the jungian concept of the collective unconscious
is quiet simply bogus... why?
it would mean that no one in the rest of us
would or wouldn't know whether they were
capable of being... plumber!
        i find the jungian version of "events"
as scary as communism,
          it just means: a retardation of
darwinism - it means a loss of consciousness -
you do know, that jung is a covert
communist, right?
                 i find it strange that a collectivist
unconsciousness does not allow me to
engage with whoever i like in the dream world...
why is it, that i can't dream up:
  anyone i like?
    why am i not a magician in the medium,
pulling a black 12 incher from a top-hat
instead of a rabbit?! as usual: no answer.
      a ******* **** in the wind,
      a persian falafel in a turkish kebab,
a piece of broccoli in a cauliflower salad...
an eskimo in a sand dune,
about as weird as a zebra among pandas.
so we're collectively unconscious of
each of us are doing?!
           so the plumber doesn't know
why he's a plumber, nonetheless,
he's content with being human, and being part
of the great extract of the universe,
and the subsequent per se,
           and he's not ******* at anything
akin to the exceptionalism of an einstein?!
wow!
    what, an, exceptional, observation!
scary to endorse the psychiatric collectivism
of jung, and oppose the economic collectivism
of marx...
       in both instance: we're all apparently
going to succeed!
          but one thing is for sure:
we're not sleeping walking into one of them...
oh... right... we are...
    no wonder the circus is dead;
because when i think of a collective
unconscious i start thinking along the lines
of: there is someone, out there,
who's a walt disney,
    who doesn't actually think / imagine
himself as being a plumber...
         and then he does a las vegas on
the stage, and he gambles it right...
      which is why i can't actually understand
jung without understanding communism,
and why anyone would an essential part
of freud, to replace it with jungian
ideology, and not accept some minor form
of communism...
the collective unconscious...
   that's a truly unfathomable compound
of words these days...
     so we're all sleeping, or?
we're all awake?
         in the collective array of stratas i already
"knew" i was to be a plumber,
the poor ****** next to me,
already "knew" he was to be a politician?
oh, right, it was in the unconscious
medium, so we won't actually "know"...
   jung was a ******* communist however
you like it or not...
        and freud was just the instigator
of the *****-industry,
      a monolithic capitalist of the *******
agency of the base construct:
       skyscrapers are not, an, accident;
and i do abide by the law of necessary
correction,
   i probably have made a mistake -
   it, whatever ill i've said,
     nonetheless is wed to the already prefaced
intro to:
           i find the collective unconscious
a dire play on words,
   that shies away from the politico dynamic
of communism...
  by suggesting, that when all said and done:
the plumber has no knowledge of
being a plumber, rather "thinking" himself
                     being a zookeeper!
oh ****... i must be *******...
but i just watched the plumber do the zookeeper's
job, of teaching the gorilla sign language,
"telling" the gorilla: i, think, yer, deaf.

Boat hooked up
Let'***** the road
Left work early
Lighten my load

Buddies jump in
With their gear
Truck loaded down
Have no fear

Rods and reels
And bottles of crown
Headed to the coast
Jamming throwback sounds

Dinner time
Whataburger stop
Back on the highway
Haven't seen a cop

Halfway there
Need to get some sleep
But stopping at a buddies
Conversation runs deep

Morning comes
Got to get going
The beach it calls
And the tide is flowing

Check into the house
Drop boats in the water
Let's go fish
Can't stand it ni longer

Live gulf shrimp
hooks and weights
Out to the jetties
To sink some bait

Tap and pull
Set the hook
Drag screaming
The bait was took

Finally turn
This big old red
Bringing him in
Feel just about dead

Scoop him up
32 incher in the net
The tone for the trip
Has been set

10 guys  here
For three more days
Fishing trip
Memories made

I’m a nail
not a big steel industrial spear
just your average 2-incher
a household item
used for many chores
but not prized for any.

The hammer has pounded me
part way into the wood
where I’m stuck
not loose
but not tight either.

The wood says ouch
I say sorry
but it’s too late

here comes the hammer again.

/
nietzsche was ****** and made mad for deeming kant's solitude as idiotic, based on his intellectual output... no wonder he found admirers akin to married men like heidegger who held their solitudes as based upon their duties, obligations... having read heidegger admirer nietzsche's solitude, he who ****** kant's solitude: look - a wriggling worm, turning in his grave... much easier to play the joker card of solitude when darting across europe, eh? much harder to play the solitude card, rooted in one place, being deemed more eccentric, than: MYSTERIOUS... that being said, i really only have to pose for a Y (sky below, a place in england and a place in poland), HH: chiral displacement... W: edinburgh; which kind of translates into the modern narrative of everyone calling everyone else stupid... i already desecrated the altar of the jews, in that, my "saviour" taught me nothing of the nature of "the", "father"... i guess (roman gematria) Y (25) + H (8) + H (∞) + W (23) means something... not to mention M (13), and of course little 11 with a little 3 and a big up 20 (λ, γ, Υ)... but i ask you... how many times, does it take a greek to hide iota? Θ (theta), one... Ξ(ksi), two... Φ (phi), three... Ψ (psi), four! ha! all it took the barbarians was a bot-pod.

you can tell of of israel, when the dome of the rock, falls.

never you mind, but don't have two
at the same time,
  once upon a time i had locks,
long hair,
        and the women used to say:
what girl wouldn't be envious to
have that sort of pony tail...
    ****... getting out of here...
     and now, post scriptum the year
of maturing ****** *****,
i can appreciate men joking
about me having a beard:
      don't worry, it's growing,
you can hear it rustling among
    the tall grass when the wind blows...
but never, god forbid, you expose
both extensions...
    it's either: long hair and no ******
*****, or it's ****** *****
       and a roman / ottoman haircut...
******, coin flip!
              heads or tails?!
                 and this is the part where
we cocktail insomnia with
       that acute sense of ingesting
alcohol...
                berserk frenzy of the type...
catch me on a spelling mistake
and i'll solve you:

   643 825 719
   579 164 382
   128 973 645
   396 512 478
   754 698 123
   281 347 956
   815 436 297
   432 789 561
   967 251 834...

you can solve that,
i can tell you why it so HaPPeNs...
    quantum grammar
name it whatever you like,
i'm already having to address
a revision of crypto-nationalism
beyond the anglo-franco sphere:
hell... load of **** is, really happening
in Poland...
       i'd whip the leaders who
cling to their dead twins
and blame it all on russia,
and not the fog,
           and not a drinking problem...

crypto-nationalism?
    i'm in the trenches in a foreign land
using a parasitical tongue
while everything else is going
smoothly: to keep the memory
of the child i once was, intact...
that's crypto-nationalism to me...
yes yes, and i'll dance naked next
time you try to IMPLANT
A REGRESSION MEMORY
of a colonial past my body,
my is bound to: REJECT...

  hell, should have seen her,
no six-pack of muscle, no 12 incher
and she was still bewildered
as to why that turned her on...

            inflate the ego to an equivalent
of an acid trip with english lyrics,
aah... deflate it with finnish folk...
  goes hand in hand...
       and some were born adrenaline
***** monkeys,
   and some were the ones
who: "apparently" elevated
conscious by digesting a fungus...
            well... that's history
wrapped up for sure,
  a nice christmas present,
  all glittery and amnesiac of
anything that might have
happened in any century that
does not point toward
a rhetoric, namely:
the oddity of the area of European
land, not affected by the black plague...
  
       is that like: people knew hygiene,
or really liked cats?!
  
           stray dogs teach
stray man how to coexist...
i.e. share the burden...
         you take the stray dogs away...
the homeless men are worse
off than if they were introduced
into a rehousing programme...
  **** the bureaucrats pencil pushin',
hussling paper maches...
      leave the stray dogs where
they are... the two will naturally
gravitate to each other...
   but hey... if it's going to be
doggy Ritz all of a sudden,
         and man: the push-over?!
i'm dry on what surprises
are coming...
                 vee'schtyrn e-u-rho-pa'h...
#crownprinceofsaudiarabiasenttosavetheboyracersofkensingtonhighst­reet...
       did i get something wrong?
               always the man-child,
never the *******,
what ******* complex?
                  one ****** is poor
and "requires" psychiatric
intervention,
                    like a snail needs
               canines,
while the other?
          never played with matchbox.

what a ******* sour grape...
            the patron saint of snowflakes;
who?
      crown prince mohammed bin salman...
snowflake... yeah i know,
no chance of snow in the desert
as such, but once in a while...

ha ha... #welcome yada yada ditto....
but seriously... doing this *** puzzle
had me thinking about spelling...
                 HHa and HaH...
                         # (obviously) -
                 ||| versus |/| vs.
      |//
                    etc.,
                                this 2 dimensional
cube is, hyper-geometric,
             because it's an implosion,
             i.e. when it's 2 dimensional
it's an understanding of trigonometry...
when it's 3 dimensional it's an understanding
of geometry...
      how would you represent
sine, cosine and tangens in 3 dimensional space?
but back to spelling...
           stray dogs teach abandoned
men a freedom that no polity that discourages
strays to be free can ever teach
abandoned men
  to reenter a polity...
                  in the east you can still
have a stray dog companion...
   in the west?
   crawl on all fours,
          bark... and you might just
get into the Battersea Ritz!
   (laid slabs on the roof of
the new extension) -
           i've seen the "cages"
the strays have to endure...
             very ******* far from
a Bombai ghetto, i have to admit...
    maybe Paris Hilton wouldn't mind
though...
                 and always, this persisting
personification of inanimate objects...
i can understand a personification
of animals... but sausages?!
               cabbages?!
                        i haven't smoked
anything but i says to him:
dude?! did that hammer just insinuate
i'm a nail?
                     blackout.

i hung a forty pound t.v.
in the bedroom,
my wife’s and mine,
that is.
patrick is too young for
a t.v., just yet,
but not an ipad, or an xbox1,
apparently.

the t.v. wall mount should have
been able to hold
about a hundred and fifty
pounds, easy,
being forged iron,
or super duper stainless,
or thick-assed aluminum,
with joints and bolts

that looked like an airplane wing,
or a robot leg,
or a bridge girder,

or some such.

well, i took the boy,
who’s grampa
is a leo patrick,
whose momma
was a colleen kay,
whose gramma was
a welsh,

to the irish family tradition
to see the pipers at
the bar.

at least he wasn’t staring
at the 72 incher
in the living room,
that steals our wrestling matches,
and floor leggos,

and old mash episodes
on a small box,
that the family had to huddle
on the one couch,
to try and see
across the room,

touching legs,
and shoulders,
when i was a boy.

while we were there,
listening to the kilted bagpipers
pound out a wheezer,
the phone rang:

that t.v. jumped off the wall
in our sacred bedroom,
and hit momma in the face,
and left her holding it up
by its one remaining lag bolt,
on her tiptoes,
with the door locked,
so next-door-steve
couldn’t run in to help,

and i raced home.

she held that t.v. for twenty minutes,
and the boy only kicked me
from behind,
about five times,
running back to the car.

i had sheared the bolt off
in the wall,
mounting the bracket,
to hold the silly t.v.
to the wall of a place
it didn’t belong.

i always over tighten
everything,
and my wife holds up
the messes
till i get home.

We all know those three inchers
who seek solace in warm ale pitchers
drinking bitters writing poems as sour lechers
thimble tools all mouth no trousers only being sad watchers
hating that nine incher that reaches and thrills the ladies and is richer