Man had wept
as he watched the fall of Lucifer,
not so much due to the tragedy itself,
rather than the cutting, crystalline
beauty of the Icarian descent

After the absence of three hundred years
since the forgotten burning of Magdeburg(1),
when the Devil had returned to Europe
from the smoldering ashes of
South Africa(2),
Namibia(3),
and Congo Free State(4),
the soft hills of Picardy were
embroidered in gold
with roses and clematises

And since our girl had been fed with naught
but the shimmering positivism of Auguste Comte
from a silver spoon manufactured in Manchester,
beneath the charmingly moorish face of a lover
and a Prada he wore
quilted with railway, nation-state,
Art nouveau, electricity,
and liberal democracy,
never in her wildest, most horrendous nightmares,
-one of which was mere few dozen Jews dying in pogroms-
could she possibly imagine
His robust fingers,
so caressingly wrapped around her neck and cheek,
concealing the bayonet claws
of mustard gas and industrialized massacres

A god whose name we only knew
and whose warmth we only read of,
had called for the blood sacrifice of utmost purity,
to be fed to its altars for the promises of salvation

As the Devil ravaged her body frozen as the Siberian gulags
and her soul smoking away to the chimneys of Auschwitz,
he raked his nail to her cheek seized by the throat,
lasciviously whispering,
‘Here, this,
This is the kiss of progress
You have thrown so warmly your arms around’

Ninety-eight years had passed
since that fatal kiss of a lovesome late June,
though the summer days had returned in Picardy,
roses and clematises
no longer bloom on her hills
except as tributes for silenced youth
which petals lay as a civilization’s tears
as shroud over a massive bomb-crater of La Boisselle(5)

And never again, could she fall in love,
notwithstanding all the lover’s whispers
of the rational organization of human society
or the ultimate liberation of the working class,
for in her heart have always lingered,
the shadow of the Devil
whose chilling warmth of the Lubyanka cells
and the fiery dearth of the crematoriums of Poland
we had shared as whole, consummate days of youth

For there lies a tragic aestheticism
in deflowering of a rose just about to bloom,
for one delirious sense of snapping off the stem,
we had burned away all ardor of love for a century

---------
(1) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SackofMagdeburg
(2) Concentration camps were first used as means of civilian incarceration by the British against the Afrikaaners during the Second Boer War
(3) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HereroandNamaquaGenocide
(4) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CongoFreeState#Humanitariandisaster
(5) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lochnagar_Crater

and here I sit, at the bottleneck.
a postdoctoral headlock squelched
in an economic ice age.
what idiosyncratic feathers
will we evolve to make stolid
careers ****?
is it possible these colorful
plumage have unintended
consequences of flight?
early real down
or Icarus waxed illusion?

.some people throw this phrase a lot... how people people have no, "internal" voice, how their thinking is not elaborate in terms of an "audible" narrative... i propose an alternative... given the original Freudian trinity... if the ego is the unit of what consciousness constructs... then the id is the unit of what the unconscious deconstructs: to arrive at an ego... what i've experienced is an automation, which could explain why i dream so little, and so rarely... my ego became "silent"... i still "think", by heart still has a a heartbeat which i cannot regulate... but my cognitive "silencing" is due to... my ego having evaporated, and its "non-existence" has become known to the unconscious... and the id has taken over... and the id? in the realm of consciousness? it's precisely what i've experienced: its silence... considering that the id orientates itself in the unconscious in terms of images, dreams are the respective thoughts of the id, when compared to the ego... i am dispossessed of the ego, or rather the ego's "audibility" - it would appear i am conscious of the id outside the originate realm of the unconscious, which would explain my primitive dreams, or lack thereof... if the ego is the 1 within the confines of consciousness, while the id is the 0 within the same confines... then the id is the 1 within the confines of the unconscious, and the ego is 0 within the same confines... hence? along the Kantian lines, 0 = negation, 1 would therefore equal: affirmation... well then... the following equations as explanations:

    ego = 1        in consciousness: "audible" cognition,
              a "voice" / a "soul"...
   ego = 1 in        the unconscious,
                                       "non-cinematic" dreaming,
a direction, a purpose,
                         an avoidance of nightmarish
voodoo dreams... all fairies and unicorns...
   changing the rhythm of the heart,
or thus empowered, subsequently?! really?!

id = 1 in consciousness,
    whatever "audible cognition" implies at
this point...
well... more a disembodiment or, re-embodiment,
thinking is no longer, "audible",
but shrapnel, it requires an external
"*****" of architectural prospects...
a blank page will do, with two idle hands
in support...

id = 1 in the unconscious...
                  a pristine hierarchy of organs
being, what they are: clocks...
and perfectly dreaming...
with / without exhausting the day-dream
imagination faculty of...
what all day-dreams are:
    a desire to return to the dream-state...

ego = 0 in consciousness
    id = 1 in the unconscious
   (you're actually enforcing a state
of non-thought, perhaps meditating)...

          ego = 1 in consciousness
id = 0 in the unconscious...
            (chances are you're daydreaming...
gagging for something akin to
an L.S.D. trip...
        since there's no one to mention
the cohesion of the unconscious with
a present id, that isn't distracted
by the fetish of, "the one" in your consciousness...
well... what do you expect?
                             maybe this is difficult
to muster... the rudimentary schematics of
reducing it to a binary language whereby
a mere number hides what becomes
a transition of the id as the ego-consciousness...
and relegates the ego as the id-unconscious...
         isn't this what robotics is all about?
the subconscious is... nothing much...
the osmosis no-man's land...
        the membrane of this dynamic...
   sure... you can explore this dynamic...
and no... they're not banning free speech...
what they're banning is...
        the fear of a free speech that doesn't
entertain the practice of dialectics...
they're hunting down the sort of people...
who... echo chamber...
     this current wave of attacks on free speech
isn't an attack on free speech per se...
but the sort of free speech that either:
doesn't "force" people to shut up...
or... doesn't propagate the practice of dialectics.


clearly some men do not love music
much...
clearly some men do not have
to endure their own company,
clearly some men did not have
to endure playing on their own,
clearly some men have never had
an experience with the religiosity
of monks...
clearly some men have never spent
a week or so in a resort like Taizé...
clearly some men prefer to play
an existential poker...
    but as the monks at
the Magdeburg Castle figured out...
just one public house will not hurt
anyone... by the way?
did you know that the original
was not built from red bricks?
gray-white bricks...
like a ghostly barricade of laments
and towing chains shadows...
the longest relationship i was in
lasted for a few months...
it was hell at the end of it...
  so i stopped looking...
   i had no existentialist Darwinism
argument going for me...
and... well... it's pretty hard
to be senile and impotent
when intimidated by a precursor
of about 9 prostitutes sitting
in the waiting room,
having the audacity to ask one
of them: can one of you chose me?
being replied:
you can't do that...
with the counter: oh... you're
talkative... come on...
let's make this coming
a New Year's fireworks display
on the Thames...
   what?!
   needing a conversation partner?
last time i've heard...
was... the best conversation spar
you'll ever have...
is when your ego stops
pretending it "thinks"...
      the ego does as much thinking
as the id hides behind
the unconscious
mechanical perfection of the heartbeat!
****!
          honestly...
once i'm being fed new music by
someone like jools holland,
and the ***** / whiskey keeps flowing?
why would i subject a woman
to something my grandmother
would call a misery challenged
by hell, which she describes my
uncle's life as, whenever he shackled down
to a brief relationship status?
senile? infertile?
    oh i'm pretty sure my genetic
analogue is going to prosper...
   i'm checking out...
           as a child i was forced
to eat raw garlic to help me recovering
from a cold...
         this, current, ****?
i'm eating none of it...
             i'll be asking Satan for a slice
of pork...
   given it's the new, forbidden
"fruit"...
               shove it down my mouth
or feed it through my ***...
whatever...
                   when i loved women,
i loved women...
       but...
           ever, by accident,
eat a bay leaf?!
         i can do sour, i can do sweet
in whatever excess...
salty... well... just get some sea water
through your nose...
but bitter?!
   can't stomach that ****...
a statement akin to:
no offense is not really going
to work here...
                  i tried to figure why
being alone didn't intimidate me,
why i was alone,
but not lonely...
   and i figured...
  for what i write?
    i'm pretty much cognitively
impaired...
    i'm pretty much worth
the sinking / drowning sensation
of a watermelon lodged into
a puddle of rain with a depth of
half an inch.

August begins
on a cool breeze
rustling Magdeburg leaves.
Scattered heatwaves
heal beating days
but now back to the stir,
future unknown,
braving it alone
ironically with you.

sketches...

the most tumultous dynamic of the elements
- currently - known to man
can be best observed through
the dynamic of how air interacts with water:

not in previous times was this phenomenon
so well documented with the storms
from the Atlantic battering the British isles
or the tornados of American mid-west
or the hurricanes that    "
the eastern coast

history once spoke of earthquakes
and volcanic eruptions...
Pompeii and the earthquake of Lisbon...
but these have become vague
(almost) not as frequent or at least predictable
when fire made peace with earth...
now... since the 5th element is not yet
recognised: that we live in insomniac times
that electricity is... lightning is...
not a fire: but a light...
why was light never considered to be
of elemental stature: status?

then comes the question: shouldn't vacuum
of space, also, not be, considered elemental?
why fuse human being: ontology etc
and couple it with some Promethean ambition
as if "we" were able to tame it:
who of the demigods and titans brought
down "nothing": nothingness to our benefit
like it might have been fire?

this aside...
        a schizophrenia or just a dichotomy...
or merely: "relativity"...
i was educated in science but i retracted my
education for the purpose of:
humanism...
and it's a study of vagueness in the fog and darkness
of both the void and the vague...
i'm not happy for you: but why should i be?

i just managed to read 50+ pages
of Jon Fosse's septology:
with the ****** and a couple in a playground:
first on the swings
then on the seasaw
then ******* in the sand pit...
and if i managed to get through all that
and learn not one iota worth of chemistry
concerning Mr Noble and Mrs Dynamite..
apparently i write as if i were on ecstasy...
regardless...

                 Einstein and the time-space conundrum...
in human terms, beyond the proud Protestant
perhaps even Enlightenment basis for scrutiny
how can i could translate the space-time conundrum:
bring it together...

   for something corporeal... relatable...
well... there are the philosophies that espouse...
a coupling of being to time...
Heidegger...
and being to "nothingness": Sartre...
i dare say i haven't read the work: being and nothingness
because French thinkers outside the realm
of gag **** of an unconscious wife
and pederastry are not...
ma tasse de thé...

            anyhoo...
how could i make away with a translation-confication
of concepts as time and space
and give these dimensions a human harangue of
understanding... since...
in transit: i watch these IC3 females
and IC4 males in this "disguise"
of either cannon foddler or laconic-translatable:
as goofy... lazy... disorientated....
LETHARGIC... not stupid:
just duped to believe that these people
could thrive in these nether-regions of biting
an Eskimo's hard-on *******...
  
so i came up with it:
Heidegger was big on historiology:
etc etc, etc.
so i had a thought and thought:
well:
time is easy: i can translate time into history...
but space took me a while to translate:
in terms of defining these paraphrases... ahem:
and parametres...
if time is history: on human affairs...
what is space... ah! bingo!
time is history is written down is therefore two dimensional!
what is space? three dimensional:
give or take...
who the **** knows what is Copernican north east
when you're floating in space...
so...
         what could... possibly be arrived at
given time = history...
           mmm...

               hmm...     the pyramids... the colliseum...
hey presto! architecture!
space! the finite frontier!
so if in science there's this magical coincidental
time-space dynamic...
then on the very basic: human: subjective level:
there must be a history-architecture dynamic...
which coincides with what is housed
in this way of man of his inability
to conquer time: immemorial: mortal:
till death do us part and...
eternal: the pyramids were:
i suppose... erected as a testimony to the "gods"
concernings man's arrogance
or rather:
    virility and abundance of chance...

so i came up with it...
history-architecture...
          technically: these are not arts:
but rather sciences...
or... engineering feats...

   whichs brings me to the ingenius concern for
the map of the London underground....
by now i think of the London underground map
as a would-be map of Budapest...
because there are clearly two Londons...
there's Loondon       and there's Londoon...

sly Saudi and ever more the slyer paytakers
of western media...
it would only take a supposed ex convert
like apostasy was not worse than death
in Islam:
proselyte Islamists?
and a psychiatrist?
what an ingenious new breed...
of               wankers...
                         so now tipsy-turvy we are
to get told:
like... living under the Iron Curtain of old...
because Islam in Europe is norm:
but wait...
wait until the nights and the the winters
come
and you will have the Islamic Ummah
like the Roman Empire
asking itself: via each and every individual:
why why did we conquer with
moon riddled rock?
this... night? no safety of ******* wipe
and brow...

               oh i'm living under an iron curtain:
but whereas there was once a competition
of idea:
communists with their slings and lack of...
with the capitalists and there off..
i now have Islamic freebies...
or... not so many... freebies...
          it's like unlike any like...
just ***** Arab women:
oh my god... the turnout for Hyde Park
Wonderland was amazing:
the biggest mass crave "protest" of compromise...
but i was walking around
and every time i saw a niqab?
i was shooting imaginary
bullets into those skulls..
doing a count funny
tic-tac-toe:
one down two down: three? does it even matter?
one down two down three: hullahoop
who gives a **** scarf or whatever those BINDIS
care to adorn keeping their ***** ultra-private...

but now they have the "psychiatrists" out there:
so... it's only certain if it's RIGHT WING...
but now the Islamic fuckeries need a blessing
from psychiatric nuances:
like caged animals are not simply wild:
now they're doubly mad...
so much for western cultural: ****-a-thumb:
ask a squid to pop out...
       what a load of *******...

   i'd rather live under the Iron Curtain
than under this ****!
these leeches these pompous ******* leeches!
opinionated bogus furore of
a designated class of... "intelligence"...
"education"...
          when it comes down to cannibalism...
when it does come down to cannibalism...
           i'll be thinking of a ******* recipe
to suckle at this marrow
or waste: the potentiality of the human ordeal /
endeavour.

When empires collapse
  colonists try to keep
  the colonised out by
 closing their borders.

    Sorry for knocking
   your door now, but
we have as much right
     to be here as you.

   The EU / NATO are
   a club of failed state
colonial nations using
collectivism for survival.

  Populist procurement
  of power is prohibited
and silencing expression
   is a last ditch attempt.

But there's a new weapon
of war which overwhelms
all at the disposal of those
 who cling to dominance.

It is between the brackets.

(                                             )

i mean: how would you feel? living in a society... with these other people, being hell-bent on ensuring you are to be... made extinct? would you captilute for "western"... "secular"... "sensibilities"... what sort of ****-erosion of an argument is this... this Chamberlain's effort to wave a promise on a piece of: ******* toilet paper... wipe your *** with it... ****** implored... but no... no no... it has to be celebrated... this lost event in the periodicals of time... so imagine living among these ****** riddled half-breed Muzzies... imagine living among people that are parasitical in the economic sense and predatory in the actual sense of wanting to **** you... hagel dauer! it just takes one Norwegian-Nigerian to laugh in the night to think my writing is bogus... but there will come a time when this writing with be remnant of the times: and i... i? i'll be dead.

no, i wouldn't call it a bad reading habit:
the fact that i'm "currently" engaged in about 3 to 4 books
that i started and haven't finished,
not when i give a timeline outline of how far apart
i am in getting through each book or,
for that matter: when i started each...

for example Knausgaard's Min Kamp vol 6
i've been reading for almost 3 years...
maybe longer...
the entire collection was the last books my grandfather
gave me as a present:
he died by the time i reached vol 3... or 4...
i remember my first encounter with the work:
"impossible", or rather: dull to have read the works
in English: so i said to myself:
i'll give it another try in another zunge: namely ******
and how glad i was since Norwegian translated
better into ****** than English...
some historical travesty of the Polish state being
allied to the northmen via trade
and the amber road or something: or how English
was partially moulded by the nordzunge...
either way... i'm still to get to the juicy bits
of vol 6 where ****** is discussed and i too wanted
to buy a copy of ******'s mein kampf for
posterity but that's: ******* unavailable as a historical
artifact but i'm pretty sure that if Genghis Khan
wrote a book it would be freely available
and perhaps even venerated
because i, am... some ******* secular "prisoner"
while Muhammad's Quran is venerated:
although i suspect, with him being illiterate
which is twice-dyslexic removed from a first cousin
****** marriage... was written by his literate and
other acumen pronunced first older wife: Khadijah...
notably: he didn't have so many followers
petulent and shy and half the mad of Beelzebub's
(mucha: fly... in Polish)...            conquest of the desert...

why O whimsical sly whiskers and Why
would i care for slander
given the prancing pony parade of disgust after
the Magdeburg attack
like the media imposed this reading of 'terrorist attack'
somehow hailing the culprit
as a savior, in a weird, twisted way:
because he was a firebrand on some internet
forum hailing the death of Europe and calling it
to do more to emancipate Arabian women
from all that dough cash flow from the secret
pseudo harems of Ha Ha H'arabia
because all the European chicks like a bit of kink
when rich gluttons of the sand
ask them to perform inverted ****** on their
faces while taking a **** into their mouths:
or so the urban mythos goes:
no need for a trip to Thailand and the Kentucky
fried mouse...

                     so that's book one... i'm yet to finish...
another is Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
but that doesn't really count: no book of aphorisms
and nota bene "apostrophes": anecdotes blah blah counts
as something you might read unlike a newspaper:
skimming, tossing pages around like a wind...

    which also includes Masudi's the meadows of gold...
there is no real narrative to the work so i can "cheat"
on that reading...
        yet starting Jan Fosse's septology was a big mistake:
thinking: ooh: a Nobel Literary Prize laureate could:
but couldn't... the prize was awarded
a bit like how H'american elections go...
the popular vote of the people is worth zilch and nada
because there's the College vote and that matters more
so it's almost as if democracy is a fakery
of arithmetic: bad count... bad grounds for shadow
governance...         and this was worth a Nobel prize?
i think is dropped so many times
there is no punctuation
     it's like the advent of the printing press whereby
ink and paper were expensive and there could be no
poetic cascade
   just the myopic paragraph fudge and inorganic chemistry
of stones...
saving money and ink and paper condensing
paragraphs without spacing indicators
beside the 💊𓄿
                              (¶) - which borders on cyrillic in
the mirror with N and И
R and Я
                                     so someone once said
that most of the time, in the realm of poetic:
we write about what we're reading...
                       but not so much about the simple fact
of the per se: writing per se: reading per se...
it's a simple fraction...
    i always adored the equilibrium of:
            not writing more than i read
and always reading more than i write...

           if all should come to a fork in the road
i could condense my thoughts via letters encoding sounds
by isolating letters as if they were not sounds
syllables... ooh... syllables and languages that employ
the antithesis of the atomised tongue
like Japanese and it took me a while to imagine
having my tongue cut out and thus trying to say
certain letters as if i didn't have a tongue
and i could get away with using only my mouth
and lips but i couldn't get away with some of the letters
because they do, actually, require a tongue an the palette
of the upper mouth...
like T...                    counting all the vowels:
5 in English... 7 in Polish...
funny: Polish as a tongue: it has as many letters
as there are teeth in the gob...
unlike English with it's 26 although the 26 are debetable
since C K Q S and q: kw
                              
lips and mouth alone along the aeiou pentragram rubric...
B works fine withot the tongue
C just as well... although hoarse sounding...
D... doesn't... it morphs into G...
since D employes the tongue and the teeth...
so without tongue D morphs into G and the 5 vowels...
vowels don't use the tongue
just the mouth and throat and air...
F requires the tongue...
H doesn't require the tongue...
                 J requires the tongue for the succinct stresses...
K is the crown of the uvula being tested...
    L most certainly requires the tongue...
       K is tricky: but hark like a crow and the tongue
can be abandoned...
          M as: ma ma
  m'eh m'eh... moo...          as long: well put Am Om
and it's a breath closing the lips...
        N does require the tongue...
Q and coo... but since Q is a two vowel letter
it does require the tongue...
T, S, Z... all require the tongue...
   W doesn't...
                  R before the numbing the trill by some vague
"tarantula" bite... did... didn't... let's suppose
the French and the English still trill their Rs like the Spanish...
                 and any other letter i omitted: X?
evidently the tongue is stressor to otherwise
the breath and the lips doing fish Bob's service plunder...

but it feels healthy like that:
a newspaper handy: my my... so the savior of Europe
is some Saudi psychiatrist
Germany is on the poking stick of resurrected Weimar Rep
fuckery
        because now the story goes:
it's no longer a right wing mental health case doing
some scooping for info
like watching ****** speaches on South Korean t.v.
and how sane he almost sounds
when he's not in full glam demonic rhetoric mode...
and to think:
at the time of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
we were a people known for religious tolerance...
we even managed to found the first Protestant nation:

the devout Catholic king Sigismund I the Old (1506–48)
accepted as his vassal in Ducal Prussia,
the Lutheran prince Albert I, Duke of Prussia,
thus creating the first Protestant country in the World...

oh and with the largest diaspora of the world's Jews...
but then we were taught lessons
for our tolerance...
first the partitions... then the onslaught of the Nazis
coupled with the Soviets...
we were taught a different toleration:
the toleration of: you will not live among us...

it took a month for Poland to be conquered
during world war two... no mention of Russian involvement...
but it took six weeks for Germany to conquer
France... France... a colonial superpower...
versus this newly emerged pauper state
that sent men on horseback to throck grenades against
******* tanks...            irony: history is so ironic...
it's not even on repeat: but how humans interact with time:

if Einstein conjured the space-time dynamic
then i had to delve into a humanism
of a science and call space: architecture...
that the ancient Romans once occupied
the capuccino lands of Plaza Pizza...
with their coliseums and football stadium reinventions...
and time being history: well hey presto!

Horace: quo me, Bacche, rapis tui plenum?
where are you scooping me up with force?

in times of crisis: it is best to leave follies aside
follies of literature / narrative... proper...
so i picked up a Polish translation of Aristotle...
Great Ethic and Poetics...
i never thought i'd come to Aristotle having begun my
journey with Plato...
but hey presto... miracles happen...
and what stood out: immediately...
a correlation between Heidegger and Aristotle...
question-worthiness becomes an answer of worthiness-per-se...

what begun as an arithmetic of counting
the camel's humps...
like they might be dunes of the Arabian desert
or the raised Alps...
i wonder...
date an older woman: with child...
send the child a parediloia riddle
then get accussed of sending a ******* picture...
and there i was... about to sacrifice
my earnings and tickle of a few more years
on walking on eggshells...
i can be accussed of ****** and of thievary...
but... i can't be accussed of ******* or of ****...
sorry... that's where my love grows numb...
i can no longer love
i am numb with logic and reason...
i will turn to Aristotle concerning the
man of worth and the egoist...
because the man of worth will only be egoistic
concerning moral beauty...
because morality is a beauty unlike anything
stressed by aesthetic...
morality is a trans- (translation) of the arts...
morality undermines art:
or so it should:
call me a murderer or a thief:
but don't call me a ****** charlatan of deviance!
don't jest with asexual reproductive tactics
then start calling it: intact egoism!
egoism is born from both sexes
given that the ego is sexless!
but insinuate that i am more a ******* than a murderer
and you will feed my: wrath...

samolub: egoist...
   man of worth...            who feeds off the privy of power
and wealth... philosophers as surrogate fathers and mothers
to their eldest children...
no... i don't need a psychiatrist to prescribe me
blue pills, black pills, red pills...
i just need a philosophy book and some time
alone and knowing that the time i spent
i was bothered about high brow literature like
a Nobel prize matters when it's not dynamite...

now comes the wrath in writing
because my heart has grown numb from the accusation:
it must be a H'american thing...
i asked AI the dynamic of getting a greed card visa:
sexed up...
works fine if you are an American gent
importing a Thai queen progress...
but reverse that...
i can't imagine sitting on my *** for half a year
until i might get a permit to work...

then again: let's be honest:
beside the fact that i told her:
there is no better brothel... there are no better prostitutes
than in the church of the Savior...
but to be accussed of sending a teenage girl
a picture of my *******?
come on...               there's paranoia and there's
absurdity...
   so philosophy books exist to cling to like
a drowning man might cling to a razor blade...
i don't need a psychiatrist to talk **** over
and to be presribed anti-metabolic pills to fatten
me up...
     plus all the red flags... all her previous boyfriends
were the problem: she wasn't...
if i get accussed of said X...
who is to say i won't be accussed of unsaid Y?

σπoυδαιoς (human of worth)
               is not an egoist (φιλαυτoς)....

                 spoudaios... philautos...

            that's settled: the "ego" in my stomach
overruled the "ego" in my mind and most
importantly the *******-ego of everywhere
that's alias to my body-extremity...

                    i needed the bait... i found the bait...
then i needed the opposite party to trip up
and take the bait...
which would absolve me from feeling guilty
of leaving my elderly parents to fend for themselves:
with only the promise of the greatest *** imaginable
i could hone in on a diet of
just pure wanking
and be content with that...
because the idea of slobbering on a ****
that would be only recreational rather than give privy
to my fatherhood...
well... should you find yourself in a similar situation
with an older woman:
how modern this all is...
fancy how far feminism has come
to ensure that age is only a number
so the medieval times are like the 1960s
in terms of attitutdes toward affairs of the heart
and there was never a period in time
when heretical mouths were not given the slither
of the stiches to shut them up...

i can be accussed of being a murderer...
a thief...
but a pedohpile or a ******?
         you don't get away with that sort of accussation:
i am numbed out of loving her
we invested so much time in discussing
paraidolia that it stunned me:
stunted me: i became a dwarf and a castrato at the same
time...
            
         i don't have time for that sort of ****...
if being alone is my fate:
at least i'll have philosophy books to mind
and none of that housewife *******
of floral arrangements and seeing young Reyla
being disgruntled at a nativity play for the school
not playing the lead role of Joseph that
cuck...

             i hate Christmas i hated Christ the moment
i heard the mantra of: turn the other cheeck...
when oculus per oculus (eye for an eye)
was seemingly erased from our natural ontology...
i hate "christ" on a personal level...
i love the church for how well it organises people...
i just hate "christ": cosmopolitan this ******* figurine
this slaughter piece standard to conquer the north...
while these ****** ****- go lampooing their desert whims
of wisdom like bogus hocus pocus...

**** these desert ******* these camel jockeys...
i've reached a clarity levelling that's
beyond my concern for whatever humpty-dumpty politco
dynamic is left available:
if my ancestors lived through **** Germany
and Soviet Russia: a people desperately willing
with so few quid... you think these Arabs
with their ******* easy money thrill me to scare me?!
really?!
               i'm waiting for martydom.