i can't believe i came across this today,
but i am certain did...
an experience so vague i couldn't believe,
i actually experienced dyslexia,
call it quasi call it pseduo... but it was very
much akin... from the book's narrative...
but not from the footnotes, i read the footnotes
at perfect cognitive speed, but perhaps
returning to the narrative i did experience
a slack of the + (add) of how words are
dissected and quickly put back together...
yes, that other arithmetic with very little
breathing room, yes, that thing without
a soul... the word... or god...
i turned custard brain, fudge...
i felt like watching the gymnastics at
the para-olympics... and if i was going for a cheap
joke / english black humor i'd probably
laugh at that... but since this is the most
perfect ideal, i can't only make that comparison.
and so it was, i sat there doing nothing productive,
nothing... counting sheep to encourage
day-dreaming...
so i said: 'i'll read a book', like i might do
on the whim in my grandparent's house
(one of the many reasons i decided to be "canadian" -
and establish a firm belief in bilingualism -
since if i didn't speak the tribal tongue
i wouldn't be rummaging in my grandfather's
library... and stealing books from him...
well, exporting them to england, where he said
on my last visit: your library is bigger than
mine, isn't? well... it can fill a double-bed
and be stacked at about 300cm up...)
maybe the fact that being immersed in the tribe:
polish on the radio, on the television,
the fact that i can be without the internet for
weeks on end and have no quick-canvas outlet for
my earned tongue is the reason i could read
Kraszewski's* Dei Ira / bozy gniew / god's wrath...
(there is too much subtle differences between
capital iota and little-town lambda -
or why iota had to have the dot above it, anyway) -
so dei ira looks better... which is why i'm
not orthodox about using capital instances all the time...
what a whirlwind...
but prior to that i was watching
a david jacoby film - love is the devil: study for
a portrait by francis bacon...
and all i could think of:
what marvel, to have a **** shoved up your ***
and speak so beautifully...
have such a vast array of narratives...
i can only assume that experiencing **** ***
gives you the other man's **** shoved into
your mouth that acts like a tongue and speaks
so many truths as could be possible,
as in Freudian dream: when a woman wears a hat...
a talking ****** on her head from slurping
at the vaginal grotto of another woman...
such a marvel though, homosexuality, esp.
the type of homosexuality that has art to express
rather than a civil partnership, civil rights...
i mean, i could watch this stuff for days and never
yawn or need to watch protests and marches...
just the image of what is best described
john william waterhouse's
painting hypnos and thanatos...
i can't help but see it like that...
francis plays the female role, his model the evident
dominant male... and sure, francis having his
**** punctured for what could be best described
as diarhhea either side of the equator does so...
it's as if he is eloquent enough / intelligent to allow
this to happen, for another man to speak through
him somehow... the model's phallus in francis' ****
becomes the model's tongue in francis' mouth...
which becomes the stage for hypnos and thanatos...
in that francis' tongue becomes a phallus in
the mind of the model: and it whispers him nightmares
in his sleep... a vicious cycle indeed...
that's the homosexuality that's highly regarded
by me, not the confetti functional type that
exploits science and social norms and can no longer
lend itself to art, to transcending the taboo...
with homosexuality divorced from art...
i can't see anything profound by gays from now on...
i really can't... if there is no art in this deviant
love, no art is worth being expressed by this
once glorious realm that has grovelled into the gutter...
so let's start once more: with Onan!
and everyday i awake wake with only one identifiable
fear: will i not write a single verse as of today?
it's not a case of a single day encapsulating my
fear, but that that crux day: furthered into a silence
that can't compensate the act of writing with
anything, other than sleep... i just can't seem
to smarten up concerning this very rational phobia...
and having said that: here is the incision mark
denoting an interlude, and how: what are originally
intended to be of enso quality, cannot
stand up to the biological tick-tock of needing
the loo...
and do i think o'keefe's music foundation
by children is so much better than the original
done by tool concerning the song forty six & two?
yes, yes i do... just look at the kid on the bass guitar,
the fact that bass guitar is allowed to state a layer
of cake just above drums to set the rhythm
means the rhythm guitar doesn't have to solipsistic
******* and scale the everest of solo...
it can remain in the rhythm section,
actually be worth a rhythm,
the guitar doesn't need to overload into a solo...
the vocals belong to that domain...
as long as the bass guitar is allowed to be heard
(unlike in metallica) - then i must be tone deaf!
revise me!
jazz knew the importance of every instrument,
and the need to be spontaneous, but also
the need to be anti-synchronisation,
and therefore anti-muddle tsunami of:
all together now!
n'ah, **** that **** (yes, the Vulgate is
coming along, i like the pooch, i don't care what things
i might say, the rude growl-bark is coming along:
so we can admire him licking his *****, and for no
other reason he's coming):
as in the birth of sexes... which the animals don't
seem to comprehend that much intently...
i can't like my ******* or **** one off...
but i know i can abstract a woman into
a hand and just pretend it's me doing the ****
crap with her... than myself included,
or as i might add: never drink or *******
before the mirror... soon enough your reflection
becomes a bit odd, not because of what you do,
but because you hide so much perplexity before
you in Lucifer's daylight with which
the moon Narcissus governs the moods...
that you start to look at your actual shadow
with more clarity and fact...
looking in the mirror is the reverse of looking
at your shadow under a street-lamp at night...
the mirror sort of becomes a shadow...
the form becomes a bit (ha ha, what
an exagerration) vague... i look into
a mirror and i am but looking into shadow...
and i can't exactly recognise the eyes,
or make our geometric approximations
of a skull...
it's not even a case of a poor Yorrick
blah blah.
or as the new governing body put it:
there are to be no mirrors contained within
the gates of Pandemonium...
each to his own shadow, each to his own abstract...
for the shadow will be deemed the new mirror...
the new found glacier of, yes:
when salt water freezes, comes pure white floating
on the oceans... but must you freeze fresh water
and there's this matrix...
as in icecubes...
dropping from a vendor machine...
and i knew i shouldn't have digressed so much,
but then again, if there was no ****** tick-tock
rebellion, i probably wouldn't have revealed this much...
with ancient lore...
who'd use the word Pandemonium these days,
if you're merely trying to call it: the Houses of Westminster...
well sure, accusation due: i prefer
a bunch of kids feeding me a nostalgia over a song
i heard aged 14... such is the power of the song 46 & 2
done to a... wait wait...
i was talking about bass guitars and jazz...
(i could never get to like rap...
i liked when the blacks deconstructed classical
music, but they did after: i'll never like,
mainly people of blackies and that general fanfare
of rap feeding tribalism) -
the greatest aspect of jazz:
that on some recordings there's a chance to hear all
the instruments having a solo moment...
you'll hear a quintent solo:
the piano, the drum, the saxophone, the horn,
the double-bass solo... each doing a solo...
not some erectile dysfunction of rock music from the 1980s...
i mean: each one will do a solo...
and **** me, that's grand... and given there's no vocals
makes it all the better... but where, the ****, can i hear
jazz music being kept with such high regard as i
might find mozart pickled and even mummified
to suddenly rise again and compose like i might hear
it on classical.fm... maybe acid jazz killed it...
i can't seem to hear of one place where i can hear
the range of jazz music i have in my collection...
which probably mean's i'm lazy and don't fiddle about
with the radio fm and am channels... to "look" for jazz...
i'm all applause though: jazz allowed for
deconstruction of classical music and paved the way
for the current state of polyphony in plateau...
meaning: too much drum, too much ump-pst-ump-pst...
jazz paved the wsay from orchestra,
and yes, maybe because it was too impromptu
as it was necessary, that there was no jazz composer...
there could have been no jazz script... no pre
to what was otherwise alway and only: uno...
a once...
sure Thelonious Monk did use an orchestra at some time...
but if only someone decided to do a solipsism
and write out jazz like mozart wrote out
concerto... but no... jazz descending from on high
and invoking african villages could never do to
its practitioners the deadly fate of breeding a jazz
composer...
it was the communal idea, the musketeer
unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno:
you could never allow a silent dictator like
a mozart dictating to a throng of people contained
within an orchestra... which later made the once
silent dictators very very vocal... speeches in Munich
alike...
the fact that jazz has no script,
and the fact that if someone tries to play a Miles Davis
from script... is completely an ***...
put him on a donkey (backwards)
donning a sanbenito and lynch him
to the nearest traffic junction to **** louder than
a car klaxon... that will do the trick...
they did bother to script led zeppelin though...
maybe it was the stiff competition that did it:
jazz. airy... breezy... but what a quick moment it was...
i'm almost jealous of the beat poets experimenting
with jazz musicians... but then i'm not:
i like to think of them as parasites...
you know... those things feeding of spontaneity...
parasites... or dare i say: plagiarising leeches...
plagiarisng what? well, not the content, the context:
feeding of jazz spontaneity... not working from
old composers like Milton or Dante...
thank god for Ezra Pound and Sylvia Plath.
seems i have a ****** for a larynx...
perhaps i just seem to mean: i am a firm believer
in bilingualism... perhaps that's based on
some sort of religiosity,
and let me tell you: it's born with
a schismatic nature, siamese, but not like a
siamese twin, in that it really needs a surgeon...
it's a nucleus that's inherently schismatic...
i can't blame the english nation being
so lazy in its multicultural ethos,
i quiet like it: i don't live in a ghetto...
but forgetting my native tongue just so i could
sing a national anthem with conviction?
na'ah, that's not me...
we'll come to Kraszewski's rex piast
in a minute, and it really was a genuine
experience of placebo dyslexia,
the one on the other side: should i have written
zilch...
i believe in something quiet Canadian...
i don't believe in isolated communities,
or ghetto tactic... i am a firm disciple of the advent
of bilingualism: forget the *** for just one day,
your genitals won't suddenly drop off with
gangrene scabs... you don't need a doctor
to say that...
i mean: bilingualism as a concern
for incorporated culture, and the culture you were
born in... why can't these people just care to juggle
three testicles?
oh, elaphantisis got in the way...
sure, two oranges and a watermelon: makes sense...
no!
have mutual respect, you come to me sprechen
Piast i'll speak Piast to you...
well: given that polish and polish aren't that far apart,
i'd feel inclined to utilise
idiosyncratic lingo...
lingua genesis...
children are so much easier to utilise than
angels: they have yet to experience anything at all
on the Socratic basis...
so if i talk Piast to me, you will know what
i'm talking about?
it doesn't matter if you do... i chose to be
a library, rather than an encyclopoedia of immigrants...
there's not need to test me on general knowledge:
the stuff i "know" already gives me membrane...
i respect both the culture of my birth and the skin
i am sometimes told to make sure is called tattoo,
and what i see before me, and quiet frankly:
i see nothing before me... a turban here,
a sausage & mash there, a pint of guinness there,
noodles elsewhere... all in all: globalisation
and the elements: earthquakes... torandos...
there isn't much to see in a poly-ethnic society...
there are too many major changes taking place
in a pyramid of non-ethnic ascriptive
non-this-and-that pawns...
it's not even painful: just a bit disgusting to watch...
and yes i have access to a voult of monochromatic
society:
you know how many ethnic minorities i spotted
in a train station in Warsaw? three...
two asians and one black woman...
i haven't experienced the cold winters in Poland:
but i knew there was a limit...
only about three apaches in a crowd of
albinos... which doesn't translate as:
i was somehow content, it just meant
that most signs in Warsaw are written with a bilingual
bridge of Polish... and Ukranian Cyrillic...
plenty of Ukranian Mecca-bandits, for sure,
but that's the end of the line with what
western Europe is doing to itself...
every time i come back from Poland
i'm smeared with a rainbow of variety,
it's either: i want to **** all these girlies
or i want to **** them... mostly the former,
but you get the picture of experiencing the alternative
of the western experiment: since marxist economy
was "doomed" or simply expected to fail...
the economy finally seems reasonable with safety
for the old and the pension plans...
that marxist-culturalism had to emerge... if we are not
on the same dough plan of being content with a table and
a chair: might as well say we're all prone to don
a ******* afro.
***** are naturally curly, no?
going back "home" is always a weird experience, i tend
to read books there... like Kraszewski (who,
even the locals **** as being an unbearable bore
and joke that Joyce is easier read)... with his dei ire...
my grandfather just dropped it into my hands
as an experiment, thinking i wouldn't read it...
well, in terms of translation Kraszewski is a myth-broker...
no one would read him,
meaning: i'm kind of grateful that poles
seem to sorta: not exist, when it comes to citing examples
that include modernity and the history being
formed... i could sorta believe it if i were Estonian
or Lithuanian, or from Liechtenstein...
but we're talking about a place with a large
enough population to be a major player in some
wordly conflict... Poland isn't that small...
but yet it appears like it appeared from
the 18th century onwards... a state partitioned...
and what i love about remaining tactifully bilingual?
i can talk about my native in a "colonial" tongue...
hence the " " definition: self-acquired...
that's why i became spastic-fantastic reading
Kraszewski's rex piast - nothing came in,
i lost all trace of syllable construction, i read the books
so slowly i had one page done in about 10 minutes:
prolonging my musing of world powers, thrones
and crowns on a toilet...
*******... another interlude.
can anyone see the, dodo project? i really just see a dodo project, yes: eine dodo projekt... i'm white, i'm male: can i be allowed to express these nouns in a pronoun, or am i schizophrenic prone? it seems i c
