioned matter of society.

I appreciate, the determination,
Leading to trees singing melodies
Whenever Artist appears with her weapon of choice from
The fifth dimension;

Presented to a four-dimensional audience.

I hear the joy in the tone,
Yet I feel the turbulence in the voice.
Something has hurt one.

While the hat might not sit correctly on one's head,
Sometimes it can't
So it can;

Spark sensation, Create imagination,

And understand the meaning of where we are
On this melting *** of a lightning bolt
Thrown by Zeus during a psychotic episode
On laced LSD, or maybe
Traveling through space,

The space, in the middle of her curious eyes
Where fictitious time is lost.

So, Dear Artist,
I want to say
Thank you, for helping me grow.
Thank you, for giving me the chance to grow.
Thank you, for the connections I never would've been able to make
If you had decided to never take the stage.

If you need me or this message again,
I'll be in the back of your mind,

In that scene,

Across The Other Ocean,
My focus over the horizon of metaphors,
On the other side of reality
As my feet remain glued to the jagged shoreline,
The sand on my toes washed away by
The waves of life created by

The Mother of The Other Ocean.










As my neurons recall the harmonies
Chiseled by you,


My mind drifts away,

Still thinking of hypothetical predicaments,


And it's endless possibilities.

I

for weeks prior to your death i sat with a premonition
of bad writing and a toothache -
not that i ever thought much about my writing -
or that i would have to think very little of it:
more on the lines of - id est quid est -
                                      mind you - i took my mind
off writing by working in the garden  -
the pergola had to be erected so an evergreen could
be cut down -
and the wisteria that was hugging it
could be cleaved from it and dropped onto the:
prior mentioned pergola...
there was some light cement work on the fence:
a little trench had to be dug so the neighbour's
weeds would not burrow beneath...
                all that since i last saw you -
come late july - most certainly - no... wait...
come to think of it... it was late august...
me and your son-in-law (my father) were driving
across all of europe -
and on the way back i remember the heat on
the belgium france border...
                 it was an immense sensation of
whale lung thrown onto a frying pan of a stoney
beach... or at least: the sensation of stickiness
is how it could be imagined -
                perhaps that's how you can ever
begin to read a bruno schulz's cinnamon shops -
immediately from the first sentence:
that barrage of ultra- something or other:
ubergrammar - no... just that necessary style i am
yet to accustomed myself to...

II

that was 3 months ago - and i'm still learning
that: we live by regrets and memories -
which are hardly sins -
just as i remember, you'd say...
'call me every month and check up on me,
call me up and say "hey grandpa! how's
it going?!" i know we both can't talk
on the telephone - to talk you need to see
hands move, you need a face to peer at...'
that is my regret...
although the last words we exchanged
were about you wanting to buy me the rest
of karl ove knausgaard's mein kampf...
which, 3 months later, i knew you would...

IIIa

i've finally sat down to scribble something
down - if i were using my right hand
and a pen on a piece of paper
you'd immediately recognise my hand-writting
and tell me how unrefined it is:
that i'm chicken-scratching -
that i write like: kura pazorem -
   and i'd tell you: precursor of the next
stage in the process: i'll be typing
through and through...

      you died on the 23rd of october
at 5:30am if i remember, 5:10am
sounds better - circa -
            your wife (grandma) called
circa 11am on the 22nd of october and left
a message - i was out walking
complaining: how i'm not alone enough,
premonition after premonition -
she called in a confused state although
i beg to differ - that you were heaving
your last pangs of life
in a hospice - or that she just placed you
there...
i had my ticket booked for the 24th hoping
to catch you: just yet...
on the 23rd i was told at 8am...
your daughter my mother told me
upon waking, then left the house to pretend
nothing had happened...
i got up, cleaned the house...
i begged a deity or simply ex nihil that
i might cry that i might be left with
a sinking sensation...
by evening i was sitting with a headache
worth a siamese twin and hardly
welcoming the next morning where
i would fly out...
    sketchy: barely any details...
and that's how sorrow, grief, anguish...
began to creep in...
the tears your daughter cried...
i would gentle waver in a pseudo-dance
with her in the bathroom
as she cried into my shoulder
and would later
blow her nose into my t-shirt...
it pained me that i was unable
to release my heart from these piles
of rock...

IIIb

it's the 1st of november: guy fawkes night...
i'm sitting sipping a 30% cherry *****
and pretending to chase it down with some pepsi...
3 months ago i told you i quit smoking,
i lied and i didn't lie:
i continued to smoke 2 a day -
when i wanted to write, when i pretended to write -
and on the odd occasion that i proved
to myself that i was writing: i smoked 3 per evening...
hardly the usual pack a day...
3 months ago when i last saw you
i didn't smoke a single one...
for the last 3 weeks i saw you...

IV

the most vivid image i have of you is you
picking up knausgaard's autumn and reading
an extract about eating apples -
how he never leaves apple cores -
just eats the whole apple so that there's
a pleasure and then a debt at the core:
of bitterness -
i pondered this twice on a walk...
if you leave enough flesh around the core...
three bites along the length of the apple...
and you fiddle the apples seeds
with your tongue and teeth...
there's hardly any bitterness of...
eating an apple like a magician...
hardly any lesson invoked concerning life...
but that wasn't our usual conversation:
you already exhausted your cameo cinema
of memory to the point where
i would remember the surnames /
names of the people in your life...

colonel zydaczek in your days
as a military gendarme...
on parade in warsaw...

V

the intricacy of the hell that is family...
i can't be fooled about how unhappy your marriage
was...
kept for reasons of propriety or some other:
safety mechanism or the best kept excuse imaginable...
what might have been preserved if...
say... if i were the sort of man that was born
into the 20th century -
                many years prior to 1986...
you would have been a great-grandfather for
at least 10 years...
it was hardly necessary to be the only grandchild
but that i was... and remained...

VI

you're dead and i'm still three-quarters alive:
how can i write some solace for myself:
how can death become this spectacular cut-off
point where i can no longer harvest
any memories of you...
you're dead and i'm lingering -
not completely debilitated:
just unsure whether a mountain is this
grand metaphor for something
that is:

today i tested whether grief is an aphrodisiac,
i ****** off to humbert humbert's
fantasy since it was already freely
available and felt no need to go beyond
what was already taboo...
then i took a shadow and i knew that
if on high: herr omni- c.c.t.v. cyclop eye
would not be looking at such details...

you're dead and i'm not going to beg
for rhymes and odes -
to write some miraculous epitaph -
beside cutting up onions today -
tears! finally! tears! i managed to cry
authentic tears once more!
it only took cutting up an onion to do so!
but, with such tears...
no softening of the heart -
heart's still a stone...
and brain is still... hardly a whirlwind of
disposed thoughts
and only: pickled with eye, ear and tongue
extensions:
pretty hoarding fungus chappie: sort of...

VII

i'm happy to tell you the world is still
"happening": whether by concerns for dasein
or a lack of thereof... but the mud / **** flinging has
never been greater...
you took the best of what autumn had to
offer...
a bouquet of bronzes and geld,
of frivolous yellows and burnt orange translating
itself into bold deepenings
of transcending prime artifacts of:
her gown of sweet scented rot: of(f) brown...
you should have seen the light
as it married itself to a fleeting of once
formerly amen of green...
the blistering sky as blue as a aristocracy of
angelic blood: formidable events took
place: i imagine you were in conversation
with someone...

VIII

the ceremony itself was unspectacular...
if the restrictions weren't in place:
i imagine many more people would have come...
three women stood out from
the rest, i imagined them to be your
former lovers...
i stood at the entrance of the church
not wanting to talk to anyone...
closing my eyes i moved from side to side
like a tree teased by the wind...
you were attired in prof. trim of navy
as i was... black can hardly be associated
with mourning or with a funeral...
i chanced upon navy...
grey was also visible...
but black is for paupers / plebs...
something more refined was in order...
navy or a darkening - charcoal grey...
we talked about this: or at least i imagine it
to be so: black is reserved for
priests and for crows...

IX

since your death i have found a return to england,
every time i left you, i left dear mother,
poland,
i guess not anymore...
since the headache of all the formalities:
and your son (my uncle) being so unbelievably
circa 50 years old...
never mind... and your wife (my grandmother)
i landed in england as i only landed
in her ***** only once prior:
the first time -
hardly excited like the first time -
but content that i... don't really have anything
to return to: that feral land...
for the first time i can become
so carelessly formal: expediently pressed
to poker my stay in those black-holes of
a land: you were dying like a patriarch
of former communism when
abortions rights were atheistically pronounced
and liberally secular...
the women came onto the streets
in protests of their rights being removed:
that they would have to give birth
to deformed foetuses...
notably? because by biological deficiency:
they would still have to be born...
since ****** or **** didn't play a role...

barbarous land of catholicism...
and all this time i was like:
so... what's it like then?
i ******* into a tissue and flush it along
with the crocodiles...
am i committing genocide?!
if i were given a fixed amount of *****!
perhaps... but this ***** comes
like glue or salt in the oceans!

Xa

in the prosektorium...
             the dissecting-room... the morgue...
after all... i knew that walking around town
and putting up the necrologue would be easy...
3 x 100ml of ***** bravado and i was:
pirate-chested hairy!
my long coat and all the your pearls of beauty
would start calling me gwandp'ah...
the bureaucratic details of your death:
someone had to identify you in the coffin...
i was expecting something: completely different...
i'm not sure someone can prepare
you: prepare you seeing a dead body...
esp... a dead body attired for a ceremony...
hell... i've seen a roadkill before:
a fox... i kept feeding a fox for a month...
seen a fox up-close...
i imagine a dead body "by accident" is a lot different
to... i've seen a  man knock another man
dead - one blow to the head
and a pancake on the street...
it's a bit different... seeing someone...
so well presented: for: the ceremony...

Xb

upon entry i remember the colour of the tiles:
what a bewildering window-shopping
reference, a sponge of a waiting room,
i don't really knew what it was that it was
supposed to be waited for:
identifying you:
you adamant to not get new porcelain worth
of teeth: milkshake baron you...
slurp up the rest of your meals...
i supposed... you and your missing
prosthetic teeth...
but first came into view your shoe:
which wasn't yours...
but as an extension of your feet
i guess it was...
it was "just there"...
             NUR DA...
                     peeping from above
the horizon of the coffin...
teasing me before i would come
antlitz zu antlitz...

arms folded: immaculately cut fingernails...
a bruise from the igrawka
of dryp dryp dryp...
your sunken cheeks...
your lips stitched together:
yet your sunken cheeks...
your inability to borrow a jaw... strong enough:
that pearl of a pear of your chin...
your frivolous last expectation
of the already lost hair...
of course i couldn't be a pure
atheistic / materialist -
i was a child again: i wouldn't call it
a soul: i would call it
the sigma-of-animation...
the sum-of-animation...
obviously this was missing...
that detail that essence was lost:
the earth implored for the body to be
paid as ransom...

but there you were: face somehow
recognizable: yet returned to the generic
project of the dead, the babes
and all those daddy-long-legs
anorexic models parading exhausted
beauty on catwalks of:
skin a leopard... dress a skeleton etc.

now we have conceived that:
i want to drink to tell the truth...
i will not revise this like some comedy
sketch:
it's not the best i can do:
it's all i can...
let's not pander to critique or a lack
or audience...

Xc

i do remember a "little" detail concerning
you...
you were a philately enthusiast, weren't you?
no wonder only i among the closest kin
wanted to sleep in the room
where you least heaved:
spewed some blood and were
surrounded by books...
and there be postage stamps!
i "stole" 4 albums with a collection of
them... i hardly think of selling them
to pay for electricity...
believe me: sooner i dead in belgian
euros or swiss franks at a dignitas clinic
since i'll be left completely solo
than have to...
sell them to sustain myself...
but as it happens... your wife...
my grandmother... was furiously tasked:
well... tasked me...
with withdrawing the 500zl per day
of all you 7000zl worth...

money money money:
i do wonder what grandma will spend all that
money on...
i don't think i'll want to inherit:
but these stamps are...
well... i have photographs of you from
1965 when you were still a young man...
but you were my grandfather:
i own your identity card...
with a photograph taken circa 15 years ago...

the circus / the church already stated:
you have died you are relieved from
all things temporal...
why the spatial details at all matter:
coordinates "hier" coordinates "da"...
and "sein" and "abwesend"...

you became a brother at the funeral...
you were no longer hierarchal with contest
for power broking future and past...
my brother: not my grandfather...
the priest: father, said so...
       *******' load of hierarchy:
fiddling sputnik violins from kindergarten...
roman catholicism...

grandmother still stresses her upbringing
ever-more...
she still thinks we are vermin-people
and that ****** should have started
with us rather than with the hebrews...
you and i know that's
a ceremony of: no comment...

how would you have detailed this approach:
i know how you would have:
it's not even worth mentioning since
we would already graze upon a superiority
complex with an inability to brush it off
with a laugh...
because we wouldn't laugh...
it would be a a headache to detail:
and i was born with this "other" half
included...

XI

look! we're nearing the devil's dozen...
which comes to the clue:
13: as jesus the hey-zeus!
       proto-paul and the propaganda
of how the hebrews and the wounded greeks
overthrew the romans...
ruled for a bit... and then...
come... the ottoman turks...
sort of... gave head....

XII

we could joke: ich: the plural ownership of they,
ich: haben - that deutsche and i,
one might always expect a dog to bark
come the night...
no no... this all too much detail for all:
the necropolis of poland that's nuanced
egypt - they have to buy up lease
for their graves...
carve out graves without dates of death:
they buy out 2nd mortgages of pyramid
democracy and crux...
the hebrews left pretended to giggle:
hard torn with the ashes...
me buying up history which could
never compete with an anglo-1960s
detail: snippet...

XIII

that i find an oyster wriggling in
the shell that's a skull that's somehow
a chewing gum's worth of a tongue...
this phantom of ***** white that's white
that's also stained with burgundian lashes
of agony of sipping wine
while spilling it over the cranium
of golgotha...
scalped...
learn to detail this new graffiti....

XIV

i talked to Paul before i took toward
the darkness and two ****** pretending
to be virgins upon the mt. of Kierkut...
he asked me how tall i was...
then he stood a step one above the tally
of my count, above me...
to measure up...
  and as he talked i had no face:
he would only concentrate on the region
that was supposed to be an ownership of
my heart...
once... i talked to a nurse on defeaning
tube train...
i was lip-reading...
but this thief: he told me... Piccadilly Gardens
of Manchester...
in the prisons with
the russians... and those that punched above
their weight... would inject vaseline or
whatever might... cushion a "sudden"
disappearance of knuckles to
make a full-fat-pouch of a fist...

poluse... not ******...
this guillotine measured "short" would bemoan
his luck with women...
around us... women walked like
sacred cows...
any old mongol would have... would have...
soud-hampton high on Herra...
this is just after your funeral...
i had to take a walk and pretend to
breathe and own a dog...
my list of excuses writing you
are drying up...
what with the promises of the islamic
republic of the world...
all these untouched all these
unloved virgins of the wriggling harem...

XV

arktyka - antarktyka -
antarktyka - arktyka -
             sąd - sad -
  sad - sąd -
      judgement - orchard -
           arctic - antarctic...

XVI

an... AFFOGATO...
well... that's 30ml of espresso...
and... a scoop of ice-cream...

XVII

what daughters-in-law there could have been:
if... bread was skimmed...
and the milk was...
trickling down from heaving...
stones instead of believing oneself
to be a courtesan of cows...
what promises governed the hebrews...
when... for what was their lot:
and subsequent loot...
the qurun drilled a blackening portal...
the arabs celebrated...
the russians would always inherit
siberia...
estonia was given  snippet
of the baltic sea curated by the danes...
lithuania shrunk into memory and beyond...
germany frau benß fur immer merz...
the huns / gargoyles in southern greece:
i.e. and northern macedonia...
balkan pirouettes of detail:
regained pride...

ah! ya!
ß = "z"
s = s
c = k
z = "c"                 jawohl!

XVIII

herrbittebonbon!
and your finger sticky from all that
SS-toffee...
translation: herr! bitte! bonbon!
which you always were...
the 1939 prior to the "adventures"
of the 20th century...
which sedated the grand yawn
of the british empire come
the zenith last exhaustion of
the 1960s and then some
"tremor christ" quasi canadian
for the finicky "end-of" summary
of a ******* football match-up...

the ottoman Janissaries vs.
the egyptian Mamluks!
   vs. the Mongolian horde!
                 in german it must sound
universal:
ist der straße gerad(e)?
to hell with asking in one's native
spreschen... future bent... nuanced got...
this returned alt vater spreschen...
i come with a shadow that
king arthur combated...

XIX

i would be writing a wriggle of russian:
if i were also writing enough finesse of
diacritical detail(s)
but given this diacritical blank:
dyslexia prone pro-latin english
UMPIRE stutter EMEMEM EM...
i would be: but apps don't work
with cyrillic or ancient turkic...
chopper
čopper... wait... what use is that...
extra P?
            çopper?
hiding the "jew" the god... the mammon...
H - one leg one arm of
the tetragrammaton...

        i don't actually mind...
it's not a conspiracy low i.q. "theory":
the dictates of rhyme and fact...
best posit a revision of
punctuation:
the hyper-stressed: newly arrived at
jerusalem kippah brethren are:
insomniac: "somehow"!

it's more a: huh?!
"they" missed the poetry train
and the hyper-cultural-reinvention
of the 1960s... still stricken-blind by
what... erik lehnsherr (henry hillside)
had to endure...
what are these puffs of blistering
a pyramid a sight... these halves?!

like we'd had to total: amost...
a crew of party poopers...
we were we are... these shadow-deafness
"equipment" best excusing:
           für immer fortschritt!

     tsukunft: in ergets nit...

  so much for hebreq married to germanic...
and not to the neighbour... zunge...
yiddish wasn't born from ****** tonguing
long: oi! oi! lithuanian spears!
the last remains of paganism...
by prior to moscow... blah ah ha ha...

it's not like the jews married themselves
to ****** or russian...
they said their jingle-bells with
pseudo-germanic:
yiddish... didn't they?

**

i've just seen a corpse readied for a funeral...
coffin and all...
walking through a graveyard
at night is... all too easy...
come to think of it...
i want to sleep in one...
my mortal democratic oath:
i can wait...
no matter...
give me two sponges and enough of them
soaked in acid to wait...
allow my tongue to get drunk...
my ears to succumb to deafness...

how you could deviate from german
with a spice of the odd 'ebrew...
you could...
yeah... i'm one part convinced this
secular niqab tactic does work:
as long as the arabs own
all the yachts and the air-conditioning
and all the camel milk and leather...
but... once they show...
entry points for disgruntled
mongolians...
        
        my corpse is waiting
for the 22nd century for all this to become
a promethenian platitude worth
of yawn as any... prior:
or future:
but thank god...
i'll be left without having made
any genetic investment...
perhaps an idea of mine...
perhaps some artifact that i allowed
myself to keep for a transition
period...

der ende!
as it happens... the world is...
my grandfather died...
i have little concern for the better half of it...
i'm cradling a wound of a quarter...
i guess that's how you
contest things passing guised in
matters of a temporal inquest...
however it goes...

drunk this night...
sober... two nights solid tamed with...
the worst kind of sober:
a socially expected sort of horrid;
a 14 day self-isolation presccription;
otherwise? me?
jog-friendly... whiskey and cat's whiskers!
*******! birth of h'america come
november!

empires die in afghanistan:
among the pashtun women.
oh yeah... lived for being fed the soul
of Karen and Mr. Surprise: a Gein Mommy's
Lover Boy -
butz the baconz iz oh soz sizzlez! ya?!

if i were to write any autobiography
i'd like,
   i'd write the one,
that begins with a biographer that knew
no first person sources,
including mine...
              but i'd also like to learn
a mourning of some sort, that didn't
have to be expected of me,
cheap like a tattoo...
                  it would be nice to not have
blamed for certain things;
namely?
the more apparent my dead twin
becomes, through
what's called a proverb:
lies have short legs...
                up to and including turning 30,
and still the ******* taboo!!!!!!!!!!!!
      talk now is impossible among the slavs,
just, gestures...
        postulates or
hierarchal studies that 200+ years from
now will not allow:
why?!
          if labour jobs will be gone,
who says these people have soul /
any impeding argument worth hearing,
let alone a soul?
   automate them!
           spew the same old load of *******...
can you imagine,
i beat the a.i. plagiarism bot
in a sociology example,
by using thesaurus better than the
programmers could have envisioned?
i had the human capacity to use
a thesaurus with more ingenuity...
   too bad for the programmers...
no good for me...
in my 2nd year, you could live
a good lot for 30 quid a week....
             oh i still have a 10+K
        debt...
  but the rule is:
you only start paying it back
once you earn 15+K a year...
                    no offer... no dividends...
or as i like to call it:
can you, really, really, really, doubly
really: complicate confiscating meaning
with the simple artefact of making
a coin flip?

i'm happy to conclude a revived jazz binge...
i lost patience when having listened to
john coltraine's a love supreme -
       when walking - i had to find a rhythm outside
of a music genre that has it -
but feels to be without it...
                yes... i had to learn to enjoy feeling -
not in this ivory tower of thought -
that the first moral lesson is: (th)ought i?
           i'm done with jazz - as much as i'd love
to stick around and listen to mundell lowe's
guitar moods...or harry edison's mr. swing...
the images popping into my head are all wrong...
all i see it cigarette smoke...
shady blues bars and all this... cosmopolitan
humbug... commotion or any other synonym...
i'm tired of the city music...
i need to find the roots again...
i would gladly eat a thumb's length of raw
root horseradish or ginger than have
these needles these jazz horns ringing in my ear...
i once felt this sensation when landing
in Kenya - thinking about it would do very little
for me: it needs to be destined for the domain of
lolz and feelz... and thinking is all too precious
and is not recycled? every thought is a birth of
a genius? geniuses - unlike angels and demons...
men: not gods... give birth to these creatures...
oh sure... they exist...
            "exist": always looking for an exit... that is...
but if the gods gave birth to angels and demons...
that's why i will never call any man
a genius - i'll call him: the man who gave birth
to a genius...
again... i'm still teasing the present-at-hand future
of listening to a mundell lowe record...
as much as i would to a kenny burrell e.p. -
                     because a guitar in jazz is...
like a horn in blues - a true oddity -
                             esp. on the part of solo -
i can't help to think that the guitar tames all the instruments...
hell... in the case of mundell lowe:
you might just fear a flute instead of a sax or horn...
but i'm done with this cosmopolitan choke-hold...
i could have sunk real low and become
crab feed for all i know...
       i need to go back to byzantine orthodox chants,
to german folk songs, to scandinavian music...
mogwai? let's not go that far... although:
who knows? if you said: sigur rós...
                well... björk: that's really stretching it...
more on the lines of garmarna...
       or... finnish: hedningarna... the scandinavian gnome
sing-along... no vikings up there...
just gnomes and lake people...
    or so i heard... "heard"...
back into the feelz... jazz made me think to much...
not that this "thinking" was about anything
related to things and extensions of things -
(res cogitans / res extensa)...
more like... res vanus and the inversion of things
(empty thing)...
  how would it feel like...
to be impregnated by that sly ***** that hide
behind this body in **** -
that became an ego - each time i'm impregnated
by thought i had to somehow sort it...
oh the daydream fabric is too much sometimes -
talk about the need to find a heart
and feel something more sincere, concrete...
immediate... even the negative emotions fair better
than all that nonsense that bogus custard
thickening the already bulging cranium soap
opera of: things not followed through...
the etc. basket of a car-boot sale...
after all - what's wrong with feeling -
what's wrong when you don't give your feelings
a tongue - but instead sacrifice / bind them
to the ears and the heart itself:
to feel... a stone at the centre - and a molten fire
surround it... that sensation of a pang:
a pecking beak inside a cage without a song...
beside this cipher - as any good cipher -
the eyes and itchy fingertips are invoked...
- thinking can be over-rated when it is shown a vanity
mirror - not all thinking becomes translated into
a wheel - at best: a good array of punctuation marks...
that's what thinking is: if it isn't a well established
narrative bordering on solipsism -
what is solipsism? a thought experiment that teases
the real world phenomenon of autism...
or i'm just juggling words like a thesaurus
maniac...
- one can only become democratic... pass... stop awhile...
move on...
     i know what being un-democratic looks like...
i almost became a william burroughs fanatic
reader... it's fun when it lasts...
   but then again: at some point the oeuvre does
dry-up...
       and there's only an old queen shooting paint
can with a rifle subscribed to scientology and
u.f.o. magazines...
the jazz binge had to dry up...
corvus corax had to made a return...
    away from all that commotion -
back among the fields, the shadow, the forest...
                        the breath and a silence of the mind...
back toward the heart:
the sinking stone in a turbulent body of the sea -
   back into tongues no longer spoken...
and symbols no longer in use...
          for the dead to see using braille...
adam...
              ⠁⠙ ⠁⠍
                i see...        ᚨ  ᛞ  ᚨ  ᛗ
            i see...                    Ⰰ  Ⰴ  Ⰰ  Ⰿ...
conrad...
               ­    ⠉ ⠕ ⠝ ⠗ ⠁⠙
i see...        ᚴ  ᛟ  ᚾ  ᚱ  ᚨ  ᛞ
           i see...  Ⰽ  Ⱁ  Ⱀ  Ⱃ  Ⰰ  Ⰴ...
    
away with the byzantine *****: цyrylliцa!  
     no can do... i will retain the latin script...
it's not like the romans venture as far as the baltic
sea or the vistulla river!
i'm a new-comer to a history as ancient
as these british isles -
          but i won't be speaking any 18th century
english: no'er doth o'er what knot...

back into the mystery of language...
away from the loud, excessively loud commotion
of modernity of which jazz is a part of...
back into the forest: for me...

back to shaking hands with my shadow...
i'd ask the semite from jerusalem though...
what it your lament - your lamed -
your L (ל) doing in braille... disguised as N (⠝)?

- and why wouldn't i have a fixation
on the hebrews - the german yids -
when there's talk about the hebrews of:
the tzabar... and the yekke...

   look it up...
http://www.scriptdelivery.net/source/resources/screenplays/munich.pdf...

there's the tzabar and the... yekke...
jews born inside of the ***** of isreal...
and jews born on the wing of judah's hope for resurgence...
even the jews have slang terms for the sort
of jews that aren't: the new the old... yishuvs...

but yes... i have a fastination
with the hebrews... and the german yids...
i too would: but it's a vain hope...
for some of us to return to pre-roman or pre-greek
epochs of time...

better show the dead through braille
a postcard of modernity...

what names have survived?
  i am dignified with the names i was given...
oh wait... yekke putzes...
i always thought that the yids
called the skin of a circumcision a schmuck...
i must be onto something...

yews or yids... their internal politics is like
a godsend!
      or something better than any english
soap opera - or mexican, for that matter...

that this letters still remain, intact...
and this latin... it's hardly an alphabet where
letters have names...
the greeks certainly have names
for their letters: o(micron)...
             a(lpha)...       e(psilon)...

among the northern "barbarians"...
             Ⰴ(obro) - good...
    ᛗ("annaz") - man...
what names are there... for the latin letters?
A is aH... M is Em... R is Ar...
  the atomised man... B is bE...
what would a roman name a letter with?
a syllable?
                  he would behave like a hebrew?
he would hide the vowels...
i.e. SoMa... better lowercase them or push them
into the "niqab" of a diacritical status?
SM...                            this tongue these eyes...
and no totality distinct from the unconscious bargaining
man's luck for mortal exposure -
this body a vessel: not exactly chaining -
on a whim... gone! come death's eager scythe...
on a whim... in a blink of an eye...
there's no soul... no totality transcendent of me
not minding my heart - beating -
my stomach and intestines - digesting...
my liver and kidneys filtering poison...
if there is no soul - then i should really..,
mind thinking about my heart doing what's
expected of it... i should exhaust all the freedoms
of thought to motivate the heart to become:
prone to outlive flesh and become a monstrous
mountain: upon which an interlude of someone
being hoisted on a cross, dangling...
should be met!

the romans didn't have names for their letters...
the greeks, evidently did...
no wonder so many of their letters became
scientific constants...
even μ₀ - the vacuum permeability -
is a name... a bit like Li Po - in the forbidden city...

the romans didn't have names for their letters...
but they did construct a colliseum
using IV / XL         fractions and measurements...
not an easy feat...
                in all honesty -
a bit like reading braille...
                ⠼⠉ and ⠉ - remember... no colon allowed...
stick to itallics (colon substitute)...
or just the uppercase...
             3c...                   ⠼⠊ and ⠊... 9i...
otherwise C = 3... and c = c... I = 9 and i = i...
unless... we're talking roman numerals...
why would you need... oh right...
    you don't actually have uppercase or lowercase
in braille... unless you're trying to differentiate
between ⠃⠊ ⠛ and... ⠼ ⠃⠊ ⠛ (397)...
      
          am i... somehow... "now"? supposed to
feel... "think", content, when translating
some 'orace?
       i... don't think so...
little good looking back on the roman empire
and being the ancient world's afghanistan
did for the brits... in the past history...
in the past...           not esp. now...

           clinging to the latin text like it was
deus verbatim...
the french invoked a signature with their
cedilla C to sound snake...
                      even the germans with their umlauts!
the english ne'er nearer 17th 18th century *******
language...
call them the consonant or vowel eaters...
but not spotted out of spite...
repose...

          a chance to stop listening to jazz
and return to the couldron of continental folk...
oh sure... if we were still having a fetish
for 1990s pop music...
i'm a ***** i'm a mother... with my one hand in my pocket...
c'est la vie!
                            c'est la mort...
                   c'est l'amour...

i agree... the etymology becomes mutated... grossly...
Ⱍ / ч - cherv... worm... glizda...
             i do have: чerwieц -
   the prefix - чerw-
                       which helps me... this much: |   |
given that       чerwieц means: the month of June...

   how "we" came about knowing
the runic ᚾ (n) and turned it into ł (łagodzić) -
to soothe -
well... there was king Cnut and
the north sea empire...
                and where do you think haggis or
black pudding comes from?
we have the same "dish": czarna kiszka...
        black intestine...
        which is literally what it is...
it's not disguised as haggis or black pudding...
it's literally a black intestine...

                              чarna kiшka...
since if vikings founded the city Kiev...
they couldn't have founded Kiev...
without passing via the Vistulla river...
                                      
                                    before me this old continent...
to look toward h'america and her myths...
before me this altar of time -
before me all things left intact...
undistrubed... with museums of other
people's tongues and craniums...
and gangrene hearts readied for extraction
and re-awakening by the toll of fire...

as some might add: his "heritage"...
                          heritage of an anglo-slav?
    well... less local to be welsh or anglo-saxon...
if the girls of Rotherham won't give it up
unless it's some ****- (oops... prefix...
the suffix is pending -stani)...
then at least i'll have a carousel when it comes
to what sort of idiots think in this language...
including me - the anchor...
and ahoy! the sinking ship!

               well... this is hardly written out of
ignorance... perhaps... when malice puts on a poker
face and wants to do a harlequin dance
of countering pride & prejudice: inbreeding...
and hierarchal breeding and...
pomp & circumstance dance-off...
                      if everyone is so attired...
why don't i put on my true guise?!
        i don't see the point of merely arriving
in a coffin to mind the matters at hand!
                    
                              feed: mille anni passi sunt.
or... la i mbealtaine...
           what's angry beetroot in welsh?
   dicllon betys!      well... because what prime
colour... would be better to describe
my current, jolly, disposition?
burgundy? plums done sly to a saute methodology?
dicllon betys! angry beetroot! yn ddig... iawn yn ddig:
betys... serch hynny...
(i guess that's serх and not serч hynny)...

no better cardinal or bishop doing each other
in holy matrimony of: anals of ****: first!

spawn of the constipated *******!
                                        hiroshima, ivanhoe!

there was a time to read two volumes of
Knausgård... and since i don't speak any norwegian:
it didn't really matter...
whether it was in english or western slavic...
will i get to the other four volumes?
i can only remember giving william burroughs...
so much of my attention as to complete
the oeuvre...
                         and unlike the translator's note
from michel foucault's... surveiller et punir...
i was really going to start reading this today...

- foucault uses the infinite: to the effect of an
'impersonal imperative'...
          this nuance is not afforded in english:
or is just plainly denied...

- the verb surveiller... has no adequate translation
into english... the english noun 'surveillance'
is apparently: but also obviously
too "technical"...

- the range of connotations between 'inspect'
and surveiller as a direct translation...
alan sheridan: this in part verbatim joystick
is... bothered by the work of a prior to his own
work of translation: a jeremy bentham...

- 'supervise' is closer than to 'inspect'...
                  but the word applied: is not close
to the word being translated...
      
- 'observe' is too neutral - but... its apparently
teeming with aggression should
an 'observation' be one-sided...
                      
             before the book even began...
i very much doubt... translating... Knausgård's
magnum opus of 6 vol.
beginning with... min kamp... my struggle...
because there was the obvious precursor...
and nothing more...
so much for nuancing the devil in the details...
of a book's title...

i once proposed that... well: what is mine?
is the struggle truly mine?
it's mine: in the superlative...
    but not in the confines of an: adjective-adjective...
in the superfluous...
skip the middle-ground "reasoning"...

but associated with struggle is the my:
that someone is mine...
           i'd rather posit... a lost sense of ownership...
translated back into either german
or norwegian:
              ich skampf...
                          jeg kamp...

                 then i guess: a struggle owns me...
it wrestles with me...
   it becomes a sort of... Israel...
               i become a sort of Israel...
prior to: i am Jacob: it is my struggle...
but... what if this struggle is outside of the confines
of merely me and my ownership of it:
to be donned and worn proud for...
future: coquetry?

   how different it sounds...
my struggle: i am jacob...
   i struggle: he named me Israel...
             and he called himself what i didn't wish
to own or be, therefore, mine...

if what is mine is a determiner -
akin to... a determiner being and:
   a conjunction...
           if i were to posit: ich kampf...
i cannot claim a determiner of the struggle:
it's... indefinitely there...
passed between strangers...
having a share of universal qualities shared
among others: which i can't exactly
invest a self with: but a pronoun i can...
since... by then... i struggle is an indefinite articulation
statement... a determiner allure of the expression
is a definite articulation...

but there's a time and a place...
and i'm not going to read a translation of an otherwise
french text... i was hoping to skip past
fiction... but having regarded Knausgård
first two volumes as:
autobiographical fiction... or...
       would i rely on... something that explores...
discipline and punishment...
naturally... i am expected to be the good citizen
and not go out...
i'm figuring... i need to stock up on some
more kalimotxo juice...
i'll take some bottles to the recycling center
and if stopped i'll just tell them...
i haven't been out all week...
i'm doing my exercise: i don't jog...
i walk... i'm just stocking up on kalimotxo juice...
and i'll be recycling some glass...
i can apparently get away with the first
time misunderstanding...

so no... not a good genesis of testing
the waters of: bad boy citizen...
i read the first two chapters and just left the book...
it's a book... it's not a piece of music...
sometimes it takes much longer...
to get into the mood:
if you want to read the book proper...
plus... i have neglected my libra prerogative...
to not write more than i have read...
i must have crossed a rubicon of sorts...

as it happens: these stale "concerns" are here
because: i honestly don't know how
to be a teenager: again... and to be riddled by
pangs of unaddressed emotions...
having to turn to fiction and vampires...
i don't have the credentials to write of pangs
of either joy or misery...
perhaps it's a numbing effect that allows
me to plough through bibliophile affairs...

after all... i have in my hands...
   illustrations by william rainey R.I.
the gresham publishing company 34 & 35
southampton street, strand, london,

an address to a mr. serjeant talfourd M.P.
by the man himself...
not the first edition (1837)
not even the first cheap edition (1847)...
i'm guessing this is, then...
the "C.D" edition... and the year is 1867...
so a one-hundred-and-fifty-three-year-old
book...
   it even smells so... grotesquely: variant...
then again... what's not to like about misnomers?
well... when no metaphor is at hand...
i guess a misnomer will just have to do...

but to keep to some quality of "mannerism"
regarding such artefacts...
it's one thing keeping such a book,
on a shelf... and having the gorgon's pride
to have to buy a modern cheap paperback
edition... no... this book will... just have to be handled...
perhaps handling it will...
allow me to air it... it is tinged with a horrendously
stuffy allure...
one that wants to find it... being...
a neglected "something or other"...
to give it life and most certainly air...
  a book that wants as much to be read:
as it wants to be aired...

    it can't be anything less than...
charles dickens' the pickwick papers...
to this i remember our first schooltrip to the world
war I graves near Ypres...
on the bus i was reading by the sort of
illumination that would make me successful
as to having to acquire glasses come mid-age...
and this dreaded teacher came up to me...
spotted i was reading dostoyevsky's crime and
punishment... and how... when he was my age...
read the pickwick papers with the same
ferocity as i was reading... what i was reading
at the time...

and i will be as **** honest as necessary...
me... reading a native novelist of these parts...
the parts of: make thames proud and london blush...
what on earth was i thinking...
not having or having not... succumbed to the allure?
what was i doing with the french writers
and the russians?
why wasn't i... bypass Shakespeare and sprint
to the trough from where pigs entertained
the company of kings?
                    we'd too wish... of what "we" is
not necessary to mind... had "we" been giving
smoking's to attire and join in the festivity...
oh sure, sure... smoking's and moccasins...
         well... if they can get away with donning
the converse sneakers... these days...
                   who would... hunt us down...
these sock hunters?!

     come to think of it... this is a **** good rendering
of how far i have fallen...
in terms of moodiness... or lack of: thereof...
sometimes there's only this:
an exercise in applied language...
   to what use? no one really knows...
had i... not discovered Dickens prior...
which... well: to know that Dicknes... is also
a suitable term used in pub trivia and
the encyclopedia...
              but it's good enough of me...
to have finally come about...
        
                              this romance of societal norms...
and reciprocative contracts of expectations...
hierarchal strands of weaving and the river-works
of flow...
              it's nice... there's none of that french
romancing the period...
nor the ever-pervasive angts of the russians...
that... sense and what remains of sensibility...
the self-evident pomp...
and the circumstance just around the corner...
the allure of what english liberals would
sell to foreign investors when being given
the opportune chance to do so...
as to how england was to be carved:
and sold by the pound...

                     and what a time to be given
privy into this literature...
                         i almost can't imagine having
an impetus left to drag myself into Proust.

for me, the most perfect combination of superheroes is, Bruce Wayne & David Dunn - i.e. Batman & the Unbreakable respectively... i had a childhood friend once, big on Spiderman... he asked me the same question, who is your favourite superhero... that's way before the film Unbreakable came out... i said Batman... why? he asked... because he's a superhero... but he has not super-powers... but i think i sided with Batman because, from the age of 4 through to the age of 8 i was raised by my grandparents... the whole economic migration "thing" from the upcoming fall of the Soviet empire & its satellites uprooted a lot of people, not to mention: it ******* uprooted manufacturing jobs everywhere, and the metallurgy industry... people were, moved... rough patch for my grandparents too, grandfather was the most perfect grandfather, but he also drank... my grandmother was a ***** to him... i think it only took one broken arm by being pushed through a glass door... something like that... not as bad as the case with my father, though... abandoned by his parents, altogether, raised by his authoritarian grandmother & her second husband... yeah... superheroes... well if i don't have a devil in my shadow i'd probably like to think i have an amalgam of Bruce Wayne & David Dunn... why? David Dunn isn't rich, he's humble, yet he has tremendous genes, almost paranormal qualities... plus a wife and a son... Bruce? well... we all know what he has... money... blah blah... the freedom being... freed from having parents... imagine that freedom... esp. if this freedom is coupled with having inherited everything from them... no care for lineage... no care for the family name... marry these two characters together, though... like me... i have money: but i also don't have money... i only remember having dislocated my thumb, once... i rarely fall prey to colds or any other discomfort... beside itchy feet from standing too long in one space...

get me away from this transcription *******! get me away!
i would have found it easier to be a bricklayer
than having to copy words of unoriginality:
even though they are much to my liking, since:
they simply elaborate what i was already thinking:
objective thinking is: overrated...
subjective thinking is... not really, or merely...
or simply about "feeling"...
           that subjective thinking is performed by women
to the extent that women use more ciphers
than metaphors (etc.) is one thing...
a woman might say something but imply something
completely opposite...
a man? a man will not use such ciphers...
he will take it upon himself to say something:
not-literally... two of my favourite techniques is...
metaphor & the misnomer...
misnomers are... employed to venture into
the thesaurus... to "mis-direct" or rather to allow someone
to direct themselves to a pseudo-eureka moment...
these days misnomers are encapsulated in
script borrowed from the existentialists...
air-quotes as they're called: to say someone is
"racist" is as much as saying someone is "liberal"...
but doing a transcript? what a ****-show!

- like today, working a shift at the London Stadium,
i'm sorry... but fat black girls have the best sense
of humour... i can be self-deprecating...
but they take it to extreme... this supervisor
was telling us a story about how she started back
in 2012 at the Olympics...
she said she wouldn't be placed pitch-side
on one of those "chairs": stools...
because it would take about 10 people to put
her on the stool... & about 10 people to get her up...
otherwise any attempt would look like
a beached whale salvage operation...
fair enough... if a plump black girl (woman)
can joke like that... it's self-deprecating but it's
also endearing...
i'm endeared by her honesty...
black women should do more stand-up comedy...
but...
if i'm supposed to be working... with these...
lanky... Somali colts... these boys who only
want to work but only end up watching
the match: rather than watching the crowd...
i get *******... first half in...
the gangway was getting blocked...
i was downstairs ensuring no one brought alcohol
in view of the pitch...
i made the decapitation gesture:
**** it, i.e. drink up... i told them:
no more alcohol for away fans after kick-off...
so some decided to take the extra glug-glug...
fair enough... how many ******* times was i asked
where they could smoke? enough...
one even asked me... where's the betting shop...
the, ******* what?! betting shop?!
can't you do that online these days?
must have been an addict, blocked from placing
bets online...

these... skinny... Somali kids are supposed to...
deal with some of these Yorkshire beefcakes?
pumped up & ready to rumble?
o.k., i don't mind minorities...
but the ones i've since worked with:
are ******* clueless zombies...
camels designate more respect by spitting on you...
clueless, little, *******...
a gust wind could ******* K.O. them...
you're putting these little ***** on the away stand...
and they're only there, to what... watch the ******* game?
at 12:36 i left my post... below the stair...
the ******* gangway was constipated with people
who left their seats...
like... ha ha... Moses i parted the sea of people...
i have so little authority in this hierarchy of
crowd management...
no... authority i do have... hierarchical...
i don't even know the word for it... "sentiment"?
bombast? the expression:
pushing your weight around... even though
you don't have the weight to push anyone around with...
just an empty status clink...
a sort of security netting: people think they
achieve a certain level in a hierarchy and
they immediately think that...
the hierarchy is... hierarchal... that there will not
be an upset from bottom-up...
that hierarchy is all about the top-down
mechanisation of authority...

don't you know that work, done properly,
relieves you from... being entertained?!
arbeit macht frei! *******!
i hate working along slobs, i hate working alongside
idle *****! Somalis come across as these people
who sit around all day expected to be fed!
like zoological creatures:
like, **** knows what...

i was probably one in a hundred of the white
face available at the London stadium...
how far is Leeds from Rotherham?
i know the two are in Yorkshite... sorry... York-SHIRE...
40min... circa 36 miles...
boys... pints end here: non-verbal communication
with the hand slicing off the head...
about four of the most innocent beauties pretending to
smoke via vaping... once or twice: pass...
third time... noticed them... said no-no
by moving my head from side to side...

what, ******* authority am i, if i only exert the power
to don a high-viz. shirt?!
for, ****'s sake... up the gangway doing some
colt-mother-******'s job... oi!
you're not here to watch the ******* match:
you ******* silly ****!

how many times was i approached...
too many... where's the bathroom, can i smoke,
can i get a beer... thist pumping...
what team do you support...
if i were able... in the sacrifice of the absence of people:
i might have worked miracles in carpentry...
all i have now is a sea of people...
but i'm used to it...
go into a graveyard at night...
go into a forest... or... go into a crowd of people:
same ****... different cover...

i just said no-no with my head moving sideway
and i was obeyed...
sorry... but from where i'm coming:
applying Heidegger's dasein...
there-being... not there's being i.e. per se,
sure... i'm there... looking out for people...
but when i return home and take to drinking some
whiskey... it's almost forever a second job...
esp. when i can scrutinise people not doing theirs!

let me rephrase that:
ich würde machen das makellose schutzstaffelmann...
how? perception is key...
i'll ensure my black tie is visible...
if i find some "flea" of feather or dirt
on my attire i'd pinch it off... if m shoes are
*****... i'll stand on one foot and rub the shoe against
my trousers...

and how i love to watch the women in the audience...
as much as watching women i love to watch
the children... while their fathers get drunk i'm
the sobering walk-about presence...
even today i felt a penetrating gaze of a boy:
somewhat embarrassed by his father drinking too much...
his eyes implored me to comfort him somewhat:
obviously i didn't... but you can: READ people...
you can READ them...
as they see you: is as they read you...
that's the authority of perception...
whether conjured up by Louis XIV or not...

again, the same coworker insinuated that i might want
to hold her hand... toxic... she only disclosed that she
drank half a bottle of brandy prior to the event...
i drank a bottle of whiskey... but i didn't say...
please don't tell me you want to hold my hand...
did i outstretch my hand and ask her to hold it?
i insinuated to her a cusp... folded my arm in a way
that i could put my hand in my pocket and she
could put it in the hole... well... if you're asking
but not taking up the offer?! *******!

- it's hardly racist for the Yorkshire beefcakes
to approach me, i'm friendly... they're friendly...
why aren't they approaching the "minorities"...
i have this love-hate relationship with the English...
i love living among them, i hate...
i hate being supposed to be one of them...
i took this language as my own...
i don't expect my version of this language
to be reflective of their: inheritance...
i'm not even going to urbanise it... slang it...
i'm familiar... Yorkshire beefcakes will approach me
because: i look familiar...
timid ******* Somalis... tools! tools!
it's the familiarity that keeps us awake...
while i was busting my nuts doing the job of two people...
this *******... urgh... was just standing there
watching the match... i wanted to *****-slap him
so bad that he might return donning a ******* turban
pretending to be a Sikh!

in all honesty? i want the majority of people to be lazy,
i want them to have zombie brains...
i don't need them to be aware of anything within
the confines of this existence beside themselves...
i need them that way... not personally: just generally...
i need them to be pedestrians in my life experience...
they need to simply occupy a threshold of
existence that would otherwise be filled with
an "absence": but given their, ahem, "rigorous"
approach to life... not much difference...
my shadow could do more than they attempt to do:
this glorified: i'm entitled to life approach...

disposable creatures: thing-things...
i doubt they even think, i doubt they think because
i doubt they even possess the faculty to see...
to hear... speaking is an obstacle to them
saying good afternoon to ticket holders is,
somehow, exclusively, "beyond them"...

again: i'm working around the parameters of
Heidegger's dasein... there-being...
i'm there, i'm "there", like i'm hiersein...
i'm here, i'm "here"...
or... "i'm" here...
but not really... thinking gives me flight...

gedanke wort von flügel!

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