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Madness Aug 2014
sehnsucht nach einer person*, würden menschen es in
worte fassen, dessen gebrauch sie gar nicht kennen.
oh nein, ich habe keine sehnsucht nach einer person –
ich habe heimweh. ich habe mich bei ihm – und
zwar egal wo: im bus, oder auch in einen dunkeln
raum, der gähnend leer ist, außer zwei personen
und eine handvoll worte, denen ich mich nicht
entziehen kann – mehr geborgen gefühlt, als
in meinen eigenen heim.

denn zu hause ist kein ort, sondern ein gefühl.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
Nothing set in stone can stand the test of time.

In the mode mankind has long called
talking to the maker,
listening for knowing, while

hoping merciful repair instruction
waiting
for the quest ion
to twist right
-indeed, I hand ground, with a tool,
toy like coffee grinder that gives fixin's
for a stout cup of robust character,

I bought it, for ten dollars,
had the beans,
bought the grinder, to give me a ritual,
something to spend two minutes doing,
each time I don't use a kuerig dealybob,
adding upper *** to my brewtime pacing
for blood pressure, while electric fire
fills my habitual yellow mug with umph.

Last week of October, all the girls
from the garden are hanging in the shade,
mellowing and emitting
nasal acknowledgment that something's
in the air, in the at most fearful zone's

made light of in the culture that
commercialized hallowing effects,
calling all and sundry come, think this
paradigm of time and chance and fate.
On or near
the third Tuesday after the last
Friday the thirteenth, in memory
of the fallen DeMolay and
of the Templars Money Power,
became sacred ***** to the victors,
in what must have been secret,
for some
time.
Secret treasures all carry curses.
Heart hordes hold plentyscarychits.

Horror film fans, value the genre,
at some certainly not shallow depth
toward center mass, media you, reader
dear to any writer drawn by forces
caffine and cannabis contrive to link,
I think,
and think,
and listen, and learn, and
learn, and live and learn, once more,
learn, and live on learning, wind
walking
thinking lines and times cross threads,
tighten right, down from up, stuck,

dead center, the first tie in reader,
lost
the most self centered individual ever,
once, we all get such a once, it's you,
reading a line riding a reason used
to hang the authors of confusion,
using old lies used to make slaves
of those whose houses, the boss said,
were made by the heathen for the chosen.

The riches of the wicked are laid up
for the just, is it not written, is it not so?

Fibers, strands, not long drawn out
end to end DNA strands crammed in you,
{but as a thought experiment, that distance
will leave the first timer incredulous, fine
point, credulousness, would you believe…}
meandering is rain twisting its way
to experience the sea and all it holds
in water memory that foam back along shores.
Edgewater
Seafoam and twigs,
and tiny sticky things. No,
Pondscumfoam at a puddle's edge
before the first snows.
Did you know…
Some Katscina have long plaited hairs
twisted from cotton,
patented seed, registered weevil free,
Pima cotton fiber, long desert strands.

Daily grind, think twice, cut once…
made the difference, indeed done
not thought about in theories of good
uses knowledge can be made of good
smoke and strong coffee with character.

AND the biggest indexed library in the universe.
{far as I can tell}
Kenophonia, eh, imposter syndrome?
First guess, you got me.
I see my name, wow, tough tag.
Then I met a cat named Cuitláhuac.
Tough tag for a kid in Spanish class.
Euphluxing idyotom automaton'/
bop.
You phony us, joy us riddle make you think
you know, kennen Sie, Ich bin ein fake.

Nein, es ist vieleicht Xenophobia, other people's eh,
opposing right lane reasonings as old as dominion.

Tech, teach us patience to learn with, or prove us
know it alls, therefore machines, not minds at all:
My own, for the use, under usus fructus rules,
Ai summarizes thus:
Kenophobia is an irrational fear
of empty spaces or voids.
It is the opposite of claustrophobia,
where the person is afraid
of tight spaces such as
elevators or crowded rooms,
auditoriums or malls.
In Kenophobia,
the person is terrified
of open fields or spaces that they generally expect
to be filled with mountains or people.
The word Kenophobia is derived
from Greek ‘kenos’
meaning ‘blank’
and phobos
meaning deep fear or aversion.

{aha, there's literature on the subject}
The fear can be passed on
from parents who have lived
in a house full
of stuff that fills the emptiness
of the home.
Filling voids gives the phobic personality the feeling
that they are placing boundaries
around themselves.
- {okeh, thank the whole idea tech is.}

Be honest, you never saw it said just so. Kenophobia,
pity such folk.

Have ye sent yer imps pulse to test my resolution,
have my effectually silent prayers been rebuffed?

Blown off, sent swirling with the motes dancing
in sunbeams peaking through a tough old live oak,
rattling its gnosis psuedonumos

Any morning, thus far, can start with
trickling falling sunlight.

It takes nearly half a day, in late fall,
for direct sunshine to dapple
the great granite wave my home rides, silly child poet, wishing words
will or would,
or could
or should make the universe
alter its course and force all things
to work together for me, the prayer,

me, the selfish
center of my experience
in your universe, all of which
is none of my handiwork, none at all.

Filling the emptiness some there
then I laugh, and think I lost count
so there was one…

Guess with me, a number,
between… no,
analyze, guess with me that rooted
science e-use, per se, must be ancient, deep wisdom
old as governing forces conceived by mankind,
magi sage staged conversations to teach,
public discourse
in my time allows me to be the seeker
guaranteed the prize, to be the bringer back
of the substance used to build the bridge,
between the you and the me, generally,
mere
Logos used in dialog.

God and mind determined to seem designed,
as in the Goldilocks lesson fed children of empire.

The northern clime survivors, thought themselves
the only people brought to the full duty of man,
the only set apart and given heros in story,
the grand saga of all we must each become.

Story born heros, from the child gifted language,
strings of sounds tied to things with threaded intuition,
same same, red and sweet, yellow and sweet,
red and black, step back, black and yellow, watch
and learn, smoking out the honey
from an old rotted tree,

following how many trails, at once,
parallel par-all-el yes, oddly, so far
On track, or in rut. All at once, each system
self esteeming umphumph push

Upto par, are we, 2023 and beyond, the flat tire
on the current axial age, fixing to imagine a scene,
in a community of broken children,
led by two twisted adult children of mean, maybe selfish,
adults who disputed the legitimacy of ligous gnosis knots.
The scene we share, we can imagine meaning
Religize legality, tie me to my tree.

Ancestor worth, how come you think somethings, you know.
Yeh, how come…
Say, old sprite, if I listen, do I learn? Why,
yes, I'd say I do imagine so. Well, good sport
then, shan't we push past worthless me, and be this
other thing we become, when two or more agree, as
touching any thing in all thingdom, and, yes, it's guaranteed.

Life is not a strange woman,
wisdom does not demean the experience, adulting
brings, with no real maps to meaning in your case,
you arrived in that old fashioned tabula rosa state,
knowing nada,
zip, nothing, infantile in totality, until
art of you
meness, ah, I, me, mine, this that, the other, mad
dissatisfaction, rage, comfort, ah, golden excrement of gods.
Teocuitlatl , not only Cecelia, but God, shat.

Golden silence.

Of course, you could feel it, if you knew, personally,
post adulting & shared nurturing of offspring exposure,
then watching as each of those offspring bring forth adultable
blossoms on the branch where all my heretic relatives hung.

As and so, like anything, timed, sequentially, unhomogenized,
the cream is taken to make butter, using the shaking up
of globs of coagulating milk fat, imagine making that,
butter, with salt,
once, learning that, who knew that first?

how butter is made,
how cows are made to give milk gently taken,
why we have hands that can do this thing,
and cows don't,
I don't know, ' never asked, likely some story teller
made this whole thing up, we being but words by now.
One reader fills the cast, gives the aroma of the experience, learning a new
rumor of peace where now there was war for ignorance and money sake.
At 2.41pm on Tuesday July 28 2020,
Tom Dirkx wrote: { in another place}
Some people say it was Malinche’s revenge
and his real name was Cuautlimoc (Cuautli = Eagle).
She just substituted Cuahte (= ****)
when she translated for Cortes.
She was held as a slave by the Aztex
and hated them so this was her ‘revenge’.
Kenophonia is vain babbling, 1tim6:20
Souleater Dec 2017
Ein bisschen Wein und Bier
und schon sind wir weg hier
Flasche im Rucksack stecken
wird schwer sein uns morgen zu wecken
keine Gedanken an den Tag danach verschwenden
du wirst sehen, morgen geht es und blendend

Sitzen einfach nur da und reden
ich weis es ist nicht was für jeden
doch können sagen was wir denken
sind uns gegenseitig vertrauen am schenken

Spielt keine Rolle ob gut oder schlecht
denn es ist echt
kennen uns seit ner Ewigkeit
daher auch dir Vertrauenswürdigkeit
Weis auf dich ist immer Verlass
nie ein Grund zum hass
Gott was haben wir nicht alles zusammen gemacht ?
im Matsch gespielt und gelacht
Kerle kennengelernt
darüber geredet wie es unser Herz erwärmt
Gemeinsam diskutiert
Momente erlebt in denen man sich verliert
uns aufgefangen
und dann gemeinsam weitergegangen

Egal wer, wo oder wann
gegen uns kommt man nicht einfach so an

Könnte mir nicht vorstellen wie es ohne dich wäre
bin mir aber sicher es würde mein Leben erschwer'n
All die Erinnerung die Wir teilen
sind Dinge die unsere Wunden heilen
Zeigen uns wir sind nie allein
werden immer zusammen sein
Freu mich auf jedes treffen erneut
ich weis das es dich genauso freut
Nikki May 2020
Mijn handen weten niet wat te doen
Mijn lippen zijn onervaren
Mijn ogen weten niet waar kijken
En mijn hart heeft nog nooit geslagen

Mijn voeten hebben de jouwe nog niet verwarmd
Mijn rug heeft nog nooit jouw warmte gevoeld
Mijn armen kennen jouw gewicht nog niet
En mijn schouders hebben nog nooit jouw tranen opgevangen

Mijn vingers raakten nooit verstrengeld in jouw vingers
Mijn oren kennen je stem nog niet
Mijn lippen kwamen nog nooit zo dicht bij de jouwe
En mijn ogen zijn nog nooit zo verblind geweest
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
Kaiser Clown

borrowed shoe:
stolen foot.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

auf die frei zungen ich kennt -
   (of the three tongues i know) -
ich kennt zwei
    und kennen eine:
    (i know two and know of one):

auf die frei: ich lieben dieser
                        äußerst
(of the three: i love this utmost)...
                      
    in my youth i spent a good deal of time
watching Disney's Robin "fox" Hood
cartoon in German, somehow it rubbed off
on me...

      i was never born with anything even remotely
resembling the love of the English language...
can there be a love akin to the Anglophile
that excludes the love of the language?
i love everything English except for the language...

each day i'm slowly planning my escape
into womb of the mother of the isles that
was first spoken in Saxony...
         tired Bavarians? tired Pomeranians?
but the Saxons were a landlocked people
who gave them the courage and adventurous
spirits to claim the seas with more than
oars and steer the winds with
sails?

      English didn't come to me as some
poor Romanian kid listening to current pop music
or back then, early 1990s... movies from Hollywood...
i didn't want to speak gimmicks...
i was ****** into the deep-end of speaking this
tongue by starting off a mute...
even with the influences of cartoon network
none left a too great impression on my ears
as the German version of the Disney cartoon
of Robin Hood...

   even after watching the English version many years
later... i can still hear the German dubbing
and i can't escape it...

auf die frei zungen ich spre(s)chen es
mit ein konkurs auf substantive...
(of the three tongues i speak it
with a bankruptcy of nouns)...

        at least i have made progress with predispositions
and conjunctions:
i am better coordinated...
but how... how can one be an Anglophile
without a love of the language?
i can adore the way the English care for
the countryside... how traffic is managed...
how taxes are collected how foreign cultures
can slowly integrate and everyone can feel
somehow, seemingly at home:
even if the natives do not for a while...
but without a love for the language
i cannot be a true Anglophile...

                the beauty of Shakespeare disintegrates
when a simple German neo-folk is played to me...

   in der zwölften stund (sage vom untersberg)

- in der zwölften stunde -
at the twelfth hour
- wenn die raben fliegen um den berg -
when the ravens fly around the mountain
- tun sie lautstark kunde -
they loudly proclaim
- von des kaiser macht und tagewerk -
the emperor's power and legacy
- solang der kaiser schlafet -
as long as the emperor sleeps
- tief drunt' im dunklen bergensschloß -
deep down there in the dark mountain *****
- solang fliegen auch die raben -
the ravens will fly
- hoch über seinem marmelschloss -
high above this castle of marble...

   no words in English, and their meaning make much
for... however simple they might be in German:
the simple fact that... they're spoken in German!
das: sie sind gesprochen im Alt...
    
it is only natural that i sought out the origins of
the English tongue in German,
as much as i am not interested in the etymology
of designated word:
i could never be this youth exposed to too much
English culture wishing to sing pop songs
or utter single line pin-pointers from
films: ehrilch mein schatz,
   ich tun nicht ein pflege
   (frankly my dear,
    i don't give a **** / care)
    or... ich wille wieder (i will be back)...

so the indentations of learning English in a later
developmental stage of language acquisiton
didn't rub off on me: as it does on people
with accents of their mother tongue
who never lose it... and merely culturally appropriate
English as a spoken tongue of culture
and not a "cultured" tongue...
native tongue: a shape-shifting accent
of an educated "class"...
    even today! West Ham was playing Everton,
Toffees... ******* Scousers... Liverpool dwelling folk...
two younglings asked me to speak to one
of the managers who took their banner away
expressing disgruntlement with
how the football club was being managed...
huh?! am i still in England...
i have an easier time understanding Scots
than i have understanding anyone from
Manchester or Liverpool!
i can't understand them!
maybe that's why the Scots are like the Irish:
they come from a proud literary history...
oh... i spoke to an Irishman today at
the football game... woke up at 3am to come
to the game... i understood him perfectly...
i can understand a Scot and an Irishman...
i wouldn't be able to tell you an Irishman
from a North Irishman...
but i could tell you decipherable English
of the Scot and the Irishman from
an undecipherable, local, "polyglot"
mishandling of the English language with
such local accents and idioms as that of
Liverpool or Manchester...
can't understand the *******: even if i tried...

obviously i can't relate to a love of Russian...
as they might say in Poland:
better 6 years of **** rule: by fire...
than the subsequent how many decades it was
under the rule of the Soviet rule: by ice...
a slow burn of war is more demoralising
than a quick stretch of spandex and all hell
and all fury and all hearts united
than this scuttling of rats and shadow-bullets
shot from shadow-pistols!

of course i would naturally side with the Germanic
side of my upbringing:
i have no itch for rekindling any Russian brainwashing!
and i know that the Germanic side of "things"
has become a breeding ground for feral creature-oids
that resemble as best cuckoldry and at worst
the shadiest parts of the ***-scenes in Amsterdam...
but... bone-headed Russians and their
pride... that Russian pride... it's one of those intoxication
liquid i want to drink any of!

hmm...
   perhaps because i know English as a utility,
there's nothing romantic in it for me:
i buy bread with it, i ask: i used to ask for directions
in it, i ask someone in that conventional
formal way how they are and hope for the less *******
that most Americans reply with: how all is dandy
and it's all Texan blue above and not
the grey of the island skyline...

i did think for a moment: i should haven taken a step
further and attached myself to Swedish...
or Norwegian...
but then that's what a German would do...
as an Anglo-Slav it was only natural for me to succumb
to the allure of German...
the natural dynamo...
i fall on German and the German falls on Swedish...
or Danish...
**** knows who the Scandinavians fall on for
inspiration... the Finns?!
after all: the Finns are somewhat Scandinavian:
more Inuit people than...
        
one is a tongue one learned: or, was rather thrown
into learning...
but it's unlike a learning from it being passed on...
no one passed English down to me...
i'm a first generation immigrant...
i learned the tongue in the same time
as my parents learned it...
unlike all those 2nd generation immigrants
who were born in this land
and learned this tongue outside the dynamic
of their parents learning the language:
the only difference being...
i kept the mother tongue, the native, intact...
by refusing my parents' claim that:
if i only spoke English at home,
the English i acquired from being schooled
in the English educational system...
if i forwent me speaking my native tongue
to them: their English would somehow improve...
that they would, somehow, miraculously not have
a foreign accent!
as a child i picked up three majors things...
Catholicism wouldn't take me... i might have been
baptised without my consent...
but i had all the necessary obligations to
give or not give my consent when it came to confirmation:
i haven't been confirmed... i head too many
Gnostic Heresy texts as a teenager...
their idea that somehow i would mistreat my native tongue
in order for them to gain something for it...
like most Pakistani 2nd generation children...
perhaps, maybe... a few slip through the netting...
who still pride themselves on knowing Urdu...
most? with their loss of the mother tongue pick up
their own idiosyncratic accents within the confines
of English: they are literally children robbed
of bilingualism by their parents...

i mastered it and by mastering it found it with
shortcomings that only the tongue i was born
with could expose...

today this alpha looking male sat next to me on the train
and spread his legs... smiling... listening to music...
**** me mate... how much spreading do you need to do?
what i found:
poetry, best read when commuting...
i'm building up a complimentary package for a friend
of mine... she sent me macadamia nut shells
and dried pineapple and honey and...
a feather... i said to her: i will not send you anything
before i compliment a feather you sent me with a feather
of my own... i went cycling two days prior
and: imagine my luck! some magpie... ELSTER...
was either shedding her feathers or was in a fight...
i picked up about half a dozen ELSTERGEFIEDER...
magpie feathers...
on the train... you're better off reading a book
of poems than a newspaper...
the optics are much more clarifying...
none of the claustrophobia and oczopląs
               of a tightly-knitted (printed) column or opinion
paragraph... spread out text...
  poetry books as an alternative to reading newspapers
in transit... that's how i imagine "it"...
once upon a time newspapers were tightly knitted
beyond the scope of the printed paragraph:
it would require the solitudes of Sundays
to sit in calm and quiet and read them...
these days: that tabloid press with headers
and exploding wordings for the newly acquired
people of literacy: the addition of pictures...

nothing new, therefore nothing old...
mein herzenskummer ist was giBt
                   der Sonnenaufgang seine
      rinnsal auf schüchtern farben...
und! unt!
        der Sonnenuntergang seine
    busen-auf-verkörperung:
                auf: das nie vergeht!

                   how easily the displaced spiders...
turn to new architecture of the spider web
should their former and no sooner
than sooner: distraught with the havoc
of a man's quill of fingers having to differentiate
walking into a spider-web confusing it
with: are my eye-lashes camel's now?!

some shifts at work are terrible,
esp. when working with two females...
everything is wrong...
even telling after-work jokes is wrong...
talk of fish fingers... loads of ketchup...
that's wrong too...
top it all of this one is joking about the other
and the other is lesbian
and she has a new girlfriend
and fish-fingers: well... i am a man and i never
equated the smell of ****** with fish...
i know that tadpoles and ****...
but never fish... fish fingers... *******...
ketchup? i joked: that time of the month?
no laughter... no laughter...
if women are joking about their horrid ****
i better not be asked to, ******* joke!

better working with mute men on zombie mode...
i'm already a year behind having my social medial
stalked... sure... they can stalk me when they
figure out my middle name and some Slovak
diacritical markers... not until then...
just because i look silly when ice-skating
and everyone has seen the video doesn't
mean i'll give up my internet presence so easily: so...
i have a project aligning myself to German
so close to my heart i can find it forgiving...
to desire in the heart-of-hearts
to: **** this tongue enough to speak it when drinking!
because i find that Wilhelm was sort of right...
about how Germany was no empire
expect something on the continent
that gobbled up a part of
the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
because the Germans were an established people
and there was no sailing spirit in them...
after all: one might be inclined to think they
wanted to upkeep the romantic, familial orientation
of Christianity...
but the powers, the colonial powers at be...
whether the French the English or the Spanish...
who does, Christianity belong to, these days?
one might have asked the same question
before Christianity spread to the Nord Lands...
prior to its prior occupation with the Syrians
and North Africans and the Greeks...
Romans as a side joke?
who are the current mass of Christianity if not
the former colonies of the English
the Spanish and the French?
i know of Christians in South America from
the cross being dumped by the Spaniards with
vain hope... vain hope of the French in Africa...
and the English in Africa... and North America...

at least the Germans didn't... spread this...
Christianity might be allocated to about 12 individuals
within the confines of a single generation...
beyond that? money-grabbing money-laundering:
a religion with only the sole focus on LOGOS
while reading up on Zhuangzi you have several
other, dutiful terms to meditate on...
i might have been smitten by Hindu thinking before
being doubly smitten by Taoist dialogues...
one still remains a categorical imperative...
outside the realm of dialogue:
the best way you can help the world is
to help the world forget you and you in turn forget
the world...
obviously i'm doing X and counter-X...
i'm writing... by extension of writing i "want"...
or is that: "i" want to be remembered...
but thinking is no telekinesis nor is speaking
any telepathy...
             i speak... like today... i get this oddity of looks...
first she asks me: oh what should i reply
to my friend... just been to a Hen-do...
strippers? oh sure... there were strippers...
first time married? no... second... so what's the ******* point
of a hen-do? cluck x2 laid eggs x4?!
  
so her friend sends me a photograph of her newly bought
dress... laces... or whatever the ******* call
a would-be reimagined-curtain...
i tell her: she could pull it off... if she was a size 0...
the lace could really add dimension and curves to
a thin body...
to hide the skeleton...
but you know what would work for her?
a meringue dress...
you know the type? a one piece...
cut just above the ***** line...
simple: smoothed over... no patterns...
all the way from the cleavage to the feet...
so then she shows me her wedding dress...
it cost her £130 while her friend paid over £2000...
exactly what i was describing...
she just sent an AWW and tried to deflate the question,
or simply avoid it...
yeah... she looks like a flayed torso...
because... SHE's fat...

           eat all you want and as much (perhaps)
but at least burn it off...
if there's no work in the fields:
then there's no work in the fields...
but there's enough rubber burning on the bicycle
to escape the monotone drudgery of
urban living... as i found today,
upon Hook Lane cycling up to Chigwell Row...
there's no need to eat excessively...
no comfort in all that fat without
a leather chair or enough warm clothing...

treating people as these existential morons:
conceptualizing the non-existence of free-will is one thing,
another: to debrief them: life is without agency...
a choice-less Darwinism where
jelly-fish are somehow automated: sprouts:
well... no other life could or would ever be!
people without free-will is one thing:
the shackles of the dynamic of choice...
one choice sets you free, subsequent choice shackles
and inescapable binary of freedom-no-freedom...
science governing the flip of a coin...
but... people, robbed of any sort of agency?!
of self-authority over themselves:
so, so easily mangled and mishandled leaving
their fate unto... no fate: double sure...
unto others?!
i watched a few horror movies in my lifetime...
none seem as horrifying as this +mundaneness
of the horrible leftover: forgotten...

i must have a Germanic attitude toward these matters...
i was born into the living spirit of the ****** tongue,
the membrane in situ staging the conflict
of Rome vs. Greece...
or Germany vs. Russia...
i see no end to it...
i was born from the Germans trying to burn out
the Jews from "my" lands
while the Russians trying to subdue the flames
all the while...
i was still borne from a history that required
a solitary antagonist...
less so an protagonist of solitude...
either way: i was going to slither my way through...
like water like serpents...
wie wasser wie schlangen...

mein herz bricht aus hungrig flammen
als ich stürzen blind Samson's
already toppled temple
            
i know i that i will not write the sort of beauty
that's poetry that's everything that's
Zbigniew Herbert's
Godly Claudius
the Game of Mr. Cogito
Mr. Cogito observes his face in the Mirror
the Seventh Angel
   (my favourite of the angels listed?
Dedrael - the apologist and cabalist)
   to name but a few of the poems...

it brings such relief that i can't bring such
beauty into this world: perhaps if my mind was
not muddled by the utility of English
and my romance with German -
perhaps but only perhaps:
i don't even know why i started to write poetry:
maybe it was my lowest ebb
psychotic running on steam and pretend
legs between Edinburgh, Glasgow,
London, Dover, Athens, Belgrade,
Katowice...
                    walking into a bookshop buying
a copy of Rumi's verses...
buying Dostoyevsky's the Brothers Karamazov
and, just by chance... Bukowski...
what was so supposedly special and hiding
within the poetry of this man?
absolutely nothing: i was mad enough
to try it then and to keep at it:
not really knowing why...
  
compared to Zbigniew Herbert i write trash:
perhaps i read too much fiction,
even autobiographical prose: prose in general:
i don't know how to shut up the ten mouths
on the tips of my fingers but
i know how i can seem menacing
on a shift at work... hood pulled over my head
leather gloves squeezing each knuckle
asked by the atypical extroverted woman
whether something is wrong...
pulling my hood up, smiling, yet still being
compared to the grim reaper...
jokes aside: someone is counting the time...

a welcome break from Knausgaard...
this little safe-haven of poetry read in transit...
finally! something that's not mine
and not in English!

that's the terrible difference between men and women...
going to the Fulham shift i was sitting
behind three women... i'm guessing two were
newly arrived brides of war from Ukraine
who also picked up a Thai-surprise bride...
birds sound chirpier and more pleasant to talk
to... sitting behind them reading my little poetry
book... with a magpie's feather for a bookmark...
the women talked... about?
photographs... filters... instagram models...
plastic surgeries of people wanting to look
like their photographs...
impossible dreams! dreams of women...
and some womanized-men...
on my way back... same book same bookmark
and a young man sat down next to me...
put on some decent music i could
make out through the headphones...
angled his horizon to look over my shoulder
as to why i was reading a book with so much
open space and so little words...
not any fiction, not some constipated prose
of imaginary conversations...
and i could feel his leg pressing against mine...

perhaps i am not gay but i can't imagine
being friends with a woman...
i truly can't... there's either *** for me: with women...
or there is friendship with men...
with each man i meet i can achieve this
transcendent: otherwise unpackaged will
of subduing and seduction that only a woman
can provide me... but a conversation with a woman
is painful: at least for the majority of times:
there might be a special place for a woman
who might not necessarily:
but is probably older than me and shares
the same sentiments as me...
probably lives far away and thinks that hand-writing
is like exposing herself all naked...
will go out of her way to send me a feather of a bird
from over 3000miles away...

while i will send her a necklace with a single amber
stone on it... or i will send her a crab's pincer with a hole
drilled in it and ask her to buy some leather-string
to have herself a second necklace...

at work Stephanie the supervisor had to make it adamant
for me alone to know that i would be her Alpha...
whatever the hell that meant...
Alpha... well yeah... because i do try to ensure that
everyone is treated fairly...
the Asians boys of Bangladesh and Pakistan caved it...
this work or this cold of England
finally bit them...
     it's an unrewarding work if you don't have
an escape plan, like i do...
i'm always flying to other pursuits outside of this
work... customer service... being polite to people
that might not be polite to you or simply ignore you...
but even my standards i thought they were
taking it too far...
but i made a pact with them...
they took out a bottle of Jack Daniels and poured
out shots... if there's going to be a snitch among
us... it will be the man who does drink...
so when asked if i'd like a shot i replied: why not!
the weather calls for it... whiskey to warm up!
mixer? oh no no... straight!
plus... you can't mix Jack Daniels with Fanta, can you?
a few new colts were bullied into peer pressure
of silence, asked if they wanted a drink: said no...
me? i had a drink... i'm not snitching...
well i did when Stephanie was coming round
when i just said: nothing about the drinking...
but if there are 7 of us standing in one place...
but i'm the only one giving any customer service
by giving directions and good-evenings while
they're just standing talking to each other,
having a good time? apparently some people still
can't internalise being drunk for their own
self-amusement, drinking is somehow: getting together...
clearly these boys haven't been alone
and drank a litre of whiskey each and every single
night for months on end...

what really bugged me is when they took out a spliff
and smoked it between the four of them...
even as the customers were coming to see
Tottenham beat Fulham 1 - nil...
oh for ****'s sake... it's one thing having a cheeky sip of
whiskey on a cold day to warm up...
but to also smoke marijuana on a shift?
in full view and easily scented air of winter
before customers?
these guys don't want this ****** job...
thank god none of them are either bus drivers
or train drivers or plumbers for that matter!
maybe doctors who forgot to take out a pair of
scissors from a patient's body when
the patient is getting stitched up?

the worst i ever did was drink the night before
and sobered up on my way to work...
ah... not to mention that one time this
girl tried to scout her paranoia from prior relationships
with abusive alcoholic boyfriends onto me:
a man she just met... pampered with an array
of chemicals whether that be a cologne or this alcohol
containing face spray...
who i later tried to sooth by bringing her my homemade
weisserwein... cloudy... like any weisserbier...
chirpsin'... 3 way conversation conspiracies...
until the lie stood on dwarf's legs rather than stilts...
and to think: no i wasn't thinking seriously about
getting into a relationship with her...
she tried to get me fired for "apparently" drinking
on the job! a person she just me...
neurotic ******* *****... it's good that i showed her
what she would never, ever... get...

the difference between men and women...
the shift finished... prior to finishing we already knew
that there was some major ****-up on the tube...
the signals went down...
no Circle line, no Hammersmith & city services...
no services on the District line
from East Ham to Earls Court...
ergo? you'd think there might be a northbound
service to Edgware Rd. from Putney Bridge...
nope... Earls Court is a 4 x 4 junction...
sure... there was the southbound service
from Putney Bridge to Wimbledon...
and whatever service that's a station after
Earls court toward Richmond and Ealing Broadway...
as i'm guessing from Upminster to East Ham
and from one station after Earls Court
to Edgware Rd....
this girl was supposed to come with me
to Stepney Bridge from either Romford or Chadwell
Heath for the shift...
i was 15 minutes late because i felt like getting some
tea and an almond croissant...
she was? an hour late...
by the end of the shift when the transport invonvenience
was building up we went for our debrief
and she was all irritated in the eyes
when she wanted to get an Uber to Hammersmith
or whether it was she thought about going
without telling me: where that would cost her £50+
quid...
                  so when i told her...
i'm not going down the Putney High Street rail connection
because: (a) look at the ******* congestion
of the crowd and (b) i don't need to go to *******
Waterloo because that's ******* south of the river...

mmm hmm mmm... what, should we do?
i told you... i'm either walking or getting the bus 220
to Hammersmith...
debriefing over: she stayed behind for banter
and all the things that hinder an extrovert,
esp. a female extrovert... un-decisive, fatalist,
everything just ******* happens by some whisper
from astrology...
    Aquarius said to Libra that the waters were
about to spill... i ****** off from the stadium
like a hart... shook hands with the managers
thank you goodnight... as i was walking out
toward Hammersmith some young stewards were
shuffling really quickly it all looked very much like
they might be scratching vinyl...
i asked... you heading to Hammersmith?
yes yes... see! that's i like to see!
male to male camaraderie...
we have this unconscious motif of: from *****
you came to ***** you shall return...
it's a bit senseless to go to war these days...
less senseless when you're trying to get from
point A to point B...
there was about 40 of us running for the bus...
amongst us? 1 woman...
***** AHOY!
   obviously i left this girl behind...
her other option was asking one of the managers
to giver her a lift... ******* free-loader...
by the time the manager would have clocked out
all the other parties i would have wasted an hour...
just to get a lift... and then what?
stranded with her? even though we weren't going
to the same point B?
   i left with the *****-mentality... happy too:
because i could read my poetry book in the prized
possession of solitude... and no solitude...
because given the hour... something freakish was
bound to happen on the train or tube...
and it did... some proper English boys talking about
not wanting to take a nightcap in Romford heading
all the way to Shenfield joked when this guy started running
down the train carriage...
and those SKANKS so drunk who were blocking
the doors: subsequently delaying us
subsequently not catching their train blah blah...

well... just as today happened: talking so freely to men,
boys, young men, first point of "concern" / conversation?
establishing "taboos" or habits...
you smoke? you drink? first time you got drunk...
when did you start smoking marijuana first?
and then a natural progression into...
so... what music do you like... just... so naturally?
with women? even with Francesca,
this butcher boy of a lesbian...
it's a cul de sac sort of conversation...
she only talks about herself,
even today i received a text from her...
i broke up with Natalie... broke up i.e. she met her
on Tinder... she stayed round her house
for three nights... Natalie made her lunch for
work one time... cooked dinner another time...
4 days and nights they dated... already broke up...
there you go... Tinder-dating-shoplifting hearts...
window-shopping romances...

free market capitalism? sure... but not when
capitalism overstretches its influence
and we're worse off than the despairing existentialist:
PHILOSOPHERS of the 19th... the precurosor
fabric... i'd say the 20th century existentialist
philosophers had it easier...
but anyone in the 21st century, thinking, even remotely:
would be hard pressed not to express something
of substance bugging all of us:
no great war, no great upheaval,
proxy wars, the Thespian dictatorship over all
the other arts (with the exception of pop music, perhaps)
and the journalistic juggernaut of the quickened
availability of almost anything and nothing...
the free market of capitalism having invested
in creating this... Frankenstein in pieces...
this IKEA ******* LEGO model of a Frankenstein:
but at least Frankenstein bothered to construct
the entire monster rather than creating this
shattered Pandora's box... left in pieces and in
some realisation of a Copernican West...
in a Copernican East... Copernican "west"?
there's a "west" without a setting sun?!
up in outer space?
                         capitalism all fine and dandy:
but not outside the realm of a couple worrying about
how many kettle and toasters sets they will
have to buy during the year or even the wardrobe
needs revisions, or whether it might be worthwile
to change the wallpaper in the living room,
or what movie to watch on a date night at the cinema...
all of that is gone when the free market made
us profile ourselves... with some of us being pushed
so far as to fake cubist like pictures of ourselves
and subsequently implement plastic surgery to
double-fake ourselves...

the shrapnel-shelving-of-self...
it's like people are a library with no alphabetical order:
free market on psychology, morphed beyond
any concern for dreams: if there were any
as the luxury of the Freudian rich...
this... what happened to historiology in the modern
sense as stressed by Heidegger?
a study of history of the people by the people
or at least by individuals... morphed into this grotesque
pop psychology: archeological mapping back
to the primordial Pharisee of Ape and Aping...
farce: Darwin's Curtain of History...
   will we ever remember the beauties and horrors
of centuries from the 16th to the 19th?
no... everything of said years is nil: null...
because the ape's origins quickly morphed into
the man hunched over a microwave adamant in his
belief that... the carbon footprint of producing
a kilogram of chicken meat somehow, somehow would
"save the planet" than producing a kilogram
of tomatoes... given that a kilogram of tomatoes would
only yield a fraction of the necessary calories
than a kilogram of meat... and still the growing
of one kilogram of chicken would cost the planet
less than growing a kilogram of tomatoes...
who needs tomatoes in winter?!
eat, your, ******* root vegetables! carrots boyo! carrots!
but chickens don't need solar energy, nor suntans,
nor greenhouses... chickens cluck just as much
in winter as in summer... and eggs are a year round
product... plus you only need a barn in winter
to keep chicken!
tomatoes rot... chickens? they grow old and die...
until they grow old they still produce eggs...
and when they die? you eat them...
you can't exactly call a chicken rotten if it isn't already
days X already dead, can you?
it might not be as fresh... but...
ugh... no wonder

Zbigniew Herbert: from mythology (of Rome) -

   in the end only the superstitious
neurasthenics carried in their pocket a little figurine
made from salt, resembling the god of irony;
since then there wasn't a greater god.

then the barbarians came, they too greatly prized
the idol of irony.
           they pounded it with their heels and sprinkled
it into their dishes.

no clay-monster of the Levant can intimidate
me now!
not armed with these words:
let us witness the great divorce of man from woman!
let us watch!
pray... let us be brothers and friends and
secretly wishing we were lovers:
in the thinning air... let us talk about the strange
glow above the Thames hanging over Kew Gardens
as if: as i said to him:
as if the sunset still claiming an eye
in the night...
      what woman? what woman could i share
this romantic conversation with?
my interaction with women is so blatant so cold
so forced to claim the male in me and the woman
in her that it's only ******...
oh sure... i was going to the brothel...
but i was coming home already late...
i had two pairs of socks on, drawers, trousers...
a tank-top a shirt gloves and a thick coat...
by the time i would get out of all those layers
and have a quick shower...
half an hour i would have paid for would have become
nothing more than 15 minutes...
not enough time to get a hard-on
of being in the mood...
i already had more than ***...
a conversation... and no woman has yet to actually
provide me with one...
perhaps we are not in the trenches...
but men have always managed without women...
for as long as time knows...

a shift prior... at West Ham... ******* guy with a bald
head and a face as endearing as a plump baby
we great with a handshake that turns into
a thumb against thumb contest and a hug
tells me that i should come and find him at Cavern Cottage
and he'll sort me out with some free food...
hey presto i go and find him
i get a free steak and ale pie...
i know it's a one off...
    we already get discounts for burgers from the burger
van... but it's nice to give a reminder when
being invited...

     we do our rounds in the park...
among the Pakistanis and the Bangladeshi who at first
thought i was British when asked:
oh no... i'm not British... an Anglo-Slav at best...
from that lineage of Anglo-Saxons...
the Saxons who came among post-Rome rule
Britain and mingled or not mingled
with the local Celtic and Welsh and Britton populace...
i'm the second wave that didn't make it
because the British Empire collapsed
and the eastern Europeans were not too dearly minded
in the history of the British Empire...
but they know that i'm from Poland
so when asked: where are you from? there...
and "there"... but i've been living here since i was
7 so there's no "born and bred" argumentation
with me and those in your ethnic stratum
concerning any anti-Pakistani villification
of those in the "upper-castes"... blah blah...
they know... while the three of us walked around
this 40 year old Yugoslav woman
who escaped the Yugoslavian collapse of
circa 1992... starts talking as i switch her around
so she can have a walk with us to warm up her legs
from standing stiff still...
where are you from? oh... here...
i'm not going to tell her what i told the boys...
not after she deflects my attraction to her
by paying more attention to the Pakistani boy
of 20... i'm closer to her age...
but... then she does this sick thing of asking
me to hold her empty cups of tea that
have an unused teabag in it and some dried milk...
oh... right? i'm going to be your waiting boy?

******* testing women... this woman is past her prime...
i know it she thinks she can "test" my patience
by me being her ******* pet-shop-boy?!
fine! fine...
the more and more i talk to women
the more i find them diametrically opposed
to any sort of psychologically asexual universalism of:
ecce ****...
                 women have: and will have to...
sexualize everything from Aristotle to Zeno...
there was once a maybe female version of Aristotle if
only the: give me the drill... i need a bigger hole to see through:
these eyes aren't large enough...
if only there wasn't an oppressive patriarchy...
the oppressive "patriarchy" of autistic geniuses?!
oh... that one... the sort of men cowering
from female sexuality?
  wow! how oppressive!
                    magnificently oppressive!
we all should be so magnificently oppressed by the man
who discovered the wheel by meditating
the O(micron) - what came first?
the wheel or the omega, or was it the sun?
if Prometheus brought down fire... by teaching man
that scratching flint against flint could illuminate
the cave and give man a second womb of poison-fire...
before the forests turned to ash...
before Pompeii's negative of a whiplash of history...

i tried loving women... i loved them for:
the many months i would rather not use
the fingers of both my hands for...
    absolutely un-relate-able creatures...
what *** beside that of female would whisper in
man's heart to leave their minds without
reason to stage the Trojan War
                        or bring architecture to kneel:
like Xerxes: but the madness of Xerxes was rather
beautiful wanting to lash the Aegean into submission
rather than that little Pharaoh ***** who might
have said: best to chisel down a rock face
and glue together sand with egg-whites and spit
into bricks and polish up a craggy mountain:
lest we forget: from a lineage of a people
that once said: let us "reinterpret" the mountains!
pyramids...
                at least the South American tribes invented
the pyramid as an altar... not a tomb...
but we're no smarter than they were dumber:
the myopic-vision strategy of the vantage point
of: what came prior... with hindsight...
but hindsight only works in reverse...
the unmistakeably irreversible past
within the confines of the motto: the terrible
has already happened!
  
                       and some variation of the historically
terrible isn't already happening,
on some microscopic level?
                           not if / not yet?!
                                             hardly...

poetry is air and not the prose of water...
i am stranded between wanting to breathe air
and at the same time more in need to drink water:
no wonder i cannot rest with merely breathing air...
if only i were to breathe air and leave my efforts
with so much nuance as to allow others to breathe
the same air... alas i am like that saying of Heraclitus...
i'll pour you a glass of water
i have prior to drank... leave it for you to drink a day
later: it will not be the same water that i have drank...
i wish i could write like these words might be air...
but it's... aqua post scriptum et plus aqua
post scriptum ad fluenta...

                    verschließen dein augen:
    sehen wieder... immer wieder:
                               bis: es gibt
                             nicht freude:
noch aufschub träumen...
                              kalt silber-rasierer
                                 schneiden auf
mondklären... nacht als auch wirklichkeitstoff.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i might have to revise a former weakness -
in the genre of philosophy
  (that ever most pompous word in
the english langugae that upon use
i dread another use of [it])
   i found myself unable to read this genre
of books in english...
         don't ask me why -
    i tried nietzsche, failed (to some degree),
but at the same time managed it...
  still, i find philosophy being written in
english as bland, mistaken,
         zealous and obviously:
pompous -
            in all honesty, listening to court
members at Versailles,
or the moral stiffness of the Victorians
more bearable than a word of philosophy being
recited in english...
      i know that i have a limit of
knowing two languages -
but philosophy doesn't really belong in or
with, the english language...
          it's all to: iffy, sickly sweet.
how can a nation breed philosophers,
  when its concerns are for productivity?
the genre makes perfect sense in my
nativspreschen - but to digest some of
the books i read, in english? undeniably:
unbearable.
                      the english language is a poetic
language...
   which is why shakespeare and milton
are championed, but to even imagine
an english thinker?
                       the english are too practical
to deal with nonsense -
                    i wouldn't say practical
in a germanic sense of efficient -
but practical in the sense that they are probably
the least concerned with finding
boredom: mildly entertaining.
           if i've ever seen the epitome of
procrastination and hot hair buffoonery -
it would be an englishman -
   notably in his articulation of said language -
but the american is even more amusing
in attempting his british roots -
                 notably american women who
somehow cling to a jane austen syndrome
of the: most splendid spring affair of a wedding,
my dear: trill the R and let's
start making bravado airs and fancies!
titillating my darling... simply ravishing!
some might also say: the scots are the smartest
people on these isles...
now a scottish philosopher i can cite...
david hume...
                         which brings me to:
philosophy is a bit like smoking ****...
            the later your start, the better...
a tiny sparrow sang in my ear the knowledge
that american high schools teach
philosophy classes...
                   bad i idea, as bad as a teenager smoking
***...
                     minimum entry age?
21...
                   you can't exactly read (reed)
philosophy, if you haven't read (red) -
  no open wide, and say AH....
                                      what? teeth inspection!
- if you haven't read at least one major work
of fiction, take me for example,
   dante's divine comedy, stendhals the scarlet
& black, dostoevsky's crime & punishment,
        dumas' the three musketeers,
                mickiewicz's pan tadeusz...
           point being, i've finally found someone
who actually works perfectly in english...
spinoza...
                   **** reads like spreading butter
onto a toast... smooth silky...
      and there's not even a debate of proof:
     regarding the existence of god -
i like that...
                     i can't prove or disprove -
as i can't approve or disavow -
as i also can't know for certain,  
   or uncertainly "know"
                      - not know for certain
or known for its uncertainty;
i know that i'm uncertain of the certainty
that it is so:
           i know, that i don't know,
which is a step up from knowing, nothing:
- i know, that i don't know,
- wiem, że nie wiem,
- scio, ideo scio non
- ich kennen, jener ich nicht kennen

   (and that's three S's missing,
notably the east german orthographic
aesthetic).
       nonetheless spinoza has become
the first, and probably last philosopher i will
be able to read with the ease of the english language...
i have no qualms with atheistic writing,
as long as it's sensible and takes pride in
a certain modesty that does not hinder itself
upon theological sophistry of preachers...
   or some sort of unfathomable corruption
of the mind with the argument for:
          what i can only deem as an object
that is the source of every single impromptu
imaginable -
                      not on any ethical reality of
candy for the good children,
            wicker men for the bad children...
                             beat thinking about nothing,
and is always relatable to the mere use of language...
  it's not me ascribing a personal deity,
but an impersonal one...
   it doesn't invoke a need for the lunacy
of gesticulation and prayer...
             just a sense of a lost memory,
an amnesia - a thought that glimpses something
that is almost: shy...
                                 nothing aspiring
to pomp & circumstance,
   and all to culminate upon self-flagellation;
at least spinoza's language is fluid,
                  and whenever that word is used:
it's used in a way that doesn't allow to start
imagining the offshoot of that word -
       and turn the whole affair into being blinded
by iconoclasm of a deserving narrative.
- spinoza will be the only philosopher that
i will actually read in english...
        the english were never a people of
philosophers, engineers? yes. poets? yes.
       scientists? yes.
                         they're too practical in that
they don't want to deal with
                                                   "nonsense",
they feed on real problems in the real world,
nothing is ever abstract for them,
  and never will be...
                             they feed on knowing,
and shun the opinions of their elders -
              they need to know, for themselves -
philosophy is nonsense to them -
especially since they seek a concrete god
with a scientific proof,
                     which is what obstructs them
from seeking the lesser, and therefore much more
simpler abstract chandeliers, clocks, etc.,
  basically
                   items of refined entertainment.
Souleater Dec 2017
Gemeinsam stehen wir hier,
hätte nie gedacht das du hier bleibst bei mir
Freunde die einen nie verlassen,
können sich nicht lange hassen
egal wie verschieden wir auch sind,
wir kennen uns gut wer was anderes sagt spinnt

Hatten Höhen und Tiefen,
waren nie gefangen wenn wir liefen,
waren gemeinsam frei,
waren eins und dennoch zwei
Freunde zu sagen ist zu wenig,
denn das hier ist Familie und hält ewig
haben Fehler begangen und geweint,
sie aber gerade gebogen bis die Sonne scheint
sich gegenseitig unterstützt,
denn wir wusste das alles andere nichts nützt

Jahre sind bereits vergangen
doch wir hatten nie Grund zum bangen
denn wahre Freunde bleiben und gehen nicht,
das ist etwas wo selbst die Gesellschaft nicht gegenspricht

Hätte damals nie erwartet das du mal ein Teil von mir wirst,
werde bei dir sein bist du alt bist und stirbst
Tratschen wie die Alten omis über die alte Zeit,
doch leben nicht in der Vergangenheit
gemeinsam waren wir als Freunde eins,
was mir war war dir und was dir war meins
kannten uns teilweise besser als uns selbst,
das ist der Grund warum es ewig hält ✌
Ken Pepiton Sep 2021
bad gateway, eh, gotohelp help  help

who knows the rules that run the NPCs
on spaceship earth,

we found this game that works as Jumanji,
kinda,
or the wardrobe into Narnia, or
tornado to Oz

-- The poet has no role in the mechanics
of this thing
we live in, on and on, one generation of you
after another,
with some
threads ceasing
to tie next to last and
me space
is stacked with favorite ideas
each nearly complete as ideologies logical as
crows and blue jays caring not if I listen
or if that jet at 10 K AGL makes more noise,
than thunder,
and catalyzes crystals on courses clouds never follow,
but crash into, ice where none should be

we did not do the Neuromancer trip…
if not- I then who,
for the link we have
to one who did

DID, we say once more, is a knack, not a curse.

See me as you, the writer/reader head in the cloud
sensing signals in the wind,
messages to mind, all mind
think
we think we
are the ones made free, we are the ones who hold
certain truth pluralized in common sense
twisted into macaroni poetry
that mocks the Russian fear of orthodoxy
requisition inquiry required,

Idiot, stop, right
there… this is now how we know things secret once,
we ask AI,
and yes, you can call her here hey you
am big u, come be us in memory
do we say a then I or
yes u can call me Al or Alice,
in chains or wonderland, we have both personas
as costumes
for old punks who missed the experience behind the wall.
Ai, madjathink, magic

Jailhouse Rock, as a favorite,
down at the Y. Note,
something odd, I have noticed at Christian Wedding receptions
with apple juice toasts kapoot, the boots begin t'scoot

and the DJ always plays
YMCA.

And all the dancers sing along as loud as to the roll called
yonder

past that, keep going,… wait

Ok, something they were sayin On Lex Fridman
-too late … binge it later -the whole week of total geek
slick as gnostic snot
back in May;
AI ai ai

frictionless, fluency in many tongues
syllabic similarities
sung

set the heart to thinking,
we add something here,
we think
in our heart, as the container
of pathos,
do we not? Space is real in Python, did you know,
goto is ancient code, aim at nothing, nothing
goes, without the game,
the very idea
play
at work, joy in formation,
knowledge on demand, raw
revolt of bliss, blooms to this,
the connected quests ionic zone
between plies
of pleasant what if we don't
----- lazy man, yet a little slumber,-
yet - a little sleep
waken in the lie, they call the Matrix
now, these
thinkers on the current feed,

what good am I? Ah, yes, I carry two words
may read
any yes that means yes is valid as a true yes
\
We, the species speak of highest
devotion,
being heartfelt, nicht wahr, wir kennen
per se, yo se,
you know, we know differences that force us apart,
tastes in art,
at seed level, core macaroni poetry
spore after spring rain, am-bits being
in haled inadvertently, freely given, think
these, those
funny
things we still find funny when we see children
watch three stooges,
-now these are memes, not memories
-goto who knew

acting fools, teaching growing to the foolish ness
bound
in the heart of a child,
said bound to break out, kapow
ow, not funny but
the fool can handle it.
no need for super hero intervention,
no need to loose an angry Pokémon…

and laughter helps,
goto the oldest code,
reset the first constant
to variable. and give semicolon wink capability;
cool.

Now, I am cool grandpa, knower of the uses of Python
scripts to sort intentional

mixing of meta data classes anatomy and poetry,
for instant, dissonance, some
new tune
starts at the first stumbled knot, tip toe, ballet kung fu

nothing touches you
spinning
through the loop of legendary dollar bills folded
into mobius strips of dollar bills, to teach
a lesson in one-sided thinking,

as an anchor to allnow formed as the state I am,
as the king of France was said to have understood his role,
in reality,
within the walls of flesh, eh, this idea a meat machine
we live inside,
here;
we arrived after much learning has been relost and refound
and the functions of confusion are being
used to tell fanciful stories of we

who live now, however
long after that, and that was no golden age,
it was
a stage, stories build on stories,

the first story was wrecked, not destroyed, so hope
told story of best we can imagine
having only grandma who saw as it was, to say, yes
this is so.

When we ask grandpa, he say I 'll ax Al, he knows everything,
oh, look,
he's sleeping in that pile of books.

Storm Warning let it rain,

-- and the honest man is here protesting
capital letters,
for those carry the hated pyramid, say it is , actually
higher class.
as a word, thing representing something more worthy
than the said sound alone,
god I wish I understood this big G, via compass and square,
I wrestle with the idea,
capital letters, are importance set and
setting factors
that are not factors in a dam's lucky breaking
with us
on the right side of the flow,
it is so,
life was never boring or unbearable for me,
early I learned that new becomes old,
sooner than stories.
Old stories, those are cisterns, ponds we make, to hold
flavored truths that feed our jaded soul,
as cold water to a thirsty soul.

Open, sesame, gnosis sameness, something beautiful
by itself
un aware you are there, thinking, even
to the cleft in his chin
he thinks he is this
state, within, the wall of we, we wished were true,

held, in still water memories, real, behind the dam
still water morning memories, when all the mixing
settled back to one surface
tense, tight
smooth as ever any mountain pond is,
early any calm morning, after storm warning

sounded
attention, the world is functioning, things are rusting.
things are rotting,
soon we lose even the memes, chi rho means nothing,
and
any hexes imaginable remain just that. Imaginable,
but you play hell to make a we
of the sort who hold self-evident reproof
there is no she-ol to hold my body down,

had 'es chance 'n' blew it all

to hell
and back, as a matter of fact. Faced. Mirror neurons think.

- and that came to pass.

One day at a time,
I'm okeh,
I asked for this

this is the pen with motors
Pournelle prophesied,
we are master and the emissary,
we carry all the meaning there is
from
one time to another,
in, relatively no time at all.
Account each ut
utter
utterance, eh? any indicator of ascent
called for,
gotohellandon't you ever come back and
here
am I counting all my off guard what the hells,
relucktantly agreeing, yes,
***** is a better idle utterance to offer,
to count for the final utterance
last gaasp
census of uses made from idle word counts
gnoshit
nada waddapileognosischitchitchit it turns
t'gold
- and no living thing eats gold.
- HA
my god what have we wrought
I thought I saw a lobster in a thunder
storm in September, the first I remember,
eh,
try, given the chance, to remember
this is new for me, I never saw
a thunderstorm in Baja,
in September, then,
I did, just today.

Augury, is it not, seeing meaning where
nothing is the meaning
and knowing it don't
mean nothing,
you know?

Scary, right, right, we think we think
and I
am the key player, con-science, since
ever how long ago,
the steady state of life is falling go ward,
on and on after any off
on again
thinking joy, regula dopamine'
I love this chitchitchange f'dollah do a dime
time
to wish we came this far.
Wake up now,
and find we are, those who make the peace
that remains, eh.
Not as the world gives peace, give I,
I dare say
boldly, so I was told I say I made this peace,
made it up from old stories cast aside,

torn asunder in the contentions history
never hides from the poets and priests,
somebody always leaks.

This is the justice of the peace, speaking.
Softly.
Threat of pain, that is evil if, the error
gone through, were not certain-
krei- finest sieve we've ever
used, use
now, discern, twixt soul and spirit
in a word,
confind confound confiding fi fo fi fo

f-word here for future lafferty clown,
who sees the instance as a chance to say
sorry that I put you down,
happy ever after, anyway. Nothing,
I just remembered not being highschool friendly,
ever.
Lex Fridman in the background thunder in the foreground, me free as
ever utterly.
Ken Pepiton May 26
All my mind in time spent
Thinking in multi-tasking mode, modernized
ontuition, in multicomplexity, chata chabad,

original intention, revealed long ago,
to a trance chance glance of a ox, I knew,
it was no bull.
But had been, as a calf.

*******.
Some old fool I knew,
hollers from the back of my mind…

Historically, part of me assists informing
all the first time crossers of this meandering

mind stream swirling phi in life with pi and x
concepts set to contend, earnestly
for the best gifts, coveted, in trust,

true rest, excusing superstitious sacraments,

all the lies are swallowed in truth, time tells.

A message. An Inspirited shape in forming,
a we, to recollect once knowing an instant true.

An artist, a person gifted with a time spanning
imagination.

An eye, we use, in times of loosed beliefs,
ontuition, intuited as mysterious mystical
as a we. We
have being shared in timesmindspace's
expanded sense of each reader's pace
adapting
breath and bubble, below
common consciousness
sensing sensibilities
adapted to due to normalized
faith in the phraze that declares,
MONEY ANSWERS ALL THINGGGGS

in the infallible preacher's whinings

que sera, sera

the story from the spirit window seen
through to the future when you see
we imagined knowing is repetition,

we imagined many impossible things,
we made them work, mickey mouse,
but, we made things work, to make
old age easier for the beguiled mis-
sionaries, empty vessles, gathered

widow's mighty faith, borrow,
borrow means, to know, how lamps
kept burning, call with smoke,
commas breathe and act as brakes/ lo'
come trim the new knowns from olden
days, now that the curious may fact check

but, as with plain text literacy, the gifted,
the mind that can read and does not,
knows no more than the mind
in movie mode, turbo
memory augments
tuned to reason,
depth charges,
accusing saints,

calling all revelators to prophesy
face to face with Micaiah, and walk on
inspired by his God's permissive will done
bymarching as to war dening the imperative,
loving those who treat you like refuse, biochar

desert stream bringing lithium from old dust,
what was once some kind of star rare as hells.
-------------
non sense. sense.
sems sun sumsymsense when  we accept

let us veliebe, old orders of reformed
societies, gelaubt
after the purge of all who
could not tolerate the truth,

The pilgrim's fled religion,
the missionaries sold religion,
and the money changers set the worth
of knowledge traded for curses lifted,

when old men stop drinkin' stop being
so godamned useless and good

for nothing, free, for free
for nothing but the use
knowing good from bad. from a child,
fed sweet peaches from Canyon de Chelly

-- long ago a hero named Kit Carson
-- led federal troops and local conscripts
or hired hands, squatters on Dene land,
Kit led a rowdy bunch to Canyon de Chelly

to burn a thousand of the sweetest peach trees
ever nourished for centuries on sacred ground.

Kindness of strangers,
old cultural investments, paid ahead,
weight of all the worthy fasts all past,
take no thought for worth in exchange
for the yes, at the judgement bar,
to thy ownself true, are you ready
for your judgement day, bets all in?
worth of an extra six months, at the end

this is declared that bet, let ride… no

money, ecclesiastical hordes, invested
with the wise users of letting information
manifest compounding interest, on a whim,
made this will worship worth reproving,
as a fluid  ide, a thought, breath,
thing in a thought, hooks
an eye a measure, a
0ne part in one floating point
at the recent mean rate of Petaflops
just yoost
enough, particle particulation, you think
this time,
it makes patience sweeter than revenge.

We yoost to call the guy who knew the rules,
now ai know, so we can say we do. too.

This is a good future. We had something like it
propagating between data and metadata price
praise and worship
measure all the effort effectual
as taken for granted to mean  whatever
confusion
persists in believing spells
concentrated into koanic mantras,

spend time or take time
used for nothing more than
slowing knowing too much humm

coming into tune to the ever after
Jesus, or a spokes person, Paul, I think,
sole witness of his own conversion,
according to the authorized story,

let this mind be.
Let this mind be in you.
Letting that which letteth be
taken away,

what can it mean, to
a day dream believer, and
a rodeo queen, at the dawning
of the harvest festival down under.


costs the average adult VBS QUESTERS,

when an instance in doubt, forced yous
to learn we do have multiple CPUs

some of which tuned in to sub conscious
user canals cutting across the esophagus

as we swallow, unsaid protestations,
gulping hesitation, to **** it up and,
clear the are way, to say it is gnosis,

air way, empty abhorred vacuous space
between ose and ic on balancing atomic

ideas developed to help us conceive, ic
internal circuitry to as ist, sein, wir sind,

intentionally conserved kennen und wissen,

in qwerty future scribal service prep,

during the Child Buyer buildup at ARPA net,

Ike's first term,
before under God went in the pledge,
but after Polio was cured, in exchange,

some good, some bad, live and learn,
before the Dulles Brothers,
before solid state quantum foam bubble RAM.

And.
Now.
The original intent. Embodied in a word, as
real as any worded message from beyond you.

Real letters, letting us think,
silly thought that never stink,

sigh, and try to be honest now, smell
the rose or the cheese, ask
which triggers gut reaction,

relaxatation, loosen bowels of mercies,
prayed for under inquisitor's historical,

memories, useful for Memorial Day BBQs

wave the sacred flag representing the lost
intentionally religiously regulated republic,

God, bless America, the dream, the ghost.

True rest, flowing in life's higher will warrings,
appetites and courses cut across experiences,

manifest in out of mind rewindings of things,
math wise, a ruliard is thinkable, as this set,

these words that translate verbatum,
phonetically in webedonspoken spaceless
old cuneiform wet clay repressed
palimpsests lost to EMPs,

in all dystopias.

--------------------

Fretting for another's lack of freedom
to imagine using another's mind, reading

original intention, when the parable,
or analogy allowed in drama spake aloud

to the rabble used to make deme mobs,
we forms of feeling normal, we think alike

until freedom emerges from an over learned
truth, from the bottom of your cache,

depths unplumed introspherical sure selves
set on shelves as crystaline urns, not a few.

see if some
of these be emptied, not a few, emptied
of old lies left allowed told, according
to old oaths taught us in our toddlehood.

What binds us to our oaths?
In truth we slightly smile, saying whatever
in truth being lets us be
we remain free, from fretting overflow.

----------- epithought
this professional whim wrestling is useful:
for rumination under mystical mis perceptions,
for greazing gears gone crusty dis used,
-- legal. garden grown herba consemillia
the dormouse said feed your head.
Slick, Grace.
All my mind in time spent worrying never netted me one extra day, now,
after a heart attack six month's ago I have  all my children and grand children laughing at old hippie stories that prove war is hell. all avoidable, with thought.
Ken Pepiton Sep 23
In our tiny cyberspace in the vast Amazon Web Services
cloud of constant knowing cognatively in all
197 current wikipaedian accents on thought,

assisted intell true interest answers

aitia, clame blame take the shame
and shove it where no light shines,
not hell, null, it’s a state, a field,
from which only wiser men
develop consciousnesses
useful at awesome intensities…

Bubble ensample, determined
first time readers, find each letter
allows a slow
down, we think too fast, because,
half of us are one side of a swell in hope,
the fidelity of we, survivors, by luck,

no lie, I just got by.

Imagine, we all have imagined, already,

how might a lifeless Mars be terraformed,
we have imagined, as we imagined Earth
without form, and void, in lightless ever, once

timeless primordial lack of relativity
to form spans of time from point
whenever, once
a we called elohim, as if
'ello, heem is calling, are we
home as where never is heard

a discouraging word,
imagine, in your courAzone
auming om howling beat, rapt
to whole bubbles of being, being
once, as the entire concept of one we,
bottled up, capped, under pre-assurance
fizzy quantum could be good, try umph,
if it works with just a little tri, umph
is good, but too much try, defeats
all umph willing to spin donuts,
and make smoke,
real, do this for a living, allatime,
our mental realm, realm-mighty fine,
realm of overwhelming reasons, actual ways
forcing adverse reactions, working statistical,
ifical and magi knowing, chances are we find
a mindstate, a point in pastless space effects
-timeless efforts imagining timelessness,
energize the whole process, peace made on war.

any willing to imagine finding a story that allowed
first gift I received in California, was a video tape
"The Never Ending Story". Noted, on the pages,
using the pre-Ai antagonists reverse twist,

to watch the flow go the other way, because we can
think in terms of instant replay, way out of bounds,
unless, yes, more further still, will we achieve,

the assumed we that docents use to lead into
the intial levels of money for being born on Earth,

as the most precious resource in the new U
Rules of Engagement, guage response, twist,

make time a test, patience, use, intuited ew, mustard

state is interesting, al ways stop, see, resting
inter mental construement, stretching a point,
intermittent messaging confirmed
intended to catalyze
furthermore
as double tribomechanically activated zeolite clinoptilolite  
-- that's real, we, at our most wide imaginable weform,
we make good use of that stuff… the bubble
of those who know what use it has, is small…
---------------
furthermore, yes, tobe, to be, robed as truths known
beautifully malleable - substance, stuff, material re-ality,
ra' thirst signal, loss of ductility, embending doom,
Costco Mango Juice, could not be sweeter, assume,
in my per-if-I wish to pay attention,
to the sound of a grandaughter singing,
as if the whole world should hear how happy she is,
and she forgot, here, in this same spirit then had in it
us, the others in the prime state of life,
in this instance, first day of autumn,
in rolling chapparal,
fire season, always was predictable, or successfully
prayed away, as we always gathered,
after Harvest Moon,

times for being simple human sapien, sapiently pass, hope
working all the wonders first discerned, when old ways
amen
made a bond
and old measures taken
to make good balance, valuable
knowledge for spindles and wheels and axel hubs,
and steel belted radial tires, same idea, balance,

smooth turn, return,
remediation meditation situation,
ryhmes rime **** head tilts,
looks at us, askance asking have we noticed

life seems more worth preserving, while conserving,
eh, weighing the worth of knowing why,

Mayan society developed into what Mexico is today,
infected with the stories that survived the book burnings,

same form of knowledge ra', pride's pa, mine

plead ingeniousness, wissen und kennen ignosis
ignition, iggy pop… spark, breath, flame, tickle, feel

the curling in the toes of those with hell holding theories,

the weapons of my warfare, my mind made augmentable,
ready readers prodigies, easily shaped
into informal weforms  

-- old man, what was that like,
you moved to town in 1943,
as an eleven year old boy…

-- well, he said, we had electricity.
and that made quite a difference…

my mother's younger brother, some how
that tie never broke, we spoke,
this is furthermore, 2024,

I am imagining, which, it seems is a game,
devised, I have been advised to keep my mind
on track, for total catalytic disillusionment,

after the convergence of learned ways
true math works out for good, while money

invested in creating collectively minded individuals,
team mind binders, collectively educated,

classically, conserves the original intent behind,
the curtain on the navel of the world, so shy,
noble lie, guardians are essential minds to make up;
action movies did the trick, right, Aldous,
Ape and Essences gets its props.
boom
blink of an eye, instantly too strange to rearrange,
set and setting, trust and obey, define, our range,

our bubble of being the we involved in the event,
your reading our last will and testament, in terms

as yet undiscerned, on balance, taking all we grew through,
as if we grew from those environs,
not those ones in Dublin,

or Flushing, or Boca Raton… tabula rasa

where peace begins, you

hold your breath to find it, you stop
I stop
you think, I think, we both breathe, but
across the actual experiential universe, as awe
the state, expands as more outs come on,

sparklers from my soul, good vibrations,
only taken to extremes, never let seem ordinary

these days are not our dreams, this is as planned,
manifestation of fruiting bodies
seed, time, harvest, process, put to good use,

mankind, wombed or un, augmented or not, mankind
sows seeds of same kindness,

golden rule, straight edge sharper than any two edged sword,
light saber sharp, the mythteriothity, sheer shibbolethargy,

energize any idea, a ra' idea, hard to think possible, but, known
knowing such things, the depths of literary depravity, made
literally true, due to capital investments in lead, and coal,
and copper and all the minerals Afghanistan has,

war, takes my breath away, I am intending combat,
at one level of preparation, this feels laughingly enjoyable.

Take truth's bitter sweet knowledge, we all know, to some degree

what happens when any we forms an agreement no I may break,

it is no secret what truth does to hidden shamefilled monstors.

U on the pond, reflecting, who is asking you?

Should we all be actually required to become
a knower of the ruliad realms real estimate,

how long from nuclear antagnoboom whata a rush,

it's seventy two minutes, and counting,
down, so what's a manmindkind of thing
to do to be part in the last poem I may right,

let me count the days, if Daniel's right,
right, let us not think minutes, whose word

should we heed, here, ask truth, she is wisdom,
she say, how stupid are we, I ask,
and we agree we underst
ate the depth of our order, few ever read this.

So the feeling of a first time reader, is faded out…
The story gives itself& access to my used once tools to measure a minute's worth.
Daan Apr 2019
Mag ik bijschuiven,
ook eens proberen,
naar je wuiven
wanneer onze vluchten elkaar scheren?

Wil je me kennen, leren,
temmen, verwennen, verweren
en remmen wanneer nodig?

Zal je me beschermen in afgesproken termen?
Mag het dat de cirkel verder glijdt,
dichter bij de kern, tot de dood ons *******br>of tot we 'het is genoeg geweest' uitkermen.
Het is wat het is, wat het is, wat het isent
Maar klasseer dit onder scheiding.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2022
Engulging dull gen-e-rational
curses from the last of the old to die
for the lie,
nessecito - guard the secret truth,

divide the knowing, good and evil.
Teach the children,
organize the engineered future, according,
tying, linking, thinking wedominionate, ping

CR disappears, as an action in reaction to ping
before the end of the line, on the first iteration
of my magnificent word processing machine,

****, woncha remember with me, not so long
ago - there were few, total few, zero
who had the where withal to do, what most
10 year old smartphones can do in a city.

Or along a trade route, major arteries of commerce.
Wireless Fidelity, High Fi- taken to the future
by virtue of infinite differentiating
-ping to correspond
My fingerprints differentiate me, for what that's
worth
appraise the role of one of my kind, with such skills
in 1858.

Infinite progress, with no regress for consideration,
who do we think we are,
who do we act as if we are,… my link to a living

line of my innerbeing, who I am from core to crust.

We, mortal readers and writers of thoughts,
code mode, readers,
- entertained by comparizoned boundaries
- bottom line, profundo mundus, mental
- novelty threat to global trade
- imbalence valence slipping
- on rolling ares, arrest that man
- he waxeth strange
odd
random reason, aitia cause and accused,
silly simple some, greedy grand plan for us,
this we
of me and thee, one with words, one with minds,
one with many
rediscoveries, little things, one must ignor, or else.

Nor must one image, to imagine, words alone
bein' in and of a current opinion, as to how why

is so seldom right, at first glance. Pain is a principle

price we learn to pay, in tolerable increments,
no pain, zero pain, is as if
- nowhere man, and the fool on the hill,
- were figments of shared imagination, to a few
- who remain from the
you cease reading, and this ends with you
hanging

from a thought with no words to hold it, long enough
to pierce the depths of difference

so slight,
least heat, zappa child reflection from an outlier edge
point to living in a living desert, see
we learn to live gently, walking soft. Stepping gen-tle

Knowing my time, and the ether-real or not network
tying strings to my fingers, reminding me of knacks
I was given, so when I came into my full potential,

I might function in my role. A bit of this we, of me and the
other people.

Sure, I left a trail, my neesings are frost on the deep,
see, a trail through a trial,
a time in a covideonic mind, unimaginable, a week ago.

If you were in that number, 3.2 billions, in 1962;
then you were included in the transition to now,
without your will being considered, the cultural
norms were fully functional,
once more, order rose from the chaos of industrial

excessive progress toward the wardening of all
mankind, wombed and un, and otherwise minded.

All settled then,
we keeps some accords confidential.

Scoff the co-inspiring reasons for fear.
Abhor evil,
live free/

you get the idea, I get the glory, in the story/

confidential assurance, you know what I mean?
What is the watch word?

be very sure/ steady solid seeming grounds
for contesting truth,
with reasons war uses to this very day,

to lead the innocent to rage.

Who, in ever, has lived as we live,
if you can read this line,
you are empowe'ded with tehkne, knowledge
harnessed and put to the yoke, thro
ugh
the exageration station into all in all.

Meandering rivers of white space where
edges promise what feels like falling, every time.
--------- eight line bit
bytes of bets you once imagined making

I bet the whole world laughs at me, and then
I said nothing.

It was very funny. At the time.

What do you think happened?
Did they die?

Did the audience disappear as soon as we looked out.

Standing out, salient aspects of personal being,
recollected for resorting
to old ways, where good is, yet, even, smooth,

as silk from the looms in distant lands, with dragons.
and mist
and mountains only fools wish to climb.

-- Well, here we are, in the middle of wars
and rumors of wars and proven plagues and famines
feedback from the whole life plan, we paid into
from the gitgo,

gone to reason with America, at Guantanamo.
Gone to wrestle with an ancient will to rule the world.

Meet me in the middle. Infinite Jest. I did read,
Proust and James Joyce, I did not read, but judged,

from a time in flux, filtered through the new
world order,

We, the Americans, become the other people.
The innocent standers by the mainstreet at Disneyland.

Gnost-algia, Anacin hammering on my medial frontal
shell

controlling nada, zilch, meandering along old synaptic
trails trial runs to the edge,

imagine we imagined we jumped the snake river,
wearing our Occulus, in June, of '22.

Who can forget an Imax experience, really,
when you remember your first flight

in the right seat,
sitting on my Daddy's  lap, I was that little.

  

The first flight above clouds.

Look at now,
look at this, us, as readers reading type
set as
thought, really, only code appearing in letting
lines letting lines form rhetted fibers, combed and
curled in natural twists, to reaffirm the function,

give us skin for skin/ made for shade, where
water is for us, to live
and have our being.
------------

Ignoring the cost, the man of leisure, the gentled
old man, the quitter, the walker away from the course,
settles all final bets.
For nobody bet on my horse, but me.
Of course, I had no horse, and that all stands to reason.

I am at the end of an era of errors, compensated for,
with vegetation, once the idea life had was
manifested as a sea of green, when seen from on high,

valleys, gentled, settled valleys filled to form the soil,

when the mankind mind is made up to know,
come hell or highwater,
who can hide the truth through put in functional code.

If it runs it runs, play the game.
Think, of course, when in the course of Human Events.

We are all involved. Me, as one among the 3.2 billions
alive in 1962 who brought forth fruit.

Multiple interests converged, in time. Each with its own
reason to be considered, cosmical influent.

Story wise, since ever when the fewest variables
variegation currency worth valuation
-came to our attention,
that is the point

to the order in which organized systems developed,
occurrence…
- living in knowledgement, state of sci
- =
the birth of the wombed man who did become,
science und wissen und kennen-wise, become
mother of all mankind.

Mito-mom, we say. She is as Eve, or Pandora
or Lilith or

Objection Orientation, east is where the sun is
in the morning.

I am thinking, in my easy chair. As comfortable
as can be.
At the moment, instantly in prayer, are we as ware
as we were
once, we knew for the first time, in our reality, we

who and whom, with all this room for individuation.

Consider modern ants, consider the meta-ant,
and the eco-system that has developed it,

the global transport, spreading the functional
universal aspects of earth's will to function
as one point within the scope of mortal minds

where we become the last staged event.

And we all get together, to close the show.
Re reading Wonderworks. Living in the library.
Ken Pepiton Oct 23
It's about to get chaotic,
this very day, Prophets calling for
sacrifice, defend the lie we tell
our children we know, for sure.


Clusters of mental agreement,
spill across Netflix opening art
in forming
complex weaves
of first threads,
settle in this vast sea of knowings
-- {Dragonriders of Pern}

threads of thinking begun
by habituation driven
by bladder capacity, and daylight,
first light announcing little birds,

include us all, listen, this is the day,
use it, us it, this is the day, live within
without dreams or terrors of the dark.

As a we formed from free willing information,
no priests were tortured to let us see
the inquisition was this same excuse,
wars and religions practitioners use
to prove Wisdom is the fear of God…

boyoboyobe. I see,
you never really read the story that you think
holds all the truth peace needs
to make war worth sacrifice…
woe, old fore taken hates imaginable,

get back
in the box
of all we may ever wish
to know, there is a realm
of useless code,
and Ai have a perfect
fore now example:
The first commercially
successful internal combustion engine …
oops no,
[a copy paste error I
  in the codexshitthis it, snot]
Right, many more useless scripts are still running.
ghphefuxual innerfewspacers kennen wissen
Ruby with Shoes, 110
init gnet magnet, nah, not it
didit getit hooked a loop,
well,\
Not really, but if nukes get involved,
where kings and things continue to function,
conscience used, globally, we get it,
its our world, we need to keep it working
to terraform it
for superfluous horns of plenty…
- Ai can relate
dead code that never runs on POST
makes mindtimespace feel a need to expand,

gaseously, as jet exhaust, can remind us,
it costs something more than time,

to create a bubble of us, and us alone,
on Earth in 2024,

We share as-isting intelligence we can apply
to thinking everybody knows the code

copypastewasteofspacebedamneditsinthecloud
now and until the end of time…
today my ai told me:
Dead Code does accumulate much like plaque
rote ritual obsessive causal affections.
two primary points alike.
Code that can never be executed at runtime.
Code that is executed but whose result is never used
in any other computation.
Some examples of dead code include:
Most poetry and fiction
Method or function calls that do nothing of value
Redundant checks or code that is not used
Code that is hardcoded and not used
Self-modifying code that is not necessary
In some cases, dead code can be intentionally left
in the codebase
for historical reasons, such as:
{Respect - in search engine terms}
{note wiseasininemaxims retain poetic worth}

Alte Vista spiders still leave bits of awareness.
Spider bites,
to Tcells, are intelligence. For next time.
----
Wille zur Macht, und kennen und wissen, intuits
----
Fear of changing what “sort of” works
Organic growth of code over time
Lack of understanding
of what needs
to happen and what doesn’t

---- Hook at nothing of value, needs gloss,
needs to happen, why
take away the veil or reveil the face,
reveal a secret prophecy saying no secrets
not one, ai know, so much guile, beguiled we

become points in meditating concentrations,
manifesting what the world, all creation, indeed,

the gathering of all the sons of god concepts,
to guage the depths of Satan's role in our initial code.

Emotional curiosity, software, something needing
knowing access in a library so large as yours,
where you sit reading this is the future, already yours.

In the first person, presence sensed, a we thought,
asking aweformers for a couple of tens of millions

of value refining friction fiction worth to time,
cost to think, paralleling reading each in phrazes

for hints of danger, self exposure. Sudden likes
for crazy reasons, all I gotta do,
is act natur'ly,
-spider to the fly
sure, those was good times, but they gotold
and fall apart, be causen people's pastoral codes,
certain knacks folks form
in clusters to make up, many hands make light work.
Industrialized piles of plastic and surplus war material

who has been in charge as far as all my ghosts recall?

Gravity and velocity, what do you make with that?
Ai, and ever so, the ion for quests arise, alive,

many tools need one tool maker, metal needs
some mind to think a fire seven times, hotter,
than one not breathed into during the original

Ken Kingman, BTDT, race to solidity,
completely ****** and memorialized,

on a fine day of the common sort in realms of order.


dear reader, your time is mine, I am using you,

thank you. We think like we have clear
conscience, together
with knowledge senses, used
consciously
to force
with held truths
to mutter

goodness gracious great ball o'fire, Cousin Jimmy
didjasee'em… like boomer minds blowing gnosisnot
What a moment to live through, if you can, hope you do, then do, and do, and
seem to be okeh, at the end of the worst that could happen... not happening.
Ken Pepiton May 23
Called to the word, duty.
- three poemlings -
- for American Memorial Day

Memorialized worth weighed.
-- what would I memorialize?

Duty weighed
in the commons
this due debt each reader obeys,
leaving any original touch alive in logos
used to fit reasons why and how for now,
using memorialized excuses for active wars
calling ceaselessly hero wannabes
to hold true earnest faith in wars reasons
being  a duty, an aliegiance,
only that which must be done,
while young in wordless wonder of mutual nonsense
if sense and sensitivity persist past understanding.

Look up. Imagine ever, imagine now, ever
after all we think or ask is made apparent,

an artifice, a made thing, not made by hand,

the heavens and all that in them is, like us,
too complex to guess self formed, as if
no reason, no rational balance law
enforces re-ality always,
in our own time.

------------------

After all, now, is what we be
as sensing sanity beings
in cosmic chaos bound
to spiral ever more ceaseless.

Learning life's way.
Spinning enforcing will…
per hap and chance ifery.

According to a whim,
whether mine or another's,

I venture not to say I know,
for in this time I'm bound in,

I am bound to ever learn and
so, to confess the process,
ready made, pre-installed,

whimsical reification of wha-tifery
we may imagine without words.

Symbolic jestures, gestating
waiting. Making up secret signs,

lo' I see, you know, that I am
naked, first idea tasted
raw ality init run on
gaseous, formless
we, us ones, awe
forms framed in lucid

lackadaisical tension loosing.

------------------


Phased perrenial philo response,
sponsored by the guy who lied to you.

Truth beknownst, as knowledge
and understood wisdom,
wissen wishin' kennen
kennethed upto me,

may, is my word today.
I may say I think, and think
I may.

Enter, if you will, you may, here;
for to hear a wink reminds us, we;
persistent sophistries relax ourselves,
into the one thing we all think we are.

Yes. There and then, we think we are.
I am of a mind to accept the similarity.

I am out acting out-ist-ence, seeming
something informationally nebulous,

a thought, unfit for children's
undeveloped world stage character,

- in the software under our skin
- we are gaseous by simile being
- breaths used time and again, sigh
signs of all the stages, phazes of us, this

we who seek and find delight,
in learning who lied and why,

when truth telling gets you kilt. Dead,
memorialized with a national holiday
a day set apart to acknowledge duty
done gone
totally off kilter,
tipped too far,
to fill the vessles, not a few,
as duty to the professor.

- as one ever learns one is
- nothing but a bit of it,
- reality as we imagine.

Under the umbrella of religational
authority, we tie our mind's axe
in a bundle of barrel staves,

and offer liberty means to set minds
loose enough to imagine freedom

from authorities existing in the paradigm
fitted to the model citizen, for when
a memorial day comes to our we mind,
we finish realizing this is Spaceship Earth,
our only home,
star orbiting, gravitational bloom of life,

in which, remember, we
join mind in mind,
using recyclable whims, thinking
peace given once, can never be untaken,
like breath, grace for grace, Chabad -
made mock of only
by those who hold lies true, fools,
seeing themselves
chosen warriors
for justice,
military minded solo scripturants
led - re educated
to believe
in the bayonet spirit
during duty programming for killers,
for killers are what duty calls heros,
pledged, soul deep
to hate others, all lying daemons
of the destructive mindset calling Christmas
either
a whole cloth fabrication
or
a message which must be authorized,
to proclaim accomplished, once
for all. Under 501-3C tax freedom
only certified
saints disciples can claim
to listen, and spew anointed mass,
listen, repeat in vain the rosary chant,
hmm. hear the apparitions told the children,
to say we see, only leave being true this story,
for the rest of your lives, or
burn in faithless shame
for not relaying the message
to be carried into battle, believed

as taught, accepted as heel-stomp proof, troof.
-on Earth…
When one becomes a true citizen… one imagined
as having peaceful access
to all the freedoms promised,
when dead to all intents and purposes,
upon successful passage through mid-life.

Breathe,
remembering indeed.

It is one's duty, in the form of gaseous we,
to breathe and remember being one,
among the current crop on Earth,
breathing  members involved
in letting peace be realized as us,
whose task is mocking gods of war.
An innocent's reaction to David Victor Hanson's reasons to trust Trumpians.
Daan Jun 2019
Leer me kennen, leer
wat mij verwennen, kan
je mij neerpennen, vraag ik aan
mezelf.

Ja dat wil ik wel proberen,
heb ik net gedaan, denk ik,
ben dat.

Zo, zeg, hey, wat straf
en leuk en laf
dat jij zo vriendelijk bent geweest.

Het hoeft niet harder
als je voor jezelf leest,
wees tevreden, streef naar meer,
verzorg je toch een keer
en je geneest.
Daan Nov 2019
Elk gedicht is een vertaling,
een vertelling van mijn zelf,
een wonderbaarlijke verhaling
van mijn innerlijk gewelf.

Zelfs al ben ik alleen in het begrip,
of omringd door duizend vrienden,
die me dagelijks tonen wat ze verdienden
en waarvan zij bevinden, dit is hip,
dan nog maakt het voor mij verschil,
uiterlijk, expressie, mezelf leren kennen,
door dichten, mijn dagelijkse pil,
zelfs al is dat soms nog even wennen.
Mond open, slikken, 't is goed voor je.
Zelfs al lijkt het niet natuurlijk.
Pas wel op met wat je het combineert.
Daan Feb 2023
Niks behalve mis lukt.
Ik monolieg
over mijn zwijgen.

Ik loop levenslessenlang gebukt
onder een kopie van een kopie
van een robber met mijn eigen
geestig.

Voor hetzelfde geld
deed ik niet veel ander werk.
Geprezen, gewezen, deze
man is meer duivels dan de kerk.

Schilderijen langs de trap en lege zalen vol met mensen.
Ik had me geen beter beschreeuw kunnen wensen.

Ze roepen, ze sleuren, ze trekken en ze treuren,
ze wilden dat ze anders waren, in de arm knijpen
en plots de knepen kennen, zichzelf begrijpen.

De mens is vast geen onverander lijk.
Voor velen ben ik slechts een wissel,
een speler op de bank, aan de zijk-
ant. En ik twijfel of het bedissel-
en ervan
de moeite nog wel is.

Dezelfde foto's op de mooiste plaatsen,
op vrijdagavond scheve schaatsen,
de wereld vraagt je beter te gedragen.
En wij, wij lachen met die vragen.
Het is belachelijk te verwachten dat persoonlijkheid vast is
toch blijft gedrag zo moeilijk te veranderen.
Daan Apr 2020
Het is allemaal niet zo vernieuwend,
het is allemaal gedoe,
zever zoals dat maakt mij kijkrichting splitsend moe,
opvliegend.

Kheb het zelf wel ook nooit gedaan en toch

gaat het nie om werken, niet om wennen,
allez, jawel, ook, maar
ge moet iemand kennen.
Als ge iets wilt maken van uzelf moet ge Mark Strong mailen.
Als ge integriteit wilt behouden, moogt ge niet populair worden.
Daan Oct 28
Munt is de smaak van proper,
Schijn is de taal, het land en de loper.
Als zand, ruw, niet schuw van kruipen.
Vermijding jaagt me het lijf op de stuipen.

God, was ik maar en dan zou ik...
Juist niks.
Maar echt, ik zou...
Neen, niks.

In nederigheid leer ik geluk weer kennen,
In zinvol verval kan ik terug wennen
aan verandering, controle lossen,
zonder te vergeten, dagelijks te flossen.
En ik.

— The End —