forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news

opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw

enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse

distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign

floccinaucinihilipilificating
floccinaucinihilipilificated
floccinaucinihilipilification

interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip

encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?

experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations

My glasses got in the way.
They hit her right on the nose.
That's okay, at this point I wasn't seeing straight anyway.
The clock says it's 2:17. Sure. Whatever you feel like.
I just remember soft. We were both so exhausted at the end of the semester, it was late, everything was gentle.  
We were on her bed. Don't judge me, it wasn't my choice. It already happened, so there's no point in interjecting now.
It wasn't very responsible. It wasn't even that great of a kiss.  But it was sweet. It was pure and we both believed it at that moment.

You are nothing now,
but if I had the chance to wish one thing of you,
it is this:
(may your past rest in parenthesis)
only an aside in the monologue of life
a soliloquy to the fourth wall of dramatic irony
a bracketed prologue to your story  
interjecting an understanding of now and everything from now
in a seemingly never-ending pattern
as present becomes past and enters the parentheses

when your death came and your last words and thoughts slipped behind you
death was the only thing left unsheltered
as your brackets came to a close
but may you rest in every moment and memory you contained in interjection thus far,
(may you rest in parenthesis)

Measure horizon interjecting South Asia
Hammurabi formed Akkadian Nation
Babylonian beast winged lion
upon your cajoled eyes
Mesopotamian feast
a civilization dreaming
under oil fields now known as Iraq
petroleum empowered
How history repeats
in crude circumstances
Assyrian War rages on

Have all temples been replaced by
mosques or filling stations
for Halliburton to gas up?
tanks, projectile convoys
not a winged god amongst them
unless you count Mobil

Babylonia azimuth
combustible tankers horizon
sunrise or sunset
both burn black

papa internet goes wacko with his cybernetic compulsory
esoteric ****, says words like: the person who's to go against
the holy trinity (minus the surd no one really bothers) is no longer
a Jungian fantasy, the trigger and
the detonator of world war une and part deux,
but the paraclete isn't a person of much
relief either - cold war une and part deux -
right now, china's expressionless billion -
you squint, they look sober,
you drink, they look squinty eyed,
can't winde up that cold heart readied for
a billion polymath antonyms of your self
in automaton mobility -
compared with the fragile western championing
of individuality, China looks like a billion
despots morphed into one, you can't win.
back to Catholic bureucracy:
that's two names at your baptism -
matthew, conrad - and a third
at your confirmation (which i never
had, scouts' honour, cross my fingers
mea culpa my heart and count to 100)
would have been: Shiva -
the auspicious son returns -
well, **** me, canned peaches
and some apples and the NATO
phonetic: will you be my bride?
that's a thumbs up on the Rockefeller Sq.;
Isis: blatant espionage: mother of Horus
sister of Osiris - and i'm the Duracell bunny,
******* a clone sheep with a ***** dummy eject;
******, ***** strap-on, thingy magic eek (
the fidgety bit of putting together an Ikea table
for high tea).
you never went to a faith high-school
you never got to grips with the uniform,
or the bureaucracy, some of it invented
to simply rebel against it -
not the uniform bit, i thought that
was clean, in terms of non-discrimination
and how trans gets gendered as both, or neither
being allocated the chance to foster
would-be abortions.
hey! if Elton John can have a telly-tubby, so can i!
but this isn't your song...
and you just made an effort to scrap the idea
of singing in a shower -
poetry is never a sing-along, more or less
a thought-along - thought... a word masturbated a lot...
and i meant a lot - esp. when you're day-dreaming
and nothing you think precipitates into being
what you were thinking about -
so anti Cartesian, fair enough, thinking can precipitate
into a centimetre definition, a centimetre allowance,
self-consciousness bit - but beyond this fact
it's back to square one, daydreaming,
the disagreeing fact of thinking but not being,
or not thinking and being: the latter reserved for
entertainers and sports -
this is the secondary stage of the Cartesian realisation
that Descartes didn't mention... when thinking
does not precipitate into being - secondary meaning
a telepathic joke - or the men that stare at sheep
in the U.S. army and think they can run through walls...
of course the classical model involves the easiest
explanation, ergo as in +, -, x, ÷, take whatever metaphors
from this tetrasignum you want on a vacation into
psychiatry, i'm not one schizoid moment bothered
about firebombing Dresden either (slaughterhouse 5),
it's true enough to say that thought proves existence,
but thinking doesn't necessarily prove being -
whatever that means - it's the daydreaming bit
of the equation - Descartes is really a primer for
the study of philosophy, even Kant comes back to
this vocabulary arithmetic - as does Heidegger with
his bemusement: when people say "i, i",
cognitive identity and otherwise expressed.
the roads are divergent, or let us say the one's
origin from nothing leads to no big bang,
let us just say: a personal rebellion, not so much
that one precipitates into another,
let's just say that the ergo is worth replacing,
given our daydreams... and the fortune of never
realising our fancies... or as some might claim:
our misfortune of not realising our fancies, but
having a personal life without a media microscope
itemising our every movement... poly-diadem
dictator of western media:
                                                cogito para sum.
or, as stated by the benzene trinity affixes -
inclusive ortho- and meta-, obviously shortened
for liquid extraction - or the quip -
as in para: guard against, | |... interjecting / intersecting, i.e.
the suffix -llel (closure? not really, it could be
a nuanced noun, category affix, less familial concerns -
ah yes, an affix -llel, a suffix is a complete word:
pre- agaro -suf phobia, till the no. xi).
so a step beyond the cul de sac of Descartes -
the daydreaming part, when indeed thought materialises
into artificial intelligence simulators concerned
with the question of self-consciousness, paradoxical twins,
where thought materialises into its existential recipient standard
of never fulfilled, always unfulfilled, always demanding...
the bemoaned culture gap between youtube videos going
viral and virology on a canvas of infected flesh -
so forget the Cartesian cascade, that thinking will precipitate
into being of some sort, given current care for celebrity
culture we can't be assorting this equation with a rational
sequence, or the "as it should be", that train is long gone...
we need to defend ourselves against the precipitation of
thought into non-being - to regain a pleasure from mere thought...
not every thought will leave us richer off or as start-up
entrepreneurs - hence the need for non-materialisation,
our perfected mechanisation - the daydream - oh don't worry,
i'm not writing this from an ivory tower...
i have a constant fear too... but this ergo of 1 + 1 + 1 = 3
will not do... hence the revision, as all philosophical
standards are cared for akin to Renaissance canvases -
                                                               ­             cogito para sum:
that my thinking parallels my being - as i indulge in the former
and economise in the latter.

The spout
Of the battle
Shouting
In inconsiderate
Babble about bling
While i'm saddling
My steeds
Manning the machines
And breathing easy
Before i speak
Clearly to your dreams
Interjecting the theme
Of the losing team
Cheering in victory
Snickering in mockery
I remarkably sing
In drowned out tones
And zings
And i'm gonna be
Everything you been
In a week
And its weak
That i win
And you grin
With your arms up
Hooray!!
But you lost today
Too dumb to know it
But showin it
To everybody
Rhyming
Isn't about money
Its about diction
Metered rhymes
And harmony
Arming the
Alarmingly
Disarming memes
Of scattagoried kings
Euphorically
Seized
In the lean
Of delivery
Creativity key
The breezy
Sleezinous
Sheened
In the has beens
Gassed up
Gin drunks
Grunting whats
In response to love
Callin bluffs
On the tuffs
Of your huffs
And shrugs
Whatever punk
I got a foot on you
And your ****
On my side
Talking over you
Until you shut
Out the light
With your mouth
Over your eyes
And your house
Of flies sized up
In tough love
And shoved off the shores
To the unexplored oceans
In the notions
Of severed portions
Aborted with a snorkel
In the cortex
Of Oxygenated
Brains showing you
A thing or two
So ******* vein
Watching you strain
To speak
To breathe
To think
When your ready
Il be brief
A pat on the back
And declaration of king
Before you bend over to be
Blessed by the best
In this contest
Im tested
Only of my patience
In the vagrancy
Of your empty words
Freshly matured
In manure
Skewered
In the lured
Obscurity
Muraling
The masterpieces
Stealing thesis-es
With the soul content
Of cheeseless pizzas
Sauceless in the lossless
Belligerence
And im tempted
To kiss
My fists
And commence
To smash out the comments
To astonished onlookers
Booking for Brooklyn
When im shooting
Blood across the pavement
With fury of a patient
To fairfax and back
To break the bones
Of your home
Set your soul apart
From the heart
That pumps lumps
Of *******
From the start
Of your every sentence
Ill take two seconds
To count on your blemishes
To settle this
In nubbish
*******
Stumbling
From a kid
Im only kidding
In my giving a single ****
Get with it
The mic is yours
And ill freely admit
To being bored
Here you go

....

the pawn

interjecting appropriate jargon

at appropriate moments

seemingly interesting but far from fascinating

just enough to make you not turn away

at first

jargon, silence, repetition

repetition, silence

ammunition is empty

****

hold hope the initial impression remains

silence, repetition, silence, hope

it doesn’t

it fades

the jargon hardens the plastic

the plastic pawn repeats itself

it pleads and screams to the empty world

for interest, for fascination

just enough to not make you not turn away

you do

you turn to leave and glimpse a sea

of hardening plastic pawns

waiting in queue

to listen

run

Humanity is a monster,
in the closet,
under the bed,
in your head,
quietly lurking.

Stalking and creeping,
quietly weeping,
and selfishly eating,
away at Itself.

Meddling with everything,
everything and everything,
interjecting in so many things.

The sour taste,
in the creatures mouth,
has It spitting,
while It's grinning,
and slowly cutting Itself.

It's set to self-destruct,
erupt,
explode,
and bleed on everything.
And then,
wounded,
injured,
and bleeding,
it will crawl back into It's hole,
where it will remain,
until called upon again by Itself.

Interjecting lines beneath
What’s really going on
Never thought I’d find my self again
But here I am
Amidst the wind-strewn remnants
All that’s left of the pieces of what I used to be
Rebuilt by circumstance into something more whole
Holy-wrought
Brought back to reality
Every time I leave her bed
This wind has cleansed my soul
The cosmos beneath her skin
Greater understanding comes
From this chance meeting of un-sin
Purified and tempered continuously
In this forge that exists in
The ǣther between us

The wind is screaming around the trees.
Interjecting between my thoughts and psychotic capacity.
What is perception to reality?
Is it laying in the gutter looking up at the stars?
Is it laying in a bed stained with someone else's scars?
Are you wishing, hoping for a dream?
Are you as close as you'll ever be tearing at the seams?
Was it a dream hearing her say your name?
Or is this low carb diet your price to be sane?
You're drowning out a girl who you call your psychotic capacity.
You're wondering why she's no longer in love with me.
What if she's the one with the lie, perception is reality.

i only have a limited budget of expenses,
most i prescribe on the stimulant tobacco,
the rest goes into alcohol that i
use to make sleeping pills effective
(they're not effective otherwise,
adding some generic painkiller to increase
the potency of the two, that makes three);
always the interesting articles in the Saturday
newspapers - a privatisation of a branch
of the N.H.S., concerning mental health:
after all, there's so much thinking you can do,
so many measurements of nano-metre disparities
you can take before you get to see
a gorilla spanking its Johnny -
look too much into an ape's *** and you'll
start thinking science was only there
to enforce subtle dogmatism into you -
nothing deviating mandatory scruples to argue drunk,
precisely non-deviating mandates to
then feel scruples for drinking, the hungover's:
i don't remember... write something before
the K.O., i'm sure writing something at the end
of the night will give you something resembling
hallucinogenic flashbacks, i get them,
i end the day by writing looking at sound
encoding and get an arnold schwarzenegger
action movie upon waking: do i remember what
i last thought, what i last ate, or... why did i put
that alarm clock in the fridge? i never said i was
abducted by aliens, i can tell you i saw a u.f.o.,
and a lightning strike without subsequent thunder,
i guess i overcame the sons of thunders
(loud mouth mobs that desecrated the Library of
Alexandria with their crucifix), to only find that
father thunder was blind... thunderous voice
on the mount of olives but hardly any illumination,
seen more illumination fro Buddha curbing thinking
and simply being, the reverse grammatical timing
of the same statement - by not thinking, simply being.
so as you know sleep regenerates the connectivity
of brain cells, not dreaming does even more miracles,
it doesn't exhaust the imagination, in honesty
the imagination gets lost, along with telepathy and
telekinetic susceptibility that ~needs proof -
or as one might say: write something so incomprehensible
that even if someone attempted plagiarism
they'd sound like some market stall seller of fish
or bananas... i forgot when the ditto meant as above
or as inherited, if not simply: that's ambiguity, that is.
but sometimes i get a sober night, and pause,
watch a few x-files (latter part of season 4, what a bomb!)
and pretend until 2 in the afternoon that i'm
not tired, then i experiment in shallow-grave somnia -
and when i dream, interjecting Saturday football results
and music by my uncles who do not share my
generation's woes, or those in the realm of Hades,
oddly enough, never utopia, once all the physical
ailments are cured, the mental ones comes,
primarily thanks to the atheist argument about
how we're all destroyed at the end of things, and
nothing about us is indestructible... well... fancy
remembering St. Augustine in the 21st century,
with all its sensibility, all its hoaxes, all its pride,
all of its immunity to the future... well... i'd
believe Fukuyama if his first name wasn't Francis,
but a Gaku or a Hironiri would still be worried
about perfecting his green tea brew or eating enough
nocturnally to become a sumo wrestler... not some
******* Francis birdie-talker of Assisi.
so yeah, i have my nights when the sleeping pills
and the alcohol isn't drank... i end up going beyond
the threshold of the waking hours, stretch the rubber
band and write a cascade...
we're living in terms where we have to sorta stop
idealising the mythical travels of Don Née χ Xi **,
and stick to our little scrap of Konigsberg land -
or as i thought it out, give my first volume
would be entitled (lovely vanity narrative, what the hell,
what do you think cognitive behavioural therapy
is that it isn't a walk in a zoo? they flip out cards
with words: happy, sad, nauseated, irritated...
and they don't even bother to teach you crosswords
to rebuild your cognitive narrative, for you still
have it as a manuscript, and not the script actors might
read... don't worry, they won't... manuscript short
of mono, enveloped in alone... and a thought for
good company) - πoη (pi omicron eta -
the polish word for poet is: poeta -
so you do some plastic surgery as to how and why we
age gracefully or disgracefully, like we appropriate spelling
of words, when already given spelling to sounds,
why π has an iota added to it, why it ***** off and
omicron comes along, while the micron ***** off,
and then comes fully **** η: πoη / poeta (never mind the silent
H... it gets a rebound with the other twin whenever you
hark or hiccup).

i'm taking you with me when i go
and most people would think that that's a threat
that i am trying to drive you crazy
both been there, both done that
but they're just ******* idiots
just ******* idiots interjecting themselves for the thousandth time
only just to make their bubble-wrapped lives
look all the more impenetrable
i am taking you with me when i go
because i can finally stop thinking long enough
for the good to outweigh the burden of caring my heart around with me
because, you
you, alone, will always be the good
and your love will always make me feel at home
it is just so hard to hurry along with me
but i am taking you with me when i go
and i refuse to think myself out of something to wonderful

Everyone so quick to judge
Interjecting their thoughts to make themselves known
Negativity reincarnated
Seeds of discord steadily sewn

Why not keep your opinion in
You want your 15 minutes of fame?
Why not support your brothers and sisters
Instead of attacking them with shame

If you've got nothing nice to say
Keep it all inside
Just let them live in blissful ignorance
Quit trying to present your side.

/almost everyone fears looking into the eyes of death, yet people marvel at the universe; yet for the majority, looking into the eyes of madness, looking into the third party, twice removed from the race of angels and demons, i.e. the geniuses, looking into the whirlwind of adventure in the most mundane circumstances of the everyday... manual labours are derived from standing on the cliff edge, boredom and a wasted breath; but people can congregate for fear of cancer, while i see a symbiosis in a tree, riddled by mistletoe: which is a botanical form of cancer./

you really can't speed-read a philosophy book,
i'm still studying the **** genre,
           and further studying it,
               talking to old people,
     notably old men on park benches,
    excusing my drinking my smoking
interjecting with permissions...
            most of the time they are not
disagreeing to my habits in public.
              - but you simply can't skim read
a philosophy book,
            i too thought the heidegger labyrinth
would become easier past ponderings VI,
   but almost three months in,
          and i only managed to stomach
  30 pages of ponderings VII...
             always, the gaping hole,
  the wound, the need to ponder something,
most probably unrelated,
   as i will testify:
   what saint cyril did unto the greeks
e.g. δ that morphed into д...
                         i deem necessary to do
unto the latin script...
                        just, a simple revision,
nothing too harsh,
         but when people read e. e. cummings
and talk about orthography?
        ah ah... nope... not gonna happen...
(in the background, ghost b.c.'s monstrance clock) -
either a pendulum, or a guillotine,
     or perhaps a guillotine pendulum -
     reign of terror and no remaining
depictions of the bastille -
                 haunted by the cheering
                         shouting of the aristocratic
anarchist, imprisoned in it,
                 that was, the: marquis de sade;
less about sadism, and more about the acute
variation, i.e. sadé...     sad-eh...
        as i already said: i will tell you more
about the so-called "father": tetragrammaton,
instigator of laughter, and a vowel-catcher,
notably a sigh, or rather not (gh) -
                              sī(gh)...
so we are, literate, aren't we?
                         so eager to blah blah,
                     never really caring for
      the freedom of thought...
                                   only among the crows,
the cats and the dogs among so many others,
a freedom of breath, with only one said thing,
in incremental variations,
               but nonetheless, the same thing
being said: a presence, a hier-sein -
                                 if you really want
to talk orthography, you need to drop
in-place "diacritical" marks, existing in english
with only two instances as proof:
    j has to become ȷ, and as respect:
  no halo, no levitating head upon ιota -
  now that we have a blank canvas,
             we can... **** around with punctuation
marks intra-verbum, rather than worry
about inter-verbum punctuation,
  summarißed by commas, full-stops,
   colons semi-colons, hyphens, etc.
         the english language was always going
to be the host for such discussions...
                                       a, blank, canvas;
the language just needed someone to observe
it... for example:
how would you utter the name
       circe?
                   cats? cysts and roughage?
using the basic "orthography" borrowed
from e. e. cummings...
                CrC'eh...
                         or?
        seer-se...
                            C         S
                                  Z
cluttered in that high german ß (es und zed) -
my my...
                    in defence of free speech
focusing on those who used to make a mark,
rather than write a signature,
    focusing on them... with their st. andrew's
  (X),
                      which, apparently is a philosophical
movement in asia - chí  -       chee         zzzzzz....
   snapshot of the future...
                 in further muddles:
                      talking about a cliff-edge by those
who do not know, that they're standing on one...
not for the meddling diacritical
                 distinction of circe...
                    cīrcé -
                             i.e. within what i see:
  a macron is necessary to prolong the sound -
            along with the need to morph
a cat into a cyst...
                                     and then
the trebuchet moment with the acute e...
               a flick... in depth: the hiding vowel
catcher second H of the tetragrammaton...
     for there are two languages within
but one: what the eyes see,
                             and write,
          and what the tongue doesn't see,
  but speaks.
                       for have you ever closed
your eyes, jaw shut, and wriggled your tongue
about?
               philosophy has metaphysics,
poetry has metaphor...
          but that's hardly the reason to
confuse the homosexual interpretation
                          of the Eden Project
by equating the abstract lizard that's
a snake with a phallus...
                               look up...
                                   the tongue better represents
the fluidity of a serpent than that
   piston of a limb...
                      perhaps there never
was a devil to begin with...
                     rather: a woman's tongue;
because women are under-represented
in literature?
           man deems it worthwhile
to stand naked... a woman will not write
an honest, revealing work,
          for fear of a backlash from the sorority...
because if all is revealed, what power
remains in the tease?
           ha ha!

excruciating deficits in enjoying a Dickensian plot:
former title...

returning from a former Soviet satellite state:
i'm a little bit timid, about a "freedom" of speech,
armed with the experience
of dating a Russian girl...
gotye?
  i really don't mind...
Polish radio 1... or is it 2?
great shows: some wild affair
in Warsaw, a blues get together:
reminding people of
the band breakout...

.isn't the statement, akin to: i think... categorized as, delusional, under the fathom of empiricism? thought isn't exactly a sense, yet... hollowed-out man ought to know: that any doubt regarding man's existence-crux of "soul" is a denial of the existence-crux of thought...

or something of the like:
grand, bacchic...
a gargantuan "yawn"
of a whale,
    and in this:
     a sea that sends
its perpetuated invitation...
like an ostrich:
                 with a reply...

i believe that
cinema made most sense,
from the passing of
b & w...
via technicolor...

over-saturation,
that was ideal...
i forget the modern
c.g.i.,
and the 1970s
true grit style of cinema...

the lollipop-styled
technicolor movies...

frank o'hara's:
to the film industry in crisis...
well... current year?
2019:
there really isn't
a crisis as a crisis
that is disguised
as synonymous with
momentum...
and "crisis" is momentum...

mind you...
didn't knausgård
call the Swedes:
cultural cyclopses?
well... after watching
black lake:
a t.v. drama...
well...
it's not exactly
a Dickensian tale,
is it?
there's an anti-******
and all...
but...
this show swayed
an English audience:
to appreciate it?

unless creaking doors
and angles of horror:
the non-existent
third party
is an idea for horror
in, Sveeden...
well... what do i know?

it is bothersome:
thought...
notably in the scenario
of it being
counter-empirical...
yet so attached
toward an
ontological "expectation":

yet thought is a non-sense...
isn't it?
i hoped to entertain
"thinking" for the sole
purpose of defining thought...

it is a non-sense...
and yet...
people describe thinking
as some either:
audible or...
   akin to a hallucination:
when that gaping yawn
of the void opens...
and images pour in:
when thinking
retracts, and thought takes
toward attaching itself
to an anchor...

cogito ergo sum
can't exactly be an ontological
statement...
proofs...
    hmm...

                who's to disprove me?
i found that fascinating
how an English argument
lies along the veins of:
Descartes didn't prove
he existed / exists...
ah...
            the space-temporal...
the immediacy of transcendence...
the time-spatial...

thought cannot be a sense,
in that...
   the circus of ideas
that allocate a thinking-crux
toward a convened
attest...
            
          the senses cannot entertain
half of what thought
entertains...
thought: isn't exactly
empiricism, grounded, is it?

i think therefore i am:
an ontological statement...
          god, and thought:
and all the other phenomenons
of:
what circumstances
a naked Adam...
as much awe-riddled
in Eden,
as in the catacombs of the Vatican...

a presence of:
the something prior...

hardly a cliche...
again:
how much of thinking:
does not precipitate into being?

i think
becomes an antithesis of
i see, i hear...
and i am: what i eat...
much of what i think
is worth being recycled
material...

capitulation...
a capitulation of:
   a fiddling with a recurrence...

banging my head
against a brick wall and
still the maxim will not crumble
to dust...

    i think: is a non-sense statement...
and how did it,
or ever will translate
into the ontological focus
that begins with: i am...
i will never know...

freedom of speech:
i much prefer the sentiment:
airing my thought...
i'd much prefer
to be able to air my thoughts
than be given the liberty
to speak...

i can't do anything with
a "freedom" to speak...
i'm the sort
that found Kierkegaard
the most appealing
philosopher,
i like cooking:
i would be great at
cooking in the army...
who fight who and who's
who?

no... i don't like
the freedom of speech...
not because i want to gag
someone...
it's because:
people ought to be able
to be given a second
chance to think,
akin to the interlude
of thought: via the instance
of being able to blink...

yes, i am revolving around
the description of:
being timid...

           yes,
i am alienated in coming from
beneath the Iron Curtain:
a grandfather i remembered,
spending summer holidays
with,
cycling... not being riddled
by dementia..

such idle concerns fiddle
with the current speakers...
such... gimmicks...

   life, once achieved,
having no consolidation
worth is...
                      i wake up and
spend about an hour:
wanting to die...

perhaps i'm faking
truance in being
intimidated by a perusing
******: third party...
the "other"?
yes... yes: i am...

but this is bothersome in
that it is not a verification
of bravery...

          i can still remember
who taught me to tie
my first set of shoelaces...
my great-grandmother...
who figured out:
imagine ribbons...
and i tied my shoelaces
like ribbons...

          hardly a life worth
the importance of being
elaborated into writing words...
akin to:
will Jonah ever be
deemed a patriarch...
the magnetic prospect
of congregation?

i feel it claustrophobic
to constantly agree...

john glubb: and the fate
of empires...
250 years...
except that the Soviet empire...
lasted from 1922
through to 1991...

i am the black dog of
Warsaw:
i am free, but not in the sense
that Locke would deem
me free...

what "i am" has to
predicate what is:
a constraint of "i think"...

i'm sorry, was i wrongly
interjecting from Scandinavian
paradiso?

freedom of speech:
grand idea...

              if i don't push this
written debauch into
the sphere of the prying eyes
of the other:
i will preserve my self,
by entombing myself
in... what could hardly
be deemed as worthy
of representing a mirror...

i have Beckett's watt
under my belt,
i don't know what
an liberal arts college
education looks likes...

and...
            daddy issues...
****'s sake...
i put on two pairs of
socks on my grandfather's
feet
prior to him being whizzed
off to hospital
with a nosebleed...

whatever medium i'm
writing it...
i can't relate with anyone...
daddy issues...
surrogate fathers
and mothers...

         an uncle with a throat
ulcer and a fear of
pancreatic cancer...

here's to me being pristine
in being the sponge
for ideological
grounding of a worthy
infantry scoop of brains...

  yes... this is quiet a bollocking...
Warsaw central still feels
like Mongolia to me,
and, there i was...
native...
speaking the tongue...
Warsaw central
was as appealing to me
as Mongolia...
i'll walk into east London...              
pass a mosque...
drink a beer
and, upon being asked:

Disneyland?!

Any indifference, is inconceivable.
How rude this **** is, is unbelievable.
Always interjecting, and making pointless statements.

I find myself, surrounded by idiots,
all of the time.
You know the kind.
The ones who seriously believe they know everything.
They think that the can only rise, and never fall.
Try and say something helpful, but only they can make that call.
A know-it-all, who's incredibly dull.

There's no use in fighting back,
for with the amount of knowledge they lack,
half of what they say won't make sense.
Hard to believe someone could be so dense.

Useless deceiver.
overtaking anything in sight, anything of worth.
what I venerate, you annihilate in complete solace.
how can one who says they have heart, be so acrimonious?
coercing every individual to be indebted to you.
conceited, egotistical, narciccist.
arrogantly interjecting inconsequential information.
your words are insignificant. your thoughts puerile.
ascertain your acumen, its not all acuity.
to the day you die, you will never tantamount to me,
for I know I am a good person.
you always need to prove yourself.