it makes so much sense to imitate being german in england, to find an obscurity of an anglo-pomeranian, or an anglo-slav, like in the army of jarema wiśniowiecki: the germans who served in the artillery core, not having retired from the 30 years war: yarema'h! the pogrom of the men a tier below the cossaks... as was said: the houses you'll burn, and whatever looted goods you find you will take... the women and children you will send into the wilderness, and the peasants (i.e. men)? you'll thank them... and so they hanged.
- the current affair -
but there are: besides the points to be made here...
i once took it upon myself to drink most
of the nights, but leave at least one night
sober... thanks to the pyeongchang olympics
i took it up myself to inact a program:
one day drunk, a day and & night sober...
but **** me: it's hard watching the sports
that would get more views in public
space if staged in Europe: than
over there...
perhaps if staged by north korea:
or china, the public would be told:
you don't attend: we'll lock up your family.
if we're already having a second cold war:
you can be assured that a 3rd world war
comes when this "war" comes to an end:
but i like to think of it as a: second cultural
exchange programme...
9 hours later i'm smoking cigarettes
in the dark watching the olympics that are
apparently "excluding"...
the coverage is a bit ****, but i still watch it,
because i wonder:
could that african outrun the
milky-way on ice skates?
or rather: is the milky-way not
expected to be: son aquarius?
some might call them:
the "para-olympians" in realm aquatic
in the summer...
or as i like to say: just call them
submarines and we'll get another
picture of drowning migrants...
but it breaks the heart watching these
sports like a bleeding-eye Inso -
then the coverage is a bad as the attending
crowd...
i do need to sleep, though,
so for the next week or so it will end up
with me having the motif of:
one day drinking and a night asleep,
countered with one day sober and a night
awake and the next day also awake,
and then a night of drinking...
because you know what i've learned?
i feel no shame,
if i feel shame:
i turn it into a peacock's tail and
parade my metabolism...
because it really is a case of "alcoholism"
being a form of metabolism...
give me a litre of whiskey and
a 115kg frame...
and i'll give you a sober reply
while showing you what 25ml of
the same liquor: does to an anorexic girl.
- a month prior -
it seems that the only reason as to why
I slept so soundly on my hiatus,
was because I slept beneath a blanket
of an entire body of people;
perhaps I found nothing consolidating
to end argument universals contra particulars -
but I did find that the basic unit of
universals is the analogue,
which in the meaning of particulars
is best understood as: anagram.
Who am I to note the frightening obvious *******:
whereby the sophist is the pristine
student of language,
"liberator" of a meagre worded breath,
echoing the rattling chains of fellows
who might follow suite, such slaves of language,
akin to men who keep a pristine kitchen...
But there are limits,
even on these forsaken tiers,
to neither slave under language,
nor leech off it in the most sacriligous
**** titillating dyslexia:
i never met a dyslexic pole...
perhaps a pole who did not obey
an orthographic rubric of an "aesthetic" -
a schooling -
but there are too many clear
syllables in the language:
the english simply call it:
if only it had a few more vowels...
vowels are cruxes for the english
when graphemes are not
noticed in siamese of the original
roman graphemes of vowels:
even though: CH is easily
chirp and cheap...
i make music from listening
to sport commentators.
Moldovan wine, past the 7 to 8 annum transition,
pulverizez the "6th sense" that's non-sense, i
d est thought, in that alcohol numbs
the pentagram coordination,
in exchange for a concentrated scalpel-like incision,
subsequently alleviates one from
experiencing a barrage of sensual overstraining...
to claim a magic...
no lysergic acid Pythagorean shortcuts...
thought is a *non sense,
which means that it cannot be approached
with a penta-coordination allied
to the body: 5/1 vs. 1/5...
the mind is not a coordinating focal point of man,
perhaps one of woman, hence the pulverising
shortcuts made in psychology coupled with feminism:
the long awaited rat ala femme...
hence the fractions of coordinating
the senses around a non sense...
thought the precursor of soul,
soul the precursor of god the extending thing,
retracted man in posit qua: res extensa...
alcohol, is properly championed sharpens thought,
non sense into five subtle acknowledgements
of protruding assertions
(linear synonym antonym game
via contra cruxverbum) -
with alcohol thought is allowed bloom,
once thought rods itself of a moral conundrum
of an "ethical" choice -
no philosophical answer is readied
in a world built upon cyclone and wheel
to imply absolute with nothing more than
the zenith of scythe - and a nadir of hammer...
but thought outside a moral judgement
is both a blessing and a curse:
akin to the Arabs and oil.
Yet what persists in the digressive circumstance
of I unto ?, well...
thought is a non-analogous "sense":
soliloquy... drinking exfoliates thinking
which cannot be coupled with thinking
per se / the other... since thinking cannot
allow a direct confrontation with all five
senses coordinated: thought is a luxury for
the mind akin to health being a luxury for the body...
a penta sigma coordination of thought is impossible,
as stated by prophets who cannot attest
to a synchro-synchro coordination,
circa consolidation of the thesaurus dichotomy:
uni particular, subjective (1) objective (0.1)...
for those who know how to drink:
aqua igna agitates thinking while sedating
the senses: ergo?
How many years of ****** and
how many of Communism? if only for
Deutsche fraulein it could have secured
the Slavic worker his babuschka in retirement.
Jedyny grzech martwych jest: vox uber gott.
No one is taking pictures of each othet: ergo?
Whoever takes the medium of photography seriously,
takes the immaculate selfie has narcissus
turning in his grave, shouting:
font forget the clown!
The rest of them are sitting ducks, and yes,
there is an evil twin of the mirror in hell:
it's called: a photograph.
the narrator of photography died,
ergo selfie: ergo an experiment
in solipsism: gagging narcissus.
i through | ask the mirror:
past a vanity of pretty -
curious mirror: i though | see a ? or a ! (i ask)...
and why did i sleep so soundly on my
Spartan holiday?
minus the drink?
i slept among my own kin...
even if i did not speak to them beyond
buying milk and a loaf of a bread...
i returned to a hollow filled
with talking shadows of what
would constitute a past, mine disowned
yet theirs owning...
i a body in transit:
in england: apparently cheaper
than a chinese toy imported
freely:
the refugee mecha-monkey escaping
Beijing, on a ship-load added
to cheap bicycle locks...
that: can freely move...
a man is half what he can add to
an economy:
because what he brings
are apparently refugee trades and things...
instead the refugee:
who brings of what talk of trade
and of what things?
shackles of war are a noble burden
i am sure...
as noble as the sudden sight
of Kosovans in Ilford sitting idle
in cafes...
seen for a year... soon to disappear.
