(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)
jeffrey-lebowski:

Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
jeffrey-lebowski:
Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
(via phatphilosophers)
“
These are the days that must happen to you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves Of Grass (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via phatphilosophers)
18 HOURS AGO / LARMOYANTE
axiatonal:

Canola Flowers Field, China
axiatonal:
Canola Flowers Field, China
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

whatisadvertising:
What would modern technology and social networks look like if they were vintage ads
This is a post gathered Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Skype, iMac, Nintendo Wii and Sony Playstation as if they were vintage ads.
(via thebronxisburning)
aplacetofindlife:

Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: How are you?  I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: What is God? If you think that the Truth can be known From words, If you think that the Sun and the Ocean Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing! Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!- Hafiz
aplacetofindlife:
Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

- Hafiz
(via cosmic-rebirth)

meditationsinwonderland:
Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, We Should All Be Feminists
How could I not reblog this?
(Source: bakongo)
1 day ago – 234,004 notes

artismyempire:
gentledom:
A wonderful analogy.
What I shall do today.
(Source: boyqueen, via thebronxisburning)
1 day ago – 30,054 notes

(Source: maryhadalittleblunt, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 81 notes
beachsloth:

SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
beachsloth:
SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
(via bluishtigers)
1 week ago – 74 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
1 week ago – 78 notes
maymonsturr:

My mantra.
maymonsturr:
My mantra.
(via cosmic-rebirth)
1 week ago – 568 notes
foxxxynegrodamus:

***
foxxxynegrodamus:
***
(Source: lnpfeed, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 1,635 notes
cosmic-rebirth:

Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
cosmic-rebirth:
Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
(Source: cookiecarnival)
2 weeks ago – 22,305 notes
“The point is not to pay back kindness but to pass it on.”
– Julia Alvarez (via cosmic-rebirth)
(Source: amandaonwriting, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 275 notes

(Source: diawf, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 2,799 notes
bl4ckhippie:

Fly.
bl4ckhippie:
Fly.
(Source: rootsrukkus, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 750 notes

(Source: lizzlizzcomics, via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 110,456 notes
meditationsinwonderland:

ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
meditationsinwonderland:
ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
(Source: vegan-hippie)
2 weeks ago – 139,177 notes

(Source: jrich103, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 4,848 notes

pleoros:
Helminadia Ranford - Guilin,China
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 329 notes
designgather:

Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
designgather:
Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
(via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 286 notes
miguu:
don’t be afraid.
lean into your genius.
let your own brilliance support you.
you are something
we have all been waiting to know.
please.
(via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 339 notes

odditiesoflife:
Amazing Jabuticaba Tree
This is an incredible tree that bears its fruit directly on the main trunks and branches of the plant, lending a distinctive appearance to the fruiting tree. The jabuticaba (Plinia cauliflora) is a fruit-bearing tree native to Minas Gerais and São Paulo in southeastern Brazil. Otherwise known as the Brazilian Grape Tree, the jabuticaba is grown for its purplish-black, white-pulped fruits. They can be eaten raw or be used to make jellies and drinks, including juice and wine.
They are wonderful trees to have and are fairly adaptable to most environments but they grow extremely slow. Jabuticaba flowers are white and grow directly from its trunk, just like its fruit. The tree may flower and fruit only once or twice a year, but when continuously irrigated, it flowers frequently and fresh fruit can be available year round in tropical regions.
Common in Brazilian markets, jabuticabas are largely eaten fresh; their popularity has been likened to that of grapes in the US. Due to its extremely short shelf-life, fresh jabuticaba fruit is very rare in markets outside of areas of cultivation. So if you are ever in Brazil, be sure to try the incredibly tasty fruit called jabuticaba.
source 1, 2
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 1,462 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 118 notes

(Source: rorycwhatsyourthesis, via samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 130,113 notes
oecologia:

Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
oecologia:
Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
(via samsaranmusing)

burningveins:
multicolors:
benskid:
Know where you stand.
Wow
This is kinda creepy..
(via hungryforworld)
“
Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
Zen Master Dogen - (1200- 1253) AD (via samsaranmusing)
2 WEEKS AGO
101fuymemes:

COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
101fuymemes:
COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
(via roslynoberholtzerbddd)

itscolossal:
Planetary Structural Layer Cakes Designed by Cakecrumbs
“
Do not resist events that move you out of your comfort zone, especially when your comfort zone was not all that comfortable.
Alan Cohen (via raeraenjma)
(via awaveofbliss)
4 WEEKS AGO / THE-HEALING-NEST
so apt
so apt
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)
treewellie:

"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
treewellie:
"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
definitelydope:

BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
definitelydope:
BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
(via awaveofbliss)

Birth by Alex Grey
Birth by Alex Grey
(via receptive)

(via bluishtigers)

(via awaveofbliss)
“
There is a time and place for decaf coffee. Never and in the trash.
(via 17yr)
(via hungryforworld)
1 MONTH AGO / MIDWESTRAISEDMIDWESTLIVING
surreelust:

Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
surreelust:
Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul,
of the soul.
Rumi, from Who Am I?   (via bluishtigers)
(via bluishtigers)
1 MONTH AGO / VIOLENTWAVESOFEMOTION
xpudding:

xpudding:
(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via thebronxisburning)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
treewellie:

La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance
treewellie:
La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance

itscolossal:
Mirror City: A Kaleidoscopic Timelapse of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Vegas and L.A. [VIDEO]

(via cosmic-rebirth)

awkwardsituationist:
gmb akash documents the 350 kilometre journey from dhaka to sylhet, bangladesh made by those who, unable to afford the price of a ticket or find room to ride inside, risk death by traveling atop and between train cars
(via suntochukwu)
purpleaggregates:

White Tara The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune When I see the signs of untimely death, May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara; And, having destroyed the Lord of Death, May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body. OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
purpleaggregates:
White Tara
The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune

When I see the signs of untimely death,
May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara;
And, having destroyed the Lord of Death,
May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body.

OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA
OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
(via dancingdakini)

(via guerrillatech)
hungryforworld:

Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.
hungryforworld:
Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.

(via awaveofbliss)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Internal and external are ultimately one. When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently. Love and compassion arise, and they affect the world.
Eckhart Tolle (via samsaranmusing)
(via suntochukwu)
1 MONTH AGO / SAMSARANMUSING
malformalady:

The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
malformalady:
The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
(via deeperthansoul)
polaroidsf:

Welcome to Eden
polaroidsf:
Welcome to Eden

(via bouddra)
“
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for
your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me

“Pepsi employee killed in Hawkins car crash.”
“Maine Vice Mayor Deaver killed in car accident in Castle Rock.”
“Woman ‘dead’ after car crash found alive in morgue.”

The news reports on radio echoed through her whole car as she indulged her third bottle of Russian Standard. Weird, she thought; she has been hearing news about road collisions all day. She was sure that the alcohol wasn’t intoxicating her mind to hear different things, she knew she was still sober. Everybody knew she always had low alcohol tolerance, even herself knew that; now she couldn’t even taste the bitterness of the liquor, she feels it inside of her. Drinking was the thing her mother told her to never do, perhaps because it turns her father into a monster with a closed fist as a weapon.

She looked at her rear-view mirror and realised she was travelling alone on an empty road. People had told her before to never travel alone in Derry Road or else something might happen. She wasn’t travelling; she was running away. It fits her, she thought, she and the road were the same; they were both empty.

She heard an unfamiliar noise, like the sound of a steel colliding with another steel. She had realized that her car engine died while she was driving. “Seriously?” she said to herself, “Is everything I own dead now? Like me?”

She stepped outside of her car and walked to find any gasoline stations or houses that could help her. There is no luck for any signs of functioning establishments on an empty road like this, she thought. However, a place filled with buried muscle cars, abandoned pickup trucks, and old bulldozers caught her attention. It’s an empty road. How is there supposed to be a car junkyard? She thought to herself. What’s even stranger is, she didn’t see it while she was driving.

“Well this day couldn’t get any weirder,” she said. First she couldn’t get drunk after drinking three bottles, then she kept on hearing news about car crashes, and now she suddenly saw a car junkyard out of the blue? She opened her hood and a massive smoke appeared, causing her to inhale it. She was coughing while staring at the oils leaking. She didn’t know what to do. She had no choice but to look for people who could help her with her car. She didn’t know anything about it, she didn’t even know what the problem of her car was. She glanced at the sky and saw the sun was slowly setting as well as her hope in what’s happening. She thought to herself, maybe this creepy car junkyard could actually help her.

She walked towards the old car junkyard and the sight of it surprised her. Her eyes widened when she saw people hanging out, beer bottles everywhere, and some couples having the time of their lives.

“May I help you?” A long haired guy who was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt appeared by her side. She was having second thoughts in answering him back, but she really needed help, especially if she reeks of alcohol on an empty road.

“Yes, actually I was driving and then my car suddenly stopped. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but a smoke appeared and the oils were leaking. I figured you can help me.”

“You think we know everything about cars just because we’re hanging out in a car junkyard?” He asked while laughing. Her embarrassment was overflowing at that moment which caused her to look down, she was still hearing the guy’s chuckles.

“I just guessed. I think.” She said this while looking at the ground since she was too humiliated to look at him. Much to her surprise, his laughter was no longer heard. “Thank God.” She whispered to herself.

“We’ll see what we can do. At the moment, why won’t you just join us?” Join them? Like hang out with people who are in this creepy junk yard? She stood still while ruminating on what she should do. She was feeling a little scared that maybe these people are actually killers or ghosts but there wasn’t really anything to lose for her. This is the place she'd rather be than her house where her mistakes and failures are always included in their dinner conversations.

She walked towards people who were about her age. Girls with vibrant hair colours looked at her from head to toe, some of them smiled at her that caused her to smile too.

“Your car died?” asked a short haired girl holding a beer bottle.

“Yes. This day couldn’t get any worse. Life couldn’t get any worse, from losing everything you have to people you trusted betraying you. My life is as worthless as my rotten car.” she uttered. One problem she has always had was the inability to control her mouth. People tried to cut her tongue before, unbeknownst to them it’s a far more dangerous weapon than their sharp objects.

“If that ain’t the truth.” said the short haired girl while taking a sip of her beer. Seeing people drink their beer bottles triggered her, she was fighting the urge to go back to her car and finish the remaining bottles of her Russian Standard.

“You want one?” the short haired girl asked while giving her the beer bottle. She just shrugged and shook her head, she was never a fan of beers.

The people in the car junk yard continued to hang out and drink their beers. They talked to her and even told some stories, she was enjoying their company. Epiphany suddenly hit her when this one thought crossed her mind; people there talked to her and asked her questions, but they never asked for her name. She never knew even a single name. Abandoned cars, unusual but enthusiastic people, and a junkyard in the middle of an empty road. She was starting to think she visited the labyrinth of lost people with broken cars.

“I hope you guys don’t mind me asking but, who are you and what do you do here?” curiosity was evident in her voice. For the first time, she was starting to care about things.

“We live here.” A husky and deep voice replied, which sent shivers up and down her spine.

“You live here? Like you sleep inside the cars?” Her voice was filled with wonder and a little bit of fear. She has never heard of a lifestyle like this. What about their food? Their money? Their family? These questions surrounded the confused mind of hers.

“Yeah, you can say that.”

“I’m sorry if I ask too many questions but how did you guys meet? Like, were you all friends before or did you just meet here?”

“We all met because of one thing, our cars suddenly died. Actually, two things; our cars mysteriously stopped and we all had the desire to walk away from life.”

She immediately felt tiny little bumps over her skin. She thought this was actually a nonexistent place but she was right all along. She was feeling a combination of terror and nonchalance, like a person who is on the verge of death but has already accepted the fate that the heavens had stored for her. People already had their eyes closed while some are still staring at the constellations in the sky, wondering why their lives didn’t shine as bright in the dark as them. She’d rather sleep than look at the stars, for she knows her life would be much better with her eyes closed.

“Are you sure with your decision?” a soft but eager whisper awakened her from her thoughts. She saw the long haired guy staring at her, waiting for her answer.

“What decision?”

“Are you sure you want to walk away from everything already?”

She looked at the guy with annoyance mixed with sarcasm. “What? I’m just sleeping. When my car miraculously work again, I’ll leave immediately.”

“You’re enjoying here, aren’t you?” She didn’t try to utter some words, she knew inside of her that he already knows the answer.

“I was like that too, you know? I thought this was the place where I can finally be free. I finally walked away from my problems, I don’t have to deal with never ending problems and challenges anymore.” He paused, which caused her to look at him and wait for his reply. “But that’s only what I thought.” He said this with a broken voice that she was sure she would never forget.

“But isn’t this junkyard truly for us? For people who failed, for people whose lives don’t deserve to continue anymore. Maybe our cars stopped for a reason, maybe our engines were never meant to be fixed. Maybe we were never meant to be fixed.” She felt tears slowly streaming down her face. She remembered the sight of her lover with the person she trusted the most, she remembered the bathroom floor filled with her own blood, she remembered the bruises on her face after the night her father got drunk.

“At first it was. It felt good. Until I realised that walking away from everything isn’t the solution. It doesn’t make things right, it actually makes them worse. The fact that you didn’t even try to fight is the worst thing.” She felt it. She felt his pain. She didn’t even know who this person was but one thing is for sure, she felt everything this guy had been through.

“But I tried, you know? I tried everything and life still gives me the same, eternal problems that I will never find solutions to.”

She could see his hazelnut eyes travel around her. Her blue eyes that were filled with tears looked at the boy who told her more meaningful words than her own father ever could. “I was like that. I was dumb to think life will always be easy, that I can surround myself with happiness and positivity. But life isn’t like that. Your life will not always be like the rising sun because most of the time it’s a thunderstorm. But I was more dumb to think that the best decision was to run away. I heard all about this place ever since before. I drove all the way from my place to here, thinking I could escape it all. That’s not the right decision. There isn’t a day here when I don’t think of my mother crying while I was in the hospital bed, wondering what she did wrong. I gave up on life when the people in it didn’t give up on me. I was stupid for thinking that I could reach my destination immediately without having a journey. I was stupid to think that I can just drive for 1 kilometre and be at the place I want. It doesn’t work that way, life doesn’t work like that. There will always be a journey, a journey where your car’s engine will be dead in the middle of an empty road, but you will find a way to fix it and drive again.”

“So did you regret your decision?”

“Let’s just say I was too late.” She couldn’t find the right words, she didn’t know what to say. She lets him do all the talking for she knows he can never say these words again.

“Look, I don’t want to be the one who decides for you. Maybe you’re so fed up of everything, I get it. But I’m just asking you to think about it, before everything is too late. And piece of advice, if you decide to leave here, please, don’t ever look back.” Blue meets hazelnut, in that one occurrence, they knew their car engines aren’t the only ones they have in common.

She knew that if she walked away, she was never going to see him again. It seemed impossible that he would tell her his name, but she still took the risk and ask him for it. “Before I go, can I please know your name?”

“My name’s Kevin. Kevin Parks.” His face was filled with regret and sadness. Maybe saying his own name was a struggle for him, he knew he would never hear his loved ones say it again.

She nodded and smiled at him, it’s been too long since she put a smile on her face.

“I’m Rosa.” She said. He smiled, knowing she still has the chance to let the world know her name.

“Tell my mom I’m sorry.” And just like that, he disappeared. She was left alone with the chaotic mind of hers. This was everything she wanted, to finally walk away from everything.

She looked around all the abandoned cars and abandoned souls, this is the place she’s supposed to walk away from. The darkness, the surrendering, the giving up. The people disappeared and the smell of beer and cigarettes were no longer there. Silence was her only companion, and it was the most riveting thing she has ever stumbled upon.

She went inside the rotten car of hers and inserted her key in the ignition when her engine miraculously turned on. Hearing her father’s drunken shouts, covering her scars with bracelets, and seeing people who shattered her are the things she knew she will experience again; this reality lead to Rosa’s hesitance in leaving the car junk yard. However, she thought that maybe she could visit Kevin’s mother and talk about him when he was still not aware of this place. This place, this car junkyard filled with abandoned cars and souls unexpectedly shed a light to the road towards whatever destination she was meant for. For the first time in many years, the sun finally set in her direction again. The rear-view mirror was very tempting to look at, yet she gathered all her courage to put her foot on the gas.

This one was originally written in Spanish.

volví al Kilómetro Cero
donde empiezan todos viajes
y en el mapa
en el centro
de la rotonda
debajo
donde estaba escrito
Usted Está Aquí
he añadido
Pero Tu No Estás

Then I translated it, with a small change to the last line.

i returned to Kilometre Zero
where all journeys begin
and on the map
in the centre
of the roundabout
underneath
where it was written
You Are Here
i added
But She Is Not

I had to alter the line, because "tu" also translates as "you", which would have been confusing, but I think it's less good in the English version.

to me, the Cartesian saying had to be relegated to shrapnel,
i treat the cogito
                                           ergo                       sum
like i'd treat atoms, brushing and
signaturing each other with
a stabilised unification
under the name: helium, or hydrogen.
evidently that's also a term
for three dimensional space
and the cohorts of chaos that come
from it.
           but something worries me,
intrinsically it's what i would simply
term: the automation of thinking.
basically? it's blood hard to stop thinking,
to do yoga to intricate being
in nothingness,
    as Heidegger suggested:
non-being is a tier below nothing,
      and i guess automated thinking
comes from non-being,
because there's this intrinsic manifestation
of instinct found in all sport activities
that doesn't allow thinking to take place,
no footballer thinks about his exertion
on the football pitch, no golfer maps
out a system of thought to *** the hole
in one...
                some would even say
that thinking is a form of laziness,
          i find that the whole notions turns
out to be a **** up affair of concern,
the mere notion that thought is automated
    and cannot be barricaded against
its relentless battering our very being
is due to the fact that so many of us
do not attain the all that glitters is gold
particularity of fame...
             it's not that we are doubtful,
but that we are mindful / thoughtful,
a few of us make it to the top of the sardine
can, but so many of us are minding
our own business on this placebo earthenware:
yes, i call this a placebo urn of things
needed (people always rave about nouns
anyway, call it slang, or whatever,
it trends, hashtags and the outdated
forms of phone numbers - calling big brother
eeny, meeny, miny, moe) - i could
swear it's so, but then again, maybe not so.
still (what a crass digression),
coming back to the Cartesian shrapnel...
           basing in on weights and measures -
it's so tiny, that expression,
                      we can think the realistic
and only express a centimetre of the world,
we can be the realistic and only
express a centimetre of the world,
  and then we can think the illusionary
and express a mile of the world,
        and we can be the illusionary and express
   a kilometre of the world:
toward the basis of fame and contentment of
  the shadows...
       yes, we have achieved a "death" of history,
by simply stating our recreational pursuits
being more important than our
need for historical eventuality and crisis, and change...
we have stated a "death" of history
via our population size, our ability to combat
diseases (whether infantile or of a certain maturity),
yes, we have established a congested world,
which facilitates nothing quite like a herd
(cattle mentality): hence the modern concern
for alienation... we're created a collective manifestation
of insects, or as one might suggest
  this is yet another geocentric and heliocentric
concern for us... although relegated to
egocentric and the collective ethos of comrades -
but given the former has been eradicated
as it was previous known: communism -
      in economic vocabulary it's all but gone,
but still exists in the sports: yet again,
the re-surfacing of abolishing automated thinking,
namely, automated collision with the daily
activity - either competitive or mundane,
    as we all soon realised: if automated thinking
is not eradicated by automated doing
     we end up mentally distraught -
our own thinking alienates us and even progresses
to symptoms that have no viability
       concerning a drowning man, nonetheless
we're actually drowning.
i can hardly think that nothing is an abyss -
       to me thought is an abyss (cat meows,
i write, the fermentation of wine goes on in
four jars to my left, bob, pop, bob, pop,
and daniel licht is playing to the fatty *****
that's my brain) -
                     i knew that ponderings ii - vi
would get my creative juices flowing:
finally! a book on philosophy that i can comprehend
within that bilingual complex i've established!
or: this much can be said upon
giving a supermarket cashier a signed copy of
my actually printed works
     and hearing a compliment with eyes
waxed with glee (Tarah);
           now i have 100 copies to push,
become akin to a drug dealer with poetry,
           and that's not going to be easy
without p.r. and all that jingly marketing qualms.
still, what's there to be done
        if not that there is something to be done,
even if it's nothing, or a pebble on a mountain:
which is why there is so much
   potential in individuality, but also so much
angst - instead of doing crosswords we have
other riddles to be bothersome about,
   but so few even get a ?         to be concerned with.
again the Cartesian shrapnel equation,
              so much is staged on it in terms
of how thinking becomes automated, robotic
to the point of making children succumb to
    premature depression -
      back when premature dementia was the hit
on Broadway or in an Estonian lunatic asylum
in the 19th century,
when we first received our psychiatric vocabulary,
now it's the young who are odd
   and it is premature depression,
          a bit like the black plague, against
all hopes, a single identifiable folly.
             and where the best rewards?
solitude, where else?
                          for all that swindling of the talk of species
and competition within / without,
        always one ******* says:
                           i am the zeitgeist - always one:
are there really benefits to realising that
****** equation? are there? to feel alive, to feel
conscious, or the madness of Nietzsche's reversal
stating that he's a thing that simply, exfoliates
necessary thought?
           thought is primarily a moral ought -
the should i or shouldn't i?
        it's intrinsic, inherent and simply: just there...
or in the unlikely event, a step into the abyss
   and subsequent pathologies of the enabling of
   a destruction of the soul: as manifestation
of a transgressively transcendent embodiment
of pure body.
                 so, against all duality, i simply fathom
that ****** thing as shrapnel,
     curiously via (as i already might have said):
so much thinking doesn't precipitate into being,
     and so much being doesn't precipitate into thinking -
or of those who adorn mental silk fabrics and Solomon rings,
         and those who have to pay for elocution
lessons due to their ****** endeavours -
      yet again, alignment with Thesaurus Rex,
cue: down Synonymous Avenue
                     because how many times are we sharpening
our narrative trying to feels less inclined
                 to exfoliate in the exotica of what's
the necessary verbiage, and escape into single
identifiable meanings, without poker, without politics,
without sexualised ambiguity?
for me language should work, not be desecrated
to fun: it, should, work;
                     or here i rest my ambitions,
without any poetic dogma - or to make poetry unrecognisable
when stated, for no reason to discredit
   the systematics of poetry: but for reason
                        Kraken wrangler on language -
as much as Nietzsche might have said about
      philosophical systems and their errors and lack of
honesty: i say as much about poetry careful to
be identified as such: metaphors, imagery blah blah -
all things that make people conscious of what
they're reading is actually what they're reading and say
it's poetry - as i said to the supermarket cashier:
enso (Japanese,
marcon purposively missing) - to write while standing up,
and so the reader is standing up,
         not a novel you take to bed,
                     and read for months on end,
dozing off, or sneering at "uneducated" people
on the train...
                         i might as well be writing instruction
manuals for the sadistic training of ballerinas -
              one cut, one incision, and get the **** out;
or at least that's the idea -
      learn to spell, work on punctuation variations,
    learn to tie your shoelaces... and don't believe in
the word edit.

London fashion designer ­Carmina De Young is bringing her first ready-to-wear collection to market with the support of two local fashion mavens, wardrobe and image consultant Susan Jacobs, and business mentor Gloria Dona.

De Young’s Spring/Summer 2016 collection is now available by appointment at the Pop with Purpose studio,

The studio recently held an informal fashion show featuring De Young’s collection.

De Young was born and raised in Puebla, Mexico and discovered her passion as a young child, taking inspiration from her mother’s creative flair for fashion and design.

A graduate of Fanshawe College’s Fashion Design program, De Young’s clothing has been showcased locally and on national platforms, including at Vancouver Fashion Week and at the Caisa Fashion Show at Western University.

De Young started her own label in 2012 and now has a 25-piece ready-to-wear collection ranging from office to casual activities to a night on the town.

Each piece is available in size XS to XL with prices ranging from $79 to $259.

Instead of trying to break into the notoriously-difficult retail market, Dona and Jacobs offered to bring the De Young collection directly to London women through the Pop with Purpose studio.

“We love that we can offer women locally designed and manufactured clothing where they know the designer and know that they are helping make dreams come true,” says Jacobs. “There’s power in that. It’s incredible.”

Topspin scoops award

London-based Topspin Technologies Ltd., has been awarded the Synapse Life Sciences award for innovation in health. Their product, the Topspin360, beat out more than 60 invited applicants for products that demonstrate an innovation in health in Ontario.

This award follows the London-based Techalliance “Techcellence” award the company won earlier this year.

The Topspin360 is the first patented training device that helps improve neck muscles to reduce concussion risk.

Theo Versteegh, who earned his PhD in physiotherapy from Western University in 2016, developed the device after watching the Sidney Crosby hit in 2011 that caused his concussion.

Versteegh found that many sports concussions are the result of the whiplash effect.

The Topspin can be used in all sports, especially those at high risk for concussion, and also in military applications.

Northerner joins Fortune

David Ramsay, a former cabinet minister in the government of the Northwest Territories, has joined the board of directors of London-based Fortune Minerals .

Ramsay has more than 20 years of elected public office experience in the Northwest Territories. His cabinet portfolios included industry, justice, transportation and public utilities.

Fortune is working with three levels of government on infrastructure projects important to the success of the company’s NICO gold-cobalt-bismuth-copper project in the Northwest Territories.

One project is a 94-kilometre all-season highway to the community of Whati, northwest of Yellowknife.

The road is supported by the Tlicho Government, a Dene First nation and would reduce the cost of living and improve the quality of life in the outlying Tlicho communities and promote economic activity. Fortune has already received environmental assessment approval to build a spur road from Whati to the NICO mine.

Delta hosts bridal show

The London Wedding Professionals will hold their second Bridal Showcase at the Delta London Armouries on April 30.

The event offers a smaller, more intimate experience for brides to meet local wedding industry experts, ask questions, and get inspired for their wedding day.

The show features products and services from professionals including gowns, photography, florists, venues, DJs, hair and makeup and wedding planners.

The showcase also puts a focus on inspiring brides with Vignettes throughout the space showcasing different themes or colour palettes.

The show runs from 11 a.m-3 p.m. and admission is free.

Student makes his pitch

Sean Cornelius from St. André Bessette Catholic secondary school in London is one of 20 teenage entrepreneurs heading to Toronto May 8–10 to compete in this year’s edition of the Young Entrepreneurs, Make Your Pitch competition

Selected from the 204 two-minute video pitches entered, Cornelius earned the right to participate in a Dragon’s Den-style pitch contest at Discovery, Ontario Centres of Excellence’s annual innovation-to-commercialization conference, to be held on May 9 at Metro Toronto Convention Centre.

Hamilton Road looks ahead

Business people in the Hamilton Road will hold an information meeting Wednesday about the creation of the Community Improvement Plan that could lead to the creation of the Hamilton Road Business Improvement Area. The meeting will be held at 7 p.m. at the BMO Sports Centre on Rectory St. and guest speakers include Mayor Matt Brown and MPP Teresa Armstrong.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/****-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses

so i have this book my Steφan, and here the
unpredictability: Steven?            even elevens?
                       Stephen
Steven          Stephan? no matter, the joke
comes with the diacritics         in the surname...
      they wrote /ˈʊmlaʊt/
when the diacritical marks weren't investigated:
  is that Körner as in ariθmetic
     Koorner?
       or is the poncy
    Kœrner - which is
softer and therefore almost Kerner?
the book? fundamental questions
of philosophy -
hence the dialectical applicability
of diacritics: archeology in vivo:
oh no glass chandeliers darling:
            butchery rather than anatomy:
chop
        chop
                chop
                 ­         (oh looky looky, Jacob's ladder).
y = id est.
                  w? haven't figured it out,
looks like trigonometry to me,
all that sine and cosine jazz.
         you know that mystery of lawlessness?
English, plain and simple,
the English language: good that we had the Scandinavians
and the Dutch learn it better than the natives,
mind you, also the Belgians,
they speak a foreign tongue better than
the ****** natives:
the natives? they speak some urban slang
profanity: diabolical verse;
                                        putrid ****:
sulphuring smoke, astounding.
              reverse dead Latin / living -
was that comma necessary?
  or should i have written astounding sulphuring
smoke?
             or Sartre: existence (quantity)
     precedes essence (quality) -
         qua qua either way, a mode of being,
   duck here, duck there.
          oh me, right? *******, maddened,
i was hanging in the trenches and had a drink:
now i'm really mad, bursting like a tense
   soap bubble: (a bit of nostalgia to cool the nerves)
i come from a generation that listened to
mortiis - and we actually bought the silverware
(c.d.) rather than the liquorice (vinyl),
               and we were the ones that translated hardware
into software (mp3) -
         but as a thoughtful suggestion:
scratched c.ds,
                   right, you have a c.d. and you try
to encode it into mp3... right...
    why is it that scratched compact disks can completely
**** up an iPod? i.e. why can't iPods encode
scratched compact disks?
            cheaper mp3 players can do it,
no problem, you have a scratched c.d.
and translate it into mp3: boom, the whole iPod
shuts down... try a cheaper mp3 player
and the whole thing still works...
          well, it's just a curiosity...
the bigger ones comes from:
i'm probably one of the last dinosaurs to have
actually bought a ******* magazine
from a newsagent,
     the glamour model type,
nothing **** included,
               and feel the agonising shame of
predicating a ******* session -
                  bony **** of the hand -
            looking for soft pouch kangaroos and all,
but how many people these days buy this ****?
       in Belgium i bought one and the woman
was so not condescending that i thought i was buying
penny sweets...
                      there's this culture of ****** shaming
in England that surprasses me in engaging
in relationships, i don't know what these slags
are on, but it's certainly not tango in stilettos
on cobblestones.
                    of course i'm mad,
i tried to rebel against Christianity and got
****** into practising it, i actually forgave my
enemy, a jealous **** who almost killed me,
       and as Nietzsche said: a Christian is a
sick domesticated animal -
              i could have been still rooted to the longship
roofs while roofing, or metrosexual lumberjack
     in an office, concerning paper rather than
blocks of wood.
     but good to know that all of Europe is known
as the bloc, rather than the eastern fringes,
god i love English arrogance, which = ignorance,
now wave bye bye to the Galactic Empire:
******* engraved Latin without barbaric diacritical
marks and had a shot at world *******...
  **** me! even the Greeks are applying refinement,
no wonder the digital sprechen dragged
English into the dark ages if not the caveman
        chant Darwinism! chant Darwinism! hoot, hoot hoot!
rarely do i desecrate books,
                 but i had to write on something,
i have a copy, of Kant's critique,
and in it my macabre Dionysian zenith fury
statement:
                       power is never a cul de sac,
                         for a king to don a crown,
                         a peasant must pocket a penny,
                         if a peasant doesn't pocket
                         a penny, a king doesn't don
                         a crown      (note, colon and italics
translate as bold inscript, double emphasis) -
this isn't cryptic, it's ****** obvious,
       it goes way back in suggesting
we're either smart or naive -
           or playing the adult version of hide & seek
                                    doubt & negation interplay,
so when Charlie Chuckles the Third comes to
power i'll be thinking of Charles the First:
as i told one homeless woman i sat down with
for a cigarette under a bridge and told her
of the Henry VIII likening in terms of the
decapitated wives...
                                    she got up and ran screaming
down the street. true story.
                 only in America a humming sensation
and a deliberate ploy to create a monarchy...
              call it what you like:
you appease the illiteracy of people with only
one book, and have people speak about it
without pontiff or priestly attire: you're bound
to breed a viral infection desiring a king.
         is this the second Elisabeth-ian age? might be,
well, it's nearing an end, anyway...
                        still, English is a lawless language
that transcends all tact of French flawlessness -
                  those nasal harking buggers know all too
well the covert aesthetic they write
      and the counter they speak -
                  leave the exactness of spoken and written
to the Poles, and spaghetti chemistry to the German
excess of compounds hydrocarbon etc.,
                    di-proxy-blah-blah in hyphen-centric
Essex.
            well, because if we can't have proper discussions
about our beliefs, we might are well apply
diacritical investigation into diacritical markings,
  or how long you hold your breath between
.                ,                     ;              -              
                  because that's what i'm suggesting:
invariably this suggestion is pulverising -
                             or how that famous category
of universals (metric)
                          is usurped by particulars (imperial) -
within the bracketed suggestion: units,
                   Francophile centimetre
      Darth Vader inch....
                                                Charles de Gaulle kilometre
                              a Heathrow mile.
if this was a chemistry experiment, which it is,
               i'd suddenly realise it's over,
                                                      and it is
because i feel a sudden rush of radiant cooling down
     from what charged this outburst in the first place.

There was an important event she needed to go to. She woke up at 5 in the morning to prepare for this important event that doesn’t even matter to her. She wasn’t excited for it, in fact, she hated it. Unfortunately, it was mandatory, so she couldn’t refuse. She hated herself for it, the fact that she couldn’t say no anymore. If you ask her old friends to describe her, they would say she was a girl who always speaks her mind. She was known for being that girl, until she left her home.


She couldn’t wait to leave her home. She spent her days wondering what would be her life if she lived in a different place, doing the same things everyday makes her sick. She was getting tired of it, she was getting tired of living in a place she grew up, she was getting tired of seeing the same people everyday, she wanted to start over. Possessing a new image, meeting new people, having a brand new start were the things she wanted before. She thought starting over would be a great thing, but oh boy, she couldn’t be more wrong.


She glanced on the road while listening to the bad music on the radio. She realized she was travelling alone on an empty road. It fits her, she thought, she and the road were the same; they were both empty. Her friends warned her about this specific empty road before. They told her to never travel alone or else something might happen. She used to be scared of all of these but now she’s not anymore. Raise Your Voice, that’s the name of the event she was going to. Standing on stage, holding the microphone while speaking up used to be her favourite thing to do, now she couldn’t even do it anymore. She always had something to say about things, and she always had something to laugh about. She was a burning flame that everybody thought nothing could ever put down, until this strong element stopped her from rising. Her soul was full of hopes, dreams, and life. Now she doesn’t even know what she wants anymore, she lost herself.


She wanted to run away, to walk away from all these problems. She just wanted to graduate and get this done and over with. Life was supposed to be a battle and she was supposed to be a soldier who never surrenders, she promised herself that. She promised herself she would never give up, and now she couldn’t care less about things.


While she was remembering the good times her car engine suddenly died while she was driving. “Seriously?” she said to herself, “Is everything I own dead now? Like me?”
The moment she stepped outside her car to check what’s wrong with it, she unexpectedly saw a car junk yard. It’s an empty road, how is there supposed to be a junkyard? What’s even more strange is, she didn’t see it while she was driving.


“Well this day is weird as ****,” she said. She checked her car engine and she didn’t know what to do. She had no choice but to look for people who could help her with her car. She didn’t know anything about it, she didn’t even know what the problem of her car was. Maybe this creepy car junkyard could actually help her.


She became surprised when she saw couple of people hanging out in this junkyard. Is this a secret hipster hangout? Who would even wanna hang out in a car junkyard? Imagine drinking beer while being surrounded with abandoned cars.


“May I help you?” A long haired guy who was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt appeared by her side. She was having second thoughts in answering him back, but she really needed help, especially the event is 4 hours from now.


“Yeah, actually I was driving while my car suddenly stopped. I don’t know what’s wrong with it, and I don’t know anything about cars. What shocked me more is that I saw this junkyard and a lot of people are actually hanging out in this place. I figured you can help me.”


“You think we know everything about cars just because we’re hanging out in a car junkyard?” He asked while laughing. Her embarrassment was overflowing at that moment.


“I just guessed. I think.” She looked at the guy and he thankfully stopped laughing.


“We’ll see what we can do. At the moment, why won’t you just join us?” Join them? Like hang out with people who are in this creepy junk yard? She was feeling a little scared that maybe these people are actually killers or ghosts but there wasn’t really anything to lose. She’d rather be dead than being in an event where she feels invisible.


She walked towards people who were about her age. All of them smiled at her which causes her to smile too.


“Your car died?” asked a short haired girl.


“Yeah, this day *****. Life actually *****.”


“If that ain’t the truth.” She and the short haired girl smiled at each other. People there talked to her, asked her questions, but never asked for her name. She never knew their names. What is this place? Is this a labyrinth?


“I hope you guys don’t mind me asking but, what do you do here?” For the first time, she was getting curious about things again.


“We live here.” One of them replied.


“You live here? Like you sleep inside the cars?” She asked. She wondered how can they do it. What do they eat? Where do they take a bath? Do they even have some money?


“Yeah, you can say that.”


“I’m sorry if I ask too many questions but how did you guys meet? Like, were you all friends before or did you just meet here?”


“We all met because of one thing, our cars suddenly died and we had nowhere to go. Actually, two things, our cars were **** and we wanted to walk away from our problems.”


She immediately felt goosebumps after she heard that. She thought she was crazy when she thought this was actually a nonexistent place but she was right all along. Nonetheless, she wasn’t scared anymore. Truth be told, she was enjoying herself. This felt a lot better than everything. She actually thought of not leaving this place. At least people here understood her, at least they were like her. All of the people were already sleeping, and she thought maybe she could use some sleep too. She was supposed to close her eyes already when the long haired guy suddenly approached her.


“Are you sure with your decision?” he asked out of the blue.


“What decision?”


“You sure you wanna walk away from everything already?”


“What? I’m just sleeping. When my car stops being ****, I’ll leave immediately.” He didn’t seem to believe her, she thought.


“You’re enjoying here, aren’t you?” She didn’t reply, she knew that the boy already knows the answer.


“I was like that too, you know? I thought this was the place where I can finally be free. I finally walked away from my problems, I don’t have to deal with ****** things anymore. That’s what I thought.”


“It looks like that’s what’s happening, actually.”


“At first it was. It felt good. Until I realised that walking away from everything isn’t the solution. It doesn’t make things right, it actually makes it worse. The fact that you didn’t even try to fight is the worst thing.” She felt it. She felt his pain. She didn’t even know if he was still a human being but one thing is for sure, she felt it.


“But I tried, you know? I tried everything and life is still ****.”


“I get where you’re coming from. Let me guess, you were an achiever who suddenly became a loser?” She didn’t answer him, for the second time, he knows the answer.


“I was like that. I was doing fine with everything and I was a dummy for thinking that I would do much better when I move. But I didn’t, I became worse. I went down. It ******, you know? I cried myself to sleep every night, I became invisible to people, my talent and passion were suddenly gone. I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. I didn’t feel living, I just felt like I was existing.” She never thought she would find another person who would understand her. Everything he said was everything she felt. She was left speechless after that.


“But I was more dumb to think that the best decision was to run away. I heard all about this place ever since before. I drove all the way from my place to here, thinking I could escape it all. That’s not the right decision. I was stupid for thinking that I could reach my destination immediately without having a journey. I was stupid to think that I can just drive for 1 kilometre and be at the place I want. It doesn’t work like that, life doesn’t work like that. There will always be a journey, a journey where you’ll feel **** but you will also learn and grow.”


“So you regretted your decision?”


“Let’s just say I was too late.” She couldn’t find the right words, she didn’t know what to say.


“Look, I don’t want to be the one who decides for you. Maybe you’re so fed up of everything, I get it. But I’m just asking you to think about it, before everything is too late. And piece of advice, if you decide to leave here, please, don’t ever look back.” They looked at each other in the eyes, knowing they had this connection and understanding of each other. Tired, sad, and hopeless eyes.


And just like that, he disappeared. She was left alone with her chaotic mind of hers. This was everything she wanted, to finally walk away from everything. She thought about things thoroughly, that was when she realised that what she wanted so bad before caused her so much regret. She thought about her old self, the one who was full of life. She looked at the stars and saw how dark the sky is, but the brightness of the stars still overshadowed its darkness. She wasn’t like a star, she was nothing like it for she let her darkness overshadow her. But perhaps she could try. She could try again.


She knew she lost almost everything, but her attitude of always trying was still there. She was still here because she remained strong despite everything. She never realised that, and now she’s glad she finally does. She got up and started to walk away from the car junkyard. Epiphany hit her, this is the place she’s supposed to walk away from. The darkness, the surrendering, the giving up. She was trying hard to not look at the car junkyard for one last time, and she succeeded. There’s no looking back.


She went to her car and miraculously, the engine finally started. She took a deep breath, turned the radio on and she smiled when her favourite song played. She didn’t know where she was going, but one thing is for sure, she knew where she belongs. *And after that moment, she drove.

my my, ain't it June?! Juno, why have you given these poor people snowballs?! it's June and my central heating is on, it's close to 10 degrees Celsius, Bavaria is flooded, people embraced Einstein's relativity of the collapse of the = sign using a parabola, forgetting the basic Newtonian: cause & effect - the moment i coupled Socratic abhorrence of moral relativism, i took to dislike relativism kindred of: claustrophobia and agoraphobia... at some point Einstein's relativity equates space as time, rather than what Newton would suggest trans linear: algebraic squared, Newton still resides in cause & effect, space = ~space, given: 1 = millimetre, kilometre, and any other division... likewise with time... 20th century fashion being the perfect crop of quantum plagiarism, although in the 21st century the dance loop jumping between decades, back in the 20th century a linear expression, an evolution; quantum physics doesn't deal with linear excavations necessarily repeated, it's just repeats what is unnecessary. global warming and the mini ice age, June's here, Einstein too, Newton too, relatively speaking we're aether imprints... speaking via causality we're leaving a carbon footprint - well, **** me, two plus two... it's still scientific negativism, dietary requirements of modern man overshadowed all the scientific progresses in the field... never mind the cure for cancer! never mind that! as long as we can dress a diabetic in Lycra for bariatric surgery - never had i had i heard of such gastronomy, should it have been a pork chop smoked using zyklon B.*

we are living in the age of scientific negativism,
atheism a third limb
and our existential concerns reduced to
hamsters, calories and treadmills:
the basis of all modern inquisitiveness /
Aristotelian awe reduced to rubrics of dieticians
rather than theologians: at least with the latter
we could see the simple mind, hunched
in prayer... with the former we are experiencing
robots repeating the daily 2000 Kcal intake requirement
for a flat stomach... honestly, i prefer the praying
type, than the type regurgitating facts concerning
their diet - at least the former state of affairs
kept them shut up and mumbling, gesticulating
a type of shadow boxing while befriending
Jacob wrestling with an angel - at least that!

it usually starts with a canvas of white,
frowned upon,
but later, the canvas endears
     and makes anyone the flag-bearing
idiot to ensure that everyone: keeps marching,
    rather than procrastinating -
on and on and on...
    it's not out of defeatism -
                           regardless -
can you imagine Hamlet meeting Macbeth?
    i do, pretty much all the time,
that's why i am not: matrimonial.
    i can't think of having a woman and then
think of providing her a kettle, or
an ironing board...
                           'tis music, that gratifies the soul...
there's no: more more more! in music,
there's either eloquence... or silence...
such as the pleb-kindred musings
of someone who inherited a soul in
a different tongue, and the same inheritor,
dragging such fakery into the abyss...
on a navy pattern patent of St. Andrews:
Aphrodite sat and whispered -
that her heart stopped beating.
  punctuation marks, eye... worth a measure
unparalleled in man to ditto in
a millimetre, centimetre, kilometre...
and so forth...
but diacritical marks! a hot bagel conundrum!
are punctuation marks kindred of
diacritical marks?
to my suspicion, they are...
    Cow Gate... Edinburgh, where the filth
throngs in abandoned churches...
and everyone gesticulates: to a haggis
we'll just juggle... pardon pairing
ol' mctweed - we'll just juggle.
thankfully the anglicans didn't anticipate
anything having worth beyond a comma
with what went above a letter, rather than
in-between words;
    maybe the semicolon is a clue,
as to why it wasn't translated into
               diacritics? the Greeks are utilising
the "squared" version of punctuation...
why aren't you?
    borrowing from German i see...
let's take a word from German and hyphen!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
               what's the word?
  don't know... any skilled cobbler would
tell you: hoof! you cranky ol' *****!
and when did it matter to be "hateful" of women?
well... when someone mattered in saying:
that man desires to pass on his genes.
****! was i ever so vain as to claim a need
for passing my genes toward a chronology?
then again... what's the most important
logical compound that saturates and signifies
existentialism? etymology...
why? well... etymology is an incubator module...
it constricts the eyes to see what's
fervent in claiming building blocks...
the rest is bound to the neanderthal wall
called: Israel here... Palestine with balaclava
over there...
        you gonna count matchsticks with
a neanderthal before you create a campfire?
flint-stones away! bazooka that array
of fireworks! soundtrack provided by
Handel!
    so can i sop? Darwinism has exhausted
itself... but etymology hasn't...
we know that by proximity-resemblance
we turned to ape to shake, the narcissus...
and a thousand ape-**** tantrums later
we're mobilised reason...
         fair enough...
i still think ape is not worth a question
about concerning diapers...
how did the **** and bladder muscles
devolve, for the tongue to evolve...
my goodness!
       a trinity, holy! and glorified on
the groundwork of leeches succumbing to penance
and dieting!
        we gave away the prowess of
       a sturdy ****, to invite a strengthening
of the tongue, and subsequent amusement:
homosexuality... kangaroo fight-talk.
      but it got me going,
watching 20 useful idiots, and etymology.
some words aren't really bound to etymology,
as one can say: diacritical marks ensure
  that words (not sentences) are prescribed
ciphers of punctuational demand... or rhythm.
       the title? the diacritical mark used?
      Denmark in polish: Dania.
  England in polish: Anglia.
                  Germany in polish: Niemcy.
   Dane in polish: Duńczyk.
an englishman (anglo) in polish: anglik
  a german in polish: niemiec.
  orthography is orthodoxy, a strict authority,
orthography stresses when an when
diacritical marks ought to be used,
so it all looks pretty, and well dressed...
what's the synonym of orthography translated
into post-syllable punctuation?
       a dependency to create fakes...
we create these punctuation marks by faking
a breath... or keeping one under water...
   ... = just an ambiguity of trailing whereby
neither . nor , nor ; nor : really matter.
       they are though, indicators in how
one could write a whole book whereby
punctuation marks don't exist,
               or at least a chapter, like Joyce,
and everything would turn out
to be a drumroll crescendo of applause...
but then again, insert but one diacritical mark
into a body of Joyce's Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake...
and the whole thing disintegrates...
  just one diacritical mark on a letter,
and as sure as ****... the whole poncy
artifice of not using punctuation marks is
double exposure as to not have used
diacritical marks, and exposed the world
to Australian, American, Canadian,
New Zealander, Irvine Scōtish and Velsh...
      sure, what's the big deal?
the very subtle way of saying ethnic cleansing...
     no, not a leftist sorta: oh deary me
type of Mary Poppins...
      it's crass, because it's lazy...
and the fact that English creates so much
diacritical diversity, is because it doesn't use
it when encoding... which makes it perfect!
for emoticons and acronyms,
   and all manner of linguistic mayhem!
it was only about syllables mate... to be honest,
it only took a comma above a letter to
say whether it needed pinching a higher-tier
of a sound that originated in a ch sound...
never mind you eroding your memory
to say cheap vs. Chopin...
         and there goes bilbo baggins...
                             in a shopping trolley.

the forest beckons, eddies of
wind rustling leaves, whispering
"welcome, welcome."
(a kilometre away,
there's a lumber yard)
the branches are blown about by
the wind, a come-hither
I am loathe to resist,
and I am struck with memory:
you,
naked,
standing shyly at the foot of your bed
one hand upon your
thigh, the other
crooking a solitary
finger, allowing me approach
as you look at the floor, hair
burqaing your face.

I am watching trees
blur by train windows,
and I'm reminded of
the green of your eyes,
and the woodgrain veins just
barely visible on your arms.

my great-grandmother used to say,
concerning lighting storms -
September, always the Indian summer in
England:
                when you see a lighting flash,
count each second
               from the flash to the thunder
as equal a kilometre from the actual
storm - a flash! thirty seconds later
the thunderous echo - then the rain,
30 seconds, means 30 kilometres away.
ah the wisdom of peasants...
gets so very boring with weather updates
that are completely senses -
cyborg even, like the Para Olympics -
compared with the paupers of lost limbs,
these athletes are cyborgs by comparison,
not even the fully agile of complete limbs
can discriminate the lesser features:
springs for legs, or otherwise crutches
in everyday society: my uncle is missing a leg,
i wish the Para Olympics didn't take place,
and he was given the cyborg extension
that athletes receive to compete,
well... after all... they're human:
                                           Oscar Pistorius;
who could blame someone asking
for the same cyborg limbs to be available to all
disabled people, giving them cyborg
limbs than staging Para Olympics and
instead giving the everyday-grey crutches?
but i guess even the disabled can't get
rid of the Louis XIV effect of Mrs. Bucket's
motto: keeping up appearances.

. i arrived from communism, and then came across the western stigmata of post-colonialism... i tried to think of something, then i began to, "forget" my tongue... migrant Pollacks: or at least the ones that i know... don't tend to congregate... but it broke the camel's back... a people moved, ingrained with a Germanic proverb that taught them both communism & arbeit macht frei... and the english just couldn't compete... i remember taking my grandmother to the hospital with my uncle: yeah, i know, having family relations is deemed ******, backward... and i met this one Pollack... worked a stint of five years in a recycling factory... guess how he made a living? he collected *** toys from the conveyor belt... washed them, packed them, and then resold them to the unsuspecting public "back home"... funny... me? i'm pretty conscious of my recycling... to recycle glass? i have to walk a decent worth of a kilometre... drop the bottles, remember my staple menu: whiskey, some pepsi... he called the anglos: over-sexed... me... slav... me vork... me do nut-in else... be good, yes? then something like ****** blut song comes out, and i start to feel... perfectly normal... too bad that my grandfather was a communist party member, indoctrinated to even involuntarily cry died... i've met one Greek at university who made it adamant that Istambul was to be called Constantinople... like i dated a Russian girl, a monarchist... who said: the evil that happened at the gates of Hermitage... and i'm supposed to congest, all of this, like a 5 year old's worth of a sponge for a mind? hmm... interesting! i'll do my best... so why is england filled with so many accents? psst... it has no diacritical markers... not clear syllables... the french did one better... they did a bigger ****-up of their language for a sense / purpose of syllable clarity, but they used diacritical marks... or at least... applied them, for no other reasons other than a pedantic aesthetic... buffer-zone extraordinaire... the pollack... in England "we" were the ethnic group that caused Brexit... oh... i know so... hard to compete with a people who were first subjected to the maxim arbeit macht frei and subsequently the communist project to put brick on brick and let Warsaw stand, re-erected... frankly? i go back to Poland, having to experienced my parent's self-imposed exile... and i feel... nausea... back in England i much succumbed to my isolation... a society like a prison... i just... kept... forgetting to succumb to clinging to a "mein besitz(en)"... so i left satellite status extension of the Soviet experiment, and i, come, zu dieses?! i forgot to cling to roots... i forgot there was a community of similis hund... i learned the language, perfecting it to the point, where, i awoke a desire to strangle myths into submitting, by licking the wounds of the deutsche zünge in the mass graves at Ypres... i've become a namesake akin to konrad I of masovia... or a sacrificial lamb... readied to experience both the land, the culture and the language of a post-colonial people, namely the English... and to, return, to die land und die volk... shrouded in anonymous robes... the integral part of the hive... and then shoved back into English society, citing my observations of the limitless curiosity of the paradox between the universal... and no longer the particular, but the individual... under psychiatric scrutiny... should anything normative allow me to settle with the rest of the people consumed by and involved in the stated times, the tide.


               to find air bubbles
in the general crust
of staring at
a blank piece of
                            "paper"
or as i like to call it:
peering into
           an eye of Belzeebub...
pixel fabric...
        listening to some
of the concerns of the natives...
awful east...
          when the Hebrews left
Egypt they didn't conquer
by simply subjecting
the bodies of the conquered...
the minds
and their high-esteem "geometric"
variants, pillars,
of the gods...
           came along with them...
thank you, dear ***...
for peering into phoneticism
of your sacred word...
the one word that i will not
utter, before i will utter
a racial slur...
      for no apparent reason,
me: not involved
in what could give me relief...
   bound to...
    believe me...
every time i go back
to "inspect" the homogenous
society
of Poland...
       i sense a bidding
to return to
             my beloved England,
reason?
   sure... the atomised man...
but the same man already
atomised out of a coherent
existence
and what could have been
his basic principles
for the motiff of freedom,
and will...
             de facto:
                            isolation
from a presupposed belief
in a superiority in not
congregating
    with my "kin"...
         in England...
adequately...
the pollacks hide...
            rat-like...
              i know i do...
but every time i make
a public stunt a congregation
of weirdos convulse
me to speak...
                   how else would
you mingle the music
of tasmin archer
   and... something akin
to wumpscut?
       you know...
once upon a time...
psychiatrists were called
alienists...
               in England...
bilingualism can be deemed
schizophrenic...
        i don't mind the mind-numbing
drugs to give me the:
nod nod, nod nod...
          i can find myself
content the next morning
having punched myself
   to sleep the previous night...
oh... slight plum brush-stroke
just beneath my eye...
   outrage of emotion...
   **** me...
   i tend to appreciate feeling
something, and keeping my mouth
shut about it...
         sedition...

pauper i...
                    a feeling of gravity
bound to a melancholic complex
of a claustrophobic heart...
a constriction...
        and pang...

             just like:
i'd love to appreciate the dream
medium: within the safety
confines of the unconscious
to counter having to think about
taking a psychadelic...        
to alleviate myself
from measures surrounding:
"the quick fix"...

              or as due to the now...
writing for a purpose
of toying with per se...
        for a completion
of uninhibition
            from the constraints
of language
     by those who...
               could not pass
through this sly narrative ploy
of concentrating
on the a priori ad priori ex nihil...

i'm a mongrel of a contained
animation...
   thank god that death is an
excuisite
       subjective experience
waiting for me...
   and nothing but the dry
objective fact
         of...
                       the trodden body,
the vague sense of reality
within the confines
of stating the animated body...

diatribe... sure...
if poetry was to be a burden
on the cohesion of
grey everyday language,
i would have
begun with a

dear sir / madam

...........................
...........................
..­....................................
............................­.........
...................................

and ended with

   yours sincerely,
                              then it would
have made sense...
      i do know how to
make the tongue formal,
  but, for the matter at hand...
******* Kandinsky et al.

with the onslaught of a.i., and what television represents:
a couple watching shy arts on a saturday, because the urban
environment tells them so, make Chopin or Liszt accessible,
make it Parkinson's Debussy,  Yogi too and Satie - slooooooo
riddles the wheel that does, makes it a carry on as if Bagpipe Ben,
Benjamin's pharma ***** arose at Zion - never had naked flesh
felt so crass imitable African: cow ****  and Masai tick-tock -
thomas newman and the levellers cradled punk into
middle-age, just before the overdose
and headlines about Los Angeles and
everyone equipped with wings,
a harnessing of William Wallace -
anointed son in woad is half-a-baker's
challenge to burn London Town down...
and made market to the kept profiteering postcard
of lullaby ****... page 3 argument
equal vote share concerning fox hunting...
red coats... **** me! red coats!
you can almost shelter insanity with them having
a nostalgic trip rather than an urban narcissistic
trip of mono est genus - a Venus embedded in plant
like Narcissus - what is said beyond Olympians...
three brothers, a singleton fathering,
what be worth eaten is worth being given to eat...
scientific humanism already assures a billionth
parameter which we are to make schematics of off
a Friday night, endeared by a billionth of a second
tamed, later expressed by a second in multiple of billions
with re- of Friday and 0 as necessarily denied prior
faults, readily repeated as cause of revising a / the
default(s) - what pluralism leads to the continuum without
relapse barriers of safety? with the former article
it's an endurance of focusing of the geometric expression
of: oh, oh oh, oh... delayed matrimony with morals....
with the latter article as its endurance of focusing on
the anti-geometric of what's eerie: linear standards and
tri-geometric evaluations of three-dimensional space
and three-dimensional time;
so where keep the riddle fluctuating permanently and
with frequent consistency, for us to keep
kilometre and millimetre,
                                  centimetre    and the metre,
second                  and the hour....
all these divisible extractions from the entirety
that could be left intact as a safari trip and heroism...
well, higher than Mt. Everest, and cheaper than
Gucci & Gabbana - insurance brokers tempted
to file lawsuits against man's contrast of genes
overpowering: and napkins and nappies with
the minor hailstorms - or why the West fears
nuclear Holocaust, having prompted the fear by
the atomic twins Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
******* are spreading the fear, no one mentions
this war crime, because Minato Pāru is mentioned
first... hell, the boys conscripted... what's your point?!
Bruce Springsteen... huh? 50 years of a cultural influence
is enough, now i'm fed nostalgia and the new
crap sound just like the acronym J.V.C.

that's the ******* and a tip with the English tongue, missing the diacrtical marks, the punctuation marks are a rave! a rampage! italicise all you want for want of emphasis.... a single exclamation mark will undo you... princely honesty... non-engagement in diacritics leaves you stark naked in the biblical genesis lodged almost innocently thinking up a centimetre for a comma, a kilometre for a full-stop, a nanometre for a hyphen... a metre for a semi-colon... you know the brothers Grimm... here's the colouring-in book.

well, somebody has to
be the villain
and not the *fury tank operator,
a brad 'prosopagnosia' pitt;
thank **** it wasn't an easy
-philia or -phobia
to compound woo woo wee hurrah!
i know,
all the rich cartoons would
become bonkers and sarcastically lazy -
like in real life!

Tarac
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dug dug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamoor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occured
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...

clouded sky, clouded mind
painful knees, route to find,
went to the store
in the car before
                              the run
                              the rain
one idea followed me
run the route I drove, see?
eight kilometres

less or more, I would find out
with my Garmin Forerunner 305, GPS and heart rate monitor
to prove that I am still alive,

each one point six kilometre
was faster than the one before,
oppressive clouds closing
dark and heavy

city scents gust around me
each vehicle had a different taste
as I pushed the pace,
sweat ran down my face,

faster and faster, I could not master
any speed, just quick enough to plaster
my hair against my head

hamstring want to cramp me
left one, bonus in the last stretch, I could feel the growing twinge
the right one knew better to behave,

in the end
it did end
before the rain came
before the night fell,

tomorrow, I will walk to work and back,
I will do stairs, but go ahead and as
you think of me, I give you permission
to laugh in my difficulty, as I make it
through the day, walking funny and taking stares
                                             from every one who passes my way.

I had to visit my sister
She lived a kilometre away
So I went to the 'duka'
To purchase some sugar ...

I met my aunt
Out of church on that Sunday
She was rather tired.
Her boy,young and playful
Played his game..
Sliding over clay
And he laughed so much
He liked his game.
But the mother could not bear this.
"Stop it or else....!
The rest he knew.
"I hate you mommy,
You always shout at me!"
The boy was never happy.

We parted ,and I hurriedly paced away
To my sister's place.
She was out in the gardens
And she came
Her two boys were a mess
They happily made their cars
Out of clay ...
Their field was the table
Flat and smooth
They drove happily .
"Stop it,or else..."
The boys cried,
Sign of in satisfaction
I felt sorry for the engineers.
They hated their mother.

I learnt a good lesson that muddy Sunday.

Tarac (for Stone and Kurosawa)
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dugdug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occurred
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...

Sky Wheel
Big sky wheel from heaven rolls over the land squashing houses and people and cities and families.
Sky wheel doing its business, from who knows where.
A trail of loose house bricks that once were human dwellings.
Now rubble.
Where are the people?
Under the boot of the sun wheel, totally ******.
Who sent this kilometre diameter circular thing to Planet Earth?
Wrecking everything by squashing it till its dusty particles blown by the wind.
No more life here or anywhere.
Just a squash head sky wheel going round the block, again.
Coloured like a sea shell, multi spectral haze of eye watering iridium from outer space. On Earth doing mad damage, your home and mine totally bolloxed.
Military jets buzz the wheel and bomb it, chipping the surface but not halting it.
Each jet hit by smaller wheels spewed from Mother wheel.
Dead.
Dwelling squashing continues, unabated.
A culling of certain humans, facts only known now.
Men killed, women left in peace.
One lab.
She kicks the wheel over.

We will be back on the hill
Looking for you like we did in 18
And the others did in 19
When I wasn't allowed to go
Unlike in 20 when I return
And maybe we will find you
Hiding in the soil of the hillside
Almost a kilometre up
Final resting place
Pilot and plane
In 2 places 2 events
Maybe we will find you
Will we?

29-03-2020  23:49

Seven hundred kilometre away from my home,
Constant depressing news each morning,
I in this solitary city of Delhi speculate for the future.
I now feel what it meant to be free,
And what freedom meant for those who were enslaved for thousand years,
And why they fought ****** wars to get it.
It was all bestowed on me and now I realize.
Staying home all day by one's own volition
Is not similar to being ordered to stay home.
But why I complain about the necessity.
When Socrates was asked, "What does a man learn in his life?"
He replied, "Complaining, Glaucon."

I don't know when all of this will subside
What and who will be spared to read this, like I used to read
All the ****** wars in history-
WWI and WWII, recessions, depression.
Now I feel the psyche of people after WWII
And why Existential Philosophy evolved from it.

Going out to buy essentials is like walking on a tight rope
only a touch here and there and you will fall in the abyss.
Yesterday, I heard the news, a man locked for two days came
running down the street naked and bit a woman to death.
Will our psyche be affected by it?
What changes these days will breed in us?
The exodus of migrants are walking back to home amid lockdown
and walking not for 20-30km but 200-600km.
The fear not only of dying with the disease but of hunger, malnutrition is looming in the remote villages.

Turn your neck whichever way,
the talks of this disease everywhere.
How did the dark ages fight the plague?
A few weeks ago, reading the plays of Shakespeare,
I read in the introduction
Theatres were closed for two years because of Black death.
How trivial it looked to me reading from the distance of five hundred years.
But now when I see the cinema, parks, roads, rails, airways, closed in my own world-- I feel the magnitude of loss.
Have we really progressed?
Will the future generations will read this the same way I did?
Yes, Distance dampens the magnitude.
It's pretty late now, perhaps I should sleep now.
This quote
of Whitman is ringing in my head--

"How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and re-
ward,
And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same
great purchase."

Good Night!

this event
   in the everyday olympics
is called -
walking a kilometre
   with a ****
     shaped like a puddle
of mud trying to desperately
get out.
   you guess it!
                     diarrhoea...
       that kilometre?
         it becomes a 8000 metres
event at the other olympics.

however to not make it human,
if not by stressing
awkward punctuation?
            best to ascribe practising
the best of man,
  by first prescribing
       perfecting an imperfection
of tongue...
         i hate these moments,
when you write in order to provide
a maxim...
                   yet there's still
something authentic about playing
with punctuation, notably
applying diacritical marks...
            there really is an authenticity
concerning minding this
     law of the written tongue -
probably barely a scratch of the surface...
but it's the sort of pedantry that
rubs shoulders with aristocratic
etiquette...
                   the difference between
a centimetre and a kilometre was always
going to be, a grain of sand;
which is why moral relativism
is abhorrent -
and why relativism per se / with the aid
of physics, is, just... really bad poetry.

Everyday
uses the same route to office
for the past 20 years
yesterday
Vehicle got breakdown
just a kilometre from home..
When walked back
used a strange route
to reach home..
Who am I ???

an aging symptom
of the mediocre.

- assorted justifications of happenstance -

three bottles of 8.2% strength of cider... nothing...
it's understandable that high % beers are
reserved for alcoholics and taste bad...
but... when it comes to cider... at 8.2% it's like:
not drinking wine...

quick change of pace: 35cl of whiskey...
ooh... an itch that needs to be typed
and words have to be conjured from nothing...
listening to Button Poetry stand-up
poetry readings, cringing...
where's my straitjacket where is my Hannibal
Lecter mask... i need to bite on some bones...
bones of an over-baked chicken...
**** out the marrow... pretend to say hello
while clucking and clocking in a morning
with... with no more intention than
the intention already arrived at by a cockerel...

probably the first fun football match i was willing
to watch in a long time...
the magic sometimes happens...
Tottenham up 0 - 2 against Manchester City...
just me and dad watching the football...
last few minutes in the first half...
that's Tottenham two nil up...
then... the second half happened...
2 - 2 within the space of 45min + 10min...
and then... a solo show from the Algerian
Mahrez... sometimes it's fun watching a game
of football when one player has a carpe diem
stamina and the rest of the team
is... gripped by a passer-by mentality...
i'm having this passer-by mentality...

unlike the death-and-hollow-pangs of anguish
when existentialism was born, notably with Kierkegaard,
perhaps even Kafka...
i'm becoming more and more at home
within the confines of my alienation...
i realised that i started reading
Dickens' Pickwick Papers and didn't finish it...
gladly revisited: since the original was serialised
so even if abandoned: an easily returned to script...
i still remember some details...
Dostoyevsky's the Idiot... also started... not finished...
well... better heel myself in the ***
to get a move on...
not to mention Heidegger's black notebook
ponderings VII through to XI...
                  
     ****... another... Spinoza's Theological-Political
Treatise... in English...
that's the truly accessible Spinoza...
i wouldn't recommend reading Spinoza's
ethics in a ******... it doesn't really matter
it's a language i was born with...

   in English the form of words
that end with -ing...
    thinking, counting, running...
cycling, demanding...
similarity of tongues but with a different form...
beginning with dość: enough...
szczer-ość (truthfulness),
                   ladodn-ość - gentleness...

or like all the Croat surnames ending so:
   Puli-šić
                            well... this plentiful little life...
this little life of a nobody who bit his pride and sort
of figured out that people with little authority
have this self-aggrandizing monstrosity
of the Quasimodo complex...

so i have this friend living all the way in Hawaii,
London - Hawaii...
i told her that i'd love to be homeless on an island
with great fun aura of complimenting
me sleeping in the cannon of gushing warm
air... she sent me some compliments from
that land: way far away...
dried pineapple, macadamia nut shells...
i bet there are not oaks on that island:
one islander to another islander...
a year passed and we know each other's addresses...
we're not bullshitting or scamming...
now we made a date of it
by phoning each other...
tremors... i'm getting a stage-fright since she
already knows what i look like
and how flimsy i can be when it comes to
****** encounters... sure... even i too could
own that dog of commitment because
*** has become a sort of Apéritif -
bragging rights of women liberated with the maimed
men chained: i feel sorry for
those circumcised buggers who don't know
the feeling of ******* with *******...
and lasting longer during *******
having the ******* constricting the blood flow:
to hello, bishop's head purple...

but it's like that scene from Dancing in the Rain
with the face mismatching the voice...
what if my voice isn't rhapsody prone, RHASPIC...
not hung-over, not manly, gritty enough...
warped self-itemizations borrowed from youth...

or the currency of shame inducement
borrowed from all those proud specimens
of degrading parenthood as a parasitic
inhibition process of achieving full potential
living alone, alone self-praise!
while in some random Hindu household
we're talking less individuality and more:
get with the times, grandma is aching
and father is moralising...
can't bring a boyfriend home...
oh yawn and yawn some more...
maybe if i glued my eyes to feeding the expression
of language into the fabric of a paragraph
i might be a more serious and seriously undertaken
sort of person than all this empty voiding space
of the cascade of poo-tried...
maybe...

then again: life ought to be about making it easier
to struggle less with all the demands,
expectations, even those born from the grandiosity
of being served to align oneself by
being morphed by the grandiosity of the seas
and the mountains, this little atom called man...
make life all that can be bearable and
unconditionally civil...
learning the first lesson and the last lesson
in life: wisdom is born from dialogue...
while knowledge is a vector of agitating oneself
to speak with oneself...
wisdom is a dialogue
while knowledge is a monologue...

so much for spewing quotes, rotas of maxim
but never adhering to them...
sentimentally sort of adjusting
the frail thinking to a frailer mind...
and hardly any soul to drink from a fountain
at the bottom of the drip drip drip...

language apparently conjures itself up
spontaneously whenever feeling: no intentions
no purpose... instead: all that's in-between
of struggling to meet demands...

i'm tired i'm lazy... but i'll still find the pillow
my head will rest on in the thick-glue-of-night...
because i'm lazily so...
i was supposed to go to the gym with
my lesbian coworker...
she met someone... as lesbians do...
she woke up in her bed... lovin' it i replied...
well...
who doesn't want to be loved...
when surrounded by men who confuse a woman
for a man... while you're there dribbling her
assurances telling her: Pixie haircuts...
butch? the butcher who?
piercings, tattoos, Mohawk undercut hair...
rings... butch-rings... six-pack...
who doesn't want to be loved?
i don't... i like the idea of utility beside the neediness
of being love...
i like to think of interacting with fellow man
like a door is requiring a door-****
and a key and a keyhole to lock, to stash,
in a safety of the back-of-the-mind...

              love has become ridiculously simple to me...
but my god, i miss the youthful idealism
of what love was once...
Stendhal and the Crimson and the Black...
origins: always ******* French...
that was fun then and not so much now...
love is like owning a cat... or two cats...
i can ignore i can be ignored
and all this ignoring, mutually sacrificial...
leaves the cat and the owner with
a sense: but you'll be there when i meow
asking for the "manna from heaven"?
you'll be there when you let me go outside
but then i return and want to be let back in
into the warmth because it's cold outside...
and i'll plough the imploring meow in my defence
of you: taking care of me...
love, therefore? so much so much less about
pretending, parroting...
cinema dates, dates in the restaurant...
i just need love to resemble:
i need a shadow come noon
and i'm hardly moving, hardly moving like
a ticking clock...
i want love to be readily available: a readily available
duty of anti-conferencing demands
and... all the bliss of nothing that is to be ever met
for a hope of precursor expectations...
explanations...
something freely given like...
drowning if one is incapable to swim...
or falling with all the flamboyance of gravity...
falling to one's death like first flight seagull chick
or... hardly flapping...
freefalling like a sack of potatoes...

better still: i could do all the housework and work
on the side...
all the nitty-gritty *******...
but... i have found... it's almost impossible
for women to savour the own self-serving gratitude
of performing the feminine-exfoliation
of character building... less controversial
and somehow... appeasing, appeasing...
i have a pair of ******* between my legs...
i don't need a pair in my throat
heaving the grandiosity of constipating Plato
against a brick-wall...

cycling with a heaving, always remembering to
breathe through the nose,
sometime gasping for air skin
to a goldfish figuring out the bubble of BOB
tongue tickling: lapping and history via
only the etymological sourcing of events
completely idle within the confines
of the canvas of Darwinism...
overdoing measurements
               confining a kilometre into the "size"
of a centimetre...

cycling much better than having ***...
esp. when the brothel dynamic changes...
jealous women are: jealous women...
they keep you endeared to have more ***
without it being ***: ***...
one pleasured woman is at least
two angry women who are:
"oddly" not compatible with you...
because ever-knowing already spoke to them:
it's just impossible to relate to please
everyone...

life and traffic... custard bulging like so:
regurgitation: like foam of freezing
and hot-air ballooning...
     exploding lungs in details of cubism:
written about rather than painted...
violins crushed... sounds akin to the harmony
of representing the concept of music:
squared... crushed... never to be heard...
just knock-knock on an imaginary door...
a door a house that was formerly only a cave...
  
               even language: this flimsy kite serving
the ever flimsy atom of ego that's
extending and exploring the horizon of
who we let go: to live their life as any living creature
might... self-absorbed, self-serving,
self-gratifying... autobiographical-who?
most probably either me, or you; the towed two of
towering halving shadows
with fully-exploding faces of smiles: fakes;
cornflakes crisp... mud-holes and that
endless fascination with bears...
hibernating mammals...
what use and purpose of hammers...
pyramids... the bears sleep through the worst
ordeal of the seasons...
so much for music and so much for art...
flimsy compensations... ****** reparations...

blocked tube... if one there was a Marx writing
a history of man... by now we know
that Darwin is the new Marx...
with Marx the communist
and Darwin the capitalist...
                  i hardly think animals
ventured to apply the intermediate
medium of money in relating X to Z... via Y...
parents, busy... so? the existence of the nanny...
animals have no concept of the third party: helpful...
at least parasites are two-dimensional...

Darwin is like Marx... unavoidably true...
but truth: this sort of truth: Nietzsche's aversion to Darwinism
plain-sight...
no sight of liberation...
it's just a mundaneness of Atlas passing
the globe to the little man and: the ants fared better...
ants and Solomon fared better...

to me Darwinism is like Marxism...
escaping Darwinism is not aided by journalism,
tabloid press... or fictive escapism...
or science per se...
    Darwinism has become an impasse
unlike the possibility of filtering the flaws of Marxism
through... **** sapiens and ogling
into the warped-hole kaleidoscope-****
of the **** similis of ape...
mammalian borrowing ontologies of fellow
mammals and further extending the borrowing,
stealing from other categories of animals:
the Mantis Woman... **** me...
at least Marxism allowed a group-think
being together and the common good is...
and the commonality of evil is...
and we can overcome said X to accomplish
yet to be discovered Y...
but with Darwinism the new Marxism this
atomised man... this grammatical baron
this mammal of lent traits of other mammals...
the crown... atop the decapitated head
of king Charles II...

i wasn't a fan of Marxists writing history...
i'm also not a fan of Darwinists writing the history
of the world...
that's Darwinism outside the scope
of the actual science, what's being popularised...
who want to wake up in the safeguard
of an Agrarian Society?
   while giving into the impulses of hunter and gather
sexed up shamanism...
easily liberated: so much for forward thinking...
so much for planning...
i love being "bored" with a book...
i love being bored cycling...
i love to not love having ***...

                    such advancements and yet so little
to show for it...
   because... spaghetti-feet tangling married
to shoe-laces...
               life without advertisements...
because... you only end up buying what you need
and not what other people demand you to buy
for them to buy in return...
       i abhor Darwinism as much as Marxism
in the realm of history...
it's soul crushing... it's soul-denying...
  Darwinism and Marxism are like-for-like...
to admire the natural world and feel jealous:
the clowns of the mammalian hierarchy,
the bears... sleep through winter... we? get goosebumps
from the cold...

and just because Darwinism originated in the English language?
no wonder it's being kept like that historical artifact
of the the crucified man... being:
hmm... and the wisdom of man is purest
by being so insolent as to have to be crucified?
said wisdom seems, therefore, borrowed... not his...
given the account of Matthias ben Josephus...
i was sold a ******* lie...
praise to Islam for having a pair of *******...
i wouldn't even dream of concerning myself
with dictating the replication of my DNA as thumb,
rule, to preserve... what?! only i thought what i thought...
does it matter whether i spit or ******* or
take a **** or... have eggs in three ways:
scrambled, poached or fried?!
does it?!

   the useful idiocy of women and the preservation
of non-intended demands outside the confines
of the natural world...
at one point the pyramids of Giza
yet another pin-point the Hagia Sophia of Constantinople...
me scribbling so little with such adamant
desire to shackle myself to fervours of
earthquakes... even if disappointing
and never to accomplish a widespread focus
of influencing others...
i'll die... with a welcomingly arrived at
THE END... and i will have no son or daughter
to grieve for me... or... list a litany of forgiving(s) -
because i failed... at least i failed on my own.

can you even begin to envision marxism
with a foundation in kant,
rather than hegel?
             just a thought, what became
a critique of lecture notes, just that,
                   and no critique of a magnum opus,
even heidegger forgets kant...
                 sludging along with hegel...
who i have no desire to read,
     much akin to karl popper...
          because? the jews are too practical
a people... they haven't been endowed
with a philosophical craft, i.e.
                  making problems out of nothing...
these people are too practical to
read, or write philosophy...
                     the asiatic currency of thought
is built primarily on a function
          of silence, a terse association with
a breath...
                     i pity my mongrel soul,
but in a land that's mongrel through & through,
sure, i can cook you a **** good curry,
        but to have it for breakfast?
       not so much...
           breakfast for champions,
             a sharpshooter,
                   or just a straight gulp of amber...
because you know that alcoholics
have their own slang...
               that i am drinking and that i am
drunk is one thing...
  but that i am also spatially aware
      for posits of necessary argumentation
is another thing...
           oh i'm not in this game for
the natives,
                   i'm in this game for the zunge!
the tongue, the tongue!
               otherwise in hades:
the lesser known fluss:
                               die zungenfluss!
how many definite articles does
a german need?
           probably as many as it requires
to make centimetre splinters from a kilometre...
ad reductio: to the milimetre...
   and then fervently past nano-
     to the crux of an atom.
              but of course
some might spew a diatribe,
                         dialectics of a tribe?
opera, perhaps...
                 papa emeritus as the prolonged
presence of freddy mercury,
     in terms of mannerisms...
                 came the nazis came the communists,
island dwellers freak out when
   their defences have been breached...
the thesaurus then, and categories...
          polishing the expression to
give a smoothness to a flit stone...
            red...
             crimson and burgundy are
apparently synonyms,
   albeit with a noticeable variant to
expose...
                                                    ­   hue...
            like yellow might be both lemon
and canary...
                            original "thinkers"...
          well... those who have settled their
ethics and now entertain a lapse in
making further judgements...
                      because the ones so far cast,
          can be deemed bearable, to live with;
so on this footing,
             i serve the origin of
                              the thought,
                                    but not the ought;
or rather, the: ought i?
                            crystal ******* clear,
          because sometimes the tongue
needs the clarity of ****-profanity,
               not in synch. with a mimic of
airs, ahs and circumstances of presenting
         high-brow perceptions...
                   i can believe in the nonsense
of chopsticks, only because i know
how people behave when given forks, knives
and spoons, seated at a table,
       in some grand manor,
                  slurping oysters by candlelight.
- a river of tongues...
          well... a mighty addition to
                           the already bulging styx.

My friend took me to Casino
he changed his few thousands
into tokens and started playing..
An awesome feel of anticipation
finally, he lost his entire money..
Then came home and to feel
Nostalgic we played old game
called Monopoly as the game
progress we lost entire money
to the single player to his brother and decided
to walk for few kilometre
a posh locality adjoining
A slum full of poor people and
they are poor for few decades
and came back and understood
Our structure of society has
Undefinable flaw...
Coz looking the process
of life
money tent to accumulate
to certain section of people
In casino, you can't beat the house
In Monopoly, money accumulate to one player
In life, 20 percent of the people
hold 80 percent of wealth
a myth of society cannot
by cured by policies...

All you have to do is walk
you don't have to diet
you don't even have to talk
it's time that you should try it

Take it slowly step by step
then get into a flow
maybe do a second lap
and even further go

Then start jogging for some fun
a kilometre, two or more
and won't be long before you'll run
Forty Two point One Nine Four

Amidst the rubble strewn landscape ruins
courtesy healthy helping of prunes
linkedin to derrière issuing
melodious flatulence classical tunes,
yours truly renown buttuck blaster,
possesses wide ranging repertoire
ofttimes employed
as poignant powerful score
within battlefield documentaries
trademark trumpeting ****
indistinguishable from authentic
soundcloud moaning mortal wounds.

Far and wide taketh me
courtesy self propulsion vis a vis whoosh,
where roaring madding crowds
come together at behest of agent provocateur
transmits electronic signals
instantaneously triggering flash mob
rearing to experience mine
unusual claim gifted with musical ****
Sphincter ani externus

(External sphincter ani)
a wasteland Tom Sawyer doth rush
away from finishing his hucksterism
to escape (wool ewe believe) sheep push
lambasting of rambunctious herd
echoing within Hindu Kush,
an 800-kilometre-long mountain range
in Central and South Asia
to the west of the Himalayas.

Please pardon cheekiness (mine), but
proctologists (Colorectal surgeons”
the more up-to-date term for same)
quite earnestly astounded, befuddled,
enlightened, flummoxed, intrigued, et cetera
abbreviated etc, a Latin term
which is used in the places
where we want to say
"and other things" or "and so on"
ahem so over the moon
whenever I let (powder milk) biscuits fly i.e.
id est which means “in other words.”

Scientists scrutinizing plumes
of rarified gaseous spewed out me ***
discovered thermal columns of hot air
forced thru flat **** plane of muscular fibers,
elliptical in shape
and intimately adherent to the integument
surrounding the margin of the ****
on average measuring
about eight to ten centimeters
can rise as high as a mile,
which rising air strong enough
to lift all kinds of things
like dust, water vapor,
and broad-winged hawks.

Thermals frequently form
when I scale mountainous peaks
and expel prodigious invisible flatulence
hashtagged as silent but deadly
because the sun
heats mountainsides unevenly!

Thanks to you know who
one can often see cumulus clouds above thermals.