what's with this hobby of keeping friends?
i've got two friends that
only say meow...
and i'm kinda not rooting for
a Colombian hottie for a wife...
i abhor this idea of a "loner",
i haven't heard any monks being called that...
but then again monks do live in a monastery...
why do people always seek each other's
company? what's wrong with liking your own?
it really bothers me... i mean, by current
standards of denoting this man a loner
would make Spinoza laugh...
is it because you need to be the quintessential
hermit living in a clay urn or in a hole
in a desert?
each night i drink something,
without fail: i feel better for it...
i'm hoping it'll **** me...
but so many times people who don't known
how to drink get so ******* melodramatic
that i think about ensuring they are banned from
abusing the amber...
i hate melodramatic drinkers,
you either utilise the sedative of the amber to
an overcoming potential... short: Kant's
transcendental methodology... you you won't
drink and whine... or bash people about...
and that, i must say: is a rare art.
1 litre of amber and i'm as silent as a mouse...
i'll say it again:
there are too many melodramatic whinge-bags
out there... i don't get them...
i mean i get them: but i abhor them...
i could really do with a pupil,
nietzsche would do, about time he stopped dropping
those barbiturates and learned to dance!
tanz! tanz herz im freuer!
yes, sometimes the trip was long
the N86 from romford to goodmayes and
into the brothel near the train station...
but every time i played a folk song,
usually dikanda's ketrin ketrin i'd sit on the bus
for about 40 minutes... aflame...
i find that prostitutes are only fed the myth
of a tender touch and a complete lack
of experimental perversity... even a kiss is
the beginning of their myth-making...
ordinary girls are fed the myth of movies,
and how it all works out...
each time i went to the brothel i sat for the journey
time like a Sufi meditation with the
dervish dance in my mind...
and that's the truth... mind you,
i have a grandfather that supports my work
and buys me cigarettes... then again he lived in a time
when he could age and get a state-pension,
as he does... he's not ailing in any sense, and he lives
in a post-communist country... and i just spent
3 weeks over there... which means my state-sponsorship
in england has amounted: that i could take out
110 quid and give it for a *******...
and i could remember myself aflame...
on a bus with a dervish dance in my mind...
drunk, as usual: but that's the fun part of it...
i could wave my *** at all those
melodramatic drunks you get at parties and in other
public places who suddenly speak and only moan
how unfair it all is...
first time i went? well... i did go to
uni after all, the sacred land of getting a good score
for later life... what a sahara when it comes to ***!
like with prostitutes it still turns out to be a case
of hard facts and harder choices...
money...
and the white historians and who else
in the etc. cul de sac are wondering why our ethnicity is
in decline... it's quiet a thing to be bemused by the freedom
of women and not addressing the point fairly...
the women are so free i had to find my own
freedom with a *******...
i got bored of too many darwinian examples
being incorporated into the act... once it's the peacock,
next it's the mantis and the black widow...
of sure... there's so much to gain if endorsing some sort
of chivarly, when next door lives a babe with a sugar daddy...
***-starved ******* can go elsewhere,
wild-eyed logic and no manifesto...
literally: there's no hope for a manifesto here...
there's no manifesto...
this is absolutely not a manifesto...
i'm actually happy that as an ethnicity we're in decline...
i found talking to other ethnicities a bit restrictive
and boring... i had to censor vocab fluidity with dams
and other ****** architectural constructs...
so i looked at the shows on television,
a bunch of child-genuises were on...
i never thought that spelling was like arithmetic...
but it is... it is, oh hell it is...
the judge says the word in that odd jumble that a word
is when you have alphabetical distinctions
in vowel, consonant and syllable form...
but the languasge is so different, after all
language is not really an optical language as such,
mathematical language is truly anti-phonetic...
and it comes down to the simple example:
spell the word: onomatopoeia
start saying the alphabet and it sounds nothing like
this word put together,
the syllable ono-
then -ma-
-to- and now the tricky bit...
peya... but what of the grapheme œ?
you'd really be able to break your tongue
on that syllable suffix...
and when the children started spelling
the word: it look as if they were going cross-eyed
trying to translate the sound into image...
mathematical language doesn't have that problem,
do the following airthmetic (e.g.)
1 + 2 - 5 + 6 - 4 = ?
0...
but that's different when you are told to spell the word
renaissance -
doubly more difficult if
you are told to create syllables without diacritical mark
distinctions...
back to drink, like being asked for
a wine connoisseur's palette, when the wine you've been
given has been diluted...
or in this case fudge packed so there are no
clear distinctions, too much french influence
and siamese twin graphemes seperated...
excess vowel that i've heard means: kissing...
i'm sorry how the story goes,
i just can't be forced to **** a kenyan penny-picking
tragedy with my humour...
i'm bewildered by the arithematic
and the "arithmetic" of putting words together...
the internet has quietly become a war
for a freedom to talk... it's more a freedom to think
than talk...
and god forgive me feeling so obscure in
what i wanted to think, but given the social structure of
events happening, i had to do a minority report on
it being said, and me not typing this on
a medium of defeat, that i ended up on a warring stance...
i mean, i can understand obscurity per se,
i can't see how i can attach myself to it on a basis
of a phenomenon...
so unearthed we are from a structure
that a rebellion against
the szlachta was viable...
what the hell grows on concrete? coconuts?!
i already said: this is hardly a manifesto...
and i truly demand it to be thoroughly agreed to...
then comes the shortcoming
barrage of: i knight you the nigh of not worthy...
and then the recycling process
bombards you with: many more squint-eyed *****
to come where you did, come from.
urbanity has forsaken man attached to an organism,
but is feeling it right now,
he's attached to an inorganic farbic of testament...
i haven't walked the soil or toiled in it
to feel it's breath between winter or summer..
i once had so much one-dimensional inclusion
in this world, then my sight was diverted,
and i came across the numbers, who took to being
***** whales and gulped me in one cascade of
the feeding...
and i was told to walk it alone.
once actors were abhorred by society,
but then there was no office folk to compete for
utility biases when it came to giving gratitude to
pristine plumbing...
back when man was highly
economical... and thus actors had to be abhorred...
to create a tsunami of sadism to keep them
staged... and true enough:
if christ was crucified in the colliseum
there would have been fewer than none churches to
establish that event... given the colliseum is
made into a subject-trophy cabinet of holiness -
and how the colliseum did morph...
it's sad talking about being human as excluding humanity,
as it's sad talking being human by including humanity...
but thankfully (or not)
there's still that case of the arithmetic of the two tongues...
say the word colliseum
co- -lli- -se'um.
i mean, that means something...
take to numbers and of the 26, care to call c = 3
18 + 33 + 24 13 21
+ 2 1 2 = 5
4 3 1 = 8
+ 58
= 109
kabbalah is *******... mysticism was squandered with
gematria... but islam has no alternative either...
sure... if you have to establish a mirror image
of having a care for theological parasites...
then you turn a into 1, and b into 2 and z in 26...
and then fiddle about until you get a *******'s worth
of bashing about because you couldn't write
a play entitle Macbeth...
did any of these holy alternatives die
in Auschwitz? most of them living in America didn't
serve in the Israeli army...
who wonders whether they died in
Auschwitz?
no! they didn't!
they were bemused by this correlation of
numbers and letters, thankfully we already can read
the opposite of the kabbalistic practices
prostate in the Deutronomy...
say 10 a thousand times... adds a few more zeros
but leaves the 1 intact...
please enlighten me as to who wrote the first
koranic recitation if not khadira? please! for the love
of god tell me it wasn't khadira!
oh wait... given the hispanic um...
it's khadija - the h is silent and the j is actually a hatch...
a bit like in the west, with y and j trying to
be a grapheme... a load of ******* *******:
and yes: i have to be crude on the matter...
so we have the first verse written by a woman...
or was it a bit like saying...
Aisha wrote surah no. 114... i can just picture it...
the young wife said to her ageing husband:
pray with these words, you lecherous *****!
say: say it you ageing carcass!
i seek refuge in the lord of manking,
the sovereign of mankind...
the god of mankind...
from the whisper of the retreating whisperer
(gabriel must have left him once the 13th wife arrived,
of god! the symmetry with jesus' disciples!)
who whispers into the ******* of makind
(evil is in the brackets) -
from among the jinn and mankind.
conscience really can be a ****** to master.
but the geometry of the koran (glutton the q if you want,
makes no impressions on me) -
is that it starts thick... ends up anorexic...
so much to say at the start,
but then shrinks... it's beautiful in that sense...
given the miracle of muhammad was that he was
illiterate...
so someone had to write the words for him...
i'm guessing khadija wrote the best part of it...
i like to think of her writing the first revelations...
but i also like to muse that aisha wrote the latter
half of the: how do they stress the ******* q k c so much
that it sounds like it's not coming from the mouth
but coming from the nose?! qu-ran... i need
a hanky and snorkel that **** out... qu sneeze! i-ran...
it's glutton and it's nasal, and it's almost like:
the back of the throat... and then comes the la la la all-hubris
in that song five times a day...
but seriously... you tell me the man was illiterate
an this book exists... so who wrote it?
women!
the merchant of mecca in
Finland... left the scandinavian penninsula after one year
and never came back...
but how can you have so much
at the beginning and so little at the end?
a different woman, who was literate (and the man
wasn't) wrote what needed to be said...
i just look at the surah an-nas as a way to suggest
that the prophet: al suma mal ley *** blah blah
had been asked to repent... repent you paedo!
that's crude, i know... and i'm drunk,
i'll wake up sober tomorrow and cook a pork curry
and think about leather shoes and shoelaces and belt...
and how camels are dirtier than pigs and how you
can eat almost all of pork offal and when i see a camel
i just think of chewing tobbacco and spitting into
a copper tin... or camel-jockeys...
or how i think arabs are cursed with oil
and dyslexia and diabetes... how most of them will
end blind or amputee due to their diabetes...
how a lot of them would like something more
than turkish coffee and baklava, and how
it stops looking cool after a while...
arab oil, dyslexia and diabetes...
which probably means a palestinian balaclava
at the end of the sequence...
i'll never know: i'm not planning to have
a stop-over shopping spree in Dubai, any time soon.
