i could conceive the western concept of the rehab,
but then for 3 weeks i was in poland
i didn't touch the bottle for that period of time...
i don't see how an addict with a bunch
of addicts can be cured by anything other than
stigma... i'm actually happy addicted to
addiction: i entered my reading-mode...
   that said, most people can't digest a Kraszewski
book... **** me, we read Bradbury in snippets
just to tow in an essay for A-level english...
       philip augustus, or the chess player concerning
the Angevin family... great stuff...
   i didn't choose the book, my grandfather did,
he owned half the Kraszewski collection and read
nothing of it, he had to find a ******* "bored"
enough to read one of the books,
   and as i once said: i've seen the movie adaptations
of the Sienkiewicz trilogy...
         the cossack uprising, the swedish deluge...
and i said to myself: i can't and i won't...
thanks you jerzy hoffman, and yes: thank you
peter jackson...
              the infinite supply of elven arrows
and Legolas shooting orcs at point-blank range did
it for me...
                thankfully i can write something
as obscure as this, and know, for certain, that
there's a back-alley of the human populace out there
that might be searching for something like this...
   but that's what i found entertaining,
i actually had the opposite of wanting to compliment
the film adaptation of sienkiewicz, with an actual
sienkiewicz book... mind you: Kraszewski covers
the same period... and it's all the same time frame...
   should i write a proof that i read the **** thing?
maybe... but the main idea is that:
a metropolis cannot provide the right environment
for a book... or completing a book...
books are read in the countryside, in small towns,
in palaces... in hunting lodges...
          and i dare say: reading a book, getting into
full swing of the narrative is best done in daylight hours...
and i'll come back to the daylight hours,
  as a drinker and writer i chose the night...
  you know how long it took me to restore my
biological clock, and regain the nocturnal realm after
spending 3 weeks with a clear schizophrenia
of sleeping in the night and wriggling about during
the day? 2 weeks! i restored the biological pendulum,
but i have to admit: i feel ****...
    but i guess it's a worthy sacrifice...
i'm planning to go back to my country of origin
during late spring to read some more books...
i couldn't have read don quixote, the brothers karamazov,
bertrand russell's history of western philosophy
    yada yada yada... or kierkegaard's either / or,
or finished off kant's critique without my place of birth...
  and isn't it like a badge of honour?
                some will tell you to speak out an eastern
mantra... om... and the shattering of chandelier...
the western mantra is also a type of hypnosis,
you have to find a rhythm with a book...
  the mantra is the narrative of a book, and the silence
that incubates you has shark-teeth should anyone approach...
   but urban living makes this spot harder to find
than a begger or the ******... you can read books
in large cities... before you head home you're
bombarded with the psychology of exploiting your
literacy, in adverts, in orientating signs...
        with them being so authoritarian, it's hard
to find time for a liberal attitude to books...
            esp. what books are, best described by people
who'd probably like to throw them like molotov
cocktails in protest marches: thick as bricks those
gargantuan apostles of the void are...
       and so we are: sitting in times of hyperinflation
of literature... if that isn't the case, let me know by
Tuesday next week, i'll brood the assumption myself
until then...
      that's 2 weeks it took me to return to my writing mode...
to get back to the nocturnal realm
where everything is doubly black & white...
                 the point is: i want to write at a time when
the surrounding world sleeps...
     last time i remember, i didn't get a message in my dreams,
i'd love to see letters in my dreams, fortunately
i can't... i haven't seen these artefacts in dreams,
      but it's hard to blame memory as not strained enough
to do so... the unconscious and memory don't really
interact that well... it's a paradox that they even do
and that dreams have some sort of existence involved in
the architecture of our psyche...
                        last night i dreamt of lego batman because:
d'uh his endearing sarcasm... and godzilla!
   boo ya!         and this large city being eaten up
by a tornado, and other things phantasmogorical....
well pandemonium here, pandemonium there...
    don't get any ideas about the nature of dreams and
oedial repression... please! unaffordable housing prices
these days can only mean i'd really earn a mortgage
if my ***-drive went to the dogs, of the profession.
    so 3 weeks of a sober life and enough time to read
books... and my return into a writing life, a nocturnal
life, and drinking...
   mind you, in between there was that masters final
with ronnie o'sullivan (at least romford is famous for
something) vs. joe perry... in the last frame, when they
had 30 odd points each, and they were plucking at the
last remaining red ball for the snooker?
       snooker is a metaphor for the savannah...
you either watch snooker, or a david attenborough naturalist
show... there's the herd of buffalo (the red *****)...
           and the cue ball the hunting predator...
well... it's all a bit abstract, there are just ***** on a green
table... but still... at least in snooker you can bug
the "pawn" (red) ***** without having to *** them,
in chess you destroy completely... the pawns go...
there's no time to keep them for a no-man's land pause...
and i just turned 30... which goes to show:
                  if the game of football was perfect,
i mean perfect like tennis is with hawk-eye and
    6 judges vertical, 4 judges horizontal...
                  then football wouldn't be so passionate,
so religious... the reason it is so religious is because
judging it is so ****** imperfect...
     there's a reason why football can't be perfected in a way
as rugby can, where the referee can pause the game
and ask for a replay... the unfairness principle!
it has to be unfair in order for people to feel even more
impassioned by it! that's why in that film
when Alec Baldwin says something along the lines:
god comes first (while his hand holds out
the index and *******), and football comes second
(the index finger disappears)...
      football can never be a sport that has perfect
refereering... which makes me surprised as to why
it can grace the Olympic games...
                   football (in english, not that theme park
of jumping torpedoes) - yes the football known as:
ballet with hairy legs...
                   it has to remain unfair and subsequently
quasi-religious because it generates the most money,
but apart from that, it has gained a quasi-religious
status because it reflects a sort of life we acknowledge:
the referee made a bad decision, god did this... blah blah...
  and we get passion, religious passion that's
best represented by football hooligans...
                        but whereas other sports perfect their
techniques of refereeing a game, football hasn't done
the least possible, because it requires the whole debate
of: life's unfair!
    if it wasn't for unfair refeering, the game would not
be alive, as it is alive, to stage a confrontation
with: apache west ham, and sioux millwall...
       it's the best way to ensure tribalism...
         make the refereeing unfair, don't improve it...
blame it on the man in the sky, or the ponce in new zealander...  
mind you....
   the last football match i went to was at Stamford Bridge,
Chelsea lost to Newcastle United...
             i just just there like a stoic twant...
           i couldn't imitate the screams and the chants...
   i was just mesmerised at how it's so different from
watching a football match without the television acting
like a microscope... i am sure i was looking elsewhere
when someone scored a goal...
                 i probably went to the toilet when i
missed another goal...
                        and i'll reiterate...
   it can't be a gentlemanly sport, the rules can't be fair,
that's why they call it the sport of the rabble,
they have to contain the illusion of being unfair...
       because it's a "rabble" sport...
the referee has to make bad decisions,
otherwise there would be a "what if" dimension...
ask any Pole about the 1974 semi-finals with Germany
and ask them about the weather that day...
  then ask about the Polish wingers... and how fast they
were... and how the pitch was so slosh, and ice-puppy
fudge that the slow germans won it...
                     because the Poles always say:
we could have beaten the Nedetherlands in the final...
        again: football, if it is to be stated as the secular
alternative to religion, has to have an inherent unfairness in it...
all the other sports will perfect their judgement,
football will not move an inch... just like a religion -
perhaps that's also because we live in times of
cold-consumerism,
       a quick comparison is:
   the reactions of antonio conte vs.
                       ivan lendl -
   the former looks like a raving lunatic when something
good, or bad happens...
   the second? is he watching tennis, or playing poker?

Vomiting talk on love, greed and politics
Obsessing about pain, loneliness and metaphysics
The delusionist prophet in his unslumbering mind
Wandering over to you to let you in on a revelatory find
That you may or may not want but will come to know
While you raise the glass to your sweet red lips trying not to show
How bored yet fascinated you are with the next word or forty
Because it’s life before it happens or a coda to some other story
Told in a way that you cannot ignore because it’s the truth that blows
Flooded with the tears that you dried before they stained your pretty clothes
To mask the vacuousness of Saturday night boys who can only look
Acting **** sure in banter they memorized from a dead man's book
No more or less meaningful than anything I’ve ever said or could reveal
Of all things that I believe about life that I can no longer conceal
From my solitary existence where no man can stomach or stand
The constant state of thought rejecting out of hand
Trendy desperation of approval and shrewd thievery
Faith sales, unkindness and notorious celebrity
The things that make me sick with disgust over the human race
As I run through the cavities of another poet's dark place
I see men bragging and living on vicarious pleasure
Accepting ill-gotten gain for an earthly treasure
And emotionally immature desires fueling a mob’s fury
In reckless celebration causing injury
I see the down-hearted unable to find love
Because they are different or unattractive
I see two men born of the same mother
Begging on Christmas day leaning on one another
I see the bitterness I feel towards a woman
The one I thought was the only one
I laugh as I pass the things I once desired
And sneer at the people I once admired
I see adults talk while my child sings
And block my view to rearrange their things
I see a happy ******* her wedding day
But soon to be divorced with nothing to say
I see the only thing that makes people able to cope
Is to drink, smoke and **** while death tightens the rope
I see good people adopt a young boy
And then cancer robbing them of their joy
I see reality TV and a material girl become rich
Because of a *** tape and being a *****
I see a man go to war and learn about the horror
And then speak loudly with truth that causes furor
I see praying, evangelizing and moralizing
By men of sin taking advantage of true believing
I see selfish behavior in search of a feeling
Become useless activity devoid of meaning
But then I touch you and you turn to me
With the look of love that I want to see
And I wonder why I burden you
With the injuries my mind cannot subdue
I continue to kick the apple core in your garden
And curse the snake that made my mind harden
As your desperate beauty dances within my burning soul
Mocking it almost as if superficiality is in control
A lightness that incubates within the flame
Impervious to all its trauma and pain
Waiting for madness to end
And for sanity to begin

There is a girl
Who always looks like shes waiting
For something or someone
And still to this day,
I take a seat and watch for magic
Perhaps day without night
There has got to be something good
Any normal person would have left already
But the rain pouring down
Tells me she is not to blame
Tells me she has unfinished business
She still belongs to the garden
Giant shiny green plants with teeth
Devour her back into their wrath
Where she incubates
She must prove she is ready

well, if i found a self-administrative
anaesthetic for celestial tyrants that
are so glorified by historians over
the ages, and only dream darkness,
or dream ******* up that not even
Freud could stomach...
and i teach them how to take it to
do the opposite of what they did in life,
and leave them hungover and
slightly prone to despair, i'm sure we can
have a timetable of when they go cold
turkey, and turn into little budding Buddha...
adenosine and that acetyl thing...
or i got it completely wrong...
how else you going to keep frying
that chicken... obviously you'll have
to keep cutting corners somewhere...
obviously the little budding Buddha illuminations
everyone will resist... i mourned
the fact that a boy encouraged me to throw
a hamster off the stairs telling me: he's
wearing parachutes... i remember that
face... i remember the bloodied snout
of the hamster... makes me a Hindu then:
to have mourned the passing of a petted
animal makes you Hindu...
you can claim having converted the day
you mourned your pet cat passing...
honest to Brahman... like me an Ernest
tailing our conversation into
childless couples who don't want the
murk of a genetic Rōnin ruining
their happy abode even if nurture tries to
overcome nature... dog, man's second child
i inquired... i don't know if i was
elastic enough to call that poetic, but i added:
once you take to the trivialities
of having animals as your children
in a theatre of grievance, the little concern
the animals need, and the way that families
with children belittle the concern of people
with animals as animals making them Everest
summits... well... the joke is: the little
problems of animals dwarf the problems of life...
which is turn makes the childless couples
who have animals as incubator replacements
of pets look at child aplenty couples look a bit daft,
the equilibrium of dwarf and titan combine,
the childless couple incubates a resistance
against the titanic problems of life, or rather the world
with whether their children have autism aged 6...
well, if they don't have play-friends outside of school
where every child's imagination is on equal footing
and there are no educators present to
separate the sheaf from the staff, the wolf from the sheep...
sure... by the age of 8, a child will adamantly
become brutal in his or her individual...
the problem in england, as in America is that
children do not have outside-of-school play-friends
to relax with... it's either all school with social hierarchies,
or all familial bonding, or literally ******* it up
with Oedipus looming...
the funny bit? i remember childhood from 1990s Poland
like Ernest remembers it from, what, 1940?
HA HA HA HA... funny as ****... where's this
unconscious uncoupling then? licking the plates
like a dog starved for a month?
i love the English maxim: got to be cruel... to be kind.
no wait... he said his elder brothers
made their debut... that's the 19... 30s! god...
western Europe is Darwinism on amphetamines.
you can't get play-friends in school...
that's why we have the Cure and the Smiths song...
so much angst at the fact that no one bothered to
build close sky-rise communities...
trying to build them in the 1950s with a Colonial
past? crime... whatever else?
what with those on those estates saying:
my children too! in a semi-detached!
how they ***** Poland with Pope John II at the front...
what a bunch of scummy ratty wankers...
*******... bending the pirate ship's plank wankers...
i'd do them in Kentucky if i had my way...
apparently the recipe is out an all good for the
public eye to see... sometimes civilisation
makes you a natural cannibal by the mere thought of it...
you can't expect children in western society to
not fall suspect to some psychological malnutrition
when their only play-friends are in an institutional
environment, might as well put them in psychiatric
wards and tell them to play razor quickest to the wrist
wins! i do mean that from your neck arteries.
they don't have play-friends outside of institutions...
maybe it was the suburban labyrinths of identical
housing that mismanaged the chance interaction
of a group of children... but in 2 square miles
of where i live, i've seen more biodiversity than
i'd care to see in the Amazon rain forest.

what is it that i am looking for

what is that convulses my mind so

i don’t know, I just don’t know

yet I keep on searching for something

something i know not what

it is in the words, i know it is in the words

it demands a recognition,

perhaps it is an illusion of complex

temporal simultaneity that plays

upon my reason but what is it

that delivers a thousand shivers

and colors from everywhere and nowhere

is it the blank spot that enters my consciousness

bringing temporarily bright blackness

the blindness one receives if

engaged in an over prolonged look at the sun

is it the inner workings of my mind

trying to free some irritant that

has intended to punctuate my thinking

without permission

an attempt to perplex

this new apostasy

that incubates within

yet a confusion hangs suspended

Of this blank spot, this nothingness,

this void of inarticulate reality that

exaggerates its intentions to consummate

a separation but never succeeds in its completion

he's on the news again
all anyone talks about is
how they wish everyone would stop talking about him

i try switching off the radio, the newsfeed, the idle coworker chitchat
dig down to that layer of earth somewhere safe from winter bite but not quite mantle heat
and i bury my head in that goldilocks soil

my mom always said that if you ignore bullies
they go away so my ostrich head incubates
among the worms until i feel like maybe
it's spring and i start to hatch and send
my shoots up toward the sun but
when i wake up everything is
shadow because
he took my silence as invitation and grew and grew and grew
and now there's no room left
not even to breathe

a sullen blue monday
can be a lovely green haven
when new profound thoughts sprout
and we know then that heaven is a state
induced by the euphoria and warmth
radiated by the creative hub on the hearth
that incubates our long-suffering dreams
let us go forward then, today a mess of hopes
and tomorrow couch potatoes venture out

Let them see you

Grin, Grin, Grin

Then reach inside your head

Look, behold and see

The new apostate

That incubates within

By Anonymous*

“Go on, summer woman.”
You sing
bitter lies,
ask her for
sweet, sordid music,
like honey or peaches
on her tongue.
In drooling language
she cries out a chant.
Men ask for love
as enormous as the sky.
Never easy, some may show
you life like wind and water,
but some are like rock,
mean as diamonds.
Shake our iron chains,
blow storm but weakly.

I trudge sadly,
avoiding essential trueness,
yet spring rain must flood.
A thousand mad urges
always crush my goddess
as she fluffs elaborate
apparatus,

whispers raw vision behind death,
soars beneath the moment.
Together blood, like sleep,
a rusty beauty,
incubates dreams.
Delicate, language, luscious, cool,
after drunk with need—
I love bare lust,
smooth and frantic.
You here,
a sweaty symphony.
Lick skin only after swimming.

So
eat, scream, shine,
ugly one,
picture a lazy beat
under heavy spray.

Spring grows new life and colors.

Flower's crisp smells pour into the air it incubates.

Feet and body go out side the heat was so warm and hugging.

In the distants the marvelous sounds of lawn mowers turning on.

Birds sing and the sun fills the foliage with energy!

perhaps the hardest lesson to learn
is based upon drinking
whiskey slowly...
    you can down one kalimotxo glass
after another, and if you have
to litres of wine, you can also chain-smoke
choo-choo it down the slide
into more uninhibited territory -
but with whiskey: there's a need to
keep vigil, and wait, and wait...
  and it can sometimes be disengaging
that you somehow have to wait
for the right moment, and begin...
      oh, i drink out of choice,
not out of an addict's plea -
   what three weeks in Poland showed me
was that i can switch off the "addiction"
in a day, and feel no cold-trukey drama...
the western world with
its romanticism of madness and its
theatre of addiction narratives bores
me... quiet literally bores me...
   so why am i writing this?
well... i feel the tipping point of the Libra
working its way into my drinking session...
a few aphorisms by a german
philosopher in hardback...
   then a few newspaper articles from
a newspaper (column section, primarily)
and i can begin...
   and i can begin: because i feel no shame
in writing what i would consider to be
utter tosh... but given the Libra principle:
at least i'll write nearly as much
as i have read...
     i find it a disaster to merely write...
to fill some void, as if to rekindle once had
conversations with transcient friends:
notably those in a system of either schooling,
or work...
    i just have a void in my head
that once had pristine conditions (soul-like)
for thinking... now i don't...
  as happens when blood spills onto neurons
and you hear a sound akin to water
on an electric current...
but never mind that...
          do i care for past conversations
as a writer might, in that current film 5 to 7?
well... i'm not really a writer...
   as it is self-evident: i have the least
interest in paragraphs, or ensuring someone
takes me writing to bed as:
the best way to fall asleep... not as depressing
as someone falling asleep with the television on,
i gather that much...
     but i'm not really here to talk,
to orate grand things in the vein of a Cicero...
i thought i could begin citing more
Seneca and Cicero than the Greeks...
but then i found that: they cite the Greeks...
so why bother citing those two?
     pedantry, for the care of it being
a reflection that: there actually was a beginning,
and with that beginning i find myself
lodged in the current year, a.d. 2017.
    it's not that i care about these historical
figures... they're as far removed from me
as someone in a village 100 miles north off
Beijing... gearing up from tending to a field
to occupying a cubicle-sized room
with a naked lightlulb dangling off the ceiling...
it's hardly an umbilical cord...
but such is the contrast i'm experiencing,
a philosophy book on the one hand,
and a newspaper on the other hand...
  you can't find a better case of zenith and nadir...
i read one and i reach a nadir -
because current affairs and my place in the world
are a bit pointless by comparison...
  but i read the other, and i am walking
up a mountain, upon which i find coordinates (0, 0)
and of all things: gravity - a pulling force
that drags me to say, well...
coordinates (0, 0), but that's on an x-y graph...
i'm the z-line, so, more precisely 1 (0, 0) -
neither of these two mediums are actually
three-dimensional, as such, not the objects
themselves, but the content...
   so i have to stand outside the already prescribed
coordinate foundation...
but i still find philosophy books inadequate
in some way... a) no grammatical words...
not using the basis of categorising language,
all the time, just throwing words into abstracts
and geometric bulwark -
      no grammatical words, not one,
only Artistotle nibbling at it: proper names...
       or such thing from ancient lore...
and b) the rigid concepts used, intact,
to further an argument, or merely state
the logic of language...
           e.g. ad infinitum (to infinity) -
and never toward, say, something poetic...
   it's enough that grammatical words have never
been used in philosophy books...
  allowing a pseudo-ping-pong or at least
the quickened step... a wormhole effect...
but the fact that there can be no, i.e.
    αδ μηταφoρυμ -
        for example syllables, diacritical marks
as punctuation marks / syllable enforcers within
words... why then all the way to infinity
and not toward the given, now?!
toward metaphor, yes...
               how there is medicine all around...
a doctorate in linguistics might also mean
using another kind of scalpel to cut open words...
and not begging at the oratorium of:
the pen is mightier than the sword...
         so i guess that would mean:
the tongue is mightier than the thought,
  or as some would say: the thing that incubates
thinking... the in abstracto brain...
why would we begin to think by claiming
the origin of thought is in the brain and is by
brain solely coordinated?
   what of feelings concerning the heart,
and my drunken odes when the liver speaks more?
i can hardly be as merely a brain in a pickle-jar
attacked to a computer (some time in the future)...
the heart speaks as much as the brain,
if not more!
           side-tracking,
and why:                    Γγ      Υυ
   and not akin to Ιι                      Ρρ   Ττ    Χχ
      Ψψ, i.e. identical shrinking?
   some would say: can that ever be a serious question?
well... unless you're part of the crowd
asking about the mysteries of the universe,
i guess it isn't...
                   well... it's there, i'm in it...
it's unfathomable to the extent we currently
understand it... but at least this thing i asked is
concerning a human question,
   not a dialectically theological question
that stacks a lot of brains working on
the cartesian "i am" without much thought,
i.e. the tri-tier dialectics of theism / deism / atheism:
no matter what thought i put into that thing
that boasts moons, stars Jupiter and Mars will
ever produce a lightbulb...
     or a recipe for a well cooked roast...
here, now... language... it's bewildering
on the basis that: well, we're not exactly
merchants on the silk road writing route symbols
so we don't get lost when we travel across
Arabia... by the looks of it... we're already lost!
yes, that really was an exaggeration:
but i like to think it's so,
it's not as simple as 1 (straight), 2 (turn left)
and 3 (turn right) -
so to walk through a maze you were given
the instruction schematic:
1, 1, 1... 2... 1, 1, 1, 1... 3... 1... 2... 1, 1... 3... 1, 1...
bingo!
   and believe me.... you will end up writing
these little codes at some point, wondering
why it was that you didn't remember modern
code given computers... or as i do...
or why i do these little codes, because,
as a byproduct of being drilled 1 + 1 = 2
   from age 8... i feel like taking a break
and writing the most basic ciphers...
a bit like receiving complimentary chocolates
on your hotel bed...
  it's not exactly a chocolate fountain...
but hell... they're there.
yet what was that thing i mentioned,
the Libra principle?
     well... it doesn't matter what i wrote...
i spent the past hour reading...
   which makes me feel, actually a bit shameless
about writing anything at all...
   it's how i find writing to be at best
a chance of being trapped in a moment
    that post-pones more balancing acts...
i just can't stash inside of myself
  this high-air i'm wearing a cravat sort of airs...
like i might need a butler...
     i can't say i write more than i read...
but at feel less urgent in writing anything at all...
and the content just passes me by...
the context is more important:
whiskey, cigarettes, newspaper, windowsill
a bit of heidegger...
               and that's how it should be:
it can never be that important as i might even
like to think...
         and yes, as Kafka noted should
his works be kept, published IN LARGE PRINT...
you seen a Kafka book?
    New Times Roman... probably size 9 or 10...
they overdid the justice bit with Bukowski...
Kafka is stacked on my shelf and he's moaning
saying: you ******* should have at least
published my books in larger font:
so it's easier to read... who's this chuckling Charlie
doing in the myopic section of the library...
i mean: how many insuctices have been served
like that... he can boast all he wants:
the reason he's pop is because they printed
him in LARGE TEXT... Kafka received
a **** when he ordered a steak tartar...
   and yes... the stench of a nation once incorporated
into the Roman empire is all too evident
in an English newspaper...
   coming from a faction of peoples who didn't
experience being brown-nosed by the Romans
or who claim no conncetion with the Roman world
can be a bit daunting...
               it would seem to suggest that there's
nothing to boast about...
    and that much is true...
as if true that Poland: has absolutely no moral
obligation to prevent the people of Hong Kong
from being swallowed up by the one-party Chinese
state...
       because no more Kowtow means: no more Kowtow.
if i were British i'd cite Bilbo Baggins...
Gandalf... i feel streched... like
    too little butter spread over too much toast...
what's with this predicate of having moral
obligations... 6000+ miles away from Dover?!
well... these are middle-class opinions,
   instead of reading a newspaper, i should really
try to get an invitation to some *******'
    dinner party in Devon... or Richmond...
that's what i meant when i meant: two Europes...
  suddenly got the fear
and left: because there emerged a workforce
with a communist work ethic,
a generation who had to join the army for 2 years...
given the conscription laws...
         every time i wake up and feel nothing
but jealousy of not being born in poland in the 1960s.

/shovels' worth of sparrow songs,  hid before me, the praise of morn, I took to ***** and to cushion, that I might sneeze back, with a cajun sentiment of a, "misjudged" joke... mind you... who might care what you don't mind what others feel, when... no one, really cares, what you think? am I wrong to suggest that feeling and thinking are synonymous? both happen almost instantaneously, given a stimulant... is this some sort of pathogen of "wrong-think" sifting process? feelings are delayed patterns of the expression of intellect... thoughts are shallow counterfeits of emotions.... I too wished I was the blabber-mouth of highschool... when thinking cannot become rhetorical, it incubates itself in emotions... but when thinking incubates rhetoric... the emotions attempting to be staged, become, equivalent to, passing a stranger on a street, never giving a two second's worth of mind, worth of notice.

the pulverising presence
of the elemental man,
lodged within,
the seemingly, unmoveable
tiers of "object";
         foolish, seeking fame,
as to quench a familiarity,
in:
        overcoming the torrent,
of man "evaluating" water...
    riddling his equal...
perpetually undermining
metaphysical novels,
    with metaphors-,
              and never...
       the unsatiable thirst...
*** post annus.

Our green budgerie
Feels not weary
Sitting on her legs

Inside her clay ***
With the only thought
Of warming her eggs!

Any curious peek
She meets with her beak
Leave her alone

Shows her face
A divine happiness
Strictly her own!

She’s in no mood
To forgo her brood
Not relaxing till hatch

Steeped in motherhood
Eats little food
Her patience has no match!

We cannot do much
Except only watch
So long she incubates

Till one fine morn
Cute chicks are born
She has her new playmates!

3.
Picture:
smog pilfers
away some stars;
some cars
my words

Silence:
like a pinch, a piercer,
a piercing

Little winter:
a pistachio
salty, sweetly
confined a bead
I crack the door open
I eat it up

Clock:
a pistil
in it
time incubates

This lamplight
is like a pineapple
I want to write, write, write

it's almost ball-breaking and heart un-fathoming to construct a basic realism that incubates a woman... god, can you even market a retaliating compass of ***, of wife becoming a mother?! without either taking up the fruitition of a man, being, or being itself, made: cumbrant? i could almost love, if i had not the chance to tease, and by teasing: call love, a quench for a furore of mother... that "thing":"bound to accomplish a hippocratic cull, i  order to convene a tractus: impetus non. death, is a flowering clue to a dead in life, better served to mark an impetus of deciding death, rather than life: king, hybrid clue of a jaw dropping coerce.

what is cultural darwinism?
well...
it's something bound
to the overt-extraction
of metaphorical-application
of natural world
       (natürlichwelt)

examples, onto
           its misapplication
in the ontological world
(ontologischwelt)...

i.e.?
   the menschweltansicht:
human world view
is not... the natural world
view...

how could it?

  isn't the human world
insulated from the natural
world, but a membrane
of technology?

so... the cultural darwinism
of: the easily said tongue...
why is there a persistence
to extract metaphorical-ontology
from the natural world,
and impose it upon
the human world,
and even suggest:
that man is to behave
as naturally,
as a ******* pack
of hyenas?

            yes i see the natural
world,
      but i am a specimen
of the a-natural,
godly...
                    my natural
confinenement
is very similar to zoological
cage:
  which is...

the shadow of the soul
that incubates
the mind,
and doesn't translate
into a body...

- there is a natural world...
but there's also
an ontological world,
in that the natural world
will never fathom
the membrane
intermediate
of human ingenuity...

but i am still,
dragged to the *******
bottomless pit of
people not reading
enough poetics:
worried about snippets
of bogus journalism
in the grand "o fortuna"
of... an excess of metaphorical
extraction
of behavior...

what the hell has
any marxism to do away
with "culture" in the compound
of "cultural-marxism"?
mob rule...
and...
   snippets...

- but what is cultural
darwinism?
   the, "dominant" culture of
spending too much
time looking up a baboon's ***!
that's what!
yes, there is a
                natural world-view...
but its "nature"
is as "natural" to our
per se study within
the base of ontology that:
we're left to exploit
metaphors of the natural world,
and hope to invite them
back into our:
segregation from it...

- but there's also an
   ontological world-view...
and when i call it
an ontological-,
  yes: the psychological study
of man is already bound
to a fondness for the zoological
specimen:
caged, readily available as:
protesting the need to speek,
when having to deviate
from the cunning (and e. e. cummings'
worth of thought)...

ontology: **** sigma...
psychology? **** psi.

  look... i even prepared
a ******* logo for you...
if psychology is ψ...
                      ontology is Σ...

because when i get worked up,
and i feel my heart become
less of a pouch / cushion
and a vector-like stone...
i know i need to write these words...

i'm just tired of cultural darwinism,
yes,
   there was once a natural world
which man inhabited,
but that world is no more...
what was once a natural world-view
has become an ontological world-view:
and the two are different:
because... like it or not...
we're more inorganic entities
than organic entities...
given that:
            no organic entity will
ever study geology,
   o.k. o.k. pseudo-inorganic,
quasi-inorganic, whatever!

            tell a ******* dog to write
woof!
   as close as you'll ever get it:
dog's paw dipped in an ink-well,
the paw dipped in ink
pressed onto a piece of paper,
hey presto! woof!

i just don't like where these
ronin metaphor-extractions
were coming from...
        no man would have made
such ontological
endeavours
         treating himself as a
noumenon / res per se...
or a precursor that was
the Cartesian res cogitans...
to have to subsequently...
expose himself to a poetics
of the ontological hierarchy of:
being worth the acquisitive-
of the metaphors from nature...

i find "too many" metaphorical
extractions from the natural
world view to mould
the ontological world view with...
given that the natural world
view has no buffer zone's worth
of the technological
cut-off point to compliment
itself with a mirroring
complexity to engage with...

the natural world doesn't even
possess a tautological
crux...
        which the ontological world
possesses...
given we're world that:
there are variants of
                   the infinitesimal "nuances"
of an animals call...

hell: as a man, i can make
  infinitesimal nuances
that are: miatakes, as i can make "nuances",
which are a tautology;

but as someone bothered
by ontology:
i "hate" being reduced
to a "natural world"
extraction of: applied metaphors...
which makes...
applied metaphysics... what?
  
ramble ramble and no seed
sowed...
  just a wagon of towed
    rotten cabbages to sieve
through,
on the basis of:
   finding that drum-kit
worth of human skulls...
and some prospect of backgammon.

~25cl and a "next"
   day's worth of an afternoon,
while watching the next
concubine of a single mother's
household, play fiddle
to the garden,
    and there are no violins
and no crescendo,
and the day incubates
several winds at once,
           and you're like:
n'ah...
              i shouldn't,
but i should,
but then again i shouldn't,
and: light-hours never do it for me,
how daylight is least
complimentary to drinking
habits...
      is it really all about the rhyme?
rubric "tautology",
   pedagogy skew,
    only the ******* have
a desired inclination?
       well... we know what
'all the little hitlers write at night'
gets you,
a notable mention
in a harold norse autobiography,
mush akin to w. h. auden...
sure, the feeling is mutual,
it's not longer a "circumstance"
of being circumcised,
it's a scenario of playing
the cameo castrato role
in some dim figment of "reimagining"
the status quo of a
pro golfer's harem...
i can do saturdays...
but come sunday?
    everything is just, plain weird...
gearing up toward a monday
and the tide of "subtle"
gradations of a work ethic...

https://magma poetry.com /
     20th-century-  poets/

i know so little, having read this,
that i'm almost unabashed by
the fact, per se...

             so scuttling through
a list of failings,
  crude tongue,
   lack of ethical standards,
a whole plethora of shortcomings,
but it's only about
a worth of an afternoon,
   ~25cl  of leftover whiskey,
and rolling tobacco...

       a microcosm of creeping
existential crises...
    and all that worn down flack
of a democratic tuxedo,
to any event,
but one in particular:
a funeral of some sort....

         to better, or for no worse avail...
and so little,
and so late,
            and all the eager tender
hearts make available...
    some sort of c.c.t.v. counter,
some ghost,
          some clarification,
and then some stupid plause,
some norman and normie
sunday zenith of a football match
spectated before the new altar
of t.v.,
               and, as ever,
a dampened sense of
          disinhibition,
              heightened scrutiny
from the slaughterhouse brigade...
even the bulls don't
give off a whiff of a dumb
animal compensation for their
worth of a blank canvas blank
back stare...

         little world, little promise...
little of much, and also the little
of the little...
                      how many compromises
had to be met in metaphysics?
       as many as away from
the translation of: abstract...

               a life, in death:
                       always the persiting
circumstance of a waiting line...
           or if not outright melancholy,
then a blatant nostalgia...
        
   and now, to find ease,
    an arm-chair,
    a snooze corner,
             even a shadow,
to play with...
                  
     seems i don't exactly have
to be a sailor and fear
myself towed by some slouch
   to the depths,
          that i might drown...
i'm already a voice
in a democracy,
          and i'm drowning,
                        as we "speak":

to "think" of having firm
standing in this cauldron,
  of roots: when one is constantly
up-rooted...
                         is a fool's errand;

and sometimes,
to chance those...
    who are in the theatre of opinion,
with opinions,
that never, never really begin
to chance dialectic...
   a mind of scrutiny,
but are forever,
            base,
playground...
                     and the comforts
of a night with safety
psychadelic experiences
of a dream;
  never the void,
never the insomnia
or the dreamless "repose".

the death, the day, the taming of what
became...
     an atypical
Sunday's expectation
for a bowl of... rice...

   psst...

          nothing in
the comments section...
finally people decided that reading
implied: incurring
a forsaken right of
private space...
   and having read
what they read...
a piece of them
was hanging...
as if lost...
not some passive video ingestion...
mighty, mighty fine
i subsequently thought...
i'm loving the paranoia...
the internet-ascribed
internet censorship....
it's like...
  you sure McCarthy is dead?
that old Princeton,
or wherever he studied at:
lady luck, queer & fairy?
last time i checked my...
either genitals or my pronoun
usage...
   i know of two types of
gay-lords...
    the gays i can recognize...
the camp voice... the ooh-ah
approach to body language...
i can recognize those camps,
it's like... a super-power and
i'm... the only superhero
with... no super-powers,
and the best villains...
                  namely Batman...

i can recognize the gays on
the spot...
   with the words?
gay, as, ****!

the other ones though?
the Douglas Murray type?
   intellectual equals / contenders?
these...
intellectual practices of buffoonery...

a life, a death, perhaps even
a transcendental biology reality of
what constitutes
      the inorganic statement
of memory...

                       and assured, willing...
a life, a body, a death, a grave

death... always the parody...
that incubates life,
as a clown's play on an:
expecting parade.