your eyes are like oysters i'd wish i would have gulped,
  a scenario of Narcissus who ate by the mirror...
     but then i listen to a heavy metal song:
and retract to change the lyrics
toward: fear of the selfies... fear of the selfie...
fear of the selfie... i have a phobia that someone
somewhere needs me to pose.
it's almost a cheerie cry, i'm a big boy i can walk
into a deathly hollowed-out road of
confiscated pride... the route i took,
engaged me with seven horses and one that almost
mistook my fingers for sugar cubes
and knocked my brains out after discovering
the plight of what it was nibbling on...
  but that's so ****** personal,
i might have insurrected the existence
of a satanic cult with me shouting
in the forest one time or other...
never mind that... your eyes are still akin
to oysters... a gulping-down of
whatever content it suggests...
no tongue-waggling, no breathing,
         just that shape akin to feline asiatic squirm
above a permanent slit: entangling with
what's known as sober-faced poker... or beyond
    purring: murmuring a sodden / well-trodden
path: and was anything else expected to suffer less?
   those eyes: esp. bound to a hispanic frozen lot of longing...
oysters jeopardised along with snails
  whenever the inquisition dared to come between us...
ergo dispersed the oily sexed up
***** Juan stereotypes of piston pump-pump...
nevermind, i call them twirling pumper-nickle gymnasts
of all things necessary kneaded into a chasm of org':
                         hispanic tilde eyes...
the eyebrow within the eye encompassing whatever
needs an expression... surprise? mmm, nada.
sunrise and was phone-*** so ever interesting as to
forget writing mistimed odes such as this?
                  thespian hoplites raised their tongues
toward the spear that suggested a marching was
the proper aversion toward a coup
with the director of theatre too violently itemising
Shakespeare toward a boorish scenario of
thrown rotten cabbage onto the stage.
        fewer hoplites suggested ******
  in the trojan horse, and fewer of the said "hashishin"
might have allowed history to bite at Homer's narrative
for posterity, had they not already said: ha ha! dope!
still, that locomotive tilde of the hispanic girl's eye
that ate the eyebrow, and squinted toward a sunrise
in demanding asiatic slit offense:
                           as monogamy for the sun invoking
marriage...
                    spinoza im eisen mädchen?
     hilfe anaconda! hilfe anaconda! hilfe aisha!
pricklengrund von hattin!
              hispanic tilde of the eye that ate the eyebrow
and demised the asiatic natural "squirm"
    and the forgotten sales of eyeglasses for myopia,
or too the once ticklish origin of silk with her
spinning don quixote's platonism to a
dame (akin to that fabled bride of Athos, good grief!)
that's dubbed *riza'doviento'dealma.

platonic years insurrected by civil wars (again)

one girl hit by lightning (again)

x-rays of her broken limbs painted from memory

caught between flintlock and fossil

with a just-sleepy-enough, narcotic feeling

his ghost in the sock drawer

his odd fingerprints on her luggage

the wilt of flowered books

full of wide-eyed selfies

and running scared old love letters
(or were they death threats?)

all roadblocks to her star-shaped chemical world

until her coup d'état falls helplessly into the sea (again)

The flame
In his chest
The same
To the rest
But twisted
As he was
Blessed
But gifted
With inferiority
And was horribly
Conflicted
Of the message
He was meshing
With the decrepit
Feeling
Of his fleeting
Half stepping
To the
Recollections
Of his blessings
That he was tempted
To dissect
From the crowd
Inflicted
Despite the
Shroud
Of clouded
Bouts
Torn from
The panicked ****
Of the phobias
He knew they were scared of
And glared
Right through them
Before he opened up
His coat
And started shooting
Proving
Others wise
In the silent
Reprise
Of 45's
And nines
He smiled
In the exile
Of fear
Escaping
Through
The fading
Lights
Of dying eyes
In the wild
Surmise
That with each
Trigger squeeze
Eased him
Into shame
As he
Aimed
To please
For the release
Of lives
Crawling
For the
Finished
Lines
And in gorgazmic
Slitherings
He delivered
The final blows
With power ups
And scores
Progressing
The killing
As he reloads
With shrilling
Grins
And stints
Of compassion
Fashioning
The rationed
Satisfaction
He received
From the screaming
Mothers and babies
Brothers and maybes
Splattering
On the plastic trees
Of escalators
And skeezes
That laid shuttering
Headless
Upon the exits
Of his
Insurrected mind
And he was just fine
With dying
In kind
And he was just fine
Shining from
The shrine
Of Santa
In a sonata
Of solidarity
To the led
Soldering morals
In a story
Of victory
And of
Personal glory
For the lords
Of defeat
Seething
In the completeness
Of a defeatist
As he stuck
The heaters
In his mouth
And was out
Without
One doubt
As to what
Nothing
Means

Everything disintegrates.
One realization leads to another epiphany.

Where I had once assumed my world lied,
Now my thoughts lie,

but I don't cry.
No longer do I cry.

None left to defy,
And no wings left to fly,

Once again, I've become who I hate,
What I hate.

When I am discontent with my presentation,
  when I am all that was left for me to become,
  am I resurrected,
  or more likely insurrected,
  stronger, wiser, sexier, more of a gorgeous reality.

I am a winner.
I won that last game;
  that last identity beaten,
  my person is lying on the floor,
  but my soul is not defeaten.

/the "incurable" truth of having read a philosophy book, aged 21, like some sort of gateway, having never been exposed to the "genre" prior to... and then realising... unlearning the rigidity of having studied chemistry in hope of pursuing a menial profession... while at the same time savouring a youthful taste for humanism, in Dante and Stendhal... somehow there must be a reconciling vein of thinking... given... sure as **** i'd settle for playing the piano in my spare time...

a rigid post scriptum, because, what else?
poetry as a form:
   for spatially coordinating an
anti-****** of narration, which is
                                  ars (poetica) per se...
esp. these days...
   coincidence of a moth being dormant
in my room upon finishing the kundera bluff?
or just allowing it to gently land on
my hand, inverted exposing a weak wrist?
moths are so much more
friendly, or rather, less shy...
                           than butterflies...
that famous persistence of a moth banging
against a lightbulb in masochism,
burn, after burn,
             blind moth flew and touched
the sun, lunatic moth spoke to butterflies
of the sun...
     hidden in every nook and cranny
during its lunar escapades...
        stupid butterflies only felt the need
to bask in honey...
            and mimic surrounding
colours...
            but moths... travelled through
spring, summer, autumn,
  and on the odd occassion...
becoming akin to the mutant generic fly
rudely woken from hibernation
in winter...
        this one, feeling a common warmth,
flew out of nowhere,
  danced the dance of thieves' knives
with me, touched me once, and subsequently
hid behind a painting on my wall...
apparently i, dormant fire,
    "unconsciously" gloated:
   ah! to hell with all this scientific terminology
subtracting the basic, creative impetus
for the language of man!
   nonetheless!
            such is the nature of originating
with the a priori of chaos...
                and the a posteriori of order...
and whatever metaphorical dualism
takes your fancy...
                   but as a sidenote,
   in pop-culture...
                 scatter-brain says:
       my thoughts are never what they once
were, in terms of coherence, in terms
of entertaining others,
    within the confines of cogitatio qua narratio...
no... the whole off-shoot
of res cogitans, is moments such
as this...
               what pop is made ref. as
ego-tripping?
               hence my attempt at my own
dialectic working from descartes...
   res vanus: empty thing...
                           i am... void-tripping!
ego attaches sum attaches potential
      or attaches a lack of potential (bragging)...
          what is void-tripping?
music, primarily...
                    an uncoiling serpent,
                 a breathing dragon,
                           a scared mammal...    
and then the collective gape of mammalian
counters to debase the crypt of
shed skin, scaly tattoos...
             from lizard, to mammal,
           and unto the insect comes the gaping
Aeon March...
              the moth, the larvae of wasps,
or as the Hindu sages say:
          spare the ant,
                          glorify the worker...
    of this genesis of life,
                       insurrected from within
by pathogens, viruses,
  armies beholding the moth-head as god...
point being...
            ego-tripping is a luxury within
the confines of res cogitans:
         of "thinking"...                  qua ego...
         void-tripping? is a luxury within
the confines of res vanus:
          of "being",                       qua sum;
void-tripping is a pulse...
    a pulsating sensation of an
expanding and contracting space...
      i can only assume that ego-tripping
is a threshold,
    a humming sensation of a past
  and future time in
  the acute sense of a blink
of an eye (calculus of the trig.
tangens f(x) - if that can be visualised,
                  rather than "understood").

sure... people can speak the language
of the people that also know how
to haggle... gamble...
                      and become prey to debt...
the lingua of commerce...
            i could write a ****-show
of a teenager's wet-dream when it comes
to love...
                  but i guess there are worse
regrets than finding the Crusoe
  of literature that's philosophy aged 21...
****... could have been lysergic acid
or something...
                and the english students
can write their english books...
                   because: english students need
to write something in english...

         i'm going to have to resort
                 to writing something in: human;
with the inconvenience of
it being written using english;
       which i suppose is equivalent to
talking about Islam in arabic these days,
must feel pretty ****** talking
about Islam in arabic these days...
                   nothing wrong, eh?
                                               nothing?
pretty much the same as talking
human feels like, talking in english
                                                  these days.
perhaps the idea is true:
   but certain tongues exhaust
       the transcendental construct of idea...
Islam has one fallacy in its current
affair with genesis:
                     the adherence to arabic...
    seen the ***** of Tangier and
                       the Gomorrah od Dubai?!

A union of hearts
melds ambition true to how and when we fell
electric chasms create new sparks of life

I’ve dreamt this moment too fast lived before
naïve and vulnerable I found my strength

the air fills the void of how I’ve longed for you
we meet again at the interchange of finding meaning
lifelessness, a self-doubt, it bought me death
gaze is all it took

part of you deep within where it counts
The imperfection Caresses
the moisture tension

Feeling static friction, the Primal intention
Buried under sleep where mortals coil
when words null

Heightened senses become insurrected
Ignorant Spectrums fall for a god in dazed apathy
un-availed equivalence to
an outer aura acquiescent  
to the union a manifested eye to our empire sky

slow motion beat to pores that drip synchronicity
that is no longer a day dream away
tasting your body heat

love, at best, is something to be made into
an ideal: with the help of memory,
or rather: love should only be given the
theatre of memory -
it can never become this platonic hierarchy
of madness associated:
lovers come first, poets come second,
prophets come third...
i have grown to appreciate love...
i managed to invest an idealism in it...
experienced its empirical default:
i.e. at fault... and left with...
a a cinema of memories...
minute details of perfection that will
never be, or will ever be replicated...
i'm not a woman, after all...
widower swan that i am...
i loved once... and that once is no longer
a future... or a today...
a tomorrow... love has passed me
and it remains in the past...
perhaps that's why i cling to german
idealism and nothing associated
with: well... perhaps the tender licking
of french existentialism:
but not islander... nothing english focused...
nothing isiolationist...
nothing: quick to the mob!
slow on the individual harangue!
i see violins succumb to the congregation
of sparrows...
i see drums echoing and bellowing
from disgruntled indigestion
like tectonic shifts...
and the sly barons of base...
pacing out a subtle rhythm section
that's half-wit-air and half-borrowed
time of the earth's composition in
the symphony of geology...
and all that is, or ever will be beautiful...
will never be the married man...
or will ever be:
the woman who has met being served her
whim to... all that she wasn't required...
was be ugly and write a book...
perhaps a poem would have sufficed...
"ugly"? as in: unappealing
to the majority of the digest (i.e. readers)...
alternatively?
there was that ms. amber and ginger ale...
ginger ale? we've run out...
what's the alternative?
lemonade!
well then, we'll be having our ms. amber
whiskers and lemonade upon
a chance hoisin plum (not prune)
sunset... and of all those sunsets prior
to this being written...
and those genesis sunrises...
i still only feel in love with
the thunderstorms... the plush pulp
of those snow-ridden-bulge-weight of clouds...
the atari-purple signatures...
current retro-wave-80s pop & disco...

the sunrise with a fishing trip with
my grandfather...
the 5am wake up call to sight-see
Cracow...
and never, ever, ever, visit any of
the concentration camps...
i guessed he was wrong...
i subsequently praised the hebrew...
i smoked a cigarette...
and used my hand as an ash-tray...
after i finished the cigarette...
and licked the cusp...
i had enough ash on my tongue...
to later signature the deed
unlike some eucharist *******-yourself
silly in Tel Aviv...
licked the ash...
shot of ***** to signature the new
eucharist...

because i'll be ****** if i'm not already
****** that germany...
is something that only **** germany is allowed
to persist for!
15th century medieval songs!
i'm tired of juggling both elvis and ****
germany... i'm tired of this anglophile gloating...
i'm tired of juggling both
jefferson airplane and... **** germany...
i'm tired of: it!
i'm so tired that i wonder why my handmaidens
of "my people's party" never figured a way
out a handsome past always
banging on about the reperations intended
from germany
or the russian war guilt et al...
look!
the jews received their war reperations...
some jews still receive it to this day!

i'm langing... tired of the 20th century...
the 20th century is a paradox in that...
the good is overshadowed by the bad...
the 21st century is becoming a welcome break...
implying that: some of us will be allowed
to explore tongue and tongue in cheek...
but not really...
it's not like some stupendous Stendhal will
be: brisk and loitering!

i'm tired of the 20th century...
not it a way that will be a tiredness associated
with midnight in paris and a reminiscene
of paris with hemingway...
f . s. fitzgerland: always...
always: the never too great a gatsby...
if you're going to write a novella...
marquis de sade's: ******...

to have not inherited the 20th century...
to have been born in 1986...
but to only have... two focus points
that are to be borrowed from that century?
****** was an Austrian...
Stalin was a Georgian...
"thank ****" that Mao wasn't a Mongol!
it's also called the habsburg-heimlich:
subversion...

currently? turkey-fodder-bulimic-eating-disorder:
shove those ******* piles of dough
where they should come out of!
savvy?
20th century and the most democratic
history lesson in all of time...
so many people to keep a ref. of...
no wonder the mirror escapism is:
being relegated to an instagram profile...
nonetheless: of this i am certain...
this is no formal language usage...
and if, even if this is given an informal
language use-status?
it's not going to be used...
not outside the cerebral domain...
not outside the shy constricts...

not when rap is waging "war" on...
what could otherwise be said with the same
sense of importance but no necessity to exhibit
bombast to attract an audience...
i'm tired of the 20th century because...
well... since 2001...
there might have been a war in iraq...
there might have been a war in the graveyard
of nations: afghanistan...
but there's only been...
pepper bind bidding of a life in London...
as there's an irrelevant south London Croydon...

there has been a history but...
outside of the rubric of learning...
there's this... god-awful journalistic amnesia!
journalism as a "history" is no history
to begin with...
why even Aristotle or Copernicus or...
Li Bai are remotely used as memory-jolts...

i guess some pursuits just come with
a prerequisite of temporal territory:
since they are not appreciated
by a contemporary presence...

poets, philosophers, pickle-farmers...
as i could have been the best plumber
of a generation and i would never require...
a lag of praise...
perhaps i don't need that either: right now...
but there's always a "post-mortem hindsight
conundrum"...

given, chances are...
there will be someone akin to me...
a necromancer...
who has a lovely library of books...
that outstrips the wealth of a local library...
but... all the writers in the collection
are dead...
and every time he reads a book...
he's resurrecting someone from:
"sleep"...

why don't i own books by my contemporaries?
the newspaper review sections
come saturday and sundway are filled!
filled to the brimful! with living people
reading books by living authors!
perhaps i am of the lower caste...
the Aghori...

contigent of the categorical impetus for:
what is required as a measurement...
what is required of "filling the void"...
also the H is a surd in this Raj of an: afternoon tea...

but as one is best equipped...
i'm waiting for the coinage... Charlie III
on the sly copper flip...
and the newly insurrected banknote plasta-masta...
since Lizzy Shingles 2nd-ture will be outs...
and outed...
but no no...
of course all the glamour of:
when the frost settles and you take a walk...
the frost on concrete...
is like paparazzi flashes of eager cameras...
but there's no red carpet...

like craps blinking come the midnight
harvest in the north sea...
lazy god examples... Zeus, Poseidon...
always eager-fucky-fucky-adventurers...
of the shallow **** of: begone tomorrow!

come the 3rd hour of the morning...
i'm still scribbling like a chicken is cought scratching...
if only, i, a variation of a butterfly...
and... concerns for...
concerns for... fashion...
and the agriculture of leisure having
to allow a yacht to plough the seas...
where the horse?! where the earth?!
where the ******* potato...
among the popping bottle of prosecco?!
where, is, d'ah... *******...
sun-tan... oiled up fwench hoh-nion soup-ah?!