Some introductory food for thought...

“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy?”
    - Mahatma Ghandi

“Totalitarianism is not only hell, but all the dream of paradise-- the age-old dream of a world where everybody would live in harmony, united by a single common will and faith, without secrets from one another."
   - Milan Kundera

"Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it."
  - George Orwell


Technocracy as scientific Totalitarianism?
Technocracy is the institutionalised control over all aspects of society by scientific and technological means through a centralised autocratic bureaucracy, whose totalitarian control is secured by the exploitation of its means. Universal utilitarianism over the psychologies, sociology, technology, pharmacology, etc. Whose state authority relies solely on the implementation of systematic indoctrination and propaganda, and the methodical interception of political dissidence or heresy against the established ideological order (in whatever form it takes). Human beings, as the most exhaustively studied species on Earth, have no shortage of data, nor any famine of instances littered among history that create the foundation of a deterministic human proclivity to be influenced by covert forces, often even when staring us in the face.


The institutionalisation of Peace as a political concept?
Peace, among the broader consensus, means to many and ideal not only of great significance, but too, a matter of urgency in a world of almost instantaneous advancement in the technological means of warfare, with the capability of mass destruction or even global fallout ever possible at the push of a button. Peace, however, as a political concept (like all concepts) is multilateral in the diversity of its manifestation, and is one of vague understanding to those who might purport its value, or perhaps not to those who might reap its more nefarious facets. Institutionalised ideology (possibly even Peace as a concept) has a tendency to shift to the extreme spectrum of its implementation in order to compensate for, by physical and ideological assets, the inevitable opposition that will rise in its wake or during its implementation. This is why, despite the seemingly sympathetic characteristics of Marxist ideology, it requires, when in its institutionalised from, a means of repressing antithetical views or activity, for instance, within the Soviet system. Because of this proclivity, it is thus safe to assert that even Peace, when in an institutionalised state could adopt a form of despotic hard and soft power in the enforcement of its ideological tenets.


Peace as an ideological control system?
It is necessary to understand the extent to which the concept of peace can be applied and that to which it's linguistic value could be altered or even neologistically reinvented. Peace, as generally perceived, means a vague ideal of harmony between people, generally applied to warfare and violence and the unnecessary suffering it causes. However, it is surely necessary to contemplate the id of its concept, which could still, by technicality, represent peace. Here is a legalese style list of how it could be applied, utilised as an ideological system of control:

• Opposing dialectic or political discourse between two or more groups or individuals as a breach of peace, for it produces a state of non-neutrality and thus a state of conflict (of ideas).
• Opposition to the state by activism or an expression of opinion as a breach of peace, for it may incite a state of conflict, or a spread of opposition.
• Multi-partisan politics as a concept that produces conflict (of ideas) and thus would be a breach of peace, and therefor is necessary to maintain a single-party system.

These are some ways in which I have tried to apply the political concept of peace as could be utilised for an ideological system of control through the rule of law or other means. Peace is generally perceived as a concept existing on the macro, however, here having been applied to the micro, it becomes scrutinous and can target by technicality, basic liberties. Theoretically, peace can mean absolutist ideological neutrality.


- a short essay by JDH

The Rebel inside...
Imprisoned by an institutionalised conscious
Hear the Lion's roar inside,
It's the Rebel's clamour
Feel the prism of both...
and break free from this prison of ghosts
Be the Lion of course...
Be the Rebel of Cause

Be Rebellion *(Rebel-lion)

I am no expert,
no expert at all

But when I am compelled
to write a poem
the compulsion comes
from a pure wish
to distil a thought,
to communicate,
to ride language *******
across the open spaces
of my brain

But you would lasso me,
corral me,
shut the barn doors on me
and the lowing, braying herd
for some self appointed *****
to cast judgement

So that the best possible outcome
is that I step on the faces of others
on my way to institutionalised,
establishment-approved freedom

Well,
*******
and the horse
you wish you could have ridden in on.

I still deny the rules and social ties of citizen spies

that i televise by shouting chanted anthems into the sky

yet to comply with the codes of conduct i defy

as you synthesize the number and size

i am careful not to compromise the lost light within my eyes

my cold gaze reflective of your demise

and i

scrutinize them until they realize they're being penalized for the lies

until maggots monopolize your corpse through your cries

until pulled away by the hissing of shadowed flies that fly into the lost light in my eyes

until my pupils cauterize

locking you inside

institutionalised

and i

am imprisoned in a prism of realism

as anti social collisions have me pulling my soul through verbal incisions

seeping radioactive emissions

from the legions of religions

from the season of rhyme without reason

failure to pay darkened tuitions is now treason

as catastrophic cataclysms lock me away in my primal visions

my verbal inflictions as though holy missions to infuse friction

smashing through my divided contradictions and feeding my addictions

good riddance

honest to god, with trans-gender i'm retro-******, and i know why the homosexuals were given all the pleasures of heterosexual coupling of social responsibility but not given the opinions, the homosexuals complained that the trans-gender movement dis-appreciated the appreciation of the male physique, god isn't beauty tyrannical, whether here on the anorexic catwalk? god isn't beauty tyrannical, the sea and the mountain, what beauty... but what tyranny!  so the laws favoured homosexuals, they were given freedoms akin to heterosexual relations, they were even given the new breed of *******, the surrogate mothers... what a poker game this has become! god almighty, i'm about to faint! well, you keep looking for genitalia, i'll just take a u-turn and talk to you about T R A N S E TH N I K U S - trans-ethnicity, trans-ethnic and retro-******, synonyms of heterosexual and bilingual non-respectively... and i got a helium balloon handy to mind the writing... chimp-chap and chipmunks - breeze! breezy! breezy! ooh yeah! tina turner gorged on tunas lodged with sardines canned!*

these days it should be called retro-******
rather than heterosexual... just to spice things up - via
in politics telling us to curb colonising the continent of
vocabulary, i.e.: hey foot in New England isn't exactly
Iowa!                                 get the ******* out!
teach them the english language
and censor them with political correctness -
even Stalin would find this approach funny -
'what?! no purges?! ha ha,
this is fantastic!' it's like the everyday
grey experience of failed
abortion and premature cancer
of existence just got a knee stuck
in its mouth - is that chew choke
or chow mein?! i doodle, don't know -
it might be a Caravaggio in the attic
or Anne Frank in the basement -
but given the populace it's still
a **** tourist trip - so take that
******* selfie with a selfie stick
and chomp a hamburger like
a turkey force-fed before thanksgiving.
no, i'm seriously retro-******...
i faked the *** and had a conversation,
neither worked - i mean it
worked faking it - but then the *** dried
and ******* took over
like i was re-experiencing puberty -
and she moaned that it was sick -
that one direction icon left the band
because he wasn't allowed to don a beard...
or smoke a joint...
               forget the 1960s Renaissance,
forget the Holocaust deniers,
come and meet the 1960s Anglo-Renaissance
deniers... **** didn't happen...
oompa loompa do'ba'de'do (insert H when required) -
prof. Kleks - kleksografia - kaczka dziwaczka -
             and other hits - well, mm, d'uh,
imagine trans-
                             (+)    -esse -
                      not gender related - but hence
the polak plumbers and other noose educators,
keenly the rus applaud -
                                               τρανσεθνικóς -
two golds and one silver at the european
championships of weight-lifters:

rank 1 / ****** 1 / clean & **** 2
name: tomasz ZIELINSKI (bernard)
body weight: 93.7kg
******: 176kg
clean & ****: 211kg
Σ: 387kg.
                                     ants laughing in the background:
'check out my exoskeleton!'
                          'boy! you and yo mush inside!'
   'keep the hard outside and the soft inside!'
                  'pecking the pecks of those naked monkeys...
               boy, i would!'
     'give 'em to the earthworms if they're not
               smart to be burned!'
     'goth macabre i too would endorse for a stable diet.'
  'mm, twice the body weight at the limit
    for them, and x5 for our ontological allowances.'
  'you know they call it a natural border of tribes,
      the franks to one side, the germans to the other,
               the rhine in between.'
   'well, d'uh, you ever much wood with rotten wood
           with termites?'
      'that's beside the point.'
                     'well, whatever it is,
          termites are... slogans for culture...
     their mounds rock hard from institutionalised
   saliva squirting -
                             what do we have?
       forest mounds the size of moles unearthing
          protected with twigs and our swarming bodies...
    we live underground - the termites became
     audacious.'
                 'oh stop it, i'm enjoying the joke
      that humans can only lift over twice their body weight
               while we can lift five times our weight.'

I knew a girl in my school once who exchanged the water in her bottle for ***** to blur the sadness she felt inside, even if just for a moment.

I knew a boy who I fell in love with but instead of falling in love back he fell into bad habits to fill his empty, dark mind with colourful patterns.

I knew a girl who I became best friends with, she wrote horribly sad stories on her wrists because she couldn't afford pen or paper.

I knew a man once so heavily institutionalised that he'd rather put himself on his own death row then face the cruel world.

I knew a woman in my street, so lonely that she hugged a bottle of wine every night, temporarily comforting herself to sleep until the next morning.

I knew a man, so distant you could see space in his eyes if you looked close enough.

I know a girl. So within everyone that she can't see herself anymore. Blurred, empty, broke, trapped, lonely and distant she lays there, in her own thoughts, motionless, waiting for someone to know her.

get your ***** ******* grubs off of me,
i am not going to bargain
a cartesian dualism with the notion
that the body can overcome the mind
with exercise gimmicks:
you, *******, guinea nimwit!
        i used to slap my grandfather's
sheen on a bold, but otherwise
bald cranium for jokes,
  and flick his remaining hairs into
the air to reveal a hidden jack
nicholson, i also called the police
and had him institutionalised with
psychiatric aid, for throwing my
grandmother through a glass door and
breaking her arm...
       me?! you'll get more
apologetic "nuance" about drinking
from a priest than from, me!
         i turn ugly, silently,
       i just abhore this antique deal
with descartes,
               i don't know why why that
the body can overcome the mind...
or why blankety-blank trivia is to solve
the matter...
or whether pumping iron helps...
      by this point i''m not writing:
i'm coal-mining, i'm digging...
               the body, however perfect
will not unravel the problems of the mind,
attaining body antics perfected only
stalls the otherwise still present:
problems of the mind.
                       toxicology reports read:
adrenaline *****.
             sebastian mc'queer miss-match
between a cocktail waitress,
  a ******* bunny and a bartender named:
shteeve.
                 ******* waste of time
by my rubric of arithmetic...
  but at least ben affleck wasn't the worst
batman,
      we all know that george clooney was.
we have finally arrived at a loss
of mind-body dualism,
   we have achieved a dichotomy,
finally!
       we can, for the first time,
fathom clear segregating posits,
indicators,
                    membranes!
whatever noun you use -
                 the joke about schizophrenia,
is that it's not a joke concerning
        premature depression -
premature depression is more unusual
than premature dementia -
      there's the bicimeral theory
to begin with...
           unless of course you're dealing
with snowflakes who want languaage
as rigid as possible,
      readied for the acceptance of it,
like any type of i.k.e.a. put it together,
yourself, manual...
the mundane aspect of the whole affair
only breeds a gagging effect,
like choking on a 12" **** with your nose
pinched-shut,
  ******* disgusting;
  if i really wanted to draw a straight line
i wouldn't necessarily obligate language
to latex ******* *******...
           i'd be the one
adding oil to the fire, and wanting
unadulterated chaos,
  before the hell-fire focus of: inferno...
for language is just that:
   i abhor the term poet,
i prefer the term...
                               pyrotechnician...
i do not write poetry:
   i cement myself in pyrotechnics.
    i abhor this dualism -
            this notion that a sick mind can
be mended by being worked on by
a invigorated body,
      or that a sick body can be mended by
being worked on by an
invigorated mind...
   odd... to have such vehement emotions
surrounds a mere idea...
that there is no mind-body dualism,
but that there's a mind-body dichotomy...
and that there's only a mind-mind dualism
that, given the cartesian concept brideges
upon the res extensa: the extended thing,
whereby the mind-mind dualism
disintegrates when the notion of a, soul,
is involved / invested in,
perhaps as concrete rubric, or perhaps
as a mere cognitive, hobby...
  let us simply add:
   there are those who bow and pray and
pay due diligence to a god...
  while others, neither procrastinate themselves,
nor day allegiance to a, deity -
for there is so much more involvement in
entertaining the thought of a...
deity...
             and these cognitive
acrobatics never allow for a yawn
to be present, in their ritualistic endeavours,
with due need, or due, cause.

p.s. i think people really underestimate
schizophrenics, the abnormality of it
is fascinating...
      as is the case with the endeavour of
finding a soul, or as i like to call it:
the osmosis of psyche overpowering the mind,
and creating a mind-body dichotomy
rather than enforcing a mind-body "dualism"...
psychosis.
                   it's a shame how people
under-appreciate a mind-mind dualism...
a dualism, split, yet nonetheless whole...
     cf. julian jaynes...
                      but what isn't fascinating
is premature depression...
   that's just plain ******* tragic...
i can understand depression in old people,
who have actually accomplished something
in their lives...
but when it concerns youngsters?
completely unfathomable and
                    uninteresting to me,
on the basis that it's so abnormal that
it's suicidal and completely averted to
the otherwise schizoid exploratory tendency
of reintegrating a disintegrating form
of language structure... perhaps that's
a post-modernist statement...
but the "sane" always cite
being perplexed by language that's:
   non-instructive; b'aah b'aah...
******* herds, do we always have to whip
them into submission and cohort?
  yes, yes, the open end hyphen grammar
   -cohort-, that's transcendental grammar,
it's not supposed to be a noun,
rather, an adjective by-and-of-itself
revealing of the submissive character of
strict, military, discipline!
my ambition was never to write
a ******* i.k.e.a. manual for a: do it yourself
take on a folding chair!

Red Light shining bright through the window in an edgy ally, where you can smell the sin and witness
lustfilled eyes of corrupt and narrow minded men.
Watch how they pick their flesh, a desperate attempt at relief of the madness lying within. A brief escape from a screaming consciousness's plea for help.
Young girls ostracized,productized, capitalized sitting in symbolized shelves. Behaviour manipulated to seamlessly service the brainwashed consumer's shallow needs. Cattle literally abusing human innocence in a legalised system.
A caged bird, where tears can only fly freely behind void eyes.
Desperate to the point they would sniff the coke from the dollar bill in search for small remnants of solace. Ironically it's the thought behind that dollar bill that put her there in the first place. Ironically it's that same dollar bill that might bring an oppertunity to escape.
Might leave a small opening in the cage. Emphasis on might.

A bedroom, where the nightlight shines darkgrey
A small boy sitting, fetus position, under his older sister's worn out desk
Never before have you met someone so young
weighing the options, positives and negatives
about life and death
testing, poking the knife he has in his chest
nobody has taught him anything about coping
good thing he knows everything about math instead
broken, his sister pinned down in father's bed
last time he accidently walked in
he was nearly beaten to death
He grabs the knife and seperates his soul from his flesh.
Society labels him and million others 'A Tragedy'.

Delivering freedom on the spot, dropped from high altitudes
by B52 Stealth Bombers, Lockheed AC-130's, F16's and unmanned MQ-1 Predators.  The Democratic system crashes into farmers, families, children and other people waiting for the food drop today. The explosion burns everything away.
Their souls desperately in search for their bodies which now lie scattered in ash, they can't go back to the physicall plane. They are forced to break away from their 6 month old daughter who 'miraculously' survived that day. Democracy making way for western influence, orphans turn into kids who perceive their nightlights dark grey.
Soldiers spot a baby, in a bloodbath, sitting.
Militairy lights hover over the scene, the blood reflects back a bright red.
This part of the city turned into a Red Light District.
The epitome of irony was a spark of creativity in the mind of a mad architect.

The kid is swooped into a country whom mercilessly obliterated her parents. Little brothers and sisters send to their dusty graves with the President's consent. Sixteen years later she meets her fifth one, social workers don't know what to do with her. Another two years later she's institutionalised, filled to the brim with drugs satisfying the needs of pharmaceutical companies. Trapped in a straight jacket, between four white walls. Being used to purchase meds to keep the production going. The least the useless can do is a word invented by capitalism: consumerism.
So they shall consume, such a harsh forced fate. Everybody's mind would break.
For those who's sun shines grey, where salvation waits on the thin line of a sharpened blade. I'll tell you, suffer needlessly. The world thrives on you.

for some reason, i never seriously branched away from american rock / metal into the alternative of black metal or viking metal of scandinavian... the finnish music scene gave me an appeal for their music... given the folk tale of herr mannelig... well... it's come down to: either hedningarna or gjallarhorn, when drinking, you really want to mellow out... you still like classical music, but you just can't keep up with the shrieks and the heavy guitars anymore... you want to return to the roots of melody, above ferocity... god, i hate the strauß family... i can't stand that sort of music... the non-contemplative type... it doesn't allow any meditation... because you imagine yourself constantly dancing... dying from st. vitus' dance / sydenham's chorea... there's nothing contemplative from their music, their waltzes are cannot entertain thinking, only dancing, or clapping to the rhythm.

existentia (existence)
     "existence" (existenz)
   ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")
strutting among non-beings:
            
  cogito - sum   (i am thinking - i am)
   the simultaneous answer,
      
the vector guiding the cartesian sum
   is to provide conversation

the vector guiding the cartesian cogito
is to provide an anti-claustrophobia
   (you can really become claustrophobic
  in a conversation... i.e. be put on the spot /
    high heels, of uncomfortableness).

ah... *ex-sistere ("to exist", "to stand out")...
isn't that the western mantra for
individualism?
                   how can it not be?
why is individualism so sacred,
        so nauseating? this segregation of
one's own, from the ownership of all and
no one?
              it took king solomon to look at
an ant, which didn't exactly transcribe into
a humbling... just an crying out of
what individualism leads to: vanity! all is vanity!
                   vanus! vanus est omni!
ah, but no day is void of its content,
   as being the vessel of emptiness,
  the day, is a vessel brimming, full,
   a dam about to collapse, that fills me
with at least something that otherwise makes
me devoid, of entertaining it, in the first place.

but all these "political" conversations...
    these conversations might as well
start off with a sticker:
   hi, my name is...          bob.
i listen to these political discussion and
think...
         wow! the cartesian libra
       weighs so much toward the "i am"
side of the measures...
     such is the scenario of poly-identifactions...
i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative, i'm a progressive,
i'm into alt. right, i'm i'm i'm this that and the other...
given the conversation, and a complete
lack of silence i.e. thought,
           i'm also about to create a collage
of identificators...
   but i'll begin with: hi, my name is...      bob;
like any goldfish might.
        
  to me these people are talking presuppostions,
they are presupposing they are what they "are"...
     which suggests their thinking aligns itself
to suppositions, that they "are"
                          what they "think" they are...
they're not thinking, they're talking...
   non-stop, ad nauseam...
               i gather that people who are
       vox-philic, are also musica-phobic...
sometimes i think about knocking on a door
for about 10 years and not have it open
than listen to these people talk "politics".
       sometimes listening to hammering
in nails on a building site sounds more entertaining;
oh wait, should that be dico-philic / sermo-philic?
      whatever.
     i found that the people who love talking,
have no passion for music.

     silverchair - freak:
lyrics -
               no more maybes, the baby's got rabies,
       in the middle of the andies... yeah, heh!
i'm a freak. nature!
   yeah, heh!e
    if only i could be as cool as you.
   ****** and soul, i'm a freak, i'm a freak...
           trying to be different...
   whatever different disease...

   yep.... index finger moving against the motorboat
effect of the lips vibrating...
       hey presto! a mongolian harmonica.
              
ex omne diem
                  (out of every day)
               out of every moment...
    there is a driving momentum,
              to counter the shackles of systematic
clarification of what existence actually is,
or can be, or will or never will be,
            for what existence was...
                         is an selective memorisation...
a memory drives my curiosity more than
a spontaneous thought...
                 the thought is in the now,
a memory is in the what was...
           when walking in the desert of thought,
you must certainly stumble against
   the mirage oasis of a memory, suddenly arising...
i count memory, to have a higher status
     in the hierarchy of mental faculties
as that of dreams...
             for one... memory is attacked by
institutionalised learning, say,
       the pythagoras...
                                    i rather respect memory,
and keep as much of it as i can,
   than demand an interpretation of dreams...
i literally, have no respect for dreams...
                      none...
        memory though?
        memoriam est grata, somnio est non grata
(memory is welcome, dreaming is not welcome).

A victim of selective segregation

A society of articulated differential synopsis

Weaponising religiosity with extreme hypocrisy

Aided by the water drinking ****** perfectionist

Who bath their illusion with institutionalised pride

They force the common man,to trade his superiority for their overpriced inferiority

Until they were embedded in a caste of  self pitying and planned rejection

Just like a self updated software..

They were condemned by the same society,in which they worked so hard to satisfy

They only had a scratch,but the hatred drive it to a wound

They became rotten,spoilt to the outside world

They were tagged unhealthy  not acceptable in any form for human consumption

Discarded and thrown away and left to rotten to death

They were filled with hatred ,frustrated,and ***** by love

Like a condemn  prisoner who found himself in siberia for a minor case

They were locked up in a depression gown

So death became the only way,the only liberation from the eternal suffering

The deluded hypocritical society celebrated that with a visible stunt

And the cycle continues

AYANFE

suicide is never a solution,just a passage to eternal suffering

I have prided myself
on my piece of mind
sure in my head
that my thoughts were mine
but brought up in a prison
with the walls ill-defined
didnt need to be in jail
to be institutionalised

no, what really got to me was that i wasn't allowed to practice my Christianity, even with abandoning all Catholic bureaucracy with a confirmation not had... i could have forgiven the brain haemorrhage, even though i should have been taken to a hospital while it happened and told to not use marijuana ever again to lead up to a 7 year psychosis... now i'm drinking each night to stabilise my wrath... you know the hardest thing to stomach practising Christ's lesson about turning the other cheek? the complete and utter apathy and added ridicule when you take it to the extreme of having a culprit you know live out Cain's life, free, no prison, no exacting of law, free-roaming true forgiveness faked by popes in prison cells forgiving criminals, under the full eye of the law, nothing godly about it... but what makes the criminal worse is this petty nibbling ridicule of Christians... they're the ones insuring themselves, and counting domino after domino of hurt... ******, at 115 kilograms, you better know judo... i'll broomstick that glee off your face like i'd eat a chicken nugget. or as it happened at the Olympics today, world champion Poland v. Iran (e-ran, or i-ran, you get the picture), 18 - 16 in the fifth set... there's a joke running in Poland, all about the Anti-Olympic scuffle... Harold Norse's poem i'm not a man - the beard and the braids... how this suicide bomber comes to Warsaw and gets braids on his beard and plums under his eyes and kills no one; funny, don't you think?

after that ****** book is finally published,
i'll head over to Richmond, or some other affluent
part of London and leave it somewhere someone
might pick it up, i decided on zero graphics,
meaning it be like the Beatles white album
with the words: Πoετικ Oπτoμετρy printed
on a white cover, with my name and signature
to mind - ever so often phonetic encoding become
skeletal, how bewildering that the Chinese
kept the ideogram from the times of Pharaohs -
and yes, i sometimes don't believe in Darwin,
with the way they treated Anaxagoras -
i think of the Forest Gump tribe in meddling
things up - among us it's so hard to involve
a question whether than evolution was as uniform
and coherent as expressed from the starting point
of a chimp revelling in more or less universal
behaviour akin to his physical attainments -
very much missing in man - either the Musketeer quote
or nothing at all... a dog like his owner is resemblance,
a friend carried away from being foe in
resemblance too - but i chose my friends unwisely -
the embittered loathing of life from a genetic point
of view, while i took to it in acceptance,
then of late experiencing a complete and utter
waste of trying to experience empathy totally corrupted -
i doubt we evolved, if evolution only means
the Christian elect, and the Hebraic chosen -
i guess it must feel like a night in Las Vegas trying
to talk for the entire human race...
no wonder atheism is supreme in that venture:
i can look at my **** floating as an ice-berg
in the toilet and speak Shakespeare to it,
but will that attract a crowd of listeners? probably not.
so according to the Chinese, keeping the ideogram
was not such a bad idea if encrypting sounds,
shoo xi chow min xaxa was not such a bad idea,
ideograms prevented more invasions than the great
wall of China... it was fattened up, that encryption,
it wasn't see-through skeletal as what was worked up
using the Hebraic standard... א... αλεφ - it just became
bones on bones*, or mass graves, or multiplicity, or algebraic
chi (χ) - the intersection, hence the engraved multiplying
capacity of more nouns, and more nouns, and nouns,
and more nouns, when the phonetic encoding for
the intersection came, we could hoard more riches
of naming things... in this i believe are animals
evolving... but within a framework of
day-to-day, we're not improving, collectively,
the trial of Socrates for one, the profanities surrounding
Anaxagoras - in the collective talk of things
when evolution arises from singletons it's untrue,
outcast, gone, no ditto never ever again -
evolution is talked about in a pluralistic tongue,
it's this autocratic inclusion of everyone on
the same level... that's fine when there are exceptions
on a purely physical criterium, spectator sports,
but on the mental level, without stadium
psychology of roaring and clapping?
you're in trouble... evolution involves progressive
uniformity and no individual out-performing,
but out-performing each other is demanded
when there's an evolutionary plateau,
meaning that the collective requires a physical
differentiation, a spectator sport, and that's applauded,
it's actually demanded...
but reach an evolutionary plateau where there are many
prior-established economic or political systems
believed to be defunct and unnecessary, and you
get an individual rebellion that criticises such
institutionalised systematisations - you run into trouble,
once trying for a viable individualisation,
no no longer a process of: but a stability as
the prior not-mentioned individual attainment.
when the fear of expressing language language in a complicate
way outweighs the presupposed complication of
the ten mathematical "letters"... that's
when it gets interesting... because then people
cannot conjunction casual inference of talk
with an abstract expression of talk... of v. v.
an abstract inference of thought with a
casual expression of talk - not quiet the square you
were expecting along the synonymous and antonymous
lines, were you? see how writing proposes geometry?
i could have written something different...
something akin to a poetic rhyme; it's harder to find
a rhyme using philosophy, and contradict that
it's necessarily a rhyming quartet not rhymed
as designated Gemini couplets.

There's a quiet tick tick

Tick tock

There's a quiet sound of cars in the distance

The air is warm but there's a slight breeze through the window that is refreshingly cooling

I can feel it on my thigh

I've got one eye closed as I squint at my phone and write this poem

Is it a poem? What is a poem?

I feel like a fake
A plastic poet
Making it up as he goes along
Wanting to write a good poem instead of just writing ...

Anything

What's happening now?

I tried to write a poem about my Dad being a conservative, about coming from a farming family, and about doing things rather than talking about them.

I just rolled over on my couch

I don't always think about what I'm doing
I like to think I'm doing something
Sometimes I'm just trying to do the right thing
Sometimes I'm just trying to be seen to do the right thing
Sometimes I just want to indulge myself in the profits of my labour

Money

I'm skint
I'm not skint
I could be skint if things go a certain way in the near future
I'm scared of being skint
But I don't want to go back to doing the things that I was doing
I don't want to be dragged down again
****** in again
Institutionalised
I don't want to trust people and then get ******* over
I want to be free
To make my own decisions
And walk away if I don't like it

I wonder if Adele will call
I like Adele
She reminded me of my good points again
After Paula
Letting go
It scares me a bit to think whether I actually would have killed myself back then
No matter now - it seems so long ago
When I needed someone to make me feel good
It's inly been about six months
It's not long
I've changed a lot
I hope that it's for the best
At least I don't cry every day I'm without my kids now
At least Adele is my friend
Do I wish she was my girlfriend?
Or do I just like being respected and liked?

I like being liked
I think that's why I write
It's probably why I'm setting up my charity
It's definitely why I post what I'm doing on Facebook

I'm tired now
This poem is getting too long for the 3 mins
Is it a poem?
God knows
I need to sleep ***

Tick

Tock

Buzzzzzzzz...zzz..

because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.

the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
  can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
        i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
       for the love of doodling -
              and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
     just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
         making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
                    they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
         and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
        can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
   i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
             and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
   websites... funny concept...
   they're like a library with only blank books in them....
  you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
   or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
   the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
   or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
   and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
     man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
                        the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
     while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
             is my writing perplexing?
  isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
   perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
  and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy...  i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
   when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
       to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
    m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
   into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
    because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
                    that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài          - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
   when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
                 it was never going to work...
    but that's what we're left with...
     a gigantic mess...              every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
   which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
       it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
    skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
                  all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
        we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
            modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
        would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
   phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
    for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
  index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
   headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
  as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
   and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.

people's artistic ambitions, whether juvenile,
or matured, never take into consideration other
people's upheavals and counters,
it's staggering how much
of art is based upon the irrelevance
of shared experience,
and more focused on
passing-time stuck in traffic...
funny, isn't it? the idealised
personal, thus idealised,
becomes impersonal... so much of
art is based upon the irrelevance
of shared experience, and more
focused on passing-time stuck
in traffic... with the number of mammals
roaming this place, a few of us
will become lizards... cold-blooded
heretics opposed to the doctrine
of humanism... with the number
of mammals roaming this place,
a few of us will turn into cold blooded
lizards... sometimes we'll get a
mammalian blood-clot of warmth in
us, a pop song... but that's about it...
we just look at these **** pseudo-sapiens
attempting feats horrid with the deus attache -
and we think... i'd thank a god for a second
chance to be reborn a dentist -
where once the weakness to dislodge self-belief
and believe in god was considered normal
for the iron maiden to say otherwise...
now people are in a frenzy when self-belief
has gone awry, pear-shaped...
because it has... added to the fact that i have
to consider two things with inevitable death:
i have to consider my own mortality
and the chance of fame... you can hardly
become philosophical considering the latter...
what sort of philosophy is spawned from
considering mortality and fame alike?
it's like saying: you're alive... and technically
you're already famous, when nothing
is the entire audience admiring your
self-development... luckily poets never make
it on the t.v. like they did in the 1960s
experimenting with l.s.d., apart from that
one poet on the game show pointless...
with the added celebrity; yep, pointless
celebrities... i wonder if Marx would have
envisioned the celebrity class along with
the bourgeoisie and the working man...
i think he'd have failed that discovery...
i know where i am... i have the perfect seat
in the house, like spotting a ballet dancer
outside the Opera House, standing with
ballet slippers, smoking a cigarette...
in the end: i'm just a passerby -
                       forever attached to hello
and bye-bye...
                           we've been the horrid
process of being educationally institutionalised...
some people feel the wrath of institutions
they end up writing lyrical songs
akin to The  Smiths...
                                      solution?
school uniform... works every time...
originality of the mind converts the peacocks into
pigeons, or it doesn't, whatever.

Did it hurt when you died
or did you not notice
Only, we missed the countdown and so we fell
out of
                          sync
The beginning was a false start
Chattel hurriedly march onward to their demise
Maniacal laughter from the radio chatter
and the afterthought master, pulled strings faster
Cloning programs in the desert
Phone record credit

(your birth certificate is just a receipt)

This year, the year of somebodies lord
many facts come forward
many facets of the reward scheme
of institutionalised regimes
Your terrorist masters in the government houses
mastermind crises or create all these lifeless..

Sing it two times for the slaves in the system
and their families that miss them
The Queen's Christmas manifesto
Ghost written in a conference in Austria
This is your controlled system
But you'll try not to listen
Unless there's a fire beat, something to make you move your feet
Unholy march of the lonely,
Masquerade of the only...

...and when the end finally rears, when the years stop, drop
pop and lock
We'll be dancing
and the lights will be dimmed

maybe the institution of marriage
institutionalised
is the bedrock of the family of Humankind

not enough casual bites to take up
a body for institutionalised continuance
and rear children and
whatever you think that means about youth's
joy of touching more than just
steering wheels and hammers
and photographs and joysticks.

i love how with poetry you can begin at reading backwards,
not that there's an actual epilogue,
but that you can attach yourself to the winding serpent
of narration at any time, on any if not at each verse,
that in poetry there's no newton to mind: no causality
of pre- or post-, but the mediation of the ultimate
relativism, where time is discarded as what is itemised
for division, and where space is discarded likewise:
but in addition given the multiplier of heaven above
this earth, and hell... beneath it.

i love the nights in winter,
the trees look like skeletons,
or like lung alveoli,
or like brain synapses,
which is why i love cats,
you can simply ignore them,
leave them be,
with dogs there's too much attachment,
the walks, the leash, the play dead bits,
i ignore cats, until they wake and
stop ignoring me... waiting for food...
i like that, perfected petting i dare say...
indeed me alone in the park, how loved up
i became...
it was like the end of the world...
the shadows, the night, the moon, the loneliness
that became full testifying
the type of genius that acknowledges the active
ingredient of solipsism...
of course i'd life a wife... of course i would...
but i'd be bored with all the talk
and no canine proof of silence...
there i go again... watching a cat abstract
meow into momentum and meaning...
with man's inability to abstract...
indeed although i did argue with sartre
i agree with him about existence pre dating
essence, for example love...
the existence is an institutionalised coercion,
the essence if fiction via cinderella,
essentially our existence if biased rather than based
on fiction, the cold winters defeat our biases and base
us on the ridiculous need to wear fur coats
and become vegetarian out of consideration.
indeed... existence does prevail first,
but its per se seeks an essence under the bingo
structure of buckled under *what if,
and as such it's clearly avoiding the pressing matters
of what defines continuum:
but alongside the modern woman i feel abashed
to think this: it's not worth it...
the law is in her favour... the social expectations are in mine,
she can forge a forgetfulness equal to my disengagement,
and we can proceed into modernity, critical
of islamic nostalgia reminiscent of the medieval period
of our cared for 10,000 years... when
the vanity of thinking was reduced to a paper aeroplane
thrown across a classroom, which you would never
deem necessary in papyrus form due to scarceness.

So Fellas What's The Price You're Prepared To Pay …
To Spread Her Thighs And Get That … LAY … !!?!!

Cos' I've Heard About Chicks Who … For A HAMBURGER …
Will Give You A Kiss And Let You Go … FURTHER ................ !!!!!

And Ladies ... Let Me Ask You THIS … ?

What Price Do You Pay … ?
When You LICK Dogs' ***** To Have Their Kids … ???

THAT PRICE Seems … HIGH … !!!!!
If They Leave You With NO CHANCE of A Life … !!!
That Then Consists of … " Husband and Wife " …

Why Should The Children Pay The PRICE ...
For Your Lack of Thinking … Isn't THAT A Crime … ?!?

ENTRAPMENT DEFINED …. !!!
I Think You'll Find … Is What You Tried … !?!

But Girls Who FAIL ….
Know That The PRICE They Pay Entails …

A Life … " PRESSURISED " … !!!!!
Because of The LIES They TRIED To Live By … !!!

But Prices RISE ... !!!
When It Comes To CRIMES ...
of The … ****** Type … !!!!!

Being ***** By Guys Can Become REAL LIFE … !!!
If You Get TIME ... Institutionalised Next To Criminal Minds … !!!

HUNGRY For What … They're Now DENIED … !!!!!
A Wife Or ***** With A Hole To BORE … !!!!!

So What's The Price For Being ... Lyrically RAW … !?!
Well Being IGNORED By The PURE Fa' Sure … !!!

Did I Say … PURE …  ?!?

Well They Think They Are … !?!
The Religious Hoards Who Act Like …. " LORDS " … !!!

When Behind … "CLOSED DOORS" …
There Seems To Be A Price That's NOT SO NICE … !!!!!

When Priests … ENSURE … !!!
That Little Boys ABSORB A WHOLE LOT MORE … !!!!!
Than ... Spiritual Help From Men Who SELL …
Their Souls To The DEVIL To See Boys DISHEVELLED … !!?!!

Because of ABUSE ...
These DEVIANTS Use Which Is NOT COOL … !!!

So ...
Is There A Price To Be A … " Cool Dude " … ?

Well To Have Nice Suits And ... Hand Made Shoes … !!!
You're Gonna NEED CASH To Be THAT MAN ... !!!

But Does Coolness NEED … ?
To Indulge VANITY For Others To SEE ... ?!?

People Seem To BELIEVE ...
That The Wealthy Breed Is Where Coolness FEEDS …
Well It Seems To Me That These FIENDS Live For GREED … !!!!!

FIENDS ... INDEED …. !!!!!!

Whose Cool Concedes To INSANITY ... !!!
When It Comes To Being SEEN ...
As A … Humble Human Being … !!!!!

To Be HUMBLE In This Life …
Seems To Have A Price That Guides ...
To An ... ELEVATED Mind …

A Mind NO ONE Can Buy To Simply Fall In Line …
With Those Who'd SELL ... Their MOTHER ...
To Have THAT WEALTH And … "Smother" … !!!

LOVE For Each Other …
With A PRICE That COVERS ...
Seeing Loved Ones SUFFER … !!!!!
  
Some Things You CAN'T BUY … !!!!!

Or … Put A Price On Like Good Advice ...
That STANDS BY RIGHT … !!!!!  
And Makes WRONG …….. ABSCOND ........................…… !!!!!!!

Such Things Invite A Price WITHOUT HIKES …  
A Price Without Nikes of The Jordan Type … !!!!!

A Price That Takes FLIGHT …
WITHOUT ... Commercial Hype ….

So To Reach Sporting HEIGHTS … !!!!!
What Is The Price You Have To Pay …
To RAISE Your Game And Become A Name …
In The HALL of FAME For The Game You Play … ???

Some Would Say ... " HOURS of PRACTICE " … !!!!!
Others Get Managed And Have To ... PAY …
BIG AGENT Rates To See Their Face ALL OVER The Place … !!!

These Days It Seems … ?
One Performance Gains ... RIDICULOUS PRAISE ... !!!!!!

And Being Deemed ...
To Be The Next BIG THING WITHOUT Winning Anything … ?!?

Prices RISE But Words I Write Don't Have A Price … !!!
So DON'T Compromise For Them To Be … LIKED … !!!

They're From My Heart And YES My Mind …
No Contracts Signed … At Least NOT YET … ?!?

To Get Publicised By … " Corporate Heads " …

Who Are QUICK To Advise As To What Will SELL … !!!
So Their Cash Funds SWELL As Book Sales RISE … !!!

Meantime What You Write Is ... RARELY The Same …
Because EDITS Are Arranged To ... FIT The Profile …
of Someone NICE ... Whose Words Bring SMILES … !!!

Well THANKFULLY ... I've UPSET These Fiends …
And … SNEAK FILLED Cliques Who Just Can't Believe …
I Won't Join Their Team of ... DEVIOUS Beings ... !!!!!!!

Who Seem To Be The Type …
Who'd Rather FALL IN LINE …
Than Write What THEY LIKE … !!?!!

Because They'll LIE …
And Of Course … COMPROMISE …

Like So MANY In This Life … !!!
For What They Believe …

To Be Their ……………………

..………… " Price " ………….

i have them, i wake up the next day,
fiddle about with it, and realise
in an instant: i'll not honeysuckle
anything out of it -
yet another day in the sahara -
    you only really experience a writer's
block once you've written a lot...
and yes, the mediocre moments
in a "career" do happen,
   but as any stepping-stone moment -
******, better hop from stone
to stone, until that one perfect moment
arrives, and steals you away,
on something akin to travelling to the giza
pyramids...
    mind you: it's unbelievable that only
the eiffel tower overshadowed the giza
pyramids, so many centuries later...
  staggering.
        that aside, it's no wonder that
poets always extend their ambition into
writing the prosaic -
   the would be proselytes -
  who, in most instances:
  do not have the stomach to churn out
mundane narratives -
   and senseless dialogues -
the problem with poetry:
   the expectation to always write something
profound;
i'll never write a novel,
simply because it's not that i aim
at writing something profound every
single sentence...
  it's that i cannot write the piece of meat
of mundane narrative in the medium
of the in-between of finally considering
a profound citation point...
so much of novel writing is idle
chit-chat... so much is filled with the in-between
of said effort,
    not that great poetry always says
great things, but when i look at virgil,
or homer, i find that poetry was: once
upon a time - driven by a narrative...
modern poetry? a complete lack of, narrative,
then again the technicality bewilders me
to never adhere to it...
          did i visit a psychiatrist for jokes?
i sure did...
   i once even managed a stealthy glance
at the notes referred to a g.p.,
what did they reveal?
      a) biting your nails
     b) keeping eye-contact
and
       c) fidgety feet, not imitating drumming...
that's it!
   psychiatry is still oh so barbaric
compared to other branches of medicine...
most people do not believe in
psyche-cogito complex in that: they do not
believe in a soul, but i dare you to ask anyone
who has experienced the osmosis: trickling
of a soul into anima via psychosis...
      notably those who managed
to contain the experience...
             few people emerge from having
experienced psychosis without an
institutionalised backdrop of events,
  even fewer make it out the quixotic windmill...
me? look at me, unscatched -
                regretful? perhaps...
               resentful... every chance i get i
manage to usher in a laugh...
        once more, heidegger...
      the talk of travel, of experiencing
the totality of the world, the - orbis totalis -
  for these people so hungry to experience
the totality of this world...
    i have four words for them -
  the sage of königsberg...
           i'm becoming a hermit of essex
by the looks of it,
          my ambition to live a life like
sunday traffic, to live the life least unpredictable
is starting to sink into my bones,
to even animate them...
        i don't know why people never choose
the predictable life, given that death is
an event that's inevitable -
  merging two inevitabilities can create
the most random experience of events -
     that said: your thinking will never be
predictably *****-likened,
       it will end up as an embodiment of
the antithesis to the sisyphus toil -
   unless some cerberus is watching over
poor sisyphus, the man will eventually stop
rolling the stone up the hill,
   he'll eventually stop rolling it,
look at it, and become a minotaur in his own
cognitive labyrinth...
and in such a labyrinth, sure, there
are are no sphinxes, or pyramids of giza,
but beside these predictable sights,
   the sisyphus-minotaur will see unseen prior to
sights of his own ingenious invention.
like heidegger said:
  ordinary thinking is pulverised by
the presumption that the more "lived experiences"
a human being has, the more certainty he
has in assuring being and what he is
to "become" -
   perhaps, suppose that the more you see,
and the more you "experience" the more complete
example of humanity you will become...
  only to
a) have all the more regrets prior to
     the relief of succumbing to death,
b) the "foreboding" of: never again...
  c) the nostalgia,
   d)  contra nostalgia: the deepest vilest form
  of emotion: the regrets of never being disposed
to fathom any said experience (cf. point a))-
e) if you don't have what you like,
    like what you have...
i hardly think there's a need for a complete
human experience with all the provisions
secured...
  there's only a human experience,
          there never will be a complete human
experience, other than in the guise
of a spectator,
    the only brimful "lived experience" is in
the guise of the being, that's a spectator...
sure, there's a fancy, a day-dream of
being a protagonist of some sort,
   but as the old sayings goes,
if everyone were to take their shoes off,
and throw them into a heap,
  they'd still take from the heap their own
pair: for walking with one's own problems
is always more bearable,
  than experiencing the kampf of others...
  ich kampf - and i love that phrasing -
it's not mine, in that it is mine:
but it's not a definite struggle - rather a
continuing venture into the very mundane
of every other yesterday, or every other tomorrow.
i've met more humanity in those who
chose the theatre of the mind,
           than the theatre of the west-end...
   i've met enough humanity who have
experienced less, but nonetheless live more,
than those tourists, who "experienced" more,
but nonetheless lived less...
          to make oneself encrusted in the local
environment, to stand rigid & proud as
a domineering sight of a mountain...
                        to feel a lesser need to known
the world, and a pressure toward a need to
know oneself...
    to extract the reflective notion of the otherwise
reflexive word structures:
   i.e. yourself: your self,
    oneself: one's self,
               myself: my self...
         and standing these un-noodling compounds
  before the one mirror that a philosophical
narcissus could perplex his self over:
                    the mirror of itself -
              or: die es und der selbst -
                                       the it and the self;
das? that's like a doubled-up definite article...
i swear to god, only the germans
have more definite articles than any other
language - the poles only have two
(last time i checked), i.e. to & tamto -
  which is distinguished by distance -
  to is closer, while tamto is further away...
honestly, the fun really starts when
you stop synthesising language,
   and begin analysing it...
      but i recommend synthesising (mimic)
a language for at least 20 years,
    and then spontaneously "revising" it -
never minding the idea that you might fall
into any linguistically orthodox pitfall.

p.s. ah right, the masculine / feminine brigade:
ten: direct article for he (close)
  ta: the direct article for she (close)
   tamten: direct article for he (far away)
  tamta: the direct article for she (far away),
to: gender neutral direct article (close)
  tamto: gender neutral direct article (far away);

and still the sahara of the indirect article
in german: eine schmein ein schmeine eins ein
11 elves ate a wolf in dresden -
             which made up 36 observable curiosities.

Don’t know who decided they
should be called weeds but
Monsanto has institutionalised
the concept, now everyone
has killing kits in garden sheds.

Toleration of induced death
has increased with television,
war is live entertainment, just
as the regimes of carnivores.
Abattoir from Abattre: to Beat.

In fact, many watch and eat
at the same time, temporary
revulsion punctuated only by
the stabbing and dissecting
of what has already suffered.

Gaza has been hidden from
us, Israel made sure of that
by bombing Al Jazeera in a
blatant effort to conceal the
Holocaust of Palestinians.



Ps.

There are now windows in
Casino's or Slaughterhouses.

News Summary


Some have been affected

        By the subliminal

Indoctrination of the BBC

          For a century.


      Their belief system,

  Enriched by Catholicism,

  Which they permitted, as

It was a perfect symbiosis.


     And today, disciples

     Of diatribe continue

       In tradition of the

       Colonial masters.


     Acceptance of their

     Narrative highlights

       The insularity of

       Parochial minds,


Institutionalised thinking

    Rote renditions of a

  Media mantra, with but

     A one option menu.

Have An Ice Day


     If I were to write itch

      using a nib without

      ink I would only be

   scratching the surface.

It is similar with the dept

of empathy and emotion

    with regards to Gaza,

  how does one in poetry?

  Pain anger and fear are

     feelings we have all

experienced, but hunger

and humiliation not many.

  Whom amongst us has

been homeless helpless

  worst of all abandoned

  by ones own kit and kin.

  History, or their story is

not ours, it appears, we

  are institutionalised by

  American hypothermia.