Mein Kampf

‘Der Führer’
Heaves mothers’ children into the fires of hell, like sacks of flour
Throughout travels between devastating concentration camp
Day after day,

Hour upon hour,
Minute by minute.
All of this, to rid the population of ‘imperfect beings’….One of which
He is included.
Breaking backs, bones, and spirits
With each familial separation, stinging like a whip.
Incinerating carcass after carcass, to harvest golden teeth
And demolish the bodies of God’s children.

I don’t understand….
What is this for?
For not meeting the disgusting standards
Of a **** wolf.
I will never understand.
Das ist mein kampf.
(3-16-12)

i hope to vacate a corner of some room,
spider-architect
           who's intrinsic basis is to craft
a spiderweb...
     yawn poetry...
   usualy the kind that's not worth a whole
lot of grit, and is ah, ah... all sighs...
well, hence the intended vulgarity...
  but i know that even that doesn't work
all the time, unless i'd be used to
listening to a waterfall playing the drums...
   and at best: i can only theorise language,
or that's what i think is my adequate role...
the rest of my life is fiction anyway,
a fiction where i don't actually write
a book, but live it... and only invoke
"poetry" to be used as a reference to how:
    nothing happens in philosophy books happens...
the only "adventure", the only "plot"
      is solely thinking...
      and isn't that something to be depressed about?
aparently that's not the case...
    apparently there's a layer of humanity
that prefers a thinking adeventure, to a, say:
   a cruise-ship holiday in the Mediterranean -
nothing happens...
    the only action is the stressor: thought:
or as i like to call it: the ought,
   and the subsequent cascade of choices...
         i can't believe there's a complexity in
thinking, other than making choices...
           making choices and then nostalgia,
euphoria, blessings, regrets...
        it can't be as complicated as it sounds
to the numerous adherents
       of practising the so called art-science that
philosophy deems itself to be...
   i don't know what sort of person you have
to be to read Heidegger over Dumas...
   when i was younger i only tickled myself
with fiction...
                when life became unnecessarily complicated
i decided to read a philosophy book...
     i don't know why, but that's how it happened
and my final bid worth descriptive
        analogies: philosophy books teach
you nothing but lethargy...
     i don't know whether you just dumb-down
and fall into posing a pretesence...
but at the same time... it would be nice to read
a feminine-ego in philosophy that has no origin
based in a "movement" / revolution
currently known as feminism...
   it would be nice to see a woman writing,
hermit like, branching off into a solo expedition...
   it's not that i'm ignorant,
the only female examples in my library are
pop... virginia woolf / ophelia..
   anna kavan and sylvia plath...
      evidently writing breaks women...
      when man came ******* and writing
  with a book... she had a *****...
    well... that too, and castrating men
for the purpose of creating the most perfect
choir-boys of the Vatican...
            i'd like to read what a woman actually thinks
(on the basis of the title, i.e. the two incidents in
the night involving women)...
  but i know i will never come across a naked
woman in writing...
      completely devoid of technique
  aspiring to poetry fakes, fiction fakes,
   always running away: having "fun"...
    i mean: something written by a woman that
could be equivalent of handling beef, or pork,
at a butcher's...
                 but that's not exactly based upon
a care to moan...
        i write on the basis of having a "leisure"
activity... well... i write on the basis of
   having the capacity to forget myself...
    i treat writing as a mode of anti-memory,
writing is anti memory...
              and it can become a sort of forbidden fruit,
given economics and how more bricks are sold
than books and how books can sometimes become
akin to bricks...
        i don't write because i want to,
    i write because: i also have to take a ****
  sometime in the night...
    so out with poetry's ah ah and sighs...
         it's not happening...
       say you watch either romeo + juliet
or tristan + isolde...
    now i use a language that has these myths...
the only polish myths i know are those
concerning the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth,
the Wawel dragon, the mongols...
  world war ii...
                     i have nothing, not even a puddle's
worth of depth, i use language as i do:
only because i have no soul:
  and that doesn't mean i sold it for private islands
in the Caribbean -
   or fame...
         i literally having one attachment point to
consider:
     to play on theoretics of language akin to linguistics,
but less so, i.e. with "identity",
    best summarised by verb language...
i just use a language...
        i don't necessarily care to have an identity in it...
  perhaps if i was akin to an octopus
with the so many wriggling limbs...
                    ah yes,
life underwater... so much more spectacular than
in the air...
                    and space exploration,
   akin to us with our space projects...
  and in the depths of the seas, life akin beyond
the vacuum of space: humpback anglerfish...
       or what ridley scott depicted...
        funny, that inquiry, that curiosity killed the cat
scenario...
          but being so warm-blooded wasn't enough
for us... i can't help it if i say that i'm not that lazy
in my observation...
    so back into a theoretics of language...
   using the necessary tools a (indefinite article)
     and the (definite article)
   or using the prefix rule a-      and the
         i.e. without a point.... atheism...
                 so just add the suffix -ism to that...
   otherwise known as vogue at certain times in history,
most notably started by either biiologists or
physicists... guess who brought the fireworks? chemists
with Faust and the devil at the fore!
  added fact: no one in the medical profession
    (they're the actually useful "biologists") don't
disregard that it becomes pointless
   to leverage the universe on the basis of
a single theory, a single mind, that's based on
both abstract ideas, and ******* genitals...
well d'uh... well done! clap clap clap clap clap...
       whether that's as a priori / instrinsic / genetic
       / predestination orientation
     as a spider and a spider-web...
                  i like to see that my ego is like
a spider's **** (or whatever you call it... sure,
gland... like a thyroid gland / sweetbreads)
                       that just produces these
god / no god arguments... and the reason is perhaps
obscure... it could be just that,
that i have this artificial intelligence implant in my head
that thinks if not believes in god (i'm not that keen
on the rituals, not a big fan of flagellation)...
      and so saying that: even a vacuum is something...
so you could say: i won't engage in religious Bar Mitzvahs,
but i'll argue for the non-existence of...
                  then back into the theory of language...
   a-          +         -th   (indirect article / direct article rules)...
articles in the pronoun category...
   what could possibly be the perfect e.g.?
   mein kampf...
            we have two examples already,
the obvious one, and the Norwegian one...
        what i want to consider
   is the alternative: ich kampf...
       as odd as it might sound: i consider
  i struggle to be an indefinite expression,
       and my struggle to be a definite expression...
   i.e. it's mine, i am the possessor of the struggle...
   ich kampf can very literally be an airy-fairy approach,
a pinata, hanging off a fishing-rod while sitting
on a scythe / crescent moon...
or: against the taboo of scientists feeling,
admiring art, reading novels...
    i can not not see the taboo against scientists not being
fully "human"...
       completely detached from art, from humanism,
never mind philosophy being the mediator
not really helping, that strand of it attacking
poetry...
                   but given a and the are the primodial
tools: say, hammer and scissors...
   and applying them to migrate from their
original grammatical boundary,
   it is necessary that they first experience pronouns...
    which is counter to what you might have
considered the pronoun i to be stressing...
given we're of the mortal caste,
   neither thinking nor being, or however argued
by Heidegger as being there / here allows...
given the numbers of us: it's still a case of indefinite
notation... or a Simon says / Solomon notes type of game...
    it's all vast, and empty,
    man's quest to be akin to a god's footprint
or a fingerprint...
                 with his copper statues of world war ii
heroes, or mentions of Achilles...
               but that's how it works,
there are theoretical physicists and there are men who
build actual atomb bombs, and that thing beneath
Switzerland...
                      it was in my belief to suggest that
black holes are 2 dimensional objects in 3 dimensional
space... a bit like those ferns in the Lara Croft video games,
the first types... from the 1990s...
    i believe that black holes are actually two-dimensional
objects, enclosed in a hyper-dynamic
           surrounded by three-dimensional space...
i haven't seen one up-close, sure... but i've never seen
jupiter either...
   so you guess is as good as mine...
i mean: how to transcend the harrowing experience
of writing poetry and fiction and write theory...
   to become a linguist without
              having to be burdened with a linguistic
alphabet...
   i.e. [flaj-uh-ley-shuh n] / (flāj'ə-lā'shən) /
flagellation doesn't really do it for me...
   can't feel a hard-on with that crap...
                        flaj? jammy ******* dodger...
   dodge ball more like...
                  i'm bilingual, i get the picture,
   and given the close proximity and the evident difference
i can have my little chemistry set, and a shed...
   evidently if i was bilingual from Hong Kong
i'd be a a yarn ball enclosing a silver tea-spoon,
that i'd later shove up my *** to question whether that's
a privilege...
    a bit like that mad lady with 20 cats...
  or thereabouts...
           so it has to be a case of ich kampf categorising
the pronoun as indefinite...
    there's me tomorrow, the struggle might not be...
my, as a definite article:
    say: keeping grudges... count de monte cristo's
zeal...
         in the same vein:
    they / them are usually noted into ditto /
ambiguity... hence they are indefinite pronouns
(working from the base of article)...
                    such as we / us being likewise noted
but based on an enclosure, endorsment,
a definiteness...
   thus said: how can a grapheme be the smallest
unit, when it encloses two vowels?
   aren't vowels and consonants the smallest units
of encoded sound?
         well... evidently not...
so why read books where nothing, absolutely nothing
happens...
   well... the last time i checked books were
not invented to compete with movies,
there's a clear dichotomy in that "∞",
   what at best i can ditto to invoke: relationship...
O 0, ∞ 8... look who's the fatty...
                      hard to see why the only
books worth appreciating are the books translated
into a movie, kinda makes the original books
a tad bit pointless, what, with the abandoned
mental effort of actually having read them
   (past tense of reading can't be grounded
within the colour red...
   keeping the grapheme as become more and
more bewildering)...
   reed, read, read.... no Persian is coming near this
soil, no Iranian is going to blow himself up,
by the looks of it... the Shiite Muslims
are the only sensible ones these days:
     you need to allow for a schism...
i also note that, Christianity has become
   omni-schismatic, and, well... that's just
ridiculous...    
                                  it's too much pick-and-choose,
buy and sell for 99 pence...
                    it's hardly as romantic as
r.e.m.'s losing my religion,
i pledge nothing to the cross, nor
   the shadow of the cross,
                  i have no allegience
to it, or the crescent moon,
in scientific terms: i'm a free radical.
     but what i really wanted to "talk" about were
my two incidents in the night concerning women,
i must have probed the right buttons on this thing called
universe to get this sort of reply...
the 2nd example (stated first) was just weird...
walking down the street with a beer and cigarette in hand...
a Mazda MX-5 pulls onto the pavement...
i walk past it...
    30 metres down the road
this blonde runs up to be with a rollie cigarette
   and asks for a lighter...
i notice all the power-cursors of a ring on
her right hand... the car she owns...
            i'm really the pauper and she's really
the queen bee...
            the weird aspect is that she ran 30 metres from
her car to ask me for a cigarette lighter...
    the first incident is even more demanding
a written absolution...
    in a pharmacy...
                  asking for my sleeping pills...
ordered in the afternoon... most likely arrive in
  3 rather than 2 days... 2 days if ordered in the morning...
   and there she is, the brunette deer,
  i swear to you, English girls have deer eyes,
  not dumb-like, wild ready for unknown...
i should know... i spent 22 years in this ****** country,
drank the local milk, ate the local beef,
   never had a local girl to bed...
                     boo, hoo... which just makes them
all the more fascinating...
        it was one of those: love at first sight moments...
there she was, pristine milken skinned anglo rose...
    with braids either side of her cranium...
   a very slavic accent...
              she moved from beyond the far-away counter
to a counter near me
while i asked for my prescription...
             and waited, and she looked at me,
or rather: eat me with a nearing claustrophobia i
felt in my chest...
           this really does sometimes happen...
this realisation of love at first sight, the love:
without a fight...
             those eyes can cannibalise you in an instant,
esp. in the locket of an english girl's cranium...
      my **** and ***** shrivelled up,
my heart imploded
     and could only fathom a fear in my head
that didn't arouse a single, god-identifying word
of sanity and action, or adventure,
and the whole nine-yards of marital contract...
      just this girl in the pharmacy...
      how she moved, how she eyed me...
   well... my face isn't exactly a da Vinci...
but it isn't exactly a Picasso's impression
of a pig's buttock...
            i can only stress a hypnotic moment,
as if impregnated by her...
        i was only there asking for my insomnia
pills... and i left that place thought-******
       and emotionally ***** by those daring eyes...
as if the whole point of woman was
to ascribe a man to her delving in utilising a womb,
meaning i was almost inside a stomach,
        meaning i was no ego, meaning
i was foetus...
                oh sure sure... Helen didn't send a postcard
to 1000 Ships

Adolf ******
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"******" redirects here. For other uses, see ****** (disambiguation).
Adolf ******

Adolf ****** in 1937
Führer of Germany
In office
2 August 1934 – 30 April 1945
Deputy
Rudolf Hess (1933–41)
Position vacant
Preceded by Paul von Hindenburg
(as President)
Succeeded by Karl Dönitz
(as President)
***** Chancellor of Germany
In office
30 January 1933 – 30 April 1945
President Paul von Hindenburg (until 1934)
Deputy
Franz von Papen (1933–34)
Position vacant
Preceded by Kurt von Schleicher
Succeeded by Joseph Goebbels
Leader of the **** Party
In office
29 June 1921 – 30 April 1945
Deputy Rudolf Hess
Preceded by Anton Drexler
Succeeded by Martin Bormann
Personal details
Born 20 April 1889
Braunau am Inn, Austria-Hungary
Died 30 April 1945 (aged 56)
Berlin, Germany
Nationality
Austrian citizen until 7 April 1925[1]
Citizen of Brunswick after 25 February 1932
Citizen of the German ***** after 1934
Political party National Socialist German Workers' Party (1921–45)
Other political
affiliations German Workers' Party (1920–21)
Spouse(s) Eva Braun
(29–30 April 1945)
Parents
Alois ****** (father)
Klara Pölzl (mother)
Occupation Politician
Religion See: Religious views of Adolf ******
Signature
Military service
Allegiance German Empire
Service/branch Bavarian Army
Years of service 1914–20
Rank
Gefreiter
Verbindungsmann
Unit
16th Bavarian Reserve Regiment
Reichswehr intelligence
Battles/wars World War I
Awards
Iron Cross First Class
Iron Cross Second Class
Wound Badge
Adolf ****** (German: [ˈadɔlf ˈhɪtlɐ]; 20 April 1889 – 30 April 1945) was an Austrian-born German politician and the leader of the **** Party (German: Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei (NSDAP); National Socialist German Workers Party). He was chancellor of Germany from 1933 to 1945 and dictator of **** Germany (as Führer und Reichskanzler) from 1934 to 1945. ****** was at the centre of **** Germany, World War II in Europe, and the Holocaust.

****** was a decorated veteran of World War I. He joined the German Workers' Party (precursor of the NSDAP) in 1919, and became leader of the NSDAP in 1921. In 1923, he attempted a coup in Munich to seize power. The failed coup resulted in ******'s imprisonment, during which time he wrote his memoir, Mein Kampf (My Struggle). After his release in 1924, ****** gained popular support by attacking the Treaty of Versailles and promoting Pan-Germanism, antisemitism, and anti-communism with charismatic oratory and **** propaganda. ****** frequently denounced international capitalism and communism as being part of a Jewish conspiracy.

******'s **** Party became the largest elected party in the German Reichstag, leading to his appointment as chancellor in 1933. Following fresh elections won by his coalition, the Reichstag passed the Enabling Act, which began the process of transforming the Weimar Republic into the Third *****, a single-party dictatorship based on the totalitarian and autocratic ideology of National Socialism. ****** aimed to eliminate Jews from Germany and establish a New Order to counter what he saw as the injustice of the post-World War I international order dominated by Britain and France. His first six years in power resulted in rapid economic recovery from the Great Depression, the denunciation of restrictions imposed on Germany after World War I, and the annexation of territories that were home to millions of ethnic Germans, actions which gave him significant popular support.

****** actively sought Lebensraum ("living space") for the German people. His aggressive foreign policy is considered to be the primary cause of the outbreak of World War II in Europe. He directed large-scale rearmament and on 1 September 1939 invaded Poland, resulting in British and French declarations of war on Germany. In June 1941, ****** ordered an invasion of the Soviet Union. By the end of 1941 German forces and their European allies occupied most of Europe and North Africa. Failure to defeat the Soviets and the entry of the United States into the war forced Germany onto the defensive and it suffered a series of escalating defeats. In the final days of the war, during the Battle of Berlin in 1945, ****** married his long-time lover, Eva Braun. On 30 April 1945, less than two days later, the two committed suicide to avoid capture by the Red Army, and their corpses were burned. Under ******'s leadership and racially motivated ideology, the regime was responsible for the genocide of at least 5.5 million Jews, and millions of other victims whom he and his followers deemed racially inferior.

Contents
Early years
Ancestry
Childhood and education
Early adulthood in Vienna and Munich
World War I
Entry into politics
Beer Hall Putsch
Rebuilding the NSDAP
Rise to power
Brüning administration
Appointment as chancellor
Reichstag fire and March elections
Day of Potsdam and the Enabling Act
Removal of remaining limits
Third *****
Economy and culture
Rearmament and new alliances
World War II
Early diplomatic successes
Alliance with Japan
Austria and Czechoslovakia
Start of World War II
Path to defeat
Defeat and death
The Holocaust
Leadership style
Legacy
Religious views
Health
Family
****** in media
See also
Footnotes
References
Citations
Sources
External links

i know of Knausgård -  sure, and i share this concerns for
the art of taking to lumber and chopping,
  as novelists tend to do, write with an axe,
philosophise with a hammer...
          metaphor turned into imagery
counter-turned into literalism...
   i once imagined him not being there -
i once wrote ich kampf, stressing
that it was an indefinite expression
of expression, primarily due to the content
of the pronoun... and i was referring also
to the definite expression (much obliged,
atheism, a- without, and the- with,
or indefinite and definite articulation) -
the English eye sees one stance as definite,
and another as indefinite, and juxtaposes
the two interacting...
                          they duly interchange...
i can say ich kampf and say i internalise
verbs: a movement of the hand,
   a strutting or a waltzing circumstance
of owning a body... that's what it's indefinite...
that's why Sartre slithered in counter to
his expanse in philosophy: because i really loved
his novels...
                          but in terms of a mein or
a mit (including me) struggle i find not
ease... no one dares to devalue ****** as a human,
not talking about the past history in purely human
terms urges the postscript of a dictator,
it actually elevates him to a godly status...
           not realising the human is to make flaws
of what the en masse does: raises him to a godly status...
     Zeus had a beard... not a Charlie Chaplin moustache...
right now he's laughing in his grave...
                      old Aldous ******...
   and aren't dictators born because people find their
surnames a little bit funny? it starts so
innocently...          and then it morphs...
   and it becomes an unstoppable morphing...
    yes... i know of a certain number of fellow
      contemporaries... because i want to? no,
because i have to. like rewatching the 2015 film
android - some films you have to rewatch...
   what's being debated? autism and artificial intelligence...
   hyperactive autism, i grant you that...
        it dawned on me... at autistic person could
fake a normal human response treating it as
      artificial... artificial also means mimicked -
  it means that "smart" guy at a bar reciting poetry
he hasn't written... artificial intelligence or the study of it
or even creating it has nothing original about it...
it's not groundbreaking in the same sense that
discovering champagne or penicillin is...
or l.s.d., because these examples have the magic of
being discovered by chance... humanity has been
artificially simulating intelligence since time
immemorial... it's that natural consequence of not being
endowed with a peacock's array of feathers
   to create a soothing, and sickly gentle wind of a woman
resting in a hammock under the shade of a palm tree...
artificial intelligence was inherent in us...
       it's the unravelling of the historical noumenon of man,
the per se that has only crept up on us,
   and before the reality of such a foundation being
established... the humanities create the "prophetic"
citations of it being true: in the "near" / impeding future.
    if god is a noumenon, then man cannot be a
phenomenon... but he is and paradoxically the two
of mutually compatible on a basis of exclusive rather than
an inclusive naturalisation...
               we are talking nature:
  we are talking god naturalised by the medium
suggesting: for i am bound to create obstacles and test
the body, rather than the mind of man...
    as so is man, also naturalised by the medium
of the elements, saying: for i am bound by a body,
   and have to utilise the body first, to overcome the wind
and the snow and the furthermore, until i reach
the labyrinth of the mind...
  and man has done just that, he has bypassed the struggles
of the body, and created entertainment using
the body that once struggled against the elements...
   for he has created the god Minotaur: and the psychic
labyrinthe... as with the Titans whom the gods
usurped, so too comes the twilight of the gods...
but being usurped by demigods...
       Minotaur was a demigod... who usurped the gods
of the trinity that were Zeus, Poseidon and Hades...
        for only the Greeks could create a Judaic bewilderment
as to why a sign was given unto an infant...
           but that's getting technical...
the film, android (2015)? it supports the misconception,
the anguish of a highly functioning autism...
      whereby showing a woman's carelessness in the realm
of adaptability with what some would claim to be
the beginning point of: overcoming the elements...
sure the odd tsunami and earthquake...
   but there's also the tiger, and winter, and parasite,
   and diseases of so many variations...
              man has not been endowed with complete
control over his surrounding... but in becoming partially
overlord of the ones tamed, he has created a mental
labyrinth... a world of such complexity that will
inevitably produce instances of autistic genius...
                 artificial intelligence is already imbedded in us,
just as cloning and Islam has already existed
(Christianity is too schismatic to be considered a cloning
definition... and Judaism as a monotheistic principle
has a heresy embedded in its orthodoxy that it simply
ignores: reincarnation... the Malachi heresy...
  that a second Elijah comes... and god becomes a half)...
   we see artificial intelligence everywhere...
        if the myth goes that woman fed man the original
lie of Eden... then man has nothing else to do than
attempt to polymer that one single lie...
       and repeat it... a reverse intrusion to what "could"
have been an utopian splendour.
      we all see artificial intelligence rummaging about
in the choices people make... it's called lying
   to gain access to a ****** gratification...
  or as i like to call it: a way to compensate our falling short
of the norm, a norm that focuses upon creating
   the most complex startup a Silicon Valley genius
can't comprehend... a family.
    these times prescribe such a bewilderment...
              families are artefacts of what some believe
precipitated into barbarity so close to us: the 20th century...
        and all those arguments you hear that might
discourage the opposite ***, as in damning your parents
for a piece of seashore **** fest of the *****?
   probably came from a person born from a surrogate
mother... well... an incubator, a very expensive *****...
   homsexuality created the evolution of prostitution,
once bound to the genitals... now bound to the womb...
     i.v.f. kids calling natural kids ******...
   i never liked the matrix movies in all honest...
but we're seeing the reversal of the original idea...
                 in the matrix of knowledge... hearts become
piñata: chockies sweet, sensations abundant,
  the spectrum is yours.
                but this poem isn't really about that...
i can sip a whiskey and actually find these things when
i start to utilise these symbols... it sometimes happens
that they fall through... all i was really thinking about
is the "theoretical" score of 147...
                      i'll call them billiards rather than *****
to excuse a "he-he" Michael Jackson laugh at a chance
of "nuance"...
       yellow (2), green (3), brown (4), blue (5), pink (6), black (7)...
and plenty of red (1)... points in bracket respectively...
                  of course from childhood memory i sided with
ronnie... also from Romford... an obscure town in Essex
that oversees the shard and canary wharf from
a distance...                    but watching snooker as a child...
          not too bad at pub-snooker: i.e. pool...
and that game show when snooker was hot back in
the 1990s... big break, with jim davidson as host...
    and of course: john virgo as the rejuvenated
                         ghost of alex higgins... this whiskey
swiggly is on me al.
                 but this final... ****! at one point it was
a century after a century...
                     chess with mathematics, trigonometry
and Pythagoras in motion...
                                    the gods playing with saturn
and jupiter neptune planetary arrangements...
            i can't word it properly... but it'll definitely sound
better than a concussion after too much rugby and
the rough-stuff of "manhood" strutting with bulging
muscle tensions... rather than this Japanese warrior-monk
in a waistcoat and bow-tie swirling a stick in the air...
           i just thought of one thing...
15 wildebeests on an African savannah...
       out comes one lioness...
    and she nibbles at the pack... and she picks off
the weakest of the 15 wildebeests...
              she nibbles the pack before the pack breaks away...
         she looks left (red) and then looks right (yellow,
green, brown, blue, pink, black) -
                      and she picks at the pack, one by one
they fall... but there are two games going on...
   there's the no-man's land snooker where the game is
about entrenchment, and snookering the opponent
for a foul... and then there's the tsunami snooker...
which kinda looks like one person playing chess...
     with no opponent other than a chance mistake...
misjudgement on the case of instinct and how they ******
well know what angle to fudge the white lioness
                onto the billards... and with what force...
      tsunami snooker, or cascade snooker is basically
a monologue...
                             after seeing 3 centuries in a row
you get to crave classical snook -
                                       the mind games of safety shots...
   and teasing, and tempting, and teasing, and tempting,
before the Rubic cube unravels itself,
   and you find that light at the end of the tunnel...
                        and the black pops into...
i'll be honest, i haven't watched snooker for a long time...
        maybe that's why i feel so enthusiastic about it...
       it's sometimes good to be fed this mundane diet
of sport-fanaticism that football is in accordance with
religious dogma... it's a good thing...
             then you end up watching a game of snooker
and all these things start firing up your brain...
   and you end up saying:
      the Taj Mahal can be there for all i care...
the Grand Canyon can be there for all i care...
                    such things don't really require a photograph
with my gimp-face trying to make other people jealous
by actually being there: only to take a photograph,
rather than feed into the air and the thrill of being there...
        as they say... it's a small world after all...
better get used to it being much bigger inside your head.

A ***** duct tape silences my mouth
People say blood is thicker than water
Yet your thunderous voice screams at me
Does daddy cherish his daughter?
So why can’t your eyes open and see
You’ve become a Mein Kampf tyrant?
You want my obedience and silence!

A ***** duct tape silences my mouth
As it leaves a residue of disgust
Must this be our memory?
Though silent my heart feels unjust-
Must you **** all my energy;
Leave me to feel lost and astray
As mental state starts to decay

A ***** duct tape silences my mouth
Will your anger subside and be quiet?
Fear suffocates vulnerable heart;
Wrathful words ready for a riot;
Confidence crushed as it’s torn apart.
Verbal abuse moves like a torrent flood,
Affecting those who share the same blood!

(c) 2018 Joanne Chang

as i once wrote... and i’m not about to change my mind
as to how i managed to spot the two major tools
in language, but for added SHOCK value,
ich kampf... the pronoun takes on an indefinite nature,
as does the complete expression,
it expresses future struggles more than past struggles,
and thus with future struggles there is a process of becoming
rather than being, hence there is no possessiveness
in relation to the past, for a translation into the future;
utilising the definite and indefinite articles within the pronoun
category is my keenest of all observations - the struggle in itself
is as indefinite due to the coupling with the pronoun that allows
dis-possessiveness of concepts, whether they be being at ease
or struggling... as such i know this is incoherent
because the meanings of certain words are so tightly knit that
it is bound to happen, a bit like red and crimson / blue and azure,
but that is as much due to schizoid conditioning of a symptom,
whereby a schizoid conditioning is a complex splintering of
what was once wholly unified, and upon dis-unification the unified is trapped
in a trans-grammatical state of symptom, without any categorical
orientation, whether that’s with nouns, verbs etc.,
primarily stressed by what i can only fathom as pre-nouns
(you know, the vocabulary unit
before new words enter our vocabulary, mostly nouns -
since the quality of things rarely changes -
like sodium and lady gaga, the pre-noun is almost
like a pronoun, although the pre-noun is kept
in a dark room and the pronoun is kept in
a room with a lightbulb),
that which could be uttered and is unnecessarily “thought.”
so through this medley i was only crafting a revision as to whether
call the compound ich kampf within the orientation of:
ich is a definite pronoun or an indefinite pronoun?
and if so... which pronoun orientation in terms of articulation makes
the second aspect of the compound definite or indefinite
for the overall persuasion?
well... anyway... it will make me think rather than read knausgård,
i already read kierkegård - søren
(ø = cut open o for a u, and angstrom = aa, i.e. roll over beethoven):
this is why english is problematic compared
with all the other latinised languages of europe...
due to its diacritical ****** / lack of accent stressors,
ø = u and oo: ***** / luck / pull -
the second use of u is less stressed in the sense that it's short,
a short / dwarfed u (ù), rather than the third example of u,
which is a long / pronounced u (ú)...
or as in the first example the elongated u (ū)
by god,
this is like forging a new linguistic system
in english from all the other languages of europe...
avoiding the linguistic notative system,
characteristic with: /ˈæŋstrʌm; -strəm/;
but obviously that would make spelling words in english
look pretty ugly... but not as ugly as LOL *** ***?!
i never got the hang of the teenage acronym alphabet,
even though i lived as a teenager, and the acronyms were already
in use.

I.

The pen,
The mighty sword.
The ink,
The blood runs black.
The pen,
That which changes the world.

II.

Mein Kampf,
The Communist Manifesto.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which tears apart.

III.

The Bible,
The Torah.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which brings together.

IV.

Common Sense,
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
The pen,
The mighty sword.
The pen,
That which starts revolutions,
That which changes the world.

V.

But wherein does the music lie?
In the strings themselves,
Or in the hand that plucks them?

Wherein, indeed,
Do the words reside—
In the pen itself,
Or in the hand that wields it?

and in my "hiatus" period of absence, circa 15th of April and 15th of December (minutes from a yesterday)... i've come to regret the Russians not having any... no... rather the bare minimum of orthography... surprise surprise! there's plenty to choose from! i had to return to a time when i was drilling greek into my head... naturally: a time for cyrillic was on the horizon... but... i couldn't do it with english alone... i need my mother tongue, a tongue that employs diacritical markers... again and again: english can do away with its j... it goes missing when raised to stand from a sitting position ȷ(J)... and it can cut the head off its I(standing)... ı(sitting)... to make an emphasis... i have been busy... drinking aside, have a look where i have been for the past... april, may, june, july, august, september, october, november, december:

ź = зь and ż = зъ

i'm drinking - and i am my most content - the world burns and goes about its usual wordly theatre... i'm huddling with a cameo role in the background... i am drinking content... my 3rd or 4th rejection letter! this time from : austin macauley publishers (london, cambridge, new york - sharjah - where the **** is sharjah?!) - i remember sending them a "manuscript" and a book already printed, bound... they said it would take them 6 weeks to reply... i didn't enclose an email address... i had to wait for the snailmail... my my... what lovely handwritting of my name and address... in the letter i did state: it's e(sch)lert... she omitted the (sch)... a rebecca crib admin assistant, of the editorial... 6 weeks though... hmm... i posted the letter and manuscript and the book way back prior to visiting my grandparents... circa 8th of september... it's a rejection letter... that much is true... but i'm drinking in celebration! i was making dinner in the afternoon and was asked: why are you so angry? i wasn't... i tried to figure out what i'd feel when enough of ms. amber was in me... i replied: i'm being apathetic... but now it's clear: i'm jovial! there's even a signature! an authentic signature... in all honesty... a rejection letter means something... if it is physically mailed... of course i'm celebrating! i exist! i exist outside the realm of getting spam snail-mail! of course i will reply... i'll tell them: destroy and recycle the manuscript - it really wasn't a manuscript to begin with... i pour my "efforts" on the manuscript canvas that's the html... but the already printed book? can you please not burn in... rather... keep it? i'd appreciate no 1933 Säuberung... and you know (kind reader) - i'll send this introspection to the same publisher... like it is... pop / pulp or whatever mongerel of style this has had to be... but a reply! i want to see how one might escape formal language, formal affairs, social affairs, esp. in letters - a dear ms. X / to whomever it might concern Y... kind regards / yours faithfuly Mr. Z... this has to be celebrated... given what's on the horizon... the norwegian novel viking a'comin'! the buldozer autobiography... the demand for a "death" of fiction... otherwise i'm still "here"... a "here" that truly is so distant that its distance allows my petty leeching and the world's grand fiasco theater of fire and smoke and mirrors! - after all... i'm not mad enough to be welcome to a cage if i'm a sparrow... a cage of rhyme, form and all those shackle devices / identifiers of "poetry"... the future is narrative... and the current narrative says? if you asked me to dress proper, for an opera... to don the shirt the tux and the bow (tie)... the well ironed trousers... perhaps... beside the point: air's in the head and i just wish i could heat it up... for a baloon of quasi-egoism effect... otherwise what is there... a former journalist becomes an isolationist essay-scribbler? all the best journalists retire from the profession and become essayists... polemicists... whatever... this "poet" says: no poet ever writes a novel... the real life is too fictive already... and most certain this "poet" adds: begone! lyricism and rhyme! i'll sing like the humming drone cleric of the hive of ambient refrigerator sounds at 2am when everything is sleeping...

capital: oh... so that's what it was... back circa 1990 - when inflation of currency was rife all over Poland? that's when foreign capital was flowing in: foreign money... the economy was flooded with pounds and dollars... and given the exchange rate: i remember a time when you could get circa 7zł for every 1 £ sterling... so why would a nation start to print its own money? well... because more foreign money is coming in - at the given exchange rate: apologies: i was born yesterday - i need to explain certain things, from scratch... as was once stated - there's only a finite amount of money in circulation... physical money... "apparently"... and no... if you were to materialise all the wealth in this world into either fiat or gold: there wouldn't be enough of it... but how else would inflation happen in a country like Poland circa 1992? foreign investement: the wild west of eastern europe when the soviet barricade fell... i do remember being asked a question as a child: which is more... these copper coins... or this piece of paper? on the piece of paper was written 5, 000, 000zł - i said the copper coins... i wasn't either right or wrong - the person asking the question laughed... i don't think it was a question of: there are more copper coins in the hand... than a single piece of paper... after all... perhaps i acted all trans-****-sapiens and became chimp and saw less zeros on the copper coins than on the piece of paper? how else does does a currency inflate - when foreign currency is poured into it... it's the opposite of foreign aid... you put £1 into an economy - with an exchange rate: currently you'd get circa 4, 50zł out of... so where is all this "excess" money to come from? the moment when foreign money is invested... is the moment you have to start printing your own money... imagine... if the word BLACK was worth more than CZERŃ (чернь): oh, we'd readily translate BLACK = CZERŃ... but we also need a sentence for that "to make sense"... and there i was... thinking that russian doesn't apply diacritical markers... oh... right... they're not as discrete with accents like some of us... notably? нь = ń... and so and likewise... wait wait... źródło (source)... in russian it would look, look: oh so ugly... зьрoьд-ł-ł-o... (wh)en (wh(en) but now i know this (w)oe: the soft sign (acute)... and the hard sign for... e.g. życzenia (wishes)... зъыченя (perhaps зъычениa) - point being: ź = зь and ż = зъ... now does language come to me...it never left me... but now ai appreciate the minor details... i see the english and their language and how they speak it... how they churn out metaphysics and how they call forthe help of **** similis to give history the rusty coating of: nothing between a today and tomorrow: there's only the hanging off a tree from a a tail that the chimpanze doesn't thave... everything is so very metaphysical: it's never orthographic! тe два: tak - тe: оба (there's a wikipedia mistake... U+0411 / U+0431... not o'bah... oo'b'ah...): щекaць: szczekać! to bark... eh... greek became too rigid... i could remember all the letters... always buckling on ζ (zETA) and ξ (11), upsilon (υ) and nu-nu-nu (ν)... and this is, practically nonsense to anyone with a base literacy knowledge... to exagerrate... who does mind such pedantic pleasures... when they could be somewhere else: skiing! but it's worthwhile to know how a nation's currency can be inflated... foreign money flows into the country - and whatever the exchange rate is... there is no such thing as a "grafitti compensation": then again, there is... perhaps literacy has been inflated... inflated for a second literacy of coding to be assured? otherwise? bypassing the orthodox print... bypassing orthodox editorial scrutiny... was... "nice"... until the moment when the mediator sought to see fit that the reader had more authority over the written word: having re(a)d it - over the person who had / has: written it! we do part our ways with the russians on the "debate" concerning the "cedilla" involving A(ą) and E(ę)... cedilla: yes yes... akin to garçon - waiter! waiter! please - that greek sigma at the end of a word: and all its ασπεκτς... aσpectς - that really is an orthographic statement... only Ssssssss'igma is a letter with "three dimensions" suited for it... a handwritten element... otherwise in the news this week? the apostrophe society is no more... like when you don't put a possessive article if the thing in "question" ends with an S, in english? e.g.? the colours' (sez sirs - alt. colours's sez sirs... ses-esses) imbued harmony... and that is a possesive article, isn't it? with an apostrophe: 's? it's not a plural identification - there would be no need for the apostrophe to begin with! pounds' worth: no... not a pound's worth - the worth of a pound... pounds' worth: the worth of pounds! - what's that german word... glücke! nein nein... etymological root: glück 'luck' (etymology is the new history... it bypasses journalism and serves some journalistic cousin that's powdered in dust of cremated bookworms) - and yes, a hypen can come to the fore: after a full-stop and the opening of a new sentence with a conjugation: - with disbelief / - and!

i'm not buying how the media narrative will turn Cymru into a "K-affair"... sim sim: similie or else... but these have been my greek buckles: ξ (oh... that's why i wrote 11... XI - ksi...) - it's rare to see ξ sometimes: esp. in philosophy books... rubric!

- ζ
- ν
- υ (i can be forgiven, these two letters
are not suited for print... unless working
with a microscope) - unlike a roman Vv...
- ξ

but this is just the greek... if you ever read some modern... you'd think: and i just don't know, where they get their ideas from - with all those diacritical excesses that heidegger notes...

but now... for my cyrillic mini-adventure:

from Miньsk (Mazowieцki): with love

it might be said, that if i just the bare minimum -
if i even do not write anything at all -
but i have too many petty griefs during the day
to much else than the odd, occasional chore;
at the same time i do not want to sound
amused, bewildered, bored or un-used...
it's just that i find writing and drinking before
falling to my 343rd death -
my 343rd labour for mask and then exfoliated
in a dream: that might come...
or might not come...
unless a known audience... a wake sized nieche
privy... i find either unconscious or subconscious
struggles to warm up to an anonymous crowrd...
unless it was me being propped up on stage...
flooded by light... and the audience in the din:
with barely a shadow to scratch...
perhaps: then and only then...
but i've found that: it would be best that i sentence
the 2hs spare i have for merely drinking
and loitering from one video to another:
perchance something new in music is to emerge...
"coquettish" with a "something" that will never
have any realism-focus for me to undertake
a second's day carnality of the banal...
perhaps all this: "going out of my own way"
has been too much - or just enough...
to make me drink more and take more pharma
knock-out enzymes...
a naproxen and an amitriptyline...
perhaps the focus was elsewhere...
to stand frozen in awe...
when someone might "add": from one big void:
ex nihil a priori to... nihil a posteriori...
and all this cameo theatre in between!
mein gott... i can also convene to praise those
brutal breeders of sorts...
enough time to occupy two decades...
perhaps even three...
and then the grim reality of: should my child
die... or... some other worse:
the mortal should not be inflicted by...
"not reading into the genetic clues": properly:
"all at once"...
oh i would be so much happier to take this mind to sleep:
to not make some idle focus -
to entertain some eyes while i turn aside all things
hyper-inflated in purpose...
to die of a heart-attack in one's sleep...
but otherwise to simply focus on a welcome tomorrow...
that would be...
a gracious beginning to posit the day's slouching
zenith... or... i'm not sure whether this be a coming
zenith or a nadir...
but there's still that clear-cutting focus
regarding russian orthography...
cutting it with two tongues... slit at the tip...
with english the "placebo": no diacritical markers evident...
well: a TILDE over a ȷ is no more necessary...
than a "tittle" (not thai-tle... ty'ttle) over an ı...
to borrow the greek phrase: cut one head of hydra -
two emerge... cut the two heads...
i come toward the russian mish-mash of diacritical
application...
it's not be-au-ti-ful... it's messy... it's what it is...
but already i can see what this: cutting off the heads
of the english j-i hydra looks like...
it's not enough to simply enlarge them to state: CAP(I)TAL-(J)...
the knitty-gritty... why then the tilde atop of 'em?
prior "corrections": łen and when...
is not akin to... wrak or wreck... although these two words
have the same meaning...
unless: "partisan" V comes in...
very - weary... Cracow or Krakov?
a W = a Ł = a W = a V ≠ a Ł...
Ęwa and Ądam (e nosinė) are not covered by
Russian orthography...
the list is as follows:
ż (зъ) and... ć (ць), ń (нь), ó (oь), ś (сь), ź (зь)...
the graphemes? i'll call them graphemes for simplicity...
even though: they're not the smallests units...
as are vowels... or the syllables of consonants
in the latin choir of B'ee, C'ee... e'M... etc.
ж alternatively RZ (Ż) or Ž... otherwise the fwench:
je (suis)... this is nothing more than...
an encyclopedic evaluation...
a trainwreck proposal of: should i ever be stuck in
in russia... and i would have to: read... (ee'd - r'ah)...
chop off a TILDE off the torso of the english:  ȷ...
a crescent moon lying back emerges in the russian... й...
but it's not the english: jeep! it's an english: yeep!
or a  ȷeep! alternatively: yawn could be:  ȷawn...
but not if: it's jaws... coming into play: to chatter from
the siberian cold... how else to explain?
if not by... example?
then there's the "exploration" of the greek F...
as much as in english...
фoughts on θilosoφy...
good to know the russians only "borrowed"
one of the greek Fs... "culturally appropriated" or...
wasn't St. Cyrill born a greek?!
and away from greek we move...
since χ (chi): yep: perpleX... a Ks to a Ts
(note, revision found below)...
otherwise hidden... in non-vowel binding consonants...
like... ч- and -х (although... that's not quiet a Ch-ur-hC -
but sure... some altar for siц and... no... no siPS)...
cholera! which is not: SHow me the CHow mein...
for that we need CARONs...
that's when ч becomes CZ (in polish) or otherwise:
Č... long have i wanted the polish to adopt this version...
to hide the SZ and the CZ (es'zed, х'zed) respectively...
how else to write: szczekam?
a russian would write... щекaм...
out of a "simple" ш out pops out a щ (this letter...
is probably the only "etymological" route to bind russian
to the oddities of Ęva and Ądam (e nosinė)...
ш (š) becomes щ (šč) -
whoever was to undermine the old rules
of engagement when the ruling parties gave up
a monolopy of literacy? you can literally hide an entire
letter / meaning by using a hachek...
hook...
as i begin to wonder:
how much did the slavic tribes "appropriate" greek...
and how much did the two greek saints...
try to make sense of the slavic glagolitic script?
em... Ⱋ looks pretty intact if you cut off the body... E:
reclining...
but i do come from the western lands of the eastern
lands... hence? hardly any cyrilic influence...
but i too: with my own oddities... already mentioned...
come to think of it? the bulgars joined
the "party"?
beside that? what other, russian"oddities"?
orthographic - i.e. aesthetic dictations / rubrics...
ю really is a я... the russians have this english tendency
to stress their pronouns...
i this... i that! i walked up a street! and kicked a black
cat 13 times down the street to ease my luck!
you can talk in polish for days... and never stress the I / я
pronoun... really...
and ю is just a variation of я...
throw in the remaining vowels and you'd probably
come up with some "new" russian letters...
like ye... good point... i did make a "mistake"...
щэкaм! i'm barking!
unless... that's only an orthographic question...
notably? if you're going to: zerkać...
peer in / at "on and off"... casually...
зэркaць... em... it must be an orthographic question...
ergo? i wasn't exactly "wrong"...
just bad taste... зeркaць...
i've already shown the difference between (ъ) and (ь)
in a latin script: that uses more diacritical markers
than english "supposedly" escapes with focusing
on the rather pointless TILDE over the J and I...
this "oddity": ы... ɨ  clearly it's not exactly a ł...
minor details... like a mona lisa smiling...
best example of close proximity?
take a... no... that's a hollowed out "why"...
i know how it sounds... and there are no diacritical marks
needed for it... since there's a clear distinction
that i know of, between: I J Y...
tY... this little sucker is born from the fact that...
western slavs have a name for this letter...
iGREK... funny... the russians borrow more greek lettes...
and have to have...
ё (yo), e (ye), у (which they treat like a greek would U -
never mind the greeks themselves
making the following ref. Υγ / Γυ) -
and of course the я (ya)... so no wonder i see this
"letter" (ы) as an absolutely oddity...
i could stomach: ż (зъ) and ź (зь) differences...
well that's as far as i would come in learning russian...
spot the odd ones out... proper...
й (j) and ё... which is some german loan vowel with
that ******* umlaut... otherwise...
this poo'em was born from trying to **** the english
hydra of "orthography", with its mighty bounty
of the ȷ-ı TILDE! my my... what a ride!
come to think of it... now i think i can sleep.
- it hasn't been such a waste of an hour... drilling this in:
into my head...
after all... what did the professional clarinet player
say then asked about playing professionally
in a travelling orchestra? after 30 ******* years of
blowing hard into this thing...
guess what i still end up doing?
it's not so much learning... i'm still practising!

because this will not end like some sort of "summary"...
i will remember each letter if i weave it into
this latin letter by letter...

the refleξive (x)
in that one might have χeated (ch) -
again!
what it is about an ξ-ray that is also an
"χ"-ray? the "ex" k'ss k'ss cuss...
is this what james joyce's finnegans wake
should have looked like?
again!
the cruξ of the matter...
whenever a question was to be raised about:
any χoice to be had...

i have come to grips with russian orthography...
i'll repeat... the crescent moon over и ("e")
to state: this must be elongated: й ("y") stands outs...

best examples are given by sports commentators,
notably in ski jumping...
suffiξes of surnames...
akin to -cki endings...
yes... you're seeing what i'm seeing...
we'll need some russians to work this one
out... how a C is not an S...
and how it's not KK either...
-цки... hello wet drum-kit snare!

of course not: you're not seeing N:И...
let alone: нaйт (night...
evidently -igh- is a bit complicated...
with ref. to the surd in knight - kappa and
the gamma and the ha ha ha ha tetragrammaton
left arm... vowel catcher i'd be most inclined
to borrow from the hebrews...
whenever they're not busy actually using it...
and not being a bunch of 'ebrews -
electronic brewing of tea?)
сo дaрк (so dark)...

which is the equivalent of writting english
grafitti "backward"... how it sounds...
and not for: what's the formality?
i figured: take the small steps, the trickle...
burn the eyes out with incremental poppy-seed
acts of progress... like the grand Pilgrim Emeryk
from the Świętokrzyski region of Poland
(holy cross)...
each year the pilgrim shuffles to the top of
the mountain with a speed of:
a poppy-seed's worth of distance each year...
by the time he reaches the top of the mountain:
the end of the world will arrive...

am i the next Delmore Schwatrz?
no... i don't have a Lou Reed to contend with...
am i obsessed with Finnegans Wake?
well i didn't spot any "additions" to the letters...
i didn't see any diacritical markers...
a book that shouldn't be translated since...
it ignores... a worthwhile mention
of the concept of orthography -
which is my escape from any western vogue
of metaphysics... i hide behind the omniscient
niqab of orthography... my face can be forever
hidden... but my eyes need to be on... fire!
fire! i want you to burn!

so i went to see the russians having
left the greeks... about any "nuance" bound
to the... ****-naked english language
with its magic act of the disappearing heads
off of J and I...
as you do... you "forget them" and also have to:
somehow "remember" them to be used...

do i still enjoy drinking and listening to
teutonic chants in german?
god almighty! when wouldn't i not listen to german
medieval music... when drinking?!
is that such a terrible sin?

also? i finished the trilogy of H. Sienkiewicz...
and i read some Boris Pasternak...
there was Nietzsche in polish - paul's leash said:
he's more bearable in this language,
than in english...
and how could i forget! there was...
Knausgård... Karl, Ove... volumes 1 and 2
of mein kampf...

now a "summary": hmm... ż (зъ) and... ć (ць)...
could... now... hard sign (ъ) is not exactly worth
ascription if... or rarther: because...
you don't treat a caron over an S or a C...
to "hide the english H" or the Aesti Z when coupled...
there's no need to write чъ... since?
that's pretty much in-itself given č of the nature
of чeap...
ć / ць is different in that... you'd have to hear
it first...
however... the one exception of this "rule" is already
self-enclosed in ж... which is зъ... somehow...
but not зь... examples?

жart / зъart... żart (joke)...
зьrebi... well there's no 'ę' in russian
to name: źrebię - mustang colt...
is there?
so... i was "wrong"...
in that ź = зь and ż = зъ is true...
but? ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж...
so from a "quiet unique" perspective...
and: mein gott! who's to see, travel,
and subsequently marvel at the pyramids of giza...
i'm a different version of what's
considered to be "tourism"...

give me this sole equation:
ź = зь and ż = зъ = ж
and i'll be happy for a month.
as i have been...

oh i'm back... and things have taken
SPEC-TAC-U-LAR turns and twists!
****-naked english over 'ere is gonna make
a chariots of fire runner...
i bet it will... when it comes against a juggernaut
like me.

tinted postcards
from Vienna-
Munich oils on canvas-
a self portrait
on a stacked-stone bridge-

rejected, the painter painted
yellow stars-broken glass
Judenstern and Kristallnacht

no starry night,
no van Gogh-
der Führer was no master,
Mein Kampf no masterpiece.

r ~ 8/25/14

grab the scissors and cut the teather clean
i found a laugh that works for me, but it's leaving
i've been warned of similar desires
through the vessel of their words, i fell to slick design

this endeavor
to forever
takes its toll
on a passion

erase you, i will
i'll take you on through the sunrise
erase you, i will
we'll take  this outside

my favorite letter, i'll cross you to a "t"
as most demonic faces sit in leering
in this way, indifference has obliged
here, the challenge wakes in lies, as false prophets defy

this endeavor
to forever
takes its toll
on a passion

erase you, i will
i'll take you on through the sunrise
erase you, i will
we'll take this outside

distance fuels the long to use
to mistake, and to abuse
find them, find ten
lose them, lose none

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face,
I didn't know what it meant so I just hid it away.
That's my problem,
you see,
whenever the sun shines,
I hide in fear,
that's my sin.
I
don't really know what I'm fight'n for,
but I do know it's important so I implore
myself to get up,
wipe away the tears,
forget the grinding gears
in my soul.
I know it's hard to comprehend
the things I've been through
but ya gotta understand,
I'm just 17 and I've seen the worst of life,
been kicked down every time I tried to fight.
I can't win,
I can't lose,
'cause I got nothin' left,
just me,
myself,
and I will never forget,
how I fought those battles,
broke down those walls,
stood up and braced the impact
of every fall.
I'm strong but I'm weak in way you can't understand,
I work hard so I don't have to see it again,
that world I was brought in,
the pain I saw,
the and I will never forget.
This is my fight song.

for the sort of people who were
camel jockeys all their life,
and never found any sedative
component of alcohol...

                              there is no
sedative allure in, alcohol?
  please find me the name
of the pusher, who supplied
     barbiturates for nietzsche...
herr doktor...

maybe you're talking to the wrong
whites,
or there isn't enough
oasis allure for what
these camel jockeys find
alluring... being strapped
to a ******* sundial...

oh yeah... dodo project:
1 on 1....
                 the day when english
psychiatrists
are an authority,
on the neurological study
done by ****** doctors...
that day...

  i'm about to heave a heavy
sigh of relief and say...
thank god i didn't
produce offspring...
i'm... way off...
being given less
the ****: arbeit macht frei
orders...
to being given
               futility per se
dancing: get the **** out
of 'ere limbo status!

"you" are my "here"
and my "now"...
       you take over...
now... you do...
you people with a past...
people with a history...
pople with fidgety
finger tips....
               you want your
******?
  thank **** we will
have your Taj Mahal
and Zimbabwean
beauties to make matters
more... clarifying...
good...
  ich sagen,
          alles güt!

                  oh i'm not here
for the streit...
there is no...
reaching into the germanic
confusion of pronouns...

   you know the difference
between...

ich kampf...
and mein kampf?
ja?
that ich, is indefinite!
mein?
that's definite!
                    
i struggle: indefinite...
want this lesson
in grammar?
you... ******* scold
of a worth of being?!

             we can have
lessons in grammar,
all-day-long...
until you
start screaming the name...

Hilga!
so eating pork and drinking
beer...
all bad...
alcohol will
never be associated
with sedatives?
     güt! alles güt!
jawohl, mein enigma herr.

   i em con-confused?
Zimbabwean ivory beauties!
coming...
                 wündérbār!

mögen mich,
aus zucken
via eine Picasso...

    ziemlichgesicht...
     all round: bravo!

ich hure meinselb zu
sprechen etwas deutsche...

no... i will not ****
your niqab bound bounties
of beauty...
or your
Zimbabwean ivory beauties...
your... pearls
of Mozambique...
retro **** wits...

                you jog...
on the ******* tread-mill...
you do that...
me? watch me...
do the dodo...
           i'm...
all... airy-*******-weary
of having to be argued for
a basis of: to continue...

    no...
you heard me...
no...
        
        you take your white
***** and excavate the ? pointer
on mars...
   i... am doing the Pilate...
            pose...
there is a grammatical
difference betweern
ich kampf
and mein kampf...
yeah...

               the first is:
indefinite... dispossesive...
          the latter is
definite... possesive...

i felt it was worthwhile
to learn some german,
before i anticipated
to die...
                  because...
i somehow forgot to keep
in tow,
the ambition designated
surrounding the upkeep
of genes...
like...
i forgot where ******
came from,
and the subsequent
camel jockeys...
like... OOPS!

        must have
      misplaced "them"...
alles güt...

and thank ****
i will not be screaming
the takbīr
to where i'm going...
so...
is screaming the takbīr
akin to... like... performing
            the hajj?

i just, want to know,
because,
i simply...
don't want to know...

oh i want to play
the ignorant drunk
dumb-**** european...
maybe,
just maybe...
i will step up my "game"
from camel-jockey-*****
does the coco
didlo ride-on...

oh, believe me,
i too want to "feel"
something...
-esque this narrative...
but it's like...
i have some sort of variant
of amnesia...
like...
forgetting to reach
a hard-on...
when... the bun is
buttered and ready
for processed meats
in an elongated "pose"...

i want to... care...
but the last increment
of me, strated
to whisper... alles güt...
and i began to remember...
oh.. this isn't me?
oh... right...
      
   thank god i am man,
and not an insect,
making myself
alligned
to some sub-human
collective of either
muslim, brown tinged,
or... ant or termite.

   good to know
i have been endowed
with a coping mechanism
to stage
a dodo coup;
but i know all the pretty
brown boys will
fight hard,
to forever keep
their hard-ons...
for white ******...
who...
without specimens
akin to me...
will start...
   becoming more and
more rare!

if do what thou wilt
is to be the whole of the law
what of the inevitable transgressor
an eye for an eye
is just the blind leading the blind
but minds leading minds is no better

you know what’s really haunting about pictures like this:
    (see profile picture)
i only found out about the paris massacre
at 6pm.
so this whole mental illness debacle...
i guess i’ll have to fake it, improvise,
all the great ones did it to push people away
for some peace and quiet...
i’m seeing... i’m seeing the equivalent of
the 100 years war with islamic barbarism...
there simply isn’t a mein kampf orientation of:
what comes next?
the only thing that comes next is panic...
why didn’t they shout THIS IS FOR IRAQ!
why suddenly involve: ah crap, i knew it,
the re-emergence of poland on the map
ensure the post-colonial nations get the ***** treatment,
i was subjugated to prussian, russian and austro-hungarian
authority for some time, what the ****?!
the french / english / spanish trinity of colonialism
is not my 5pm cup of tea... **** it... let’s tango anyway...
let’s tango with hail marias in england
and magdalenes in corfu or ibiza...
yes... i’ve lost touch with reality... your definition of reality...
but at least i am the one who’s immersed...
you’re still stuck to the slavish realism of paying taxes and
kissing the bonnet of a sports car / boiler -
i’ve lost touch with your definition of reality...
mind the 1% budged of the n.h.s. caring
more for fatties and smokers... wisecrack.
well, what are the parisians gonna do... #: weareeaglesofdeathfans...
that won’t sell... my bet is... they won’t even bother
to entourage democracy this time... watch and learn boys...
they shot sub-culture admirers... they won’t march...
we’re **** to them... the neo-hippies...
they... will... not... march... this time, i promise you that.
it’s not politically adequate for the WE STAND TOGETHER pantomime...
they won’t.... i know them when i see them
crazy eyed and pathetic and uncourageous...
so unto satan and the kabbalah...
ever hear the post-traumatic stress-disorder of satan
having to hear ah ah ah oh oh oh uh uh uh
of woman?
there’s only two left... eh / i = pronoun....
satan does not have access to the vowels e and i....
i.e. he took back a tape recording of ***** into hell
to play on loop... while the tortures took place...
sweet music some say...
let’s see tomorrow.
theoretically though? losing the prefix un-,
and attributing something more functional
in relation to the conscious faculties of thought / memory /
imagination... you can only decrease your chances
of dreaming and provide the antidote to the theories
of the unconscious... it's already stressed in psychiatric
theory as animalistic... animals make sense of the world
with their distinctive "onomatopoeias" & intuition;
write poetry like it's a front-page story
that shoved through the queue elbowing people
to be first... hit the molten iron into shape while it's
amber hot... reference actual immersion in the world
(existence), rather than referencing non-immersion
in the world of idealism (essence / not
necessary essentials).

ejecting Jews from Europe never felt so sad...
long ago the Mozart was inspired,
then in the latter part of the 20th
century when Jews established themselves
in North America we felt that there
was no religious minority in Europe to
inspire us... we sorta forgot it was
worthwhile... even with Hasidism missing
we couldn't capture a Sufi movement,
we're talking Muslims who liked to drink
from Persia... i suggest the desert environment
as a way to avoid alcohol necessarily...
up north we drink to keep warm...
obviously the fundamentalists don't understand,
oh sure, sell me the polygamy of cultures
and later call my people vermin...
i'll be signing up from the word go!,
no ******... i'll resolve to antagonise your little
idea of media friendly democracy like
i always wanted to do it as:
i'll write about ******, but thanks to you
i'll write about ****** with realism,
i don't keep him a sacred evil we need to censor,
he's not a ******* Unicorn after all...
but by censoring discussion about him
i'm starting to think you're the SS men that
made the grade for Auschwitz by gorging out
the eyes of cats after the cats were petted for 2 months...
he's not a unicorn, not some mythological creature...
he was real, and he made things into autobahns...
criticising my reference to him is like
defending him...
Eva Bruan was a part of the Jewry, her genetic
geography tells us so...
ever watch the scientific program saying so?
how can i be part British part Vermin?
i don't understand...
but once the Jews left Europe and the Muslims kept
coming people went nuts...
i see no cultural output worth minding giving this
exchange... at least the Jews weren't eager
beavers to convert people...
at least with the Jews in Europe we had cultural
expansion... let the whiteys do the ugly work
on the American continent, worshipping a
god crucified rather than seated on a throne
will help...
                   ****** isn't a ******* unicorn!
Julian Tuvim from Łódź rhymed him under:
but still a human being...
he was gassed in the trenches and so he later
gassed others... he's the epitome of karma...
no, i don't own a Mein Kampf... sorry...
ask the Croat Nazis if they own a copy
when they joined the Serbs when cleaning
Sarajevo and Kosovo...
as in my reading of Philip K. **** and that
psychotic book entitled: Valis....
just before i was supposed to be confirmed
by a Bishop of Brentwood, but wasn't,
i started sniffing the school library,
read Stendhal before i was 18...
then the Gnostic library...
the Nag Hammadi library sorta undid the work
behind criticising Christianity,
i really have no need to talk about it...
but from the introduction...
VALIS, acronym of Vast Active Living Intelligence
System, from an American film;
a perturbation in the reality field in which
a spontaneous self-monitoring negentropic vortex
is formed, tending progressively to subsume
and incorporate its environment into arrangements
of information. characterised by quasi-consciousness,
purpose, intelligence, growth and an armillary coherence.
  - great soviet dictionary, 6th edition, 1992;
       western society's twin? the DSM-V or the DSM-IV...
   western society isn't saintly, deal with it.
already concerns about inventing words
to create custard...
    - armillary, etymologically Latin meaning bracelets
  - the word negentropic doesn't even exist...
              i'm suggesting: negativity concerning the tropics...
              but the word as such, doesn't exist...
it could very well be: negating the tropical allure...
i don't know, it's Soviet... i'm just thinking
about the next whiskey, and how spiders outlived
Buddha's concept of meditation, or how spiders
inspired people to take up meditative yoga...
i can watch a spider practice enlightening meditative
yoga counter gravity on the web... and sorta
sniff-up a laugh...
but i'll admit... American Head Charge did
a Jimi Hendrix to Patti Smith's rock 'n' roll ******
as Hendrix did to Dylan's all along the watchtower;
so yeah, ejecting the Jews from Europe,
sympathising with Palestinians,
we're having fashion week discussions about
cloth and skin... Vogue says... we make these girls
anorexic so they can model and we can save up
on the raw materials, that's why we starve them...
imagine having to tailor for a size 18...
it's cheaper to feed them champagne caviar and lettuce
and a few m & ms...
no, i see not inspiration being born in Europe,
actually, having located the Jews in America
we're only going to get crap...
cheap humour, charcoal chewing gum cheesy-smiles,
as Joseph Roth mentioned... the doppelgangers...
yeah, Joseph, not Philip Roth, Joseph Roth...
shame the Jews moved from Europe...
they're in America churning out **** comedy,
a sort of humour that's slapstick attempting
witty-satire... i.e. Mel Brooks meets Ricky Gervais...
it's like you're about to be slapped, and instead
of laughing with the person who slapped you
you headbutt K.O. them; i guess that's funny.

silt is sand and sand is silt
let them ride it out like
Shelley & Keats

romantics  deep in that sand
because if they had sunk
the toes into the fleshy
parts and more then I must

confess that they would
tell on them selves
they who were

true were wild
like wolves
without apology,
and they died
exactly so

Xactly so shall
they all true souls
pay blood  to the
witness, seeing is all you have

you must be a laugh
the one with the wings too survive
when camps happen

camps are coming
for me and for you
if you don't see it

it still don't stop
the mein campf

And when mein kampf
Is placed in shelves
Art twists to fit in boxes
Of a must ache (or a mustache)
And a must have
And a must not be
Blue-eyed soldiers of fortune
Encompassing poles across every direction
Aryan infernos piercing the nightline
Razing pillars of the stars
As Abraham weeps over his children
Seeing through their eyes
The thorns he long thought
Died along with the past

502 bad gateway bypass:

title - veil-machine
body - otherwise no curtains
found.

perhaps: aujourd'hui, maman est morte sounds better in German... heute, mein mutter ist gestorben... maybe: at least in my eyes that have inverted themselves from hearing external sounds and summon thought to the hall of music and said: thinking is a sound, mind you: thinking is all the sense jumbled up - never mind "hearing" oneself "think" or for that matter... without hearing: on the broken bones in fingertips of gesticulating frantically the same as: could you please spread butter on my toast to... i'm drowning! help me!

i very much like the opening line from one of my favourite books... favourite is sort of stretching it, i picked it up by accident in a Barnardo's second hand book store on Nicholson St. in Edinburgh during the Fresher's Week, when i lost my virginity to Isabella and decided that i would adamantly learn French... although i hated French in high school i thought: well... if we started slow and she introduced me to Japanese Anime of a kind i didn't know before... i remember she scolded me for having three picures on the wall, one of Plato, one of Napoleon and one of Marquis de Sade... she didn't mind Marquis de Sade... but virginity for a man is nothing to be kept... it's something that one wants to get rid off... so i started this French course, failed it, because... i didn't attend any of the classes... except for the literature classes... were... to no "oddly enough" we were studying The Stranger... seeing as i "pre-meditatively" bought the book in english... i had to buy the book in French...

oh, the French language... it's almost as bad as English when it comes to surds, i.e. silent letters that are not heard when spoken but clearly visible when written... like in English... little words: to and no vs. too, row "vs." row... to row in a boat... with oars... and a row of birds sitting on a telephone line... a horse is a horse is a gallop and a stirrup and there's also a hoarse... throat... glug glug... a hoarse throat... there's a soar throat too and that's different to i saw and sea-saw and Warsaw and soaring... which is a terrible way of saying: sorry...

rigid was never a language for me... but love is stupid and losing your virginity to an older girl is stupid and... well... i might as well have went to the oral exam at the end of the year and spoken Polish... or tried German... pretending to forget what course i took... instead i just sat there like an idiot... a castrated ... + an idiot... but hell! i aced the literary side of things... i got a 1st for my interpretation of The Outsider... grades being grades... not everything in life that you learn within the confines of: that acid-riddled memory-erosion cesspit of pedagogy has any market value trans-evaluation of: good grades equals better pay... this was a lesson for life...

mother died today. or maybe it was yesterday, i don't know...

for one? terrible punctuation,
i once heard my English teacher tell me...
never begin a sentence in a paragraph of a journalistic
column with a conjunction, akin to OR or AND...
it's bad grammatical etiquette:
it's one thing to reinvent sushi by mixing it up
with some dried, fried onions and a sriracha mayonnaise
and another to serve the same fried dried onions
with a sickly sweet almost Hoisin resembling sauce...
with slices of raw salmon on a bed of rice
rather than those rolls with still the raw salmon
but with some cucumber and creamy cheese
and black sesame to go with it...

maybe i can rewrite that aujourd'hui in German again,
returning to English for German LEGO...
mutter gestorben heute; oder veilleicht
    es war gestern: ich weiß nicht....

i like this: ich weiß nicht...
        it's not... i repeat... it's not:
                         es ist mir egal...
i.e. it's not: i don't care... care... no wonder it's so
pivotal in the German tongue that
Heidegger made CARE so pivotal in his thinking
since: it's so pivotal in the German language
when the German language is translated...
there is no simple, word-for-word,
i.e.  i don't know: ich weiß nicht.
i worry: ich bin besorgt
   eh? i worry is indefinite...
   i is indefinite... there is no definite i...
i struggle is an indefinite phrase...
which i made a joke of once: mein kampf is a definite
expression via ownership...
ich kampf: i struggle is an indefinite expression
of "ownership": since... at any given time
my ego is swayed to "think" of "its" own "existence"
through a muddle of personal memory,
memory erased by pedagogy,
dreams... other people's thoughts...
mein: definitely, since own...
ich? indefinitely, since hey presto here one minute...
hey presto... Houdini pulled a rabbit out
of a top hat not by the ears but by the tail...

today within the confines of tomorrow...
but what is a "today" when you wake up
and remember a dream...
was the dream from yesterday?
was the dream related to yesterday?
just because you went to sleep yesterday
and woke up today... doesn't mean
the interlude of dreaming you had
might make any linear sense relating yesterday
to today or for that matter tomorrow...
so... muddling the yesterday with today
given the accenting of dreams on the psyche...
well... ich weiß nicht (i don't know)
is a rather "passive" attempt... hell: a most proactive
attempt to compartmentalize grief...
it's not: I DON'T CARE...
oh... i do care... but i want to be numb to
the reality that comes first and the knowledge
that comes after of the fact that... there's...
i swear German as a tongue would require
another Heidegger to explore the word
ABSENCE... FEHLEN...
   Abwesenheit is too close, synonymously,
with Abstrahieren...
                heit (-ness)
                   hieren (here)
    hereness... hierenheit... counter to da-sein?
that Dasein is: there-being... me asking: there's being
and be subsequently conjuring hierenheit?!
coincidence... unless that £60 i spent on the black notebooks
and another £30+ more i will spend on the final volume?
maybe?!

maybe that's why i'm so attracted to the continental
mode of thinking, Germanic or otherwise...
i find that, as much as the English adore pressurising
people as atoms into an atomised stated of:
suddenly! the individual was born!
out of thin air! out rebellion!
out of... the demands for everyone else getting
their fair share of intellectual growth...
there is no intellectual growth in the English mind:
the English are too sensible a people to complicate
the matters of thought if there's no:
******* COMMON SENSE FOR THEM AT THE END!
"they" even have a word for it...
it amazes me how sometimes i forget specified nouns
for their destined use... ergonomics?
that will do for a while...

the English don't tend to deal with reality by creating
pockets of abstract reality of:
nicht-sein-da...
            which is a splendid joke that can't be
unravelled by translating Dasein from Deutsche...
for me there is either: sein-da und nicht-sein-da...
a future of a concern, a care...
a waiting pit of that carefully adjusted performance
art of doing the bit of the mortal lot...
i sometimes wake up at night woken up
by the simple fact of mortality:
and i'm glad to be snuggling in bed, alone
with only thinking as my companion...
at least with the thinking my ego can walk through
and peer at mirrors... see its grotesque nature
it's parasitic gluing to a "me" together with
all those wasted daydreams and acts of
non-fruition...
  
i find nothing in English thought that might give
me architecture or backbone to complete
individuality: a process of individuation...
nothing in Locke... i have not bothered with English
"thinking"... the infrastructure is too sensible...
of transport of taxes of... whatever the:
kleinmann erachten unbedingt!

for the simple fact... what is a public intellectual
in the anglo-sphere? a person who goes into
the public domain with a ******* bibliography?
seriously?
backlog of ideas or, something?
regurgitating ideas of the more shy of the intellectual
heap of dung that once could be called
the iq herd?
        at least by reading continental thinkers i
have enriched my private life...
perhaps i enjoy my work perhaps i don't...
i find it absolutely unnecessary to find friendship...
if i can at least stand myself,
conquer this barrage of randomness coming
from an otherwise untameable ego...
let it pass let is pass i say to the innermost "not-i"
while the outermost "i-i" shouts belligerent day-mares
of.... e.g. being cut-short in a queue to a bus...
let that ****** slide... wait... until i bring
forth the reigns of scribbling finger-tips
and all thinking stop! when there's a clear graphic
for grammar, construction, punctuation
and abbreviations (if necessary) of seen sentences:
seen sentences not some ghosts of mere thought!

gut... mein mutter ist nicht tot...
nicht heute, nicht gestern: noch nicht morgen...
i just thought it was weird,
the comparison...
the dimmed lights of the hospital room
she was wheeled into...
and... the dimmed lights of the brothel room
i usually **** prostitutes in...
dimmed lights...
i carefully plucked the grapes off the vines
for her and placed them before her...
i pinched pieces of brownie dough
and dropped them into a bucket of vanilla ice
cream for her... which she gladly ate...
i watched as she ate that baked potato with
an inverted gluttonous pain from coming out
of the anaesthesia...
forgetting she was half alive half head...
some other quarter falling asleep another missing
quarter talkative...
those dimmed lights and the sarcastic green of
the demands of Hippocrates charming the serpent
as: to no avail... the usurper of the sexualised
metaphor, aged throughout Europe,
serpent, the bringer of temptation and hardly
the wisdom...
long before dinosaur bones were discovered
the people were conjuring up fire breathing dragons...
like... pre-meditatively... what?
the fire born was not the meteor and the fall-out
and yet some dinosaur remains
remained alive while the bigger breeds died?!

to think i might have read Kant or Heidegger or anyone
for the purpose of quasi-pedagogy and not have
read said authors for gains in the realm
of personal gains of obstructing access to
the sort of: puddle-people: pfützemenschen...
people who like to see life's point as:
one complication after another
by allow less than complicated people complicate
their already simple lives...
isn't a simple life worth salvaging?
isn't it?!

as they rolled her in from the hysterectomy operation...
in some, rare, cases... a woman's womb acts
like a man's hernia...
i suffered from a hernia as a toddler...
unlike in men... the female version pushes
a piece of tissue inwards... rather than outwards...
my great-grandmother walked with a bulging sack
of a third ******* of a disused womb until her death
because she was too old to have an operation
guided by the Hippocratic concerns:
her heart her stomach might not salvage her
morality with the applied anaesthetic...

but it felt very much like going to a brothel...
i was looking at my mother drifting in and out of a morphine
15min snooze button...
my father looking morbidly worried...
me? smiling face... giggling... trying to fill a space...
my father is a morbidly worried
swan... i sometimes wonder...
would i be worse off caring for my old father
if my mother died before him...
or would i be better off if my father died off
before my mother... i sometimes wonder...
it's still a coin flip... since the reality is yet to come
and i'm having the abstract ready...
this is me looking at my mother in a secure environment
secured by prescribed injections of morphine...
she has also seen me in my "prime"...
what's 40 units x 7 days a week?
280 units of alcohol in a week...
40 units? one bottle of 1 litre of whiskey per day...
when i was at my highest borne Berserker in scribbling
for people who are yet to be born...

we came home i heated up some leftover pasta,
some leftover chicken wings...
some clear chicken soup... it would be considered
a chicken stock by western culinary standards...
ROSÓŁ... but were carrots added?
was celeriac, was celery, was a leek, was root parsley
and fresh parsley, garlic added?
served with vermicelli?
           i watched him relax and watch West Ham beast
Derby in the FA cup... calmly...
the cats were fed... already sleeping in each
of our two beds...

            oh sure sure... romance... like that isn't too impossible
these days...
the congestion of older generations?
to replace them with what?
we cucks united bridging gaps with the already
satiated single-mommies and puppies
of: cuck...
             jeez... headaches from no known sources...

well i can tell you how similar a visit to a hospital
is similar to a visit to a brothel...
you're chasing...
i found myself chasing the queuing of mortality
with my mother today...
only three days ago i was chasing the queuing of
****** experience with a *******...
i'm yet to join the queue of
losing my father...
i know of losing my great-grandfather: vaguely,
i certainly know of losing my great-grandmother
and i know of losing my grandfather...
i'm yet to experience the loss of a friend,
or... "friend"... someone i used to know in high school...
by then it will be almost like losing
someone equivalent to
Michael Schumacher... or... Nelson ******* Mandela...
importance of whatever and that sniff of ZILCH...

a ******* cat with less to say than already said
will have more to say upon its passing than
Neil Armstrong's theatre for the global populace
and the moon conquered... one step for...
some dared not blink some slept through it...
just as long as the technology of it being televised was
real: it doesn't matter whether it was real...
if reinventing the canvas for a painting was
to be translated into the modern world...
television, per se, as the canvas... would... and is...
more important... than whether
it' a comparison of... the laziest example...
Leonardo's Mona Lisa or Picasso's the Weeping Woman...
NIQAB and the BEAUTY
NAKEDNESS and the BEAST...
or rather... NIQAB and the forever thirst for MYTH
of Woman as once, only then and ever...
faking to decipher by a Flaubert...
the ***** in my mind is the Madame Bovary
for women to pretend to be...
obviously they won't... but? does that matter?

hmm... first in german, then in english

i'm under the impression, that this breed of cats
i'm given the authority of: Maine *****...
behave like dogs... and unlike cats...
how clingy they are, less to me and more to my abodes...
they simply recognise me as the possessor
of space and not a timing of space:
with the requirement of others to fill the void...

katzen sich benehmen wie ***̄DE!
absolve all use of diacritical usage
within the staged, up! "lifting" of h to H...
keep i dotted from above within the confines
of I... or J...
are those speckled "hens" necessary

     ah what fun i could have with this
tongue so barren with the implosion of Latin
with what fellow European tongues ascribed
their idiosyncrasy to...
but of course:
           aber natürlich!
Ęnglisch nicht!
                   ßo! die welt überflutet diese inseln!

sie kam mit ihr zeppeline...
mit ihr senf...
mich? mich?!
ich kam mit die trauer...
keine hure könnte verstehe...

the grey the old the white and the black:
the night and the death to come!

der graue das alte das weiß und das Schwarze:
die  nacht und der tod, kommen.

death before life seems so less not-welcome
when speaking just a little bit of German!
mein gott! what a relief to have found
such miserably happy people allocated
a step-by-step realism of abstracting
pocketed-senses of... to **** with
that "umlaut of Hinduism"!
Heinrich... *******... Tibet suits you oh so well!
******* skiing in that crisp-cut welcoming bond with
the Buddha to serve no future Buddha under the Chinese
regime...

       tat ich vergessen etwas?
                          möglicherweise... sie?

me never think i think this tongue through...
mich noch nie denken ich denken diese zunge durch...

moren bein quartal nach elf...

getoastet roggen-brot:
             pochiert-ei
         spitzen... klacks von
hähnchenspermaeigelbpapst...

                  n'est ce'pas: die toten sind tot?

Alles, was man machen kann,
wäre seine Stunden zu lernen,
und jede Verstoß zu vergeben.

Nun, wenn das nur so leicht zu tun wäre!
Ich vermute, doch, ohne Kampf,
kein Nutzen würde bekommen.

Die Behinderung ist der Pfad.
-
All that one can do
would be to learn his Lessons
and to forgive each Transgression.

Now, if only that were so easy to do!
I conjecture, though, without Struggle,
no gain would be had.

The Obstacle is the Path.

Feeling empowered by president-elect
Trump, racist groups are emerging,
While in the past couple weeks
The number of hate crimes has been surging.

Over the past weekend a group
Celebrated the recent election
With Richard Spencer giving a speech
That shows the group's true complexion.

Spencer, current leader of
The National Policy Institute,
Ended his speech with "Hail, Trump!"
While listeners gave the **** salute.

The speech, referring to a "great struggle"
Of the white race--"people of the sun"--
Was full of white ethnocentric
Jargon, boldly and hatefully spun.

Sounding like ****** in MEIN KAMPF,
Spencer is one who advocates
Ethnic cleansing all across
Europe and the United States.

Groups once on the fringe now feel
That Trump and Steve Bannon provide
A platform for them to spread their hate
And bigotry nationwide.

Unless Trump speaks out and condemns
Hate groups using his name to spread
Their racist messages, then this country
Faces scary times ahead.

- by Bob B (11-22-16)

Have you ever noticed how dark the world really is?
And I'm sorry if this isn't what you needed to hear.
So, if my sadness offends you, or hurts you, stop here



I feel alone constantly.
My insomnia consumes the one moment of the day when I am at peace,
I cannot ******* sleep
I have lost weight
My excuse:
I just..
don't eat the way I used too.
I'm white
somehow my school thinks that makes me ******* ******.
As if I read Mein Kampf as a Bedtime story
In fact I hate ****** with every bone in my body...just like everyone else.
WHAT A ******* SHOCKER, RIGHT?!?!
Anyways,
I have to go to a church function today
more like being dragged
See,
everyone says, "you have to believe in something"
But after 8 years with an abusive father,
An apparently "Blind" mother (for not seeing it, of course)
I have nothing to believe in, except for the evil in man.
I believe,
and you can quote me on this,
All I know is that I'm on the planet,
I don't give a **** how I got here, how this place was created,
All I know, I'm here,
I'm living
I'll have a little fun
and eventually die.
(which for some people, that day can't come soon enough)
Which reminds me,
hey, even though you don't know me
would you mourn me?
Would Hello Poetry be the same, with one soul lost?
Would you?
would you?
I don't expect you too.
I'm still here,
still living
still pushing
still breathing (but just barely)
Thanks for listening to me
taking the time to read me
because this poem is me.
I'm sorry I'm depressing
should I be though?
Ain't I like every other human being,
Allowed to feel?
I make music, you know.
It helps me not feel lost.
Not feel broken.
and what's funny,
people hate that about me, too
If you feel so compelled,
(and no, this poem is not just for you to hear my music)
here's the link
https://soundcloud.com/user-123704847
See,
I scream in my music,
some love it
I love it
its how I feel
how I bleed
How I survive
Some hate it,
devil worshiper
yep,
that's me
that guy who worships Satan
Which of course, isn't true.
But,
as always,
*life is full of assumptions.

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.

trafficking ideas:

sad first,
angry: much much later.

i'm leaving  a trail of unfinished poems behind, half efforts (almost)... oh no... i'm not having a dissociation meltdown of a second coming, i'm pretty focused, ah... it's like what Nietzsche said about writing the most content within the fewest number of words... i was never a fan of maxims or aphorisms... i know why i'm writing unfinished poems, or rather, why i don't want to finish them... i rekindled my relationship with marijuana / Afghan hash and i stopped using synthetic components to induce sleep, i.e. painkillers / anti-inflammatory drugs (same ****, different cover)... maybe that's why... or the fact that for all my efforts in writing? i have yet to reap any rewards... on the monetary front... ergo? no proper incentive to continue with a seriousness... or the fact that i started living again and it's a life of postcards, nothing worth celebrating let alone writing about, but precisely! the "petty life" grosses the best yield in terms of being scribbly-fertile, as i am...

i still can't understand it, i woke up in a daze...
i'm still pretty dazed...
if i am a man... unlike what Harold Norse mentions
with regards to him not being a man...
categorically, outright, Harold Norse exclaims that
he's not a man...
well... un-categorically me: if i am a man
(it's a bit like writing ich kampf rather than mein kampf...
i struggle is a continuum "bias"
rather than an ownership stressor,
i struggle is indefinite, i.e. when pronouns meet
the articles
while my struggle is definite, i.e. my coupled with the
as oppose to i coupled with a)

anyway... what's your name? Alina... how old are you?
22... at first i thought i didn't notice the plumpness
of her young body... i pretended it wasn't a familiar
sight of when i was 21 and she was 19...
full *******... although... she asked if i minded
her Cesaerian cut on her tummy?
no, of course not, that's before she didn't see me
standing with my back facing her and my "clipped wing"
scar of a shark-bite laser on my shoulder-blade...

i could tell she was pregnant... the ******* were slacked
or rather: tortured by a baby's suckling...
i never had a girl so petite before...
it felt ****** weird... i looked like a monster
after i climbed out from out of the shower
and started to dry myself while she started to undress herself...
when i put her hand into mine it
disappeared i should have cut off my index!
exactly! my index finger rather than my pinky
in order to give her a chance of pairing up with my hand...

raven hair, all the **** pretty features...
but... i must be a ******* outlier or something because
the whole affair started off well...
finished? even the prostitutes are changing...
she doesn't want to do this, clearly she's not the type
that likes ***... of all the ones i slept with pretty
much all of them enjoy ***... borderline pornographic
acting styles, but it depends...
i'm a paranoid p. so i get to play that game
of hide it or fake it quite a lot (oh thank god
i didn't qwerite quiet)...

all those men gurus online... young, fertile women...
yeah... if you want to have children...
but ***? maybe a 21 year old is more relatable to a 19 year
old given it's a different atmosphere
and you're both young... but a 36 year old man
and a 22 year old woman?
i'm not going to go through some *******'s worth
of a mea culpa as to why i didn't ******...
sure... i had an ******* at first... but then?
i switched off... it was borderline necrophilia...
i swear to god ******* a 22 year frightened little creature
is borderline necrophilia:
i don't care what the pornographic industry shows you
when there's this petite girl and some Hulk...

first encounter, upon a second encounter i'll need
to break her mentally, she'll have to give me her
lips to kiss... for starters she'll have to not watch
some much ******* TikTok videos and pay more
attention to me... how i will do this, i don't know...
well... i devised one way of doing it...
i'll have to come in my casual clothes,
expose the Karl Lagerfeld in me...
a tree wearing a baker-boy cap blah blah...

in that one night all my desires hit a ******* wall...
she was the first one that jumped at the opportunity
of starting ******* in a ******* position...
what was before me was the equivalent sight
of first seeing the cover of Marquis de Sade's novella
******: Hesperus, foreward by Janet Street-Porter 2003...
the aesthetic of a "tortured" plum of a woman's body...

no confusion concerning the apple of Eden...
the larynx of man and precisely for no reason should
there be mention of both the rib
and the phallus as somehow death and devil respectively...
even if i had any ******* envy, i cured that with
dissolving my former beard-envy...
but even with my desires men i felt beside content...

reframing: some hours later, it's a Friday night
and i just mixed some dark *** with some whiskey,
not a bad combination for foraging new music,
i thought Kula Shaker threw in the towel,
what do i find? the opening track from K20...
infinite sun... boys really came with a song to topple
Govindam...
mind you: i'm already converted to the sub-continents
cuisine...
i even took it upon myself to cook like Indian women,
i.e. not follow white girl tourist trail-blazing
with strict methodology...
i'm not an absolute hell-raiser of spices in the kitchen...

obviously the standards are in place, the base:
cumin coriander (seeds or powder),
green cardamom, chilli, turmeric,
garam masala...
now it's up to me whether to add coconut milk
cloves, black cardamom... always happy
to use the bay leaf... all spice? hell... why not...

what was i "talking" about prior...
oh... i feel relaxed... type in SELINA18
and it will give you a rough estimate of who i ****** last night,
aged 36... i'm surprised by a body only 22 summers old...
but i couldn't: i could for a period of time,
she's too young, i look like a monster compared
to her, she, this tiny creature...
i don't have ******* issues: i don't need
to be dropping blue pills... i know when it's
a woman's fault when i...

but she was the zenith of my hidden desires
and, hey presto, no surprises: she failed me...
a tight firm *** and all the more eager to
do it *******... what's with this aversion
of the eyes...
and her smart-phone screen addiction...
another put off...
i don't think she ****** enough men
who have put her off... if i was so unappealing
to begin with:
having washed myself prior to ***...
as is standard... she shouldn't have gloated at me
while the other 4 girls i already ******
smiled at me with enticement...

i'll learn, sooner or later... by now i'm *******
intrigued! i had to **** myself off to pictures
of legs donning nylon because i'm not into
too much pornographic culture and all that liberaton
*** *******...
funny... when i was younger all i wanted
to become was a monk...
well: now i'm just a ***** monk...
pair-bonding and all that evolutionary psychology
crap is sort of beside me:
i have one fault: why borrow...
why would man borrow the ontology of animals
and incorporate it into an ontology per se...

i don't care if animals have a soul or not...
they sure as **** have character...
esp. the ones you pet... not the wild ones...
the wild ones are generic... replications...
"clones"...
              not the ones you pet... though...
£25 worth of Afghan hash and i'm still smoking
it... it's coming up to 30 days...

i need to break this girl...
    not in a bad way... i just want her to feel pleasured
when she's with me...
i'm not a necrophiliac...
   i'm certainly not a dummy-******...
i need to steal her kiss... i need her to look me into
my eyes...
otherwise? i'll just please myself...
but i can't imagine how it began:
young women boasting all their prowess on street
interviews: but in the bedroom: frigid frightened
little things...

i must admit... woman sexuality still has some allure
left in the "bank"...
it's rare to find, but it's all hope when found...
i just asked the five... well... the four...
whether i was a funny man...
some Romanian whispers and i just wanted to know...
i received jack-**** in terms of coordinating
replies...

maybe her Caesar's scar thought i'd be put off...
the stretch marks on her stomach...
i don't know what put her off...
her being put off instigated me being put off...
oh... i'm not angry with myself:
my "ego" is not "wounded"... i'm just thinking...
i need to be a monster another time...
next time i'll toss that 5ft1 body from side
to side like i am the sea and she's a helpless ship...

oh **** me... i need to break this *****...
i made mistakes in my life...
but when it comes to crafting a luxurious pleasure
from ***: there's no past there's no future
there's only a here and now...
she was silent, i was silent...
i sweated from the shift like a boar
being chased to chase the wild out of him
and perform the arts of the Eden barber shop
on it for the boar to become a pig...

Romanian girls... well thank **** they're not
English or the glutton-free--prone American accents...
i hate the American accent...
it's so nasal and raspy... absolutely: totally:
uninformed about the affairs of men in the world...
when American women start peacocking
their accent on the train... i switch off...

what, a, strange, looking, creature, lying before
my arching over her with my clenched knuckles
giving myself grit and the proper function
of the pelvic piston... weird...

the last time i ****** someone much younger than
me... at 36 and she's 22...
wow... i just couldn't help myself from
tearing apart the body size difference...
i became a monster...
literally... if the female to male dynamic works
in the favour of females
in the insect realm with spiders and mantises...
**** me: in the realm of mammals...
we're going back to ******* basics...

the shift started pleasant enough...
i was paired up with cerebral palsy
Martin for the night... we talked about the "weather"
an ****...
funny moments came...
even the punters were looking at us in a weird
spotlight when i was left with no armour except for
giggles when i was picking him up...
Martin: dear dude... come on... you're going
to give me a second hiatus of pain of a hernia..

so i showed him a profile picture of one of the girls
we're working with...
i showed him the picture...
then told him who she was: the daughter of this
most ugly looking "dude"...
there and then i watched him "catch wind"
a whirlwind... he folded like a pancake...
he twirled saying **** me on repeat
before falling on his ***...
i had to giggle a bit while picking him up...
yeah, i told you, Martin, that she was a stunner...
a 10 out of 10...
the sort of girl you'd make sure that Guns 'n' Roses'
November Rain was the last song you ever heard...

what came next? i wasn't expecting my coworker
to almost start nibbling on my ear while
whispering into it some horrid gossip...
well... that's me ******* off to the brothel...
as i sat across the whole five lot of them...
all of them smiling...
am i? that special? or ******* spastic-fantastic...
i just finished a shift... this "work" is not challenging enough...

fair enough: getting your ear nibbled at like
it might be an oyster about to getting gulped down...
so i went to a brothel...
i always thought: if you see a fox or a cat
in your squandering ways doing
the best of keeping sanity by automatically
vomiting in the Ancient Roman sense
of easing the passing of judgement...

there she sat with a pretty face...
a pretty face for a prettier goodbye...
an even prettier hello..
22... Alisa... if not Romanian then at least Turkish...
body buys no body
and there's this headache within the confines
of the heart...

but i'm not going to blame myself for a limp-****...
if she's only 22, she still needs to learn from
inexperience...
she needs to **** plenty more men before she
***** me again and i'm up to her standard...
it felt like doing a "thing": all prosthetic...
she was so much smaller than me...
of course i didn't ******...
how could i? she was disengaged...
she forgot how much fun *** could be...

what astonishing lies we tell each other...
just in order to pretend to not have
told them before...

22... i tried engaging with her:
she was more engaged with TikTok videos...
i tried to be tender with her like
i might ever be with the flesh of an orange and the peel...
of course i didn't ******...
she just said: do you have to drink?!
but i like drinking...
do you have to be attempting to be so disused...
so absent-minded? that you have to
watch Chinese propaganda snippets?!

i don't mind climaxing...
she's only 22... she asked me: do you mind
the Caesarian cut on the stomach?
while i asked her if i could smoke a cigarette...
i showed off my own scar of a clipped wing...
do you mind?!
i can't ****** if what i'm dealing with is a girl
in her 20s and not readied for
the flea and flesh market...

but that doesn't bother me...
enough of the night is available for all of us to somehow
wish we had the *** lives of rock stars...
i just recall being blockaded
before leaving the brothel...
some other punter was coming in...
wow! the moment i walked in all five of them were smiling...
yes, i trimmed my beard... come Saturday and
i'll torture my hair... i'll come ln Tuesday
and i'll wear my casual worn...

what a pristine body... such a tiny... almost porcelain
indignant "sorrow" of
whenever under-performing...
my fault?! my fault?!
         *** is a case of what happens: both ways...

just because she's smaller than you...

in theory contra: through experience...
younger women are a turn off...
                           they are unruly with their bodies
that are only geared up for reproduction
and not geared up for bedroom fun...
they are stiff... they are toughened with
expectations...
                         just as bad as virgins...
what?! i'd rather **** an experienced *******
with saggy **** in her late 30s
than a ******* in her 20s with the most pink-peachy
pair of ****... but with no clue how to have a quickie
with a man...
what?! the ****** revolution happened for
no reason? i can't, just blatantly state the *******
facts?!
like **** i won't... i will...
but i'm not an explorer concerning the sort
of people associated with getting bored
with standard ****** positions...
have *** less = enjoy the ******* more...
simple, no?

tight ******* ***... my god... but she switched off...
i too practice the Ancient Roman rite
of passage when it comes to regurgitation...
whenever i'm constipated or ate too much...
i ***** in an automated mode...
i don't even need ******* down my throat
to instigate the throwing up...

so i've been following up on some counter-culture
material in the "manosphere" for some time...
inter-****** dynamics of "things"... really?
that infamous term: c.c. i.e. ****-courasel?
seriously? turns out...
i don't feel like doing the sort of work
that the men "at the top" perform in order to
get such access to "****"...
me? i just want to sleep throughout
the night, with synthetics,
i just want to listen to some good music, man...
seriously.... i want to scuba-dive with
a thrill of what happens when water or gravity
**** each ohter up...

rought ***... hard to find... not with an inexperienced
22 year old who has just given birth...
has stretch marks and a scar of giving birth to prove
leaving her youngling with her grandparents
and her ******* off to England to work as a *******...

i too wanted to age with someone...
tend to a fireplace...
drop acid and have an aquarium: certainly not
the original proposal i received,
i.e. grow old and watch the television set...
**** the t.v.!
my brain is already fried from all
the interactions i'm having:
i need someone with *******
cerebral palsy to make for a stimulating
conversation, for, ****'s sake!

no, men are not visual creatures...
men are auditory creatures too...
if there was no Picasso there was also no Mozart!
i watch ******* on mute:
if i watch it... usually i just flick through
legs exposing themselves in nylon...
at work i'm suddenly **** and a threat to
the other "alpha males" because i'm bilingual:
i find it funny, they find it funny...
it's all funny-funny...

i don't need to ******* with a woman
and later smoke a cigarette of Afghan hash to
find a wormhole for my heart to sink into
and twirl and...

hmm... and... what was this end of and?
me feeling guilty?
            wow for every other wow to come
in a row and for me to give
two ***** and commas for it to boot!

Billy found, what he thought to be, a wise old book.
Turns out, it had been written by a wretched crook.
Without this knowledge, Billy read it all.
While sitting down several lunches, in a high school hall.

The pages were pretty haggard.
Though, the message within wasn't staggered.
The cover and introduction had been ripped out.
Leaving its title a matter of doubt.

This was one of the first things Billy had read.
Little did he know, through its author, many were dead.
The contents of this book, filled with hate.
A diary written from behind a prison gate.

Teachers, who saw the boy reading, told Billy they were proud.
And did so in front of his fellow students, aloud.
Billy was told he was well on his way.
To a good job gifting him hefty pay.

Then, one day, Billy punched a Jew,
In a tempered assault witnessed by few.
Teachers asked about what had caused the act.
Billy held up the book as a matter of fact.

He spoke with a hatred unknown to most,
But believed it righteous as he was quick to boast.
One teacher plucked the book from his hand.
Seeing Mein Kampf, he was quick to understand.

whatever remains of heraclitus' works,
does not matter, as much as what the zenith of his
writing proposes, namely the λoγoς -
                 and since that word has been ingested
by the thesaurus hydra rex -
                         well... there are many avenues of
expressing that word, to whatever end is necessary
to finally reach a cul de sac;
              the concept is obviously much older,
but as a single word, it shortens the famous suggestion
prior to the unit's emergence: in the beginning
there was word, and the word was (with) god...
    and yes... then god shut up, and forgot language
and turned to pure emotion... and he became jealous,
like a woman might tend to be...
      well... he "forgot" it... he just gave it away,
like pennies to a ****** busker in a tube station.
             so that genesis quote had a kafkaesque moment
with the greeks, when it simply became λoγoς.
    the thing is... what interests me, is, say, the following
comparison:    you see a low flying aeroplane...
                    the aeroplane is the λoγoς... but then there's
the sound being dragged behind,
       and you almost displace where the plane is and where
the sound is, that the aeroplane is emitting.
   the concept of λoγoς? it was derived from philosophy...
i can't believe it has taken so long to figure out a compliment
to the λoγoς concept... and there is one...
                                                                    φoνoς,
with its etymological shortening derived from phoneticism,
phonology (the first is a pseudo-origin,
                                   the latter an original-origin).
     an excess of comparison? if there need be for myth:
which of the two concepts would be thanatos and which hypnos?
well...  hypnos = φoνoς
               a lullaby is not written word, it's a sound...
        λoγoς ≠ hypnos -    since i'd further that by saying:
insomnia is a descent into hades... or that reading before you
fall to sleep allows you to actually fall asleep, is like saying
     that, ergo:          λoγoς = thanatos:
  simply because it's not alive.
        then again, λoγoς = thanatos, for reasons i can't really
explain... mein kampf?
                           yet what i wanted to be succinct has spiralled
out of my control, although something i wanted to say is retained
with what i'll conclude with:
if the concept of λoγoς was derived from philosophy...
then the natural compliment to it, would have to derive from poetry,
and the concept of φoνoς has been derived from poetry...
   yet the two never really meet in some siamese absurdity...
the reason for that is that φoνoς is "protected"
          by the onomatopoeia...
                   o
λoγoς      ν
                    o
                    μ
                    α
                    τ
                     o  
                    π
                    o
                    η
                    ι        φoνoς
                    α
what this really represents is that, the λoγoς is limited with
regards to what the φoνoς doesn't bother to encode,
for exmple, imitating the chirping of birds by whistling,
and certainly the φoνoς would not descend to the ridiculous
level that the λoγoς might, when expressing a dog barking,
i.e. woof! in a way φoνoς tricks the λoγoς  by employing
the concept of onomatopoeia, to make it look, absolutely ridiculous,
that it might actually descend to such a debased level;
perhaps it's just poetry per se, and perhaps that's just poetry
being folled by the logos, but the fact that logos can descend to
such muddy waters, tells me that: it can be a form of unreasoning
that does not make λoγoς, the citadel it was thought to be.
     in other words, not everything can be expressed,
                                    either side of the onomatopoeia.
still, if poetry could have ever provided a compliment to philosophy,
it really has taken, a god awful time to do so.

i know that the devil is blamed for much evil, but so little evil is condensed into words... imagine what good would have arisen had mein kampf been protected from the assurance of third party muscles being exerted into verbs from orientating out of nouns with ego as pro / favouring the disnobling of stone with a human voice as thus named, stone, thrown. imagine? too late, history has been written; hell... evil doesn’t really write, it just acts on impulse... good writes a lot, so much that being good becomes fiction, obviously, since fiction exists, which naturally compares with evil furthered as a denial of some sort in the historical context orientating an established contnet.*

so a bunch of anthropologists and some other etc.
met at the top of the pyramid and discussed
whether a labourer believed in paradise right at the bottom...
and the labourer said... well... i don’t care
for top or bottom, but the corner-stone doesn’t exist
as a crucifixion for the rest of this structure to be
elevated and stable... surely?!
i actually forgot to mention in one poem,
christianity’s saving grace numbers only one:
doctor heal yourself...
well by saving i mean amused grace -
doctors reconsider proclaimed fault progress,
and thus claim knowledge as acquisition rendered revelatory
via progress rather than a stasis of intuition / i.e.
fake knowledge / hidden work, as all magic serves
in whatever limitation is necessary for a logic to express its full potential;
esp. if hidden and if revealed only upon the crucifix.
i hate those idiots at the top... the beatniks would have
just called them squares... we have to just call them atheists...
or if you’re polite english... ***** / wankers.

Vamos matar o presidente;

Vamos enterrar o João Goulart;

Porque o mundo está confuso;

E está sem estrada pra caminhar.

Estou aqui desde às 19:00 de ontem;

Só escrevendo como você me machucou;

E de como não consigo me submergir;

Dos seus olhos castanhos.

Preferia, continuar escrevendo sobre a Kampf;

Pelo menos, era uma paixão;

Que apenas iria acontecer no Dia de São Nunca.

Já você;

É uma paixão confusa e promíscua;

Que irá voltar;

Com os dois filhos no colo;

Reclamando: Falta de amor.

E quando eu disser ''sim'';

Você será um poema que não vou saber mais escrever.

always a return and as moving forward:
alway in retreat,
  to just quote empedocles:
         will you not end the terrible sounds of your ******?
do you not see that in your thoughtlessness you
are eating one another?
      indeed: what is the ego: if not a second mouth?
can i concede that this might be poorly written?
well: listen to a dialogue on scientology,
         conducted by joe rogan interviewing
a documentary maker louis therou(x), and try
to imagine how ****** writing can become a forest-fire
in society... i'd agree with you that heidegger
was terrible at using language, but then his magnum opus
took me 2 years to read...
                       and if you're interested in
the history of the third *****, outside of content,
it would be better for you to read the context of a hopeful
university professor than, say: reading the mein kampf.
          just saying... i'd **** out the politics of the zeitgeist
and look a bit deeper into the affairs...
    or how germany degenerated, what, given the treaty
of versailles?
                          how desperate people had to become
to later turn into: a volk of beethoven, schubert, schumann...
and the dr. satans of their days that numbered
  a span a 6 years.
                              i abhor psychology, i really have
not competent theory in this realm of learning, i'm sure
there is a competent cohort in some stratum of society
that could explain: no soul (psyche)... so these theories
better than i could. yet back to the greeks...
            psyche                  and narcissus -
a sound marriage?
                                  given these times... yes...
in that much needed allegory...
              originally it was narcissus and echo -
                                             but those days are seemingly
over: there is no longer talk of psyche and cupid -
             the suicide rates of teenagers?!
                         i have no need to treat the ego as a concept
that becomes a tulip, a rose and a field of lavender
  with freud, or c. g. jung... i need not these mental
stratas, these levels of codification:
accordingly with empedocles: my ego is just a second
mouth...
               that's it... there's nothing else;
and according to what is "good" quality writing...
             no one cares if ezra pound what he wrote, as if
he was writing in a telegram mode... but they sure as hell
give a **** saying: oh ya ya... t. s. elliot: fan-*******-tastic!
     even though ezra was the editor of the wasteland...
  so is "good" writing merely something pop,
and therefore simple? appealing?
                         to me: good writing is difficult;
      no one cares whether kraszewski is good,
                      most find him a bore, as a historian they
prefer to ref. pavel jasienica... why?
                   the former outpoured 30 books... the latter two...
and both wrote about the same time period of
the rise and fall of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
i'm all for intricacy, i don't like neat properly folded
napkin talk...
                       there's no need to stand for manners
and etiquette in general in writing... *** is never neat:
it's sloppy...
                                 unless you pay for it, so it then
becomes a contract... which doesn't mean that i sometimes
didn't leave the brothel after an hour and did have
an ******... and the ******* would look at me
with this horror of: huh?
                      jerking off? well: i wouldn't say
24 times a day... that would be pointless...
                            but the cult of the wendols -
which, as you might imagine, is borrowed -
                                       coincides with what happened
two years ago? it might be three or four; this english
politician found it abhorring that a woman was found
breast-feeding in public...    what the ****?
                                       can i have the other ******?
i dare say no one has really concerned themselves with
this realm of sexuality: of a husband competing
                    for the same affection as a baby might -
i'm not sure about the reasons for trying to explore this
very "sensitive" realm... but when a woman films herself
doing sexualised provocations (""?) and posts them online,
in the public sphere of things...
                                     you're thinking: maybe that
"parasite" (because that's how we're born, via the parasitic
route... that's not new... white tadpoles in some juice)
        well... that's the eroticism of the cult of the wendols:
i'm borrowing from cinema to understand something...
           there's this politician having a *****-fit when seeing
a woman breast feed in public...
   and then there's me and: the annoying brat screaming!
a baby screaming!
                            i can, but i don't have to look at the woman
breast-feeding: sure... she's pregnant and she's doing
this upper-body only dance...
                             i have a sheep-belly (socratic term
for bloated from alcohol) - the ****** element disappears
when the baby is ******* on it...
                when she's still pregnant and feeling *****
after walking the ****** Gobi desert for 9 months?
      well... you certainly can't feel guilty doing it
on a regular basis... given the chance that when you
imitate circumcision, the veins enricling that "excess"
could suddenly be ruptured... imagine that...
        death... by pleading out via a throbbing ****.
in the film, the wendols have a torso of a pregnant woman
dangling from their necks...
                  my, that really would be a rare paganism,
what with the original paganism and those *******
statues. (13th warrior... iraqi joins 12 vikings to defeat
the cannibals).

Many of the world's greatest Leaders throughout our tumultuous history have;
Many of  the insightful Revolutionaries in stink hole and glory hole countries have;
Many of the oppressed, disenfranchised and cheated also have.
Look to Lenin, Mandela, Gandi, Nehru, Havel, Bhutto, Ceausescu, Charles I, Papadopoulos, Lady Jane Grey, Louis XVI, Marcos, Milosevic, a pile of Mohameds, Mussolini, Nicholas II, Pinochet, Saddam, Marie Antoinette, Pope Clement V, Selassie, Baghdadi, Duvalier, and, let's not forget the author of Mien Kampf, Adolph the Tenderizer.
And what do they all have in common?
Some, before they became boldly notorious, and others, after they became criminally notorious.
Some, looked out their window and saw platforms being erected.
Others witnessed gallows, guillotines. posts and walls.
They all got some time in:
PRISON. GAOL. JAIL. COOLER. LOCKUP.  DUNGEON. KEEP. PEN. BASTILLE. CLINK. STATESVILLE. SLAMMER. STOCKADE. THE BIG HOUSE.
You get the idea.
His time will come.