for any of my work to have any meaning, i can only suggested browsing Empedocles (of Acragas), in saying that, i suggest the name, primarily it's a form of philosophy, written in poetic form... in that it exhausts the need for poetic technique: i.e., there's more to see, than actually hear.

- just like i don't understand people who fake doing the maestro whenever they listen to classical music, in the same vein: your greengroccer... your plumber... your electricians.... god forbid you t.v. guy....  don't translate that oddity in, modern music and imitating drummers... i get air guitar, i get air maestro... no one really bother the drumming brigade, when i listen to classical music, i am looking for a maestro, when i listen to contemporary music i, want a drummer, bad; ****! St. Thomas' gospel is becoming real... like i really, really, need a *** change.... never mind the 50cl of whiskey waiting for me, or sasha foxxx's eyes... the job? hammer in a thousand nails... industrialise ***, what do you get? a **** economy... why would god enter the equation if all the problems are theological self-made-heresy? it's not even that *** sells, and god gives gives rise to stampedes... what with the Koran and oil, are we counting to state the same arithmetic... i mean: the industrialisation of ***... nothing that hurts, nothing but a quip... that sorta of definition belongs in China or India with a billion participants... what we have is a case of mouthing off the competitors, when you're actually chihuahua in the Sahara of expectation.... i'm as mad as the numbers say i am... personal stories are non-essential.... i included mine for added effect... or a presumtpion that i might: acknowledged as having said anything in total....counter to english existentialism, so wholly preoccpupied with zoos and biology as the only scientific resource... i can't agree to it making sense, in the standard item-basis-list of following-up an argument... that dire, fake or indeed couch-sloth desert-prune is only half of *σ... i mean there's a tendency of a natural disparity, to ensure a dialectical health of any if all argument... σ = per se... it's because there no single, identifiable argument, the one current is a vogue argument, in the realm of zeitgeist parameters... it's not the only one... the world will move on... it's only that at the zenith of civilisation, we are only bound to industrialise ***, and art is, as according to W. Benjamin, in a state of: ditto, in the age of machanical, reproduction... easier said than... and so done... i feel the anaesthetic needle doing the suggested thing, of numbing me... it's not when art is given onto this Moloch-like altar... it's when *** is industrially-scaled to require cinema... and the quickie-dip of dimension having repertoire in threes... i have no care to ensure there's a narrative and a frenzy... i just care to say: there's a narrative, and a frenzy.... that one has no insurance, and that the other has all the resources that would otherwise invole a familial life... which now, evidently, is prone to same-*** affiliations than compliment-*** affiliations... meaning less art from the **** realm, and more art from the hetero or h-quasi realm (origin ****)... you need to talk about the cushions, if you're going to sleep in the bed, ****'s sake! -

to really live by the "rules" of existentialism,
to live an existential doctrine,
is to really: live an uneventful life,
or should i say: rather ordinary?
  well... i wouldn't go as far as saying it
might be boring, just... un-spectacular.

and all it takes it five beers and, oh, about
6 miles of wet wintry cement,
   and o.t.t.'s album blumenkraft,
with the crescendo song: billy the kid strikes back...

walk 6 or 7 miles in winter
and you come back into a warm abode
and you have skeleton hands...
numb from the cold...
but in england winter is different
than on the continent...
a wet winter (which is very english)
is worse than a dry winter (which is
continental)...
  as honesty goes... -18C in a dry winter
is probably not as bad as -1C in a wet
winter...
    so there's me, completely
****-faced watching the t.v. series
this is us, and one of the characters is
a black kid that gets adopted by
a white family when
    one of the triplets of the white family
dies in child-birth,
and he finds his biological father...
and also a mid-life crisis:
white folks told me to excell,
so he does,
   black daddy was a poet and played
the piano...
and he experiences a mild
schizophrenia... see, it's not a scary word,
i mean: without the extreme symptoms...
   a split-mind...
thankfully i cushioned mine on bilingualism...
and i have been ever since: bilingual -
nothing to be proud of,
   after all: there's the genius polymath...
but it's not about that: it's about winter...
winters in england are so different to
winters on the continent...
the grey skies? oh, that's here all year...
    talk about being a weather man
in Saudi Arabia, most of them moved to England:
where the action is...
          
but really, i can't imagine why existentialism
as a movement, culminated in the zenith
it achieved (precursor movement?
phenomenology)
        oh yah yah: were nieche, very Kensington,
very, Chiswick...

but to really appreciate an existentialist
dogma, a truly uneventful life...
   and given that existentialism in the French
vein akin to Kant but not so much Heidegger
lends itself to the cartesian maxim...
well... that's because it kinda has to,
but not really...

  Kant took out i think and merely focused on that,
his biography goes along the lines of:
a ritual walker, stayed in one place,
    a rook of the clock, i couldn't exactly call him
a pawn... nonetheless...
             a very uneventful life...
why? thought.
    
    what's the most interesting thing i've done today?
i thought, or, i had a thought (a / the article scissors
cutting off the -ism)...
and that's about it...
    had a thought...
                   i hit the gong that thus translates into
the post ergo / therefore of i am,
   and then i realised: i wasn't motivated enough
by my thought: to do much!
              
historically speaking, my writing can only be placed
into a dynamic of being called post-existentialism,
it's not boasting, it's just a plain fact,
   like Monday will be St. Valentine's day, 2017...
and some men collect stamps,
   and some men like fishing,
    and some men have the habit of writing about
things that are, a bit like Avogardo's constant,
meaning they'd love to speak about these things
over, and over again, and never get bored of them,
or for that matter: start families.

strange how it works, have it all...
       or have none of it, to later only have that one
vector that's opposite of mortal, ******...
        or have both, in a way,
and be later traced to some Shakespearean controversy
about a mistaken identity...
well... there's that too.

that must be it, existentialism, and the most,
ordinary life...
         pause for what, akin to something else i wrote
about beginning the thought catching
up to the walk a few days earlier which began
with z and i and diacritical marks,
how northern slavs wouldn't necessarily disrespect
the already present diacritical mark
on the ι (iota), i.e. regarding acute z (ź),
and how if z & i appear together, i.e.
    z and immediately after it, i... you don't bother
writing an acute version of z,
   as a southern slav (balkan) might,
with his caron (ž)...

or a bit like stating the old chestnut of universals
vs. particulars...
   well... they can say what they like about
the cheapness of writing in this medium
but there is nothing so gut-wrenching as a deleted
passage, that will never return...
    immediate heartache... there on the screen,
the computer decides to "have a mind of its own"
moment by either your carelessness
          or the computer's defects and: ****!
gone, a shift+ and suddenly... writing while not
looking at the keyboard, as you do... ****!
gone... gone baby... gone...
    and if that's not analogy of: a lesson
in placing your hands correctly onto the computer
does me: you're looking at the keyboard
and not at the screen...

  how about writing with my eyes closed?
  haven't seen anyone attempt that...

here goes:

    and with that i give you hades...

not bad, i should try it more often... it's not believable
because it's actually correct and has no mistakes....
*******.

alternative? and with that i give you sheol...
   still the same... double *******.

((   ((
    
and that's all it takes... the part where you let go,
because you have to:
  the regret can be there, but soon has to
be overruled...
   it mattered at the zenith of logic,
it was really there, for such a brief moment,
i could call it a study in how you can ****
a very lucid moment, and then have to "resort",
but, rather: merely accepting it as having no place
in the overall composition...
    so to the windowsill, finishing off
blackbeard (whiskey and coca cola and
a cigarette)... changing the aura from
o.t.t.'s album taken home from the "marathon"
(yes, the prime existential tool is the transcendence
of synonyms, encouraging misnomers
or: how to not build dams, or become custard
beavers, looking for words...
    the river, every time, always looking at a river...
the sea and the people and time...
   rivers occupy an infinite concept of space
and the change within such a Thermopylae,
as it might give you indigestion,
or the highest serving rank of memory...
the sea and the people don't scare me,
and it's hardly a thing of admiration...
its just a sight of pulverisation, a headache...
the river, the solitude, and the fact that local
newspapers have adverts of only lonely women...
sure, read a national newspaper and there
are women seeking men, women seeking women,
men seeking women, men seeking men...
but look at a local, a local newspaper: only women
advertising themselves for candles and firecrackers...
it seams men were always programmed (a priori)
        into the gravitas of solitude...
what i really meant to say: existentialistic writings
can appear foreboding with the ditto...
with the perception that there's this ulterior,
dark-seeded motive...
      i just thought about bypassing the thesaurus,
like some writers do,
    you can spot it when they do,
a word they looked up from their labour
of lumberjacking the keyboard
sticks out like a modern statue, or a broken finger,
a word: right off the pages of a thesaurus...
   i just mean that there's nothing sinister enclosed in
the said "brackets"...  there's nothing additional about it,
but as narratives go... you sometimes want to bypass
Sherlock Holmes and write a synonym-antonym,
you want to bypass the thesaurus, content with your
own vocab riches, but too "lazy" / engrossed in
what's actually coming...
say, that interlude, a cigarette, finishing off the whiskey,
with the glass freezing and having a layer of ice
around it... and: why i'll never be part of the nirvana's
or the doors' cult...
     pearl jam's indifference, from their second album.

so it's sometimes thereuputic letting go,
  after all, no one built a house on the summit of Everest,
if i wrote something of such clarifying quality,
and lost it... i can only apply an imagery of having seen it,
the best i can suggest that i wrote something
akin to 1 + 1 = 2, and then accidently deleted it...
and that's the sad part,
universals as vowels, particulars like consonants,
    even numbers akin to 2 and odd numbers akin to 1
(divided into decimals, or the wormhole of 0.123456 etc.) -
it was a beautiful sight, and then, again: ****!
gone... like a magician doing a trick
   and then... the sadness of having lost the technique
to recreate it...
well, the best i can do to recreate it is based
on a short argument...
   if universals and particulars (relying on the fact
that both have a plural form,
  i.e. so not 1 in 1, but the many of 1,
   and akin to: the 1 in many, and the many in many,
and the 1 in 1 / focus, something identifiable) -
or loosely universals like vowels, and particulars like consonants,
but given the two experience diacritical distinction /
additions... i could best remember what i wrote
as: 1 e.g. particular, if divided: fractions, and after
fractions: decimals...
                2 e.g. universal, if divided: whole numbers,
and after whole numbers fractions, and later decimals...
   so on and so forth with 3 (particular), 4 (universal),
     5 (p.), 6 (u.)...
                 a bit like having your own telescope
and microscope, just looking at what we make silence
of, our two ways of encoding what could have,
or should have been said, that was nonetheless said,
transcending our contemporaries as, what can only
be described as... an echo, lost in the caves of aeons...

this promenade begun with something to z & i...
or z, i, ι, ź and ž (what a nice pentagram,
i was watching the six nation's match
between wales and england,
and lo! behold... a goat at the fore!
  mind you, i took a cigarette break when they scored
their two tries).
Cardiff? yeah, been there once...
         Poland v Wales qualifying match,
donning a polish football shirt, got approached
by two young welsh girls saying: your team is ****...
started giving it the local... how fast they ran away...
and they say we laugh more than we cry,
   and i could be the one to snigger a sly laugh at
that memory, but cinema memory says to me:
time to usher in the reverse-psychology,
calling white black, and laughter crying...
        or as i like to call it, the paradox marriage
that has, literally not tentacle hold on the world,
   the bilingual marriage,
             lodged deep inside my head,
most recognisable by my theory study of diacritical
marks, or actually having noticed them,
and having no real, authentic accent to remind me
that i belong in either geography...
         whether from beginning, or toward an end...
some call it acting, some call it faking,
  i call it: just what i was given, or, more precisely:
what i earned... and that was to no good use...
        unless... this is the best expression of what the foundations
look like.

what was i thinking of? ah!

   it just involved the σ                       ς roundabout...
the aesthetic variation for one,
but on another investigation, well, sigma, total, sum,
and how be obey it like a golden ratio or pi,
   it's just auto-suggestive of how we are never truly
synchronised in our arguments...
   but, "paradoxically", or should i say: by a miracle,
make up the greatest potent to have an argument...
  we can never truly really synchronises ourselves
to fill the boots of expressing an utopian dream,
otherwise we wouldn't dream... period...
  so bye bye Freud and that method of escapism...
     we already ensured that, if they be our creation,
the gods are already at war with the Titans...
      i'll actually acknowledge that in an age of
pop philosophy in that Greece was, a place of allowing
a fertility of thought and later popularising it
(we don't live in times where there's a fertility consecrated
on the altar of thought, or what philosophy is, thinking per se /
for itself... innovators! scientists! up-starts!
or as some might say, the other pronoun battle,
the one without genitals involved,
as could only be sooner said:
  per se, or per per...
                       in in...
nothing sexualised... it's only that there's a limit in pronouns,
per se / in itself must come across the muddle
regarding the moment when people lose their
identity and begin their life with: ? thought
rather than i think,
       i can't place it anywhere else than inside my head,
better there than in the genitals,
   or wasn't Jesus circumcised and the zeitgeist
of St. Thomas' gospel and the transgender movment?
    the church is old, and counter-authoritarian,
it's just a tired institution, so it has no actual authenticity
over the current changes in society,
    might as well call onto Islam to move the chess pieces...
or that's what i'm currently seeing...
   i was just thinking about a logical limit in language,
e.g. timbaland's song the way i are...
   there really is a logical limit on how far you can
suddenly just forget grammar...
            so why begin with per se?
                 at best described as a cogitans (

oh i'm pretty sure on the Islamic
term: denier,
it's a prefix,
        dis-,
              dis-      -ease:
which implies negation...
            the negation of ease...
but i'm not interested in this...
nope...
                  i know what Islam
says about the, deniers,
the non-affiliate...
            what, does, Islam,
call, the wavering hearts?
you heard me.
the doubters,
   i do know what a prefix intends...
but do you?
camel jockey...
  really?
   what do you call a wandering heart?
a Shiite?!
        ******* Sunni ****...
no; no what?!
what do, you, call,
doubters, in the Islamic faith?
i didn't, say, deniers,
i said, doubters....
what do you call, a doubter,
within, the confines,
of the, Islamic, faith?!
am i talking Hindi to you?
you're looking pretty *******
stupid to me, "auto-"suggesting,
that i expect an Arabic reply...

what, do you, call,
a doubter, of, Islam?

i know what a denier is...

what, do, you, call,
someone, who, doubts,
the faith, of, Islam?!

      i'm simply asking...
tell me, the difference...
between someone
who doubts...
and someone,
who denies...

                               tell me...
what, is, the, difference...

   oh **** me... and when i woke up,
people implied that all the people
were literate... like **** they were!
like a bunch of industrially
farmed pigs,
educated in the "arithmetic"
of the onomatopoeia of... OINK

i'm crazy enough, crazy plenty...
i fall asleep to
slayer's... raining blood...
give me a ******* tank
and i'm all stampede...
    where?
  where's where?!
   if the "where" is nowhere
other than death?!
the "there" is, there!
and the "there"?!
    is some-where...
  you don't want to be,
here to fathom!

Philosophy about Solstice

Scientific method:

1. Observation: He said his physical theory raises dreams and joins interracial ideas - could produce longevity and immortality with his idea of raising the world with levers and raise their strength the world to bring the earth on its axis and improving the quality of evolutionary life the geniuses who come into the world. The Elves would raise with his new meridians to build a world that links the current mythical world with realistic ancient philosophical, to bridge the gap of the dying world today.

2. Pattern:    The new world of elves help me transcend to improve today's world, to connect with the old, so I'll see needs that today could fraternize with seniority, to enhance resources and maximize them. Example: feeding more people necessary to prevent homeless people of their rights, maximize the cosmic world today with an Elf Archimedes to rule the new world and its vicissitudes.


Nights longer and more alike, not sleep or sleep, getting numbers for half days ... but no more whole, more evaporated water in the boilers of hell to recover from our inefficiencies and disabilities. 1-2-3-4- ... 4,5- 4.6 -4.7 ... I exist - I get up - I invoke the dew, and drops the recovery leftover for next winter - thus saving in my mind the fear of not extend beyond my unethical proportion of aid for subsequent actions helping future for those who need to continue or ...

3.  I managed to see that during these days reviewing the epistemological axis where Archimedes stands with optics, physics, and engineering, strikes me how maybe even if he lived, he would have invented things to save us from the worst threats. I managed to raise my faith to join science and move ideas through numbers, astrological and cosmic phenomena. Today on Hydrostatic overcome the demographic Tsunamis threaten the world about crowding industrially. We would do more immune power of the mind without reason, making sensitive PLCs and computers programmed. I've noticed that we can all be engineers; in fact, we are, what happens is that we do not dream dreams starting unfinished, but rather we always begin and where the same without it.

4.  For millions of nights exercise my way of looking at the ancient world and observe that it was still the Sun - trip with my thoughts and saw that the days were universal, to the moon was sharper - touch the sun and moon with my mathematical calculations caressing the entire universe. Inquiring as sleeps the world in my hands and my senses, to measure the physical magnitude beyond being I Archimedes - raise me to the world in my hand and reach the Nordic worlds - try to go to bed thinking he would lose the night to count stars and beams of morning light -even got the world in my hands feeling lashes mortality. The results are: with the Elf I slept counting stars in 5, 8, 3, 10 minutes (average 6.5 min), with the arithmetic in 3, 7, 11, respectively 3 minutes (average of 6 min), without at 9, 15, 14, 12 minutes achieve agencying (average 12.5 min). I am a prisoner of the proportions that occur over time. Counted nights and days pass and my mind was seeing everything together once.

5.  Therefore the phenomenon Solsticio helped me measure the nights intoxicate fatigue levitating night inspiration. Biologically alive even if Archimedes still have hopes of immunology strict life, but rather do good fighting it scientifically, but how is knowledge enemy dying in their own ignorance called fear. The more than academic Epistemology is one gram of salt to the ignorant homeless, which is all the Universal Sea to water and all the sea to move ships to those who really thought of it back and not stray it for those who use it. Elves revive the mythical millennium sick every year remembering that it is possible to heal the lost time.

The Sun gets tired and already has varicose veins, I would think that given time restores me to return to the rivers where they were born. But the sun continues to rise and this fat and cholesterol, we need ways to measure how much longer we can keep watching the Solstice like ours. Perhaps an infusion of Mandrake for poor people starting to be good ...

The clay comes from Earth
just as we
clay motion people Wurm
our way up

In a miracle we fool
ourselves
thinking transmogrification
has Calvinized calves
into bronze molded
legs shaped by a wise Maker

Instead of fast steel Forge
industrially heated
within Narcissus' Crucible

Hot from the oven
our Make-over face,
rouged from fused
sand calls
us Beauties silicon
-enhanced

Little is known and less is appreciated about the geographic, strategic and political significance of the Spratley and Paracel Islands situated midway across the South China Sea.

Disputed historically for ownership by Malaysia, Vietnam the Phillipines and China, amongst others, the islands are situated strategically across the major commercial sea lanes of the region and atop an ocean of vast, submarine deposits of untapped fossil oil.

China has used her muscle to occupy and claim these islands, together with unspecified, adjacent sea way area. She has claimed them as sovereign territory of the People’s Republic of China. Until this occupation the islands have been largely unpopulated and have had little or no military significance. Recently, however, Chinese constructors have been ruthlessly dredging the surrounding coral reef and building a 3000m long concrete runway for military purposes on the hugely expanded artificial island area created.
Chinese troops, in divisional strength, occupy and defend the new territory.

It is significant that all parties in the region are watching China and gauging her intentions. None less so than the United States Navy who have an aircraft carrier and supporting military vessels, stationed permanently nearby and conduct over flights of the island airspace testing sovereignty and Chinese reaction.
To date reaction has been muted….but this will definitely change.

China is frantically building to be the world’s next superpower, economically, industrially, politically and militarily.
...And, as this development comes to fruition in the very near future, it is inevitable that this distant, remote set of  South China Sea islands shall become the next global hot point of international confrontation.

China and the United States of America will go eyeball to eyeball, bristling with hostility, resolute and immovable, each waiting for the other to blink!

…..and we, the rest of the world, shall, again, tremble in our boots, breathlessly awaiting the outcome.

Marshalg
22 May 2015
AUCKLAND.

in the great history of commerce
there must have
at one point been a truck
load of milk mechanically suckled
by machines in chugging glugs
off bloated udders

and at the same point tons
of honey harvested industrially
from swarming workers
stored in vats
stacked at the back of some
huge juggernaut

pointing at each other at
the point of
gluttonously sputter speeding
on toward heft-hauling
highway impact -
and both drivers snapped

that freeze frame money shot -
them shattering
through to promised lands
of milk and honey

Our hero lifts his head.
He does not bathe because he woke up late again.
He dreamed the dreams he always dreams
And night-time and bright cloth muffled his screams.
Industrially lubricates his hair
And he is told it doesn’t suit him
And he says he doesn’t care.
Our hero is a liar too, it seems.
He eats a meal he does not taste.
He will be empty when the sun turns pale, and the earth to paste.
Now our hero looks so chaste
And he knows he is pretentious-
Now he lays his brain to waste
And sweeps distortion through the songs of birds
To leave them bleeding in the dust.

He feels frail, and his heart is beating faster than it should.
He feels that this cannot be good.
His tongue now tastes of blood between his teeth of wood.
The feeling does not suit him.

Later, digits drowned in antiseptic
He will feel like a heretic
As he voices his opinions of a person as pathetic.
Thinking, “I should call him ****,”
But cannot find a window for a moment to succumb
To the fabricated beauty of a consequential phrase.
Anyway, he knows it would not suit him.
As he walks, he tries an air of menace
But it does not suit him.

Later, our hero receives some news
Surprised, he finds his brain is on a high
And that the feeling doesn’t suit him.

(since my recall isn't as lucid as yours):

i'd like to imagine that these
wires and terminals traverse
and meet at various odds and ends
like laundry powder and the crumple
of leather on the floor,
summer room industrially cold
and spent curled up
from 9.40 a.m., running on four hours
though was wildly, wakefully inspired

you used to say that sleep is overrated
in the company of
pages and nightcaps, repeated and
withheld goodnights worth more
than a hundred, five times over

now i greet the ceiling away
from milky cloud and skies
in some blinkered awareness, sheets creased,
folded in a mocking design
in-between vistas of
my fingers which you clasped like instinct—
present tense, clasp
—remindful of things that are still here,
that i am no longer fiercely alone.

They say money makes the world go 'round
And from the looks of things it do
Industrially growing
Economically balanced
Consuming minds

But only love makes LIFE evolve

i'm nothing but Nabokov
in chase of a butterfly,
but instead: i chase moths,
and among fox cackles,
i too find a respite,
a "resurrection" might one tell...
so sun and the butterfly flutter...
so moon and the lard-fly gamma,
or bony chequers and black
void insomnia, as thus heard:
forever you entombed in
the forever said: unrest -
that the carpenter's children might
fear me...
that the carpenter alone will not:
finding his work sensible
and worthy a roof over his head...
will not fear me eavesdropping
the congratulatory meal -
when all congregate...
but as my Friday sentences me to
the tomb of my body,
i am catching moths in the night,
for the moth is Islam's
version of the butterfly -
and from Shia aversion and mere Iran,
an opus plague of wonder:
gratis chant and the solitary woman's voice:
idealism above mortgage...
if only a dream... and by dream suffice...
then the asking merger of
such hopes... and later years un-lived...
then by swarm and by no condolence
the forfeit entombing...
                 charcoal chants,
as Catholic as Satanic on the pleading
reminiscence of said creed...
                      then onto moth,
the lard-fly from the Everest of Night...
as splendid in colour...
then unto the butterfly from the Sahara of Day...
or the said compliments, dying, slowly,
arbitrarily, or as feared: thus as eaten
and packaged: industrially
                              man's limbs equal
to chicken thighs.

I awake from a nightmare
And feel relief
At the slow realisation
That it was
But a dream

And yet
My body still grips the tension
Of the terror which tormented me
In the dawn hours

The nightmare aroused
Deep anxieties
That I know I carry
And for the morning
I struggle to recover

On this same day
I see a woman
On the seashore
Washing her sore legs with seaweed

The white windmills of Tilbury
Turn the industrially poisoned air
And boys punch each other
At the train station

And then
Music

Created
Sung by brave people
For each other
Lifts me of out of my body
To a higher spiritual plane
Returns me to my memories
Of younger days

I am carried back
Reliving my emotions
Sharing and remembering
Experiences of years gone by

I am older
Yet somehow I am re-connected
To my younger self

My heart swells with emotion
Nostalgia

This is what art can do

This is why I live
With music

This is why I live
With art

I’m finding it harder to exist industrially.
Is there no longer room for beauty?
Is there not room for classics?
Does it really even matter anyway?
Is the simple enjoyment of food not but a biological incantation?
Is the power of the people not controlled by the machines,
who are controlled by a smaller group of people?
Is my every thought being watched?
How did they know I wanted the striped pants?
How did I know I wanted the striped pants?
life?
goals?
chance?
uncontrollable laughter?
I have the right to be unhappy, it isn’t crazy.
To be unhappy or to be free
When will man become domesticated such as the cows and chickens?
We’ve been Louisiana purchased.
Maybe that was our last chance oh hasn’t this happened before?
Who built the mighty pyramids?
Who has been rolling this stone but repeatedly up a mountain?
And why don’t they just give up, said the Earth.
But why should they?
Why should we?
I’m finding it harder to exist industrially.

He was a Swede called Sven
With an industrially scaled *******,
She was a pensioner from Hull
With an extensive *** toy collection.

They both shared an interest in cats
So they opened a chain of catteries,
Then Sven took care of her *****
And she saved a fortune in batteries.

come to "think" of it... it's not what i write about... it's how "best" i might punctuate... puncture the blinking death... my life is so most lived that it's impossible to detour into topics of holidays or... well... death's a teasing adventure ploy... isn't it? but it's hardly suspect of... blinking. it's still my most incorruptible variation of: "bride"... that death herself: is... from womb toward womb... i see no cradle... i see no grave... what was her name? the name i was in love with? KIN-GA... yeah... that one... nice to know: Darwinism is counter-intuitive to the man who conjured it... the Nimrods reproduce en-masse... the Newton(s) come by ridicule... divine intervention... chance... unlikely for Darwinism to side with those who procreate to do so... for a chance at breeding geniuses... cogs... machinery: simple pleasures demand simple rules... i loved once... now i love no more. not like i used to... i'm exhausted to have the same sort of love i had: anew. i almost want to be fed that lie of meandering utopic love... prior to the needs of biological stressors...*******... prior to "responsibility"... authority of the brick-wall... the amassing greyness of a brick-wall.

i'm not keen on giving out money...
then again: i'm also less willing to give spare
change... coins...
i'm not keen on giving out money
to... "beggars"? the "homeless"...
stray cats, lost dogs...

it would be much easier with dogs though...
although i'm no Diogenes...
companionship with stray dogs...
we might huddle together and have us
a "think"... or a bark-woof-bark...
a woof-wow! something to agitate
the cosmopolitan ladies...
giving money to... those big issue "outlets"...
however many times i walked into
the supermarket for my usual "dose"
of feeling fine: just fine...
when i could "cower" back into
my cobweb and drizzle some words
onto a blank canvas blinking at me:
although - i were the blinker
the canvas remaining static...

so i would walk past her with an air
of... no not superiority... that's beside
the point... with an air:
jeez... the weight of the world...
upon my shoulder... i truly have my problems
too... and i would never look at her...
(the) masquerade of the past year...
call it what you like...
the niqab of secularism...
advent of conspiracy... or just plain sailing
reality of: we're not talking communism...
otherwise: i just don't want to hassle
with a confrontation concerning:
why aren't you wearing a surgical-prop
in an otherwise non-sterile environment...

blah blah... 2nd jab in is when i'll make
my "point" about... whatever's left...
but she's not a ******* slot machine...
i put coins in a slot machine...
but it's not like i could give her...
companionship...
once or twice or whenever i felt like it:
i'd scoop up interactions with
these "lost souls"...
there was this one memorable talk i had
with... oh i see him still... almost 10 years later...
he moved from occupying the vicinity of
Romford train station...
having dragged his *** about 5 miles toward
the A406, and now occupies a spot
around an Irish pub formerly known
as O'Grady's...
he said these words like...
i don't know: it was enlightening akin
to a maxim... 'my mother told me to never lie'...
make sense of that however much you like...
the brain-dozer broke down
whatever...

      here: the penitent man...
i hate giving money away for no reason...
today i had a reason...
came to 25 quid...
5 quid cashback...
what else... throw money at someone...
is like throwing them a fish
instead of a fishing-rod...
god... that old chestnut line of argumentation...
today i felt... benevolent...
the end...

  as i was walking in (thank you soulless,
sunglasses)... i noticed this smile...
oh she's still in her 20s...
i'm guessing Roma... there's something eerie
about the allure of a gypsy woman...
i'm guessing because it hasn't been
fiddled with the Indian caste prejudice...
looks like Genghis... did Genghis ever make
it to Delhi... one might bemoan the sacking
of Baghdad like the Christians torching
the library of Alexandria...
but thoughtless automatons of
the Holocaust... that's what's really happening,
isn't it?
oh don't get me wrong...
i'm sorry too for the poor matchstick maker
who was industrially butchered...
not enough bullets for the gas...
i'm not... joking...
but the torching of the library of Alexandria?!
you know what was... seized by the Nazis...
gold-teeth... shoes... briefcases...
no mention of personal memoirs...
thought didn't die within the confines
of the Holocaust...
well... at the book burning it died...
but when the library of Alexandria was
torched... writing materials weren't
exactly... ha ha...          ah ha ha...
which prompted me to think about...
the whole idea of how the new testament
arose... beside, later, selling it to the northern
barbarians... pacifying them...
well... up to 1410 there was still
a paganism in Europe... Lithuania...
hardly east concerning what constitutes
the end of Europe with the Ural mountains...
by then... Islam was already circa 800 years old...
so...
no... i wondered... people always cite that
the new testament was written in Greek...
right... and the 'ebrews didn't have a problem
with the Roman occupation?
oh... they did... josephus ben matthias wrote
a book about it...
so here's me thinking...
in the age of Aesop... Spartacus... too many years
apart?
Greek pride... and the nature of
the 'ebrew as: SPEZZIAL...

well... what do you get?
oh... i'm pretty sure there was a greco-hebrew pact
worthwhile in spreading the new testament
as propaganda...
it's almost as if... the Greeks disliked the Romans
for plagiarising their polytheism...
Jupiter is... Zeus...
Pluto is... Hades... etc.

      i think it was just a massive Greco-'ebrew
conspiracy to undermine Roman authority...
after all... every time i would kneel in
a catholic mass...
i'd imagine the monstrosity of
******* off a crucified man...
          it's so... demeaning: hyper-sexualised...
kudos to the Islamic
  "gesticulating with the body in a religious context"
then again: what's wrong with
dancing... or what's wrong with
thinking about... pushing a cul-de-sac
vector into the garbage heap of "god":
or blah-lah?

but on my knees armed with
a metaphor for cannibalism?
the ****'s not wrong with that?!

i have built a fetish for the deutsche-zunge
and gypsy girls...
and as i was walking into the supermarket
for my usual dosage
and all things concerning Atlas...
in the corner of my eye i saw
this labouring extension of
post-scriptum prosthetics...
it seemed so genuine...
i was pretending to rummage through
the isles thinking about what not to buy:
rather what was available...
stringy cheese... canned horseshit...
trolley traffic of demanding buyers...
v.i.p. / solipsist types, typos...
you name them... glaciers' worth of people...
could sink a Titanic on a ******* whim...

walking out she shifted her position
while eating crisps...
you can almost tell when giving someone
a banknote rather than a coin...
she's not a ******* slot machine...
you can almost tense a sense of a handshake...
a fiver's a fiver...
i wasn't going to stretch it beyond
the words i uttered to her:

'that's for your beautiful smile...'
i probably was envious of her skin...
her complexion...
mine? mine is... like Beelzebub just took
a massive maggot-dump on it...
remnants of teenage hormones...
that's what i heard... apparently...
acne is what happens to too many
dead white-blood cells...
acne is dead white-blood cells...
what's Alzheimer's? killer proteins...
given the brain is mostly fat...
counter-intuitive...
given the common expression surrounding
the Great Cranium Pickle: flex the mental
muscles...
misnomer "propaganda": no... just plain
misnomer-ism...
to ease the fluidity of common parlance...

sooner rather than later the heavens
opened and rain came... baptismally...
i felt utterly refreshed...
how often doesn't it feel authentic to pay
for a compliment?
i'm personally used to ******* prostitutes
to believe myself: as giving pleasure...
perhaps that's this archaic male...
"innuendo"... of what ***'s about...
i heard it mentioned...
she would either say: not all men...
blah blah... yu haven't changed... blah blah...

i'd brag about a ******* Lamborghini:
if i had one... although i'd sooner brag about
owning a horse: if i had one...
i have a bicycle... which implies:
it isn't a wheelchair...
so i can experience the most out of a dual-carriageway
at speeds of, circa... 30mph...
without lycra or 'elment...

she just had this beautiful smile and i
felt inclined to give her
something for the many times i "ignored" her...
grifting or paying a "slum-rent":
who is, these days, to give out money
in banknotes on a whim?
this was a whim...

by mid-afternoon having cycled toward
Stratford i turned back before reaching
Bow... sniffing out a precipitation
% while watching the gloomy clouds...
i might have checked the weather forewarning...
but when speed's invoked...
and i'm merely peddling...
i conjure up the compound...
in deutsche:
          STURMÜBERBRINGER
how doesn't that sound majestic...
forthcoming... para-socially mythological...
no Canadian could 'elp me with that...
however pop. and psychiatric "he"
might be a worth of his own spew...

she just had these cheekbones of every
hyena's laugh an envy...
5 quid for a smile...
or 120 quie for a ****-off?
eyes that forever tease
and a tongue that's forever undermining
the whole freedom, ha ha...
"freedom" of thought...
there's not much of "it" these days...
IXNAY ON TNE HOMBRE...

tease the quill... dust the feathers:
start looking for a broomstick...
much later: persists discouraging oneself for
a worth of it... doesn't one bother...
the royalty... oh... right...
not yet forthcoming spaghetti-quizzing...
just all the... *******... pandering...

the african slaves.... picked... cotton...
so... ahem... they we're not... coalminers?
oh ugh oh **** me i'm about to choke!
those rebellious cotton-pickers...
i see ***** Goliaths 9ft tall...
and i'm worried about... my use of:
"language"?
******* before i **** someone off...
to hell with black history moonth...

            thank god i'm not a father, either...
the stress of what otherwise relaxes my "complaints":
did the gorilla ever "think" twice about *******
a macaque?
i'm just asking: the elephant ****
a giraffe?
karma sutra suite:
    the phallus of a horse inside
a ****** of a rabbit...
just watching these inter-racial themes...
you'd imagine an x-ray might be... allowed
culmination posits... then again...
why am i not dating an English "bride"?
the... Rotherham... petty tease leftovers?

i love to recycle... it's hardly important for me to...
"ergo" this... diabolical heap...
of... ugh... ugly **** gin & tonic...
i hate gin, though...
this enforced ownership of whatever freedom
is gravitated towards...
like i'm the "father"...

she's a gypsy smile...
i'm a solid 5 quid handshake...
that's the end of the story...
there's not even so much as a 'the end'
to mind... i'm still here... the soft-core continues:
beside any leftover concern for
cinema.

if etymology is a history - but not a history: in that it is
more a historiology - which, well: history is the study
of time: but time as exclusively begot by man,
a temporal study of man: by man...
history is, after all: not the history of geology:
since stones have no memory:
only friction and pressure and a time-space exclusivity...

what am i talking about?
probably a quote from the pre-Socratics,
the inquisitive genuis: genius of the Greek
spirit - without citations of Homer:
because i won't: will not cite anything Greek
beside the romantic curving of lower-case
a as α

     perhaps it's just a dreary winter mid afternoon
and i'm feeling all "sentimental":
but sentiments are for women
while emotions are a masculine "thing"...
yes... i see the divergence of the sexes -
my words will not become pop fictive in any retrospect:
handed or mishandled...
etymology and history...

i wonder why i still have the capacity to utilise
the word:     ALBIET
albeit....            to substitute it for ALTHOUGH...
albeit = although...
           old Germanic sing-sing-along...
i would rather use albeit rather than although...
or... rather: that's alðough
raðer ðan                   ðorn:
a halo and a crown?

  i ask again:
         a'h geislabaugur og a'h kórónu?

now i will not ask:
why a'h? otherwise the English tongue would not
hollow out the vowel to a simple a-plha
lymph ah... but a as ~aye... a as a yes...
no...
       ah: dental care: say ah with your mouth open
and a dentist's hands shoved in your mouth...
that sort of ah... but a'h... not ah...
as in no: ah! of relief... an a'h of dental inspection
"constipation"...

hmm... i just had one sharpshooter whiskey
drool of a moment and i'm all ***** Wonka and
the Chocolate Factory in my head...
my eternal demise will be not exploring
the imagination of Roald Dahl as a child...
didn't have time to be a child...
learned how old-English conservatism worked
circa the 1990s in terms of illegality of
migration...
i remember punching the walls when my father
was arrested with my mother: handcuffed...
day short of gaining legal status
since arrival circa 1990...

                    my revenge: banana-boat migration...
now the floodgates have opened for
the miracle of the roaming stars...
but England is a ******* besides:
it's the weather that's a drag...
you must have a melancholic-Scandi disposition
to digest the morose and the melancholic...
by now England is so multicultural that
i begin to wonder whether the English even
noted that: waging war against **** Germany
on principle of defending Poland was
ever a good idea...

       given that Polish soldiers joined the RAF
and fought on English soil all the while no English
soldier stood foot-by-foot on Polish soil...
is Ukraine any, ******* different?
master posing ridiculous affairs of double standard
ethics.. ha...            

ah... another word... constenation...
i forgot what it means: but i remember the word...
"á propos" / pardon pardon:
consternation... not constellation...
akin to the rubric of the word: not grievance...
hmm... not belegarence...
belligerence...

           funny tongue this English and French:
hide letters, show letters: eat letters... regurgitate letters:
dyslexia must be a phenomenon in
the anti-orthography of the English tongue:
'leash... my leash:
my poly-schizoid Shakespearean:
if an apple fell on Newton's head...
a pear for a quill to break the mind
and let explode-in-exploring the phantoms of
abortions...

me? no, i don't have the luxury of choice...
i could (perhaps) choose a naive 20 year old woman
as (a) "compliment":
but then again i find naive women discouraging
for my taste... i don't appreciate the dynamic of
fathers grooming sons or daughters into becoming
the same: football team supporters...
i'm privy to this subtle hyper-paedophilia...
it is... a hyper-paedophilia since the hyper- prefix
denotes: it is collectively: collusively(?)
no, not collusively... openly done...
football team fan grooming...
it is: hyper-paedophilia... a variation of brainwashing
without adherence to ****** acts:
instead... *** ARMY... per example being
a child with a father who's a Tottenham Hotspur
supported...

having digested Ezra Pound's Cantos...
currently digesting Charles Olson's Maximus poems:
i'm not assured anything by postmodernism,
clearly the 20th century was a bridging-gap
in how evolution was to play out
societally...
                  industrially...
already i'm sitting on the throne of bypassing
the old function of journalism:
i have come to question journalistic integrity
with due diligence and find it:
bankrupt: bankrupt like the priesthood:
that journalism was the priesthood of the secular
world i see me: heretic: obnoxious stamina orc...
i'm yet to die... and till then i will:
conjure a hammer and a scythe for every moment
i endeavour to feel a canary of a heart
in my ribcage...

as i was thinking:
of the difference between men and women:
of women and the cycle: birth and rebirth...
the beginning and the end...
while with men there is no cycle:
there's only a way through, a dead end and...
from nothing -
i have no luxury of the riddle of the chicken and egg
i only have the ego and the O of oscillation
i oscillate and do not idea-morph a re-:
recycling, rejuvenation, reincarnation...
i'm a crow's beak device of honing in...
by eclipses of the suns and the gods
and all that is sheen and mirror-smiles...
i am a fetishist of death...
as much as: well... only when life becomes
intolerable do i become: a death-fetishist...
which raises my libido and poo...

         (cut off... not necessarily implying i *******
while taking a ****, but given that
cats can't **** and **** at the same time,
it feels rather natural to ******* while
on the throne of thrones)....

what came first? the ego or the cogito?
that's simpler... can i think without "i"?
clearly i can abstract, which is like: the wording
of division (÷) with words and not numbers:
then again pronouns are like integers...
but given the current climate of "politically correct"
pronoun fetishes of they zee zoo
we have people who have no concept of
pronoun-integer compactness -
fraction-peoples ***-unit abuse victims:
by any decent scrutiny of a glance...
           somewhat casual-schizoid and not:
the classical schizoid-bilingualism...
more schizoid-bisexuality... brains in the sheets
and in the hemorrhaging genitals...

one could add: there appeared a rainbow at
the spectacle of Golgotha...
sickly sweet genius of the Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
against the ailing military genius of Rome...

i am going to write an apologetic letter to
Fulham F.C. for granting me work...
till the end of the year Fulham shifts are clashing with
Tottenham and West Ham shifts and i just won't
be able to fulfill the demand:
and given that both the Tottenham stadium
and London stadium have a summer prospect
of entertaining artists for concerts...
well: working at Fulham is a sort of regress...
although the rate of pay is circa £20 while the other
stadiums pay less... it's still less pay given
that Fulham is only a football stadium
and cannot be utilised as a concert venue

a much needed letter of apology:
given that until the end of the season Fulham shifts
clash with Tottenham shifts...
and that given recent developments at
Tottenham invoke me in a supervisory role:
outside, hands-on... directing the crowd
like a Moses... obviously the escalated "burden"
of accountability is a promising aspect of
any role: given the mantra of:
the easiest job in the world is not appealing...
alias of: but i'm not heart-surgeon either...
tongue and language this spare plaything of mine
i will notoriously retreat into grammatical-gymnastics...

just to reiterate: chicken or the egg?
that's wording it in old Latin,
avoiding shrapnel wordings...
i.e. what came first, the chicken or the egg(?)
similarly:
(what came first) the ego or the cogito?
primo ego vel primo ego cogito?
clearly the construction of consciousness
"consciousness" begins with "scenting" the optics:
"scenting" the optics?
oh... coordinating the senses...
coordinating = harmonizing...
even though thought leaves so much room for
error and does not actually invoke any
active participation in the senses...
the ego: doesn't either...

no amount of thinking equates to the participation
in identity, thinking doesn't
stubborn ego is all about the id in the capacity
of the ideologue of identity...
a quasi-magnetism of adhering to
fixations... a unit a baron of the integer
never too sure whether or not capable
to disintegrate into a schizoid fractionable pronoun:
semi-noun politics:
wording at play...

    of course i'm drinking: to get through Olson
you need to drink...
to get through Pound you have to...
****'s sake... go and see an opera...
to get through Ginsberg you have to listen to jazz
and for the rest of the *******:
i like to listen to anti-feminist lyrics
of Sheryl Crow while reading Bukowski...
something about a "home" being a place
where men lie...
not lie as in: take a rest...
but rather deceive...
       i don't like deception: i already have a shadow
so the night is deceiving me
dragging behind me...

men and women: unlike an INXS (in excess) song...
men think disparagingly:
women think disproportionately:
women have really **** spatial coordination...
i almost punched a woman in the face
while giving directions at Fulham...
apparently my open hand seemed like
a pucker kiss in her mind:
"learning disabilities"(?)               maybe...
the world O so cruel:
but not                            Ω    (i.e. ooh not oh)
so cruel: like there's some juice to be squeezed
from a frigid lemon: frigid?

who can i complain to...
a girlfriend in her 50s and me nearing my 40s
at least i don't have a reproductive incentive...
woke up to fun fun fun
went to bed with fun fun fun...
calls it creamy-pie when the junk juice of
alligator drools oozes from her ****...
because i really couldn't stomach
a woman in her 30s with a Cpt. Hook syndrome
of wanting children...

tick-tock-o-ah-clock-tick-tock-o-ah-clock
(have a double helix on that, mate?)

i'm too fail-safe for that sort of jargon...
if i didn't replicate my genes by now
i want the "fun" to continue...
surrogate fatherhood sounds most appealing...
in line with my sentiments for ancient Roman
history...

but let's face it (face it i, not you or we):
men's thinking distinguishes them from others (other men)
while they return to a generic man...
prototypes galore...
we all want different things...
either riches or festering in a semi-digested state
of existential prowess with mothers and fathers
and hobbies...
some want to scale the heights and have eleven children
by 6 different mothers... rich enough to do so...
as men we want different things...
regardless: even being homeless is a Bob Dylan
phantasmagorical allure for a freedom
deeply associated with: of Sinope (Diogenes)...

the modern world has taught me to be more of a cat...
i imitate a cat:
i like a roof over my head...
i'll cook i'll clean i'll keep conversation...
Matthew the cat...
i like the cold but i also like the warmth...
woman is a universal creature:
all women want the same thing...
although their allure changes from woman to woman
each woman is different, individually:
as a person...
but in terms of a woman being a thinking creature:
all women are the same...

men? men are the same: thoroughly throughout...
every instance... it wasn't a man that caused
the Trojan war...
Trojan war and the accountability of being inquisitive
from the metaphor of Eden?
men are generic in person...
although different in thought: since we want
a variety we come to represent...
by our ***-outliers...
criminality is: rest assured: a search for freedom...

coming to the conclusion that...
well... there was German idealism there was Platonism
there was scholasticism there was there was...
but... what? first wave second wave third wave...
it's still feminism...
            no original thinking no...
it's still stoic feminism...
it's still going to be cynic feminism...
a **** contraceptive pilling of... cartesian feminism...
prefixing femme fatale to anything
a man thought of first to cope with
living without children...

but i do have a surrogate girl i'm very much fond
of so much fond of that i was willing
to stay up almost all night to bake her a birthday cake
so good so that during the pool party
every single attendee SHUT THE **** UP
and gobbled down the carbohydrate plush-hush...
****'s sake...

stoic "feminism"...
one movement to rule them all... Sauron hypochondriacs
of owning *****... as if the role of mother
was a burden...
and not a negligence of "self-discovery"...
oh sure... those desperate brats are brimming on
a necessary spanking but seeing them being
spoiled and not affected by a cane
is also, sort of, disorientating for them...
the joke being: you give them "too much" freedom
and... guess what!(?) they won't be able
to decipher freedom, denote it,
filter out what they might end up wanting!

stoic feminism my ***...
my *** greasing up a donkey's hind with a warm ****...
2000 years of men thinking:
reduced to 50 years of women playing
the crab-bucket game of cocktail miasmas...
it's infuriating given the innate persuasiveness
of women to: get the Trojan horse on the move
by men... gaslighting 21st century advent...
mind you i've been with enough
prostitutes to know the difference between
staged: receiving pleasure and
staged: faking pleasure as non-received...
up to a point where she's calling you up constantly
and you keep reminding her:
listen... i've found my little Robinson Crusoe
isle of happiness and i really don't
mind not proving my manhood anymore...
i've tried a ******* and i can vouch that
it's not an ego boost but a hindering experience
of not seeing a lover's face during *******...

because it is like the execution of the prophet
Isaiah: being cut in half at the bowels...
it's disorientating: ******* two women at once...
of sure... it looks great for a ******...
but in practice?            no....       n'ah ah...
unless... you reduce it to one jerking you off
into the mouth of the other... or something like that...
then again all the ****** tension in the workplace...
by the time you arrive at ****** intimacy
with someone... it will probably be...
something akin to: 2 years
                                              and 7,186 miles away...

or at least...
there i was thinking: what also came first,
letters or names?
nouns...
i'm pretty sure we said words long before
we used letters...
we only came back to conjuring letters after already
conjured up vector-meanings
as words...
the ancient Greeks confuse me with their
anticipation of atoms...
but there was surely a construct of meaning
concerning water before w-a-t-e-r
                    and certainly before H₂O...

so yes... words came before letters...
it's only later that we designated the cutting up of meaning(s)
into... more so...
a - a letter but also an indefinite article...
i - a letter but also a pronoun, personal?    sure... "i" too...
in ******
you have w - which translates to 'in'
and z - which translates to 'with'               yes...

there is a distinction between "air"         and 'earth' quotes...

we must have grunted shovelled, breathed in breathed out
and then! the genesis of the first word...
i wonder what the first word was, ever was...
it sure as **** wasn't god...
given that god was probably the last word...
sun and moon and water and
first to speak of giving names to things
to coordinate... much later time and space:
concepts per se...
curiosity by noun
yet confirmation of a shared experience
by the inequality of verbs:
like banking is not plumbing
and the disparaging rewards of:
say, borderline automation fancy of markets when
investing money and not,
    and when not providing enough poems
or: charitable carpenter with...
hoarding musical chairs no one will sit on?
lopsided supply-and-demand nature of money...
compared to actual goods...

plastic-money... there's too much of it in the world...
apparently money doesn't grow on trees
anymore... since these days banknotes are made
of plastic... and there is too much plastic in the world...
paper-money: simple thinking...
let's go back to basics...
point being: i enjoy books and music...
i buy whiskey and once upon a time i used
to transfer my earnings to prostitutes...

money isn't paper anymore...
nor is journalism a secular priesthood...
the true advent of democracy via the internet
and all the while the current politicians are clowns...
beside who the true politicians are:
the soloists akin to the demagogues and dictators...
because that's who you "suddenly" end up trusting:
solo-actors...
          well at least they are immune to conspiracies
of "in-groups" that languish any accountability...
at least i know who is accountable for what...
because Tony Blair and...          are...    will       be?!

by writing this and posting it...
i can bypass all that editorial scrutiny of what will
sell or not sell...
i earn enough to not worry about money...
that's the whole idea...
money per se being something akin to a "philosopher's stone":
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a plumber...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a train driver...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into...

money is the "philosopher's stone"...
oddly enough... water imitation...
let's keep out of each other's way...
    best that way...
but there is too much wealth in this world...
wealth that is not appreciated: but squandered...
squandered by being floundered...

hell... i'm quite frankly content to cycle through
London, use the public transport than
have to "compensate" with "contritions"
of being mechanically - (&) viable
          for the workforce without a horse but a car...
esp in this oorban gungle... j j jade...

when will people stop ascribing
poetical techniques
   to mental disorders
       in their casual, informal,
ascription sequences?
     psychosis does not translate
into psychopathy...
just because the two words share
the same prefix,
   doesn't imply that -
   "somehow" they're one and the same...
melancholy:
lethargy, and a lost sense of cognitive
"will"... automated thinking...
how many times during
the day do i imagine throwing
myself under a train?
   for the hard-on about 20 times
before i get out of bed...
   which is 20 times less than
when i stood on a roof,
    on an industrially sized complex,
notably the scottish widows hq
near st. paul's and thought
about jumping...
     and pancakes...
    and the thrill of the fall...
and then the initial shock
of impact, followed by a pause...
and then the sigma of pain rushing
into my body...
     schizophrenia is a different
version of lethargy,
   most mental conditions are
lethargy inducing,
                     or quasi-paralyzing...
one psychosis can last a year,
or years, another, can last a week...
but when your thought patterns,
are subverted by auditory hallucinations,
psychosis: the trip for champions,
l.s.d. trip will not do justice
to a psychosis "trip",
         alcohol helps as both
a sedative... & a pentothal derivative...
it's: disinhibiting...
          but not to the point
where i send someone a ******* ****-pic...
what sicko would do such a thing?
a psychopath would...
    psychopaths do not have
enough emotional "intelligence" /
gradation to encounter an ego-dissociation,
last time i heard:
instead of a healthy dosage of
serotonin,
      they have a pathological dosage
of dopamine: or some ****,
equivalent to that...
      if i were an expert on this matter,
i'd be paid...
     and since i'm not,
i'm simply concentrating my attention
of the general public vernacular,
namely:
      why are psychiatric conditions,
spoken of,
   in such poetic terms,
heavily reliant
             on the technique of metaphor?
we already have the phenomenon
of premature depression,
which seems to coincide with
the 19th century phenomenon
of premature dementia (schizophrenia)...
psychiatric literature is my thing,
when i went to a psychiatrist
i was told: 'you have good insight
into your condition'...
i just nodded, kept my mouth shut,
when i went to the *******,
i was told: 'you're nice'...
"forgot" my genitals and smooched
for an hour,
   i just forgot the fun part of kissing,
got bored of looking down on *******
and the gymnastics of genital
interaction...
   when i was supposed to go
to the priest... i...
             funny story...
   i walked into an empty church...
   paranoid as ****,
smoked a joint, walked around central
London, cowered into a church
near Camden Town
(opposite the postal service
hangar - near to the King's Cross
Station) -
              went to the side altar,
took a white sheet from the altar,
lay under the altar,
   and heard... a descending choir...
got up... started running around
the empty church...
   without saying a word...
     then a great wind...
   a breath that imbued me with a fear
much greater than what i was
experiencing on my psychotic "trip"
on the street...
        i thought, yeah "thought"
of one word:              SATAN...
    and the 40 days and nights spent
fasting in the desert,
    i called my ex-girlfriend
when i got out of the church:
while some Spaniard was walking in,
sat on the curb, phoned her,
and said: 'can you come over to
X location, and bring me some bread
and water?'
       whatever they say about
the sort of marijuana extra-strong
chemically enchanced skunk
of England? you can... become psychotic...
if you smoke, and walk in public,
and put nothing into your gob.
conversion? what?
   just plain honesty...
      no wonder i kept my mouth
and didn't want to convince people,
i still don't... **** happens...
             this was, when?
   oh... back in 2007... when i was 21...
now it's 2019...
   i rarely recount this event,
it's too much of an existential shell-shock...
i'd compare it to a suicide bomber
detonating his vest on the bus...
and you're, literally just taken a sip
of coffee while walking down a street...
do i believe "god" exists?
i don't have to...
          do i have to convince other
people that "god" exists?
   no... not really...
                  i'm glad i kept that event
to myself for so long...
          but it just gets on my nerves
when people mingle an outlier,
like me,
    with psychopathic individuals...
if you've never experienced a psychotic
"trip"...
   you know jack-****...
           take some l.s.d. and...
look at the bright colours and the sparkling
neon lights...
the end...
            given that i know of no drug
that allows you experience
auditory hallucinations...
   funny... isn't it... given how auditory
hallucinations are...
   by my estimation...
                 the sort of "pain"
                      that would leave some
wishing for a ******* toothache;
it's the sort of "claustrophobia"
     with the only "room" is your own head...
and your ego is being flushed
down the toilet of a shy hive of "spectators"...
as i've aged: **** me... 12 years...
yeah... i can tell when it's stable,
and when it's not...
        once i walked from Romford...
to the Dartford Crossing,
           then toward Barking...
   somehow managed to catch a bus...
left the house at 12am,
came home at 11pm...
   blisters on my feet...
     just because i had a vivid dream
of sleeping on a couch downstairs,
and an ominous shadow figure standing
outside the window...
    i was kicked into this trance-paranoia
state where i had to walk it off...
i had to translate this mental pain
         into a physical pain...
that's how i began knowing that
physical pain can alleviate the symptoms
of mental "pain"...
        which probably explains
why the pwetty pwetty teenage girls
choose to self-harm...
   just saying: it's not right,
    but now i can sort of understand
the justification...
         an old man is able to justify
melancholy...
   his life is at its end,
   the house has been built...
               but this current phenomenon
of premature depression?
              speculation after speculation,
after some more speculation...
    but to just blatantly borrow from
a psychiatric lexicon,
   to justify explaining one's general
abhorrence to any given event?
   a psychopath as also being psychotic?
**** on me...
  what a poor choice of words...
bad analogy,
   and even ******* description tactics...
but i guess there's still some use
for poetry in the collective parlance
of a vulture journalism class of people...
at no point encountering a psychotic
episode implies
losing i.q. points...
            in my scenario:
                    the faculty for learning
rigid chemistry rubrics...
was replaced by an unihibited thirst
for language, and its conveyance.
i still don't get it:
   "journalism" as reading journalistic
articles...
   i'm not convinced...
           that sort of, "journalism"
belongs to a sunday edition of a newspaper,
in the news review section,
or... something akin to
that section: letters to the editor...
but ++,
             poetry is still in use...
       psychiatric terminology used
as the crux of adjective and subsequent
metaphor...
              psychosis has so little
with psychopathy that...
             i just don't know where to begin...
again, there are outliers...
        a axe wielding psychotic
who managed to ****...
                             1 person...
   before experiencing a shattering
sense of guilt and a continued sense
of disorientation
                      from auditory hallucinations...
how i tamed mine?
   fear of god...
                       yeah... that "guy"
on the *****-nilly side of the petulant opposite
of the happy-to-pray-folk...
        but a psychopath?
  cool, collected... enough brain-numbing
dopamine in his head, or lack of...
   like: a part of his brain is just
"dead"?
      well... 49 is not a bad number...
it would usually take about 7 jihadis
to ramp that number up to over a 100.