Whilst installed in the Blackhouse,
RumputiN's and vlad the impaler's latest
craven political attack on the military,
Against Admiral McRaven, who headed up
the capture of Osama, is just more raving.
This is clear to everyone since they,

the bi-headed underworld crown of
the bipolar axi of global supposed power,
RumputiN, republican capitalist materialists,
vlad the impaler, totalitarian socialist
materialists, put our military on TX's SE
border with Mexico, even though the "caravan"
which was 40 days away, was projected
to be arriving at the SW part instead,

A political stunt to get republican politicians
between 1/2 and 1 % more votes in the Midterms,
While it worked for the criminal gaining of votes,
The military is doing next to nothing there,
And should be allowed home by Thanksgiving.
Meanwhile, Trumpler said, the "Admiral didn't
do so well, since it took so long to capture
Bin Laden", when it was king george and his ****,
cheney, who ordered Osama to be allowed to escape
from Bora, Bora to Pakistan for safe keeping in

Abbottabad, "5 miles S. of Pakistan's Westpoint".  
You see, Bushs and Bin Ladens had been in business
for decades, and in the M.E. business is thicker
than blood, Bush could no more **** Bin Laden than
he could his own flesh and blood.  It's well known
that he received wedding invitations to Osama's kids
weddings, etc., for years, so, Trumpler blaming
McRaven and O'bama, when they caught him in the 2nd year
of his Presidency, is just more precious examples of our
king kong sized terrible two's use of 1st conclusion,
superficial, linear thought stragedy to attack everybody,
in attempts to silence, cower most if not All, in vain.

These attacks by Trumpler are also misdirections, to take
the news cycles off: his party's extreme losses and evident
voter crime they did, like in GA, where Abrams "couldn't
concede in her Governor's race for that would mean it was
proper...", it wasn't because Gov. Elect Kemp determined that
"...it wasn't a free, fair election, ...democracy failed in GA".
Also, his illegally installing Whitaker, a criminal the FBI is
investigating, to acting Attorney General, to preside over the
Mueller investigation (cover-up for: it doesn't use the RICO act
and asked for him to answer a take home test months ago, he
hasn't even handed in yet, while "...We(e),...", got our last
take home tests in 1st grade).  As well as his wasting a 1/2 a
billion of your tax $ on further militarization of our S. border.
His false, lame attacks against democratic leaders are unending.

On the letter by 16 democrat politicians who signed onto "the
leadership fight against Pelosi (for the republicans), Ocasio-
Cortez, Elect, says, "what's the point of changing just to...,
we might get a more conservative leader, for signers aren't diverse,
14 are male, very few people of color, progressives aren't signing."
I agree, why would the non-repubs get rid of their strongest
political leader going into impeachment time and 2020?  The supposed
left said "Hillary wasn't perfect", and helped to install him, when,
if you didn't vote Hillary you voted for the bi-headed, RumputiN/vlad
the impaler, head of the global oligarchy and bi-polar global axi of
supposed power to dictate the extermination to extinction of humanity,
large mammals, for the corp structure's convolution's devolutionary
direction + 'la machine''s, sociological programming (machining) human
(into not) being, individually, which is the social challenge of our
day, as the convolution's dictating cult of personality is almost all
and the socialist's extemist lie that "there's no reality without
their agreement", is the political one.  Don't be undone, be one well.

by simply watching 'don't call me crazy'
with regards to mental health... a bbc3 documentary.

i find a few pointers, apart from the fact that i've learned
English to a standard that i could
be misjudged as a native, what with african psychiatrists
   and the history of England as  a postcolonial nation...
     the problems of premature depression
and other divergences from the "norm"
  (or is that a tu-dum tss... "the norm"?
i never know how to tell the joke a proper
way, so many jokes are mothered
by punctuation, i don't know
how many there are that aren't) -
so aside from that... the fact that i'm
faking being British... if you have any grievances
against me: you'd better me Ukranian
or Lithuanian... otherwise? *******.
yes, i know the Poles did terrible things,
Vlad wasn't the only person ready to
do sadistic **** on people by impaling them
on sharpened-wooden poles...
   and you thought the crucifix was bad...
but oh look... the artists inserted a peddle-stool
so he could stand while on the cross...
rather than actually: hang from it.
talk about a woman faking an ******.
then again: he was all kissy-kissy with
a centurion having cured the ravaging libido
of his "demon possessed" daughter who
had a hot bagel flirt under her skirt for him...
or as i say: **** a prostitutes
           **** for an extra ten quid: the sigma
of how many ***** that thing has seen
turns your tongue into a dagger...
that's where i have seen my salvation:
   not in the eucharist or degrading symbols
of a godly stature.
       no, the point is:
this misapprehension of where the origin of
thinking resides...
  the true materialists posit the origin of thought
in the brain... but, honey-bee, the brain
is preoccupied with its materialistic responsibilities...
to shoot adrenaline when bungee jumping...
why think it isn't already preoccupied with anything
but thought? the brain doesn't think
no more than the heart might... or your *******
wetted or your phallus becoming *****...
there's no point in ascribing thought to the brain,
even if you abstract the source of thinking
toward the brain as a *mind,
     the suggestion parallels what the brain does,
and what the brain isn't...
   as with the notion of god...
          ridiculous for most people:
or also ridiculous when man is taught to stress
his "individuality"...
                               both seem on equal footing
to be considered phantoms, but the individual is
more of a phantom than god...
                             and as Diogenes of Sinope found out:
you'll find god and the Archimedean eureka
quicker than finding an honest man -
who takes a candle at noon into a market square?
     ah: that famous lunacy...
but in the beginning the word was with god,
       yes, because when we started we only said ooh ooh!
and made those frightening monkey faces to
war off evil spirits and the Arabic third eye, evil.
   Darwinism created historical fiction...
           a bit like science fiction, but instead of looking
forward, historical fiction is looking back,
toward a time when people struggled against
the elements, and had no sense of having to think
given their actual pentagram equilibrium was tuned
into what was around them...
                   the senses could never deviate from
the world of shouting down a cave and hearing echo,
it's only when thought emerged and conceived words
   that the dubiousness of simple musing:
chicken or egg first? created auxiliary sense perceptions...
   we have left the sensual world...
           for we have "enriched" our lives with
thinking, the byproduct of which is what scared me
about this bbc3 documentary... that all mental
illness stems from allow thought to automate itself...
      in other words having no moral compass...
in other words: not having read a single book
   and learned a process of equating thinking with
narrating... as a sensible option to what others tend
to do (the innovators), and allow narration to be a void...
into which they pour all their thinking to
fill that void... with, say, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb...
Isaac Newton and gravity...
it's just scary that people can allow automated thinking,
     made even more evident that counters
the punitive transgender pronoun scenario
   that only focuses on the pronouns: he, it, she.
these youngsters in the documentary are dealing with
submitting to a pronoun focus of: i, it, you.
                      in some vague sense of a religiosity,
that they cannot allow cogito ergo sum into their minds,
a possessiveness of body, that later translates
into an identification with the mind: which is -
well, if you're going to posit the origin of thinking
in your brain, which isn't even there - you mind
as well posit the mind, seeing how the soul
is argued against primarily through our mortal condition.
   is the eye the window to the soul?
  and the brain merely a paraphrasing of that statement?
perhaps...
              but i wouldn't be too worried
             as Walter Benjamin was about art in the age
of mechanical reproduction... i'd be worried
that art is bound to the morgue of psychiatric institutions...
that art is not a term that suggest the origins of
   such ailments:
due the original lack of it in such places:
  but that that it was never there... and that finding
art can be therapeutic is why art can be scolded
               and establishment art is nothing more
than the pinnacle of us, having abused words,
waging fewer and fewer words, can't produce
    a work of beauty... merely a work that occupies
a space.
                art = space...
          that's the statement these days...
being oversaturated with scientific assurances has created
this insurgence of over-competence or making
art not art in a sense timelessness, as in Dante's
comedy isn't equal to space,
            but that it's equal to timelessness...
    or a statue by Donatello...
                          these days art = space...
because it's not going to be timeless... it was once
the iconoclasm in metaphor of: the lion of Judea...
          Lucifer as the morning star...
                         it will not be timeless because it
has been reduced to the establishment's aesthetic
of tracey emins' unmade bed... or
       damien hirst's the physical impossibility
of death in the mind of someone living -
i never said these things aren't art... some people
said cubism would never be art compared to
surrealism... but shove a triangle into Pythagoras'
head and you get some sort of mathematics...
              it's based on that principle...
what wouldn't work in the case of hirst would be
to put a cancerous tumour into a plastic cage...
people would associate it as some sort of atomist
representation of a nanometre worth's of some
larger thing... i do appreciate the fact that big
art works... it needs so much face to embody
the fact that you are to think about it...
                         and not to have a **** over it:
it's art that's anti-arousal and more and more
and more about how to juxtapose it in your mind,
always to abstract the brain as the mind
   and to never appreciate the idea of having
to source thinking as solely endemic to the brain...
the brain is busy, the heart is busy...
            we have perpetuated an outer-body
experience throughout our time since the time when
we first acquired the phonos of thought...
                 and it is a peculiar "sound", thought...
a dance memorable to actually having a hope in
possessing a soul... even after all sturdy things
shrink into the obsolete, and even vegetable.
but the piece i'm referring to?
     kinda paradoxical... given that a shark would
probably eat you... but then again counter-paradoxical
given the fact that most shark-attacks
     make the shark refrain from eating you,
but merely nibbling on you and leaving you alive
albeit nibbled on... maned... with scars...
so i get the part where the shark is in fact:
an impossible death to conceive... only for the lucky few.
  apart from the fact that the shark is caged
like a prehistoric mosquito lodged in amber...
              woodland gold, amber...
  that's the literal interpretation...
                                 but it's still a moving piece,
modern art isn't crap at all... it's just something you
don't get an ******* over...
            take any still life and apply a cognitively
based chemical reaction: stimulate a narrative...
in that famous phrasing, connect the: dot dot dot(s).
    become, in that almost ridiculous sense:
     a Sherlock Holmes... but all that died was about
a minute's worth of your attention...
this is what's fuelling revising a need for television,
big static things... my personal favourite?
that Tate Modern installation by richard holt -
hand on heart: about 3 times...
              i felt like a mosquito drawn into that:
ah the bright shiny light... 180º and a glass ceiling...
that's all it was...
                   art in the age of mechanical reproduction
has to almost ridicule man, or at least ridicule
the idea that he can become an individual,
    as was the ridicule of man that he could become
a god...
               sooner or later any attempt at individualism
becomes trendy, vogue, and magnetises and
monetises a need to mimic, replicate... one punk today:
20,000 punks tomorrow...
       /
           but that sort of mincing is mostly associated
by the bewilderment of our own success...
                           it's almost like a we're engaging with
a sabotage process: deliberately trying to undermine
ourselves by staging a variety of "anti-social" endeavours
we promised ourselves upon a belief in the "individual"...
      modern pieces of art debunk that myth,
it's that modern art pieces require so much space that
gave them the most adaptation prowess over, say,
a puritan's concept of art, as in a Turner painting...
           classical art can be put into a Florentine market
square and be passed by quiet casually,
because it provides an assurance - it forbids engaging
in an iconoclastic vigil, it's an assurance of the past
and how golden it was... but a modern sculpture
in a busy place where many people congregate
without first allowing it the asylum of an art gallery
and people will treat it as a chance to hone on it,
vandalise it, or steal it and sell it from scrap metal...
       modern art requires an asylum to be accepted,
an art gallery is an asylum where people with
good intentions enter and leave appreciating something
that, to the pleb, would get a rotten egg thrown at it.
    and as with regards to how i phrased something
earlier? how philosophy talks of the logos
     that doesn't see the phonos: or the dichotomy
between actual sound, and sound ascribed a
optically-phonetic disparity encryption:
deepened by a self-styled aesthetic of the "ruling elites"...
          and in the beginning the word was with god...
we're merely licking the toes of such a possibility...
         and just you try to bypass the orthodoxy of
encoding sounds with queer spelling...
                     you, in a sense, learn two-languages
with every single one you learn...
   how to say it and how to write it...
                              and then there the how you hear it
and how sometimes you hear different lyrics to
the ones sang...
                         a bit like the Chinese,
who, upon reading the English translation were
bothersome to get rich quickly after seeing
too many matchsticks in ideogram translated as merely
Li Po; i'd too go bananas and become frustrated
and retaliated by getting to Einsteinian grips with
the mathematical alphabet that bore Li Po... i.e. 1, 0
through to 9.
      ah yes... philosophy that doesn't appreciate
grammatical words, or in that sense credible for a biologist
not necessitating a genus to ease any argument,
to actually further it... or to play ping-pong...
   grammatical words are equivalent to the subconscious
given we tend to write some a sense of fluidity...
the unconscious? schematics akin to triangles...
  "images" or rather shapes...
                             beginning with Δ: isosceles...
later varied to the Γ triangle of Pythagoras...
          and as far as we got, a respectability to
not conjure up a square as worthy of encoding a sound...
nearest being the H... and that turned out to
be much ha ha ha.
                   still... i can't come to grips with these teenagers
in the bbc3 documentary talking about
automated thinking! i'm not denying it, i'm not
doubting it... it's just a question:
          how could such a pronoun muddle come about
that you discourage ownership of all your mental
activity? and instead leave a rampant kindred of an
abandoned snail's shell body to wreck havoc?
   it's almost like a a want to refuse to use words...
or encode words... rarely are people told
that the eyes are used as encoding organs...
                   but that the tongue knows no filters...
what the eye ingests... the tongue sometimes can't
digest... and vice-versus... that what the eyes digest
the tongue can't ingest: hence the rebellion
against contrary political ambitions -
   the ears? well: the ears are allocated the heart as
a partner... the tongue and eyes are entwined...
but the ears are allocated the heart...
                     you tend to feel words more than
hear them... because by the time the tongue
represses combining itself with the eyes to
that elevation of thought... your body becomes
autocratically synchronised to a sort of music
of heightened of unanimous response...
             well, it's not exactly a fetish watching such
documentaries.. iconoclasm in metaphor...
  i swear i wrote this before... how philosophy avoids
grammatical genuses... and how all too
ambivalent poetically equivalent nouns and verbs
are to hide our imperfections that precipitate from
art... iconoclasm / anamorphosis in metaphors...
                         camaïeu in allegory...
                   divisionism in pun...
                                       chiaroscuro in imagery...
gestural abstraction in onomatopoeia...
                     just some examples, and none necessarily
     convincing - as ever... this is my excuse
for i am always bound to say language is Alcatraz
   and my escape from Alcatraz is bound to metaphors,
fo

concerning the last lines... all we can do with the Cartesian Libra is add adjectives to it, which is contrary to what the existentialists did by simply modifying a furthered abstraction of the compounds 'i think' and 'i am', via the inverted comma(s), otherwise known as dittoing, sic, prior said, or re-, true to the oddity; a king will continue to question his position / being a king by not thinking about it, hence his uninhibited delusions, hereditary, very much genetic; and hence someone who precursors his being with much concern for thinking, the inhibited delusion, self-serving - both are adjective expansions of the Cartesian Libra, just added qualities, given both are facts requiring a slab of marble to look like Rodin's kiss - or approximate, with therefore being the chisel, and so dependent the end product, indeed a slab of marble at first, but not necessarily Rodin's kiss at the end - perhaps a Notre Dame gargoyle...*

i am what i think,
that's what i came up with after
reading some of the bio sketches -
even though the truth is that
i am what i own -
thinking is the part that comes last,
if i own a bed and a roof over my head,
i end up i thinking about being
homeless - but sometimes you do find
the ones that are inclined
to be what they think, the extremes
we call them - supreme anti-materialists,
it's not satisfying to own a house
or a phone, more is required,
something tinged with transcendental
counters - they "own" a home
but rather not live in it, already the
looming fairy of heaven tells them
of an unnatural life expectancy -
some might say thinking a form of
uninhibited delusion sketches,
like i'd be a venture capitalists taking
a weekend away in Hawaii while
some ridiculousness of poverty in India
was to blame for my jet streams and
carbon footprints - they keep the
inhibited delusional in cages without
a chance to sketch - because the uninhibited
delusional have all the freedoms
that Versailles could allow - or...
uninhibited delusions of non-thought,
inherited, hereditary,
versus inhibited delusions of thought,
mutated, self-invented...
            this could very well be a "magic" square
with two further variations, i.e.

uninhibited delusions of thought (psychopathy)
inhibited delusions of non-thought (coma?

.pr.s.: well... if i am deluded? can i claim melancholly to be of equal ontological excuse to a flu... and say: i was infected by a mental illness? and there was never some, "mythical" origin of the illness... as you're sure i'm aware, i do not associate mental illness as having origin in a genesis of solipsism... there's nothing Kantian about it... for me... mental illness is very much an extension of virology... but this be the tempus for the crux of the body contra mind dichotomy... which since the 17th century hasn't been resolved... or has been... by the zombie squadron of the pharma-ingesting spooks of: awaiting a phobia of the white-coats urban myths... of course i fall to sleep thinking about killing someone... why wouldn't it? i end up eating a chicken the next day... what's the difference of a "somebody" for the worth of "something"?

whiskey,
           KMFDM...
very much akin
to ready to blow...

   nine inch nails...

the kids and the punk
and what
was industrial rigid...

and "being" white...
well...
if we're all going
to geneology
the whole "concern"
for history:

originating from
a people
with not tabloid
literature
having succumbed
to colonialization...

"save" the white women...
what?!
with not asian fetish?!
who, are, you?
teenage suicides
engaging in social
media...

             well...
Freddy Mercury was
just revived via:
another bites the dust...

what's agitating?
the inactive presence
of a screen,
that, i somehow need
to make tattoo of...

scripted rhapsody of
the believable people...
like:
people who arm their
psychology with
the orientation
of... "petting" tarantulas
or boa snakes...
touch all you want:
but try a second time
to extract character
and behavioural nuance
from these... "things"...

me?
voluntary celibate...
cenobite *** a
lost leash of leather straps...
every time i ****
off: the hand
becomes the ****...
grip and no soft pouch
of a cuddle of
****** in,
either lip, or...
no... i don't know
what a "missing"
******* feels like...

punk bores me...
punk always bored me...
esp.when championed
by commentators
alligned to...

do you know what
the entry criterion
for the proud boys
was?
   being punched...
no... not on the face...
and having to remember
a recital
of the pleb's favorite
cereal brands...

how about a new
limbo for the "worth"
of entry...

punching yourself
in the face
20+ times...
and then remaining silent...
while the history
of your mother's
****** exploits is
revealed to you
by your grandmother...

how's that?
i pet a cat, i *******,
shape of the water
(females *******),
i take a ****,
i take a ****:
yeah... sorry..
no scented candles,
no internet cameras...
did i coincide with
jordan b. peterson:
yes...
i will never **** these
women...
given they're
**** actresses from
the 1970s...

i, like: vintage...
quirky hair
with the...
gob's worth of *******'s
worth of scrap...
and a bullion
of throbbing quirk
looping lips...
  
i have assimilated
over 20 years in england,
3 years in scotland...
being asked: where are you
from?
like some ******* tourist...
****** me off...

was i going anywhere?
or... point being:
am i, "anywhere"?
ah...
so i am nowhere:
so reading Heidegger makes
a lot of sence, then?
given that
                    no
is no sein
          and that...
as much of where
                    is "there"...

but this sort of pedantic
address for the use of language,
does translate into
the habitual, and the "readily" given
use, concerning the "idle"
hands of a plumber...

a lay-job contra
the pedantic interest...
well... sure...
              we can succumb
to investigating contrasts
that are not worth the while
for being 2 x 2 rubric
statements...
having lost purpose
as 2 x 3...

thus, at times...
i almost forget...
      time...
                 that precedence
hierarchy...
  the precedence membrane
of who are allocated
the purpose of being
contemporary...

   i... somehow...
forget to dismember
the cradle mimic sound
of insect
(entombed in the cracking
wood),
with the rattling sound
of a lizard limbo...
to the R of the trill...
like... what gives off the same
found of creaking
footsteps,
or the burning of wood...
close approximate...

yet there are some people
who i know are not
deserving of a precedence
whether in hierarchy or...
but these people will
congest themselves
to a bite-luck quest
of argument in reproductive-recreation...
so?
failure escapes them
now...
   failure?
           will not escape them...

greeks might have
"invented"
1 + 1 = 2...
no argument, loose association...
but the hindu theologial
rubric, stating:

evil deed + apathy = good eventuality
                                       for all...
  is necessarily false,
is worth being negated...
i like the Hindu algebra
of time being both:
expansive, & constrictive...

    "my" world?
has already disappeared...
   by coincidence...
i've watched how...
            
    no... i'm not here to make sense,
to invest in a non-empirican
standard of a (0, 0) vortex
of beginning:
clinging to being perpetually
cleaned...
  amnesia-ridden...

         and even if i let my
ailment be known "to" or
"in", "public"...
                              the life of
a baker, or a butcher...
can't become overtly,
  "complicated"...
unless it's a genetic anomaly...
because a flu...
is a type of virsus...
poly-morph...
that is never...
    translated from person
to person...
mental illnesses are
never deemed worthy
of the strict scrutiny of
virology...
like...
all of thinking is safe...
and is not ridden with
       pathology...
  like... mental illness
is a hubris of medicine...
   like: all of medicine is
only physical,
and no metaphysics is handy...
how...
      
     like... mental illness is
such a pathology,
such a fetish,
that... it cannot be correlated
to something,
aking to the phenomenon
of propaganda...
  sure...
           the common flu...
i know where my mental "illness"
stems from...
a russian girlfriend...
who told me...
she was abducted as a child,
and *****,
and what not...
trying to excavate
an ******* from me...

mental illness?
   well... bilingual is the new ******...
and any personal
interaction is: worthy of
the... very understanding public...
you know what song
i have, to rely to lodged
in my mind?

   rob zombie's - michael...

me?
     yeah, i know:
a beard doesn't make a man...
then again...
i rather be subject to
something being itchy,
than itch for something...

proud boys:
you sure you joined the right club?
what... entry level of:
get punched by the "sharks"
having to cite breakfast cereals?!
wha......?
    it's like i'm tied with
this chick from Siberia...
    and i can't get be rid of her!
it's like:
we married...
   upon the cranium ring
of death being part of
our ceremony of fingers...
she ****** around,
i went to the *******...
   it's like: that ******* giggle of her's?
that **** is haunting...
russian milk skin...
some new variant of aristocracy...

so... proud boys...
get punched giving names of breakfast
cereals?!
right...

ever punch yourself in the face
to the point of giving 'erself
a plum-shadow?
****! better rewrite than in
"english":

          pflaumeschatten;

oh i'm married...
i'm ******* certain of it...
but the priest
wasn't a closet pedohpile...
it was whoever
the it that strangulates
my he to she and
her she to my she
of a St. Mort... or death...
yeah...
i'm married: post-scriptum...

punch yourself in the head
20 times for a black-eye,
and then tell me:
there is not an element
of virology
worth being investigated
in the realm
of mental illness...
common flue...
and...
being a girl who says prior
to wanting to *******:
i was abused as a child,
i was molested...

better death being the *******
priest
than some *******
dog-wishing leash of a:
scuttle for words & worms...

she can be as *******
randy as hell...
while i can have the "pleasure"
of having kissed several
prostitutes...
   marriage, inverted...
because i just can't stop
myself from seeing similarities
in...
   the public realm...
of...

the foul breath of the other's
ego...
  ****** for biling.
   psychotic for by 'er ego
  'ur ego too...
         it's like a marriage
of the anti-materialists,
the wedding ring of paupers...

mentall illness is so funny...
when having to compensate
its difficulty,
with the "difficulty"
of having to attire oneself
with the role of
being a supermarket cashier...

it's like:
this is medicine, yes?
so... what isn't metaphysics,
isn't exactly mental illness,
but a meta-illness...
  so... the orthodoxy of the scalpel...
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeee heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
******* fairground!
let's do circles and zigzags!

and that one *****
that told herself:
                   i have to get away....
my love has a grave
and i ****** well hope
there's only her name
on the crux of the marble...
and her ghost
******* my dead body
to boot.

Earth.
Destroyed by humanity
The air thick with frustration

The wind blows with anger
As it attempts to pollinate
It shoves the leaves around

Standing their ground
The trunks remain unmoved
Only shaking their heads in shame

The brilliant sun hides
Behind the nimbus clouds with waits
Accumulating its sanity

Our selfishness overpowers
And the natural beauty is lost
Materialists. Unaware of our surroundings

This is a generosity check? Are you a generous or a selfish giver? You just might be surprised to find some answers within your laundry basket. This piece is called “Dry clean only”

Studies show that regions of the brain associated with frustration and pain were captured in FMRI images of individuals selling personal items that still held specific utility in their life . This frustration and pain was actually documented from items being sold at an above market value! Which got me to thinking. Imagine that same person giving the same item away for free! ” Their head might explode!! Well the bible says “It is better to give then to receive” but someone’s head exploding doesn’t seem better by any means? It made me think about myself and how generous I am. When I give I feel pretty good! So that must mean that I’m a true giver and the other person must be a materialists right? In the spirit of giving I feverishly grinned at my laundry pile and decided to do a little donating! In my gratuitous glow I notice a key difference between the two piles. There was not one sweater in the donate pile that I thought especially made me look ****! That’s just a coincidence I yelled as I arrogantly dangled my favorite sweater over the donate pile. My jaw clinched I felt like my head was in a pressure cooker! OOO NO to my favorite sweater! My head is about to explode!!! Quickly I rescued myself from doom by whisking my wardrobe to the bathroom mirror for a couple SELFIES!!! Hyperventilating on the floor I relaxed myself by posting the photos on Facebook. Shaking like an addict it finally hit me. I was never actually giving in the first place. I was only dumping off what I didn’t want! HHMM well that’s just cloths I screamed!! I’ve given plenty before to my friends, family and especially romantic interests! The threads from my sweater corrected me as it is written “It’s easy to Love people that Love you. Even the tax collectors love those who love them.” Upon it’s declaration the laundry pile came to the door and just stared at me in disgrace judging me with their sleeves and collars. My sweater spoke again “If it’s to painful to give your best to the poor, stranger, elderly, sick and lonely without getting anything in return then don’t pat yourself on the back for giving away your scraps. No I screamed I want to be able to give my best truly! I’m sorry I just never realized that I was such a novice giver after all! I know that I am not saved by what I give. I’m only saved by Jesus and His blood but yet I still have a craving to give my best because “It is better to give then to receive”. And I’m ready to truly find out what that means………………..

The bi-headed bi-polar global axi of supposed power,
The remocrat, capitalist totalitarian/notsee one,
The united **** of assassins, and the notsee/totalitarian
Extreme capitalist communist/socialist one, the Russian
Cleptocracy ('cause, if you want to double your pleasure,
Double your fun, you have two, two anti-christs in one),
Attempting to determine no one can even perceive
The possibility of being non: materialists, humancentric,
Criminally insane, are having a tete en tete in Helsinki
Tommorow, where our king-sized terrible-two, Prump,
"...Will ask Tutin if he meddled in our election...",
"...He's not expecting a Perry Mason...", Tutin to confess,
"...But he'll ask...".  This, after a year and a half of
Prump's making believe "...Tutin may have not done it...",
And over 2 years after our intelligence community definitely
Knew about it, way to go first responders.  They'll probably  
Meet totally alone again, no cameras, and the only way we'll
Be able to dicipher how it went is from telltale signs like
Smeared lipstick, and others from the press, the Russian
Press that is, 'cause ours won't get a word from Prump on it,
Like the last time they met alone.  Later, I think he falsely
Projected that "...they just talked about...", the purchasing
Of Russian (white) kids, "...adoption...", for an hour.  
C'est la unvie, no?  When's Mueller going to be done,
Before or after Trumpler's visible coup steals the midterms?
If you didn't vote for Hillary, you voted for Prump/Tutin.
"...We(e),..." must protect the vote, vote early, GOTV,
And protect the results more than ever, before the country
Gets used to being drunk on democracy's backslider's wine.

There they go again
With their coffees
Or whatever they are drinking

Off to the job site
I like to people watch
At Starbucks

Any hour of the day really

You know there is usually
Some spilled beans
And maybe some *****
That has been poured out
Of my *** bottle

In the parking space
Where my car was just parked

I'm not really going anywhere
I'm not goal oriented

I like to watch
The ***** of women
Jiggle as they walk

Sometimes if I am sneaky enough
I can get a ******* picture
With my IPad

The birds keep hopping around

I have known such crass materialists
And how they slaved their life away
Make more, spend more
Now earn more to spend more
Everything costs
What a waste and a chore

Could have retired many years ago
But always had to spend more you know

Goodbye to my parents
Goodbye to that ******* house

I live out of my car
And at the old family property

I'm still waiting
For the new house
With my own guest house

Away from the bodies
Who have bothered me

Nadal won the French Open
Do you care?

I am the body sitting over there
Nobody talks to me
And life's not fair

Off to the gardens
To read a book

It's a beautiful world
Don't forget to look

a roman's reply to the greek graffiti concerning nero-χξς... and that seven
headed hydra of roman numerals... I V X L C D M... you hava a reply from rome... u h η μ ν υ, m n w v (ω)... oh look... a "decalogue", alternatively: the 11th of every other month.

the title?
   a common expression
regarding genitalia...
   *zwisa? dangling: a *****.
powiewa? the *******...
           as in:
         swung by the wind
to & fro.
                but it's also an
expression of apathy...
          that thing, beginning
                   with a-,
that says to all pathologies:
well... i'm, out;
    can't be bothered to realise
a sense, for a need, to
employ a psychiatrist, or
a psychologist...
         i deem them confusing
materialists anyway...
          their basis for a psyche?
a sense of freedom, a soul?
just systematisation;
   all they do is throw a unit (ego)
into chaos... and then try to organise
it...
     in clinical terms atheism
isn't discussed... but there's something
more potent than atheism... apathy...
some people would say:
there's nothing worse than apathy...
sure... cut-off the protective
membrane
        that shields you from all sorts of
pathos...
       as one could end up saying
to conclude:
    mi to zwisa, i powiewa...
     (to me it's just dangling,
                    and pendulum honing,
  asking for some breeze to swing it).
- just replace the w with a v to pronounce
it proper, and then
    add some diacritical pointers...
i.e. zvisá (to hide the h),
    approx.? visa... veezah... vißá...
                        and then into povievá,
******* and the bells of notre-dàme...
   otherwise it would be pronounced
the english way, i.e. dame, lady, dane,
danish: to prolong the example
                 of missing diacritic...
   so the e is, but actually isn't there;
well, for the eyes it is, but for the tongue?
n'ah ah...    it's this funny ****
  concerning auxiliary "bilingualism".

to be kind?
                                                           nice words?
compliments
that travel as far as you **** them?
how about you tell  people what you think,
i mean, really, really think...
you can't be more kinder than telling strangers
what you're thinking on the odd chance,
that you can morph
the ethereal presence of thinking
that materialists argue is no basis for a soul...
into medium of shared
experience that, can, somehow,
compenstate itself to state: well...
it's unreal... but it's sure as hell,
******* possible. the heart knows no kidness,
whatever kidness that could ever
and will always exist, is writing a sketch of you
thinking narrative and feeling not fear for having
thrown it out, to the "wind" of a blank page...
       if that's not what you
realise... then i'd invest in canvases,
a studio, paint brushes, oil paints... and a gay lover;
because the art of poetry? is going, to, hurt, like, hell.
for some only god spoke,
        and for others, man spoke over god,
and for others man's origins as the onomatopoeia
of comprehensible wordings trapped and then untangled
from a monkey...
          well... like i said...          at least philosophy
balances on systems... on geometry...
               poetry?      a chance conversation with
a stranger...
               i already said it's hell...
                    do i have to add: please don't, cutie pie?

Sanskrit prudence in Dublin...
because you know...
i'm your next: on cue to be the next
Delmore Schwartz in making
Finnegans Wake somehow "pop"....
not going to happen: dear son
of an Arab lost on Aran...

i thought the prize was the puzzle: per se?

oh i'm sure you have heard... the Irish...
can we please serve these people
the proper non-anglican diacritical markers?
no? we can't?
no problem... we'll find alternative avenues...
i will never find my feet making
footnotes in a Thailand...
the rich rushkeys and the rude -
compensation markers -
the culture from beijing...
always your first go to...
stomach ache...
apparently cannibalism is not so bad...
when you hear about what
the chinese are cooking...

no... can i please pet my cat?
i like petting my cat...
and there's this "how-almighty":
pretty awe-mighty Allah stressing
pork decrees as: "***** meat"...
like i said... ***** are vultures...
but... bound to water, to salt water...
well... you know that salt is...
a bit like keeping meat refrigerated?
it's a compensation guise of keeping
meat alive...
that's at least how herrings from
the baltic were kept...
ask any tapeworm or other kaleidoscope
of parasite...
no thing to be found or be bound
to being denoted: alive...
in the dead sea...

salt curates more than the viscious
sun, the desert...
salt and how it can be thought of as...
******* the juices -
esp. noted in cooking -
in a stew, a broth, a curry...
the magnet addition...
throw some salt into the equation
and watch the tapeworm
shrivel and die...
dehydrate the body...
salt caramel lollipops...

thai... thai **** beetroot:
because there was no bogus
to begin with...
eh... fickle most probably tamed
feeble stomachs...
probably glutton or lactose intolerate...
weak western stomachs that
need to be pampered...
oat free - wheat free - lactose free is
my limitation...
gelatin free too?

but the irish... exploration of
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
it has to be: catcher of the F...
upon hitting the definite article you can
see and sport a sparrow with: delta...
the fact...
the said...

otherwise... i already stressed:
the **** **** worth of truth -
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head - like the next ukranian -
and that's how you pet a dog?
the german said: leash!
the russian said: bullet in the back
of the head... let's watch
a cascade of dominos as if:
if ever karma!

the irish myth of θought...
oh... unlike me...
looking for... oh look...
omicron O iota I...
φ phi insert the door locked...
turn, twist, θ... door opens...
****... troy's trident of
Perseus making miracles
with a strap-on *****...
Ψ pops out, motto: "check your soul"...
an atheist a materialist...
supposing... do i still have a thinking attached
to the existence of a soul,
or was it more or less...
lodged in the bribe pocket of materialism
of the body that...
cancerous evil... when not looked
at the serenity of the event via a botanical
lense of... the mistletoe...
which is a botanical variation of cancer...
it grows on trees...
and people demand to be kissed under it...
hell'oh lip cancer!

but the Irish? oh there's still that....
τ (tau) within the, much reserved orthodoxy
of the anglican: θ (theta)...
which is like saying...
the sanskrit crowd surd the H...
it's silence... the irish will never...
the θing is true...
nope... the irish will: the τing is true...
or... apostrophe the H out of the whole
"thing"...
it doesn't apply to: THE...
that theta's trip is already lost...
replaced by churchill *******
a east end london girl:
wishing Whitechapel was somehow...
a Hammersmith... comparatively?
they don't differ, that much...

the Irish searching for the tau in theta?
oh sure... no Yeats in sight...
not mention of the chinese philosophy of:
eat dogs first... salvage the cows for milk
Tao...

but in Sanskrit the H is a surd...
which... must be a Boston Irish t'ing too!
how the T can escape the greek F...
and the other greek F of φilosoφy...
otherwise... what do we call it?
ψycology: in spelling: psychology...
but in "reality"?
surd π:
σycology - no... south korean PSI... is there?
nor with a surd gamma (γ) in:
'νoστικ... i.e.
no more a 'νoστικ than... oh! the eye-itch
of having to... nonetheless write:
γνoμη (no-oo-mm)
because by now the epsilon or eta is also,
somehow: surded...

a known-aum...
and yes: the K is surd...
like in no-um... otherwise dhal or dal or daal...
or a macron appears above the A...
and we have ourselves
a gnostic ('nostic): gnome ('nome)...

nomine ex response agnitio?
ex pandectis Florentinis... repraesentatus,
com[m]entariis Accursii, Scholiis Contii...

i believe eta (η) to be the shorter version
of epsilon (ε)...
as i believe that omicron (o) to be the shorter
version of omega (ω) -
then again... that's just me...

believe my disbelief -
to first own a dog - a leash -
to later discard a dog: a bullet to the back
of the head...

but... i fold...
this is not a poker came i'm going to be
best equipped by...
it's all that more simple since...
i'm not a native: curator tourist...
it's a Dublin "thing"...
when... i'm told to stress extracting
a tau from the theta...
calling "it" a τing and not a θing...

i am allowed to relax whenever the 2nd
greek F comes into play...
"relax"... φilosoφy is somehow;
what? the *****-slap waiting in the background...
when the atheist materialists use a term
like soul... but... thinking should not
be investing itself in the existence
of a phantom, a ghost,
all thought should be invested in the body:
all body: no soul...

no wonder... psychology...
oh the name will not change...
after the "death of god" the human soul has become...
at peace in refining its sadism...
it's very gentle... it's very subtle...
it refined fine dining!

first you require the prime...
anaesthetic... a curtain of fiction...
fiction is the ultimate anaesthetic...
it's not the sort of anaesthetic injected upon...
dealing with critical pain...
sending you into a pocket of coma...
fiction is a subtle variation of
the anaesthetic... the pain of a pointless
existence requires more cushions
and less... fears of the needle...
imagine what fiction wouldn't be...
if... you would require people to be
pampared to...
to have pigs slaughtered...
cushions! to have "proper", ahem...
"grammar" and "pronouns"! ahem...

and i have been diagnosed as a schizophrenic...
i tell you...
bilingual is the new schizophrenic!
i love it... the one time when
poetry can meet psychiatry:
on its own terms: on the crux of metaphors!
i love it!

at least that's how you explore:
pseudo-medicine...
psychiatry...
the grey areas with metaphors...
the entire litany is probably an oops
and a Daisy of a correct etymology - "correct" -
otherwise misnomer applications...
a hammer was used for screws...
a screwdriver was used for nails...
same old, same old;

better you than me...
and that me is not the you about to listen
to some heavily tatooed nymphomaniac
from st. petersburg: alias novosibirsk...
i too though i was a bit mad
having moved from the outskirts
of London... into the center of Edinburgh;
clown luck at being right;
i should have been the sort
to have moved from the underbelly of
Tehran - interracially bred -
started a renting company -
and had a girl by the name of Laura...
what's Laura in Farsi Baháʼí?

i was this close to ******* my way into
the cult... this close...
suitor: better i just stick to the beetroot,
parsley root, carrot, turnip,
wholesome cabbage, potatoes...
and sure as **** no mamluks,
no oasis... no mangos... no peacocks...
just your standard ***** meat hogs...
fauns and...
what does the quran call the original:
not domesticated "pig"?
bore or boar? what do i call beer
when they only start serving wine? mead.

today:

i've sort of quit smoking...
but as you: or don't...
watching the eurovision song contest
results come in
while drinking some southern comfort
admiring the moon while the clothes drier
was wheezing it's last r.p.m.

i thought: well... at least a session with
in a dentistry chair can become
more pleasurable...
i saw more cringe than fringes...
when culture dies there's
that... added shock of:
i wouldn't call it an itch...
it's not a case of goose-bumps...
it's a sickly sweet sensation...
it's "something" that makes you want
to *****, trouble is:
you did some 50+ stomach crunches
and have eaten bad
blueberry ravioli...

so... there's not much in the tank
to... so you're basically forcing up bile...
but i cycled into central London today...
i passed Soho plenty of times...
i never bothered to venture in...
i was looking for a look of reciprocation...
from a gay-lord...
otherwise i was there eyeing up
some *******...

because: obviously i wasn't scouting
for comic books...
comic characters... perhaps...
capes? not so much...
a ******* ****-storm of....
marching for Palestine... congregated
at Hyde Park...
i did my usual round around that
bloated space of green...
on my way back into Essex
i had to cut through the swelling of the vein
of bodies...

i was almost tempted...
i wish i would have been...
it would be silly to shout obscenities...
although i did manage to build up
this toothache on my way back...
like i was given this evil-eye for being:
the usual suspect...

how much did i want to laugh while
passing this protest with the words:
gott! mit! uns!
  looking for an itch... looking for some
manna...
like the protest of homeless men on
oxford street among all the shoppers,
atheists... materialists...
i was almost... enraged by a seed of jealousy...
of not being... part of something...
wouldn't you?
i almost wished to don a kippah
or the star of david cycling into this throng...
this river of people...
gott! mit uns!

łamany łbem:
            broken with a head....
divided by a head...
and When i think about it...
i don't... i think about not thinking...
designated orientation concering
a "lost narrative" of res vanus...

głowa (gwova)...
        doubled down dutch privy to Welsh...
with a head...
        z głową...
which implies a neck... shoulders...
a balancing act worth of spine...

      łeb: for the animal... pysk: the snout...
canines...
  łbem: stressing the point of forehead...
hammer...
with a head, hardly absent...

yesterday:

a minor amnesia - nonetheless it happens,
there's another word for it...
skleroza: spontaneous forgetfulness...
this fickle creature that's memory...
thankfully i have a stash of about 5 major memories
that i like to revisit...
play them over and over in my head...
since... i'm not on the crux of death...
well... since i'm not...
i have become more prone to exercise
the freedom of memory than i might want
to watch a movie...
trouble comes when i'm not my own d.j.,
in a car... heading toward... ******* IKEA...
in Enfield... where the phlegmatic crew of
dodo are this close | | to learning the arithmetic
of time...
a song on the radio... Belinda Carlisle...
circle in the sand...
in between talking with my father...
                  nothing metaphorical about that...
- so you know how old bob marley was
when he died? 36...
- you think he would still be touring?
well... he wouldn't need the money...
**** jagger does it for the joy...
        
i can't write narratives...
it's not like we're estranged...
but... it's complicated...
i think this is one area of my life i will keep
off-limits when writing...
i can be as honest about ******
as i can be about horses...
the narrative never took place...
believe me...
we talked about a range of things...
morgage

then when we came home an hour
later than expected...
she (dearest mother)
was probably drinking alone...
throwing little tantrums of me and father
alone time...
well... not to mention he was absent
from the most crucial years of my life...
from 4 till 8...
how does the ugly side of immigration
look like? brain-drain...
we: the diaspora members...
away from the motherland...
for the "better life"...
i too am playing catch-up...
how did ol' Leo frame it?
every happy family is the same...
but every sad family is sad uniquely:
in it's own unique way...

  get Wittgenstein to sort this
tautology... i'm not going to bother...
come to think of it... it's not even
a tautology... a tautology would be more
focused on thesaurus rex...

we had a conversation about football
and music... re-mortgaging...
even Bowie remained true to music...
he probably didn't tour...
but still made new content...
singing about mortality and ****...
i think i'm having this playback moment
in my head...

but then this song came on the radio...
magic fm... belinda carlisle...
circle in the sand...
all of a sudden i had this urge to listen
to a song, that song reminded me off...
oh hell... exactly: what was it?
the search began with: 'the message'...
mc-****-fartery...
      round and round...
jokes aside... i had to listen to belinda's
song on earphones once more
before the "revelation"...

  it seems obvious... "now"...

nik ******* kershaw - the riddle...

exactly... how did i get "the message" wrong?
two strong arms... blessings of Babylon...
blah blah: toe-tying-riddle...
almost like good luck is expected...

come to "think" of it...
a revelation... even though there's that monotheistic
focus on the patriarch...
puppet... strings...
missing *******...
i'm having a hard time not thinking
that ha-shem... the nameless father of hey-zeus
and the ha-ha-mighty blah-lah-al
are not... primarily... feminine gods...
well... conjured up from a ****
rather than a working 'ed...

they're irrational... and can be reduced down
to... the three heads of Cerberus...
they are never really depicted...
worded sleuth pulp fiction harlequin traps...
most artists?
oh **** me... even the ****'ites would agree...
get your eyes to focus on something...
that's how much i dare to admire Islam...
from the ****'ite perspective...

what ******* topic is this?
i was about to pour myself another drink
and this thought like a blitzkrieg came
flushed from a ******* in the universe
where all the gods and nothings
congregate from indigestion and
constipation...
a ******* miracle: a diarrhoea moment...
of sorts...
the monotheistic veneer... of "patriarchy"...

what?! she wants a ring of gold
and my ******* too?
how about a tent's worth of a kippah
on my ******* tonsure?
a man would require a screwdriver...
a hammer... nails... screws...
it would make sense to have many
involved... than this pressure of solipsism...
vampire... succubus... leech...
a ****** hail mary...

**** speak...
                    so great... the technological advances...
atheistic secularism...
but there's a ******* grid-lock to mind too...
no a ****** dam...
a rich cognitive custard...
it's just that: a cognitive custard...
like Moses rekindling a belonging concept
along the lines of being lied to:

monotheism hardly serves man...
i can find appeals to the illusion it presents...
but... hardly...
looks like the "plenty of fish in the sea"
metaphor is drying up the concept
of a "catch"...

the conversation with my father are
off-limits in my purpose of writing in the first
place... unlike a Knausgaard...
i'm the drinker... he's the teetotaller...
he's the workhorse i'm the... chicken-scratcher:
if i had ink...
but i'm also probably ten beaks pecking
resounding at this... grand... oh my god...
******* piano of QWERTY...

genius idea... what?
qwerty... because the orthodox memory erosion
of the alphabet is of any use?
suddenly everything has to **** me off...
it has to be dipped in still water...
it has to be believable...
monotheism is concretely a religion
designated for the preservation of women...
why my *******?
oh... because if you don't have it...
i can... ******* at a leisurely pace?

that a woman can ******* without inhibitions...
while i have to be shamed?
*******, *******...
i don't even have enough slander to express
what my heart reacts to these days...
i don't have "hurt" feels...
i have... agitated feelings...
thank you for waking me up from my numb...
apathy...
but what do i hear? "hurt feels"...
****'s sake... those people don't even recognise
what feeling is supposed to feel like!
they're all french footballers... "hurt" all of a sudden...
wow! so...
"hurt" is translated into the parameters of:
feeling per se?
imagine my shock finding out that
apathy has dulled "i.q." to so little that...
you must be hurt to feel...
you can't be spontaneously agitated...
you must be hurt...

bring out the hot horseshoes...
let's have some fun branding these *******-waggling-
***** aside...

just wait for the breeders to wake up
to having children that turn into freely-arranged
agents of will...
i'm passing through a decade where there's
boasting...
but sooner rather than later...
there will be some hidden mention
of those... pickled-cabbage:
why do the 'indus find pickled cabbage
"funny"?
not eating beef sounds pretty funny...
or like that "proverb" from Morocco:
there's no water, in the desert...
then... what... the... ****... are... you...
"doing" in this, here... land of replenished
roots?!

******* camel jockeys...
what do "they" call them, proper?
sand-*******...
it would take a Bengladesi to get
smart notes on the caste "system"....
Aryan has no origin in Europe...
it probably originated in Indian when
they first came across Persians...
who are... oddly... "pale"...
but have not bartablondine aspects
of their ****** expressions...

ivory skinned like an Iranian or a ***-
without a suntan?
"you" wanted trenches...
here's my designated plot...
"you" wanted ******* to overshadow
real.. culprit-esque concerns...
the jealousy of a woman
knows not bounds...
most especially when a father-son
privacy is engaged with...

  if i ever encountered male jealousy...
it was always rare...
almost never...
        but female jealousy? anything...
everything to belittle the opposing "authority"...
ha-shem... the jealous deity of women...
blah-lah-al of...kept secrets stashed in the niqab...
allure of the ******* eyes...
come on...

****** ******* mary:
that matriarch of sold foetuses and
walking abortions...
at least there was something adventerous
in conceiving the existence of Loki...
of Thor...
there's nothing... original about the point
of monotheistic gods...
that there are three...
is Islam the truest of religions?!
they had a Sunni ****'ite schism... didn't they?
once again:
i want to believe in something:
to give me momentum...
give be a willing acceptance to excuse...
an overarching stressor of incredulity...
and a... "what life"?

well... existence is...
out of every instance: a persistence to:
instance... a persistence...
that's... existence... ex-
out of...
and stance...
dis-ease... a negation of ease...

there will be plenty more of those car
journey listening to magic fm...

an "original": whether mind, or thinker...
that mythology of evil that the Nazis provided...
******* Armani suits and boots...
or whoever designed them... Hugo Boss...
what are we left with,
to mind matters of collectivism?
the evil of censorship instigated by...
halfwits and ******* haemophiliacs?

a myth of evil that could be...
galvanised... momentum and emblem...
what's on offer... currently?
grey-suits and...
expectations: that it's the "21st century"
something magical is about to happen...
what's the difference between the 20th century
and the 18th century?
the 19th century...
so what's the difference between
a pebble, a cliff edge and a mountain?
don't know... a river? a lake?

that same **** different cover excuse
like some wonderful was going to happen
in the 21st century...
like there was a promise...
where is this **** coming from?!
oh yeah... but it's the 21st century...
i was hoping for gravity to ******* and turn all:
short-circuit awry...

i can pretend... for a while...
but after that while passes... i turn into a real mystery
of a door **** gone berserker...
are there these societal expectations
to simply **** **** the next...
blow the next... ******* origami of OXFAM
purple-fest whimpering "dead-doughnut":
although i'd cry... if it was a stray dog
from the streets of Seville...
******* camel-jockeys...

  it's not even a inhibited play on pronouns:
there's no: "they"...
i thought the trans-lobbyist covered the plug-hole
of cognitive-****...
there is not "us" or "them":
gender neutral is me...
armed with a strap-on ***** on my ******* forehead...
a bit like... that hebrew practice of...

so i had me a "friend: a fwend...
maybe that's cornish for something in velsh...
you know how word salad sounds?
on a persistence?
sure... a son of divorce...
what am i? his ******* uncle?
his mother undermined the concept
of al dente spaghetti...
we're talking fractions of people...

people eat ****... leave the universal utility
of pork aside...
mind you: not water in the desert...
and not piggy too...
the leather shoe... the belt...
it's not exactly kosher... is it?
i have this backlog of a peoples...
at least a priest only attracts confessions...
i'm not at knife point
easy... for this triad to work?

if my fwend mentioned cognitive custard...
but the concensus of word salad
is socially broke on the norm...
so blah blah boo'yah assortment...
enriched strawberries...
juicing much later...
i can understand cognitive custard... pie...
but a word salad?
that's.... what doesn't deviate from
solipsism... this solo "project"
of "you and i"...

                      psychiatry is persisting to be
deemed a branch of
the Hippocratic oath....
but it's not...it's pseudo-"medicinal"...
it's hyped-up... idon't remember
that junction in a life...
hardly worth lived... just lived...
of my 20s... what mea culpa stressor of
those psychopaths?
currents under the broken wheel of...
attempts at supressing..
momentum? this whole ******* "flake"
of barrage?

by word salad you're implying i
have, speak... low i.q....
    non-hieroglyphic suede...
non-answerable... past replica...
woe wow salad...
but how i understand it...
a cognitive custard...
well... thinking is messy:
you ******* dim-wits!
        ought-i: thought...
i don't like being ridiculed...
or expected to her a less i.q. than what's...
nuanced at a ****** favouritism... Balkan-esque...
seriously... *******: before i ****** someone...
ugh attached to that: wind... now there's a purpose...

yeah... so what's what?
this is the least of my "concern"?
well... as they say in the west...
as long as the brain-drain happens...
we can forget about keeping the native 9 to 5ams...
sort of... but hardly... justifiably...
less than expectedly...
capitalistically boast: not exhausted...
sort of...

i can understand cognitive custard...
meddle some more...
word salad?
your ******* ****- nig-
of sorts is speaking your language better than me?
******* sour crass of a native's ***!
*******...  and you deserve it.

and i'm supposed to care...
because of...
       what?!

  the Chinks are taking over?
they're already all over...

why should i care?
am i investing in gene
propagation or something?

genes are like a fetus to me:
dead, until in my arms
and outside a woman's body...

nothing much in between...
well... a dichotomy
of argumentation...
and headbanging to
a megadeth song...

and the thought,
that some day,
my neighbor will cross
the line of private property,
and i''ll get to gut
him like...
what ends up pork trimmings...

thought: the last ******* theater,
given the potential...

why should i give a ****?
it's not like people gave a ****
about me to begin with...
        ****, i'm here for the bourbon...
am i jealous?
no... no... not really....
i should be, shouldn't i?
good luck.

no no... i'd love atheism...
if it wasn't for the coupling of
atheism with materialism,
why do atheists bang about this
gene argument?
  why are atheists primarily
materialistic thinkers?
never managed to figure that one
out...
  
all these atheists bang about are
materialistic arguments...
as long as there is no god,
or no soul...
    GENES... GENES 24/7...
      nothing else...
fear of death,
subservient to a gamble on
eternity with the passing on of
genes (according to Hitch-Itchy-Tongue)...

**** me...
      you want to know what scares me
that's outside the emphasis on
death?
old age...
death i can take:
please! the sooner the better!
old age scares me...
because it's not the sort of old
age that guaranteed the
antonymous youth
of ancient Greece, or Rome...

no...
when my parent's die...
i'm not waiting... **** it...
       can't be bothered...
that's why i'm waiting for my
grandparents to die,
so i can ingest the reactionary cycle...
i'm not waiting,
3 hours of pain is 3 years
of a disguised pain of "waiting"...
oh no no no...
   i'm not waiting for the *******
argument...
they're out... i'm out...
      
if only the atheistic arguments
didn't, needlessly, lead toward
a materialistic clinging...
    too much fake realism concentrated
on passing on the genes,
like... fingerprints or ****?
    
once again: good luck!
   you're not passing anything
unless you're not passing
a vagueness of a genesis for
an impersonal impetus -

the coordinates remain the same,
but the vector impetus changes...
genes are, well...
static.

          hence the atheistic argument
for ensuring they continue,
like some Hindu reincarnation tactic,
"levitating": unchanged...
           i'm correct on that one,
yes?
   genes are supposed to remain
static, yes?
   well then!
      atheists are *******
materialists...
        
last time i checked...
    i didn't know that air could be categorized
in the same way as a rock...
that... quasi-ancient
quaternary of the subject-object /
  object-subject "dichotomy"...
                
lying to behold, the prior to unseen
fascinations that might succumb
to the materialistic grip, of
so called reality...

                and if gravity is what
binds all the orbs into a glued motion...

what force, actually instigated
the motion, or...
             kept it perpetuated?

sure... you have the glue question
answered...
but what is the perpetuated motion
question?

no? really?
  no?! really?!
  oh....           let me guess:
you don't!

i'm not kneeling,
and i'm not gesticulating with a prayer
in mind...
                 but god occupies
the entirety of my thinking...
   i can't think without the concept,
which, needless to say...
is so much more,
than the fabrication of
19th / 20th century
psychology of allowing the ego
to replace god...

sorry,
but sometimes the most irrational feeling
can overpower the most rational thought...
why?
   feelings are rarely allowed,
allowed to be caged,
or allow, * being*, caged...
         and my "belief" in a god aligns
itself with Heidegger...
     more to the point:
            man, made justice blind...
   man has no bearing in executing
   the most sacred sense of
                traversing both space, and time...
as mutually exclusive,
rather than the physics of their
mutual inclusion of the space-time
"continuum"...
          i believe in a god,
because, i do not believe that man:
has the sense of law,
to either pass judgement, or justice -
as the Satanic law encrusted:
   within the confines of your
gullible innocence...
        you will make a quadratic equation
of the whole escapade -
your goodness will be the justice,
while your evilness will be the judgement,
or vice versus,
or versus,
   or versus vice...
  or either, or none, or maybe...
    maybe the other way round,
from the other way round... or... quiet simply...
whatever.

it always seems an attempt,
                 to tell the most expensive jokes...
the anti-taboo: there is no
                         taboo types of jokes,
   for a crumb of all possible
freedoms,
                    that exhausting crumb
   of  chit-chat...
                 for some reason birds
                 do it much better than we
do...
          if there's a reason to talk,
i.e. retort,
               then people talk...
   but to just simply talk...
           for one:
       i'd rather listen to music
and not exhaust my larynx...
   unless i'm not whistling or
humming or singing a song
on a mute button, but nonetheless
contorting my face to
imitate the words pouring into
my ears?
                 i find not reason to talk,
or protect the right to do so;
waste of a good silence,
     so much so that i might as well
be plagiarising kierkegaard...
  who said:
        people always worry about
their freedom to talk,
       never, their freedom to think;
after all, thought is the supreme
verb...
             yes, that ghost of a verb
attached to a body, easily
dismissed by atheists and materialists
as the non-existent soul...
      forget mental gymnastics
adding a comment to someone
talking...
     try mental yoga...
      stretch for a while...
       inhale something inconvenient,
and allow yourself to brush it
under a carpet, which later starts
to fly off, into a beautiful sunset...
  so, if there's a rhetorical question?
surely there must be a metaphorical
answer...
    do people feel comfortable
in each other's company when they
have to continue talking?
   or when they can sit in silence
   and feel no need to say anything?
by god,
    i had to adopt an old man's mentality
in my youth so many times,
    a year to me is like a lifetime,
  i watch the differences between
summer of one year, and summer
  of another,
   the same with winter...
   i try to summon the stereotype of
an agry youth,
     but after a while i'm exhausted
and just end up drinking ***
      and laughing into the night;
have i somewhere to be? someone to talk
to? something to see?
      something worthy my attention?
perhaps...
      perhaps this is a continental
   approach to an american "thing"...
   i remember the loudest ******* at school,
constantly ******,
   putting on airs, puffing up chests
toward a diatribe...
                            but god...
     it's like this cognitive-phobia invoked by
that need: for a security, of being able to
say whatever you want...
                   it's almost akin to being
claustrophobic, or ego-phobic?
   this need for a constant squash match,
to bounce off other people and then strut like
a peacock...
     no bear (esp. a polar) looks magnificent
in a zoo...
              the white turns to grey, from lying
around all day... sure... lions can be kept,
pandas too... lazy ***** that they are...
          i'd like to have coined a better compound
for those people who are so desperate to
speak... but find it horrifying to even think;
     how sad; how very sad.

łysy łysy łysy:

ol' baldy - i.e. the moon,
you were nicknamed
by someone prior to me:

now that you're dead
i need to find some solace
again,

i look at the moon
and i remember your own
baldness -

but now that you're dead:
here's me looking
for a full stop,
or blame myself to
make strategy with
a semi-colon...

   new paragraph?
new chapter - or altogether
just a different book...

for a few days to
come i can forget about
the world more and more...

i guess you're more lucky
than most:
prior to this grand "awakening"

social engineering
             as way bypassing
man: genesis ape
through to herr robo-,

and language is no longer
a freedom:
it's no more a quest
for solace as it is:
squatting over a pit
of grammar-shizzo...

i have to thank you
for the grief: i drink less!
knowing that you will
never be able to
extend into shadow
come noon...

or that you might "bribe" me
with some endearing
conversation that
was forever littered with
your memory extract cameos...

Fork in the Fickle: alVough:
                     Dat's
       and PHilandering...
                THrice...
                 my affluent counterpart
you're a dead-op
              and why was it
ever a word salad
and not a word-spaghetti?

i can only thank you:
                soy niqab soy niqab
and she was only "there"
easing into a hijab...

someone stole my face!
someone stole my face!
the scents of autumn in poland...

nuancing brimming to
the topple: the obsolete purpose
of hands...

         hello neu-luddites!
ha'lo!
              but one can -
and all that kicking -
march of the sullen down
beaten brows:

if thought could be translated
into gravity:
for coordinating all this
manure...

            it's impossible
to live through marxism twice...
once upon a time
those slavs under the iron
curtain stupid enough:
but that "they" caught up with
impossibility of:

          deciding upon replica:
no country: new moon!
- and there i thought that
clones were supposed to be
left tender...
soulless as...
       clones are to be
made disposable?
              
believe me: *** is no fun...
but weren't clones supposed to be
this jump strategy to...
oh but the defaults!
and all the faults...
and who's here...
regime essential pushing
quasi-lovie-dubby....

          i can get a haircut:
but my teeth are non-essential...
because: beside milking the bones:
i am sure to grow...
teeth... the length of elephant
tusks!

        to eat? quiet impossible...
then again: my mouth is bogus enough
to shelter the concept of
tongue...

- interlude...
  right now? the most authentic...
whatever the hell that implies...
if i'll ever want to cry
or remember: that when you died
i threw my heart into
a stash of stones...
expected a heaving lung
and a beached whale sizzling
on the coast of france...

every time i'll want to un-pretend
to grieve... i'll probably end up
slicing and dicing an onion...
to erase a need for teeth
i'll such-and-such i.e. **** a lemon...

3 months to spare i tell myself...
grandma could have
called and cited a disturbing sequence
of events...
but the law in poland states:
she will claim your pension...

what of the money! it's not necessary,
not now not even tomorrow...
why this pressure surrounding
saying the words: i was robbed!

from now until her death:
i'll be playing poker...
i'll nuance truth
because there's no need to play
that horrid game of
teasing a nibbling layer
of the same ol' dwarfian lie...

our fishing trips... our cycling trips...
here's me: writing
inconveniences
on your chin, cheeks,
forehead... telling myself:
it is very possible to starve
bewildered looking
at your corpse...
   i will use your spine as a staff
to make dicta parallels
for the quest of eyes:
should i forget to eat
enough carrots...

truly: i'm relearning the spectrum
of lethargy upon the arrival of
sorrow -
it's not an essential "laziness"
it's just this: custard-brain-freeze:
for a brain expected there's
this heavily soaped piece
of clay-alla-sponge...

i test my teeth against
a "riddle" of ice for my whiskey
and: i'm looking for onions!
how can i turn my heart
back into a lazarus...

right now i can imagine: how cheap
it all resounds...
it's not critique-viable
it's not critic friendly...
        it's its own sorrow self:
forever lessened by
a need to stretch it into phenomenological
generic: ah... replica...
observable today, tomorrow...
at best also towing a yesterday...

- hello herr busy-body...
           for the new bureaucracy -
too many vowels... too many vowels...
          RZECZ -
and je suis...
                i just need a caron above a C...
to hide the "z"...
otherwise... out-pops a length
of the tetragrammaton...
although i'm not a hebrew...
i'll still smother myself with fuckety-****-****
prior to: and ha-shem is prior
to... all the words i can type
and typo...

  because this very least is still
sacred...
              as i now pretend to look
toward: the eastern-*****...
          au-stracht... no reason beside
a need to blink...
i've had two dreams of late...
going downstairs to drink full-fat
milk from a fridge located
in the living room...

and that very famous scene where
Moses threw his staff and
a cobra was born...
a quadratic of serpents...
eating each other...
the will of the pharaoh vs.
a merely worded deity...
a pharaoh with gods of stone...

my dear "father" the fog!
my dear grandiosity: the moon,
the fog and your shadow!
how seemingly cowardly
it must be attesting:
that i too will follow down your
route:

no eloquence: cedilla!
fenile cerberus...
           words come into my gob-*****
vacuum that suppose
peering out... dear brain...
sponge being cooked...
a never-ending new tomorrow...

- yes, this pretending to nuance
lethargy... how impossibly devastating
is this mortal certainty...
almost like...
prior to prokofiev's lieutenant's kije's suite
i had no inclination
for the BATTLE OF THE ICE...

alex'dre nevsky - hallow teutons who
found more islam in
the pagan roots of lithuanians
so close to their inkling...
the prussians they were to conquer
would teach the schwab kopf nuances
to compete with
the fidgety saxon...
******* touristy blah...
aus! aus! the trails!
thus the birth of a noun:
   a bushwacker loot upon the heels
of a kangaroo!

         now the world looks: oh so more
grandiose!
relieving me from a very
private affair...
how the proto-:
atheists, materialists debunked
subjectivity...

kije: kidze: sichuan pepper...
mongolian hoof!
dear lord! all of crimea!
the tatars a history of ukraine and...
it was never a civil war
where people speaking
the same tongue warred
against each other!
i... ploY... to translate the impossible:
whoever translated
joyce's finnegans wake...
need no bother:
where are the diacritical marks!

it sort of "helps" knowing that...
SHYLA STYLEZ is
one of those mythological blondes
that's... dead...
and i'm a "necrophyliac"...

you died and i just knew what
world was waiting for me...
thank you: *******...
this blessing of humanity...
this urdu poet: this...
              munawwar rana...
                 because as you *******...
a "mother" a *******...
a niqab... a feather from an angel's
wing... the flesh of a circumcision
extended into the concept
of a belt: for which some pork is
insisted upon...

how's ******* any worse
than phellatio
when you've just spooned
a load of cinnamon...
like... oh my god: like... n'ever!

blatantly: queer is counter-inquisitive...
it's this borrowing
of taboo... strength in the purpose
of a comma...
                      comb-over-y'ah...

now - jetzt - teraz...
i'm looking for either: an uncomfortable pea...
catherine the great...
or a dozen of cushions...
or that would be Cnut -
some otherwise Dane...

i abhor myself for writing in this zunge..
it's this forever alienating prospect...
i'll miscarry denoting
a Cyprite as a turkic bleed
and borrowed... lineage...
never this proud Grecian...
and you were too... solid at...
how Silesia was partitioned...
prior to how coal was made defunct:
and how the winds were
supposed to congregate?

my chandelier of glass...
teasing ivory and a glistening
of a scrap of
heave! dear sir!
remember ol' saxony!
i have here spare... a devil's
dozen of teeth:
burden, i, a "toad" of chew
and munch!
not much, ergo...

                        pleasure / appease
the soviet quest
for a man devoid of
subjective- stampede
inquiries...
                      aren't the soviets:
de facto... ad mortem?
alias morsus?

I cannot make the world a better place
I am not a decent human being
cynicism is welcome in my embrace
there's too much faith in optimism to leap without seeing
and they say that is believing, materialists who touch gods with their eyes
my God is our Universe, among a pantheon of others
somehow I know what people are capable of, all life is its own demise
yet, there is a universe in every human, a contained god
this cannot be abandoned, revert to a primal nature and forge stronger bonds to flee from
there is an inexplicable loss that occurs even when an unremarkable or evil person dies
though, we would rather believe that a landing is a blessing and not a refill to butterflies.

i just want to live a little: drink a little
ms. amber and most definitely
spill some of her on some pretend mahogany...
like i might be toasting
with the dead...

         all this life: so thoroughly
uncomplicated: sustained by uncomplications...
slyly smoke one cigarette...
perhaps two... at most three...
and still tell the white lie:
yes, i've quit smoking tobacco...

insert both snigger and a giggle:
but i love the taste and the momentary
****** of carbon monoxide
into the brain...
so, yeah: i probably might quit...
when i see a blue moon
or an u.f.o.
         "problem" i have seen the latter
and... it was all squid lile
and phosphorescent
and piccadilly circus esque neons...
i had no phone to take
a picture with...
at best... i could have shouted
at it or thrown a beer bottle at it...
for jokes...

hell: back into the life of...
mediocre...
                 into the general area of
prescribed grey...
into sitting on a couch
and not feeding goosebump
sensations of a roller-coaster...
it's enough that a main ****
luvvie-dubby is willing
to snuggle up to me...
for reasons i am trying to understand:

why do animals... like...
certain people...
why are children inquisitive about
this lineage of frankenstein...
i don't know what i would have
to get up to being given the graces
of a dorian grey outlook...
if i were handsome and generically
pristine...

i just, oh: i just don't know...
i couldn't feed mining for both coal
and idiosyncrasy -
this is me...
    jumping trains: just pretend...

a poem a day keeps the psychiatrists away...
and the priests and the prostitutes...
or so i hope...
given that i have had dealings
with all three...
it's not wonder that i want
to exhaust a need to rekindle interactions
with these assorted lots of toothpicks...

how ******* bogus it must sounds:
my soul hurts...
pose that question to any
atheist or proto-materialists
and the remedy would be what?
synonym counter of asthma?
my soul ache...
                         an itch i cannot scratch...
blessings these concerning
toothaches...
i finally appreciate...
a need for toothaches...
a toothache allows me a gratitude
for three-dimensional orientation...
i've leave this ol' oyster of a tongue
behind: to prove the point...

- so that's why i will never write
a novel!
i abhor lying: i like being robotic...
plain monochrome and at best
two-dimensional when i use words...
to lie to write fiction -
bold underlying essence of
imagination...
but it's hard when you are
curated for outlets that don't
allow imagination to be detailed
with a willingness on your beset
exhaustion of will...

      the detail in the symptom of:
negated ease...
let's just cut corners and write
a proper cipher...

yes... this evening...
i will settle for all these words of truth...
truth can be shortened
and can't be faked...
i'll take the swagger with
the freely available whiskers of whiss and key
and... doing some cliche
"queer" - ahem - "thing"...

some the smiths
or some
                 placebo... covers...
hell.. the gun club - or some fugazi...
something that allowed itself
to age...
            after a morning listening
to bbc radio 3... i don't exactly shake
with inheritance to repay
a life of bach or schumann or schubert
or... prokofiev...
the freely available material
had all the overtones of
      giving out governmental relief...

so that's how it feels: to beg...
              come to think of it...
when art can be settled as a solitary project...
when an oeuvre can be reached:
it's there a procrastinating absentee
horizon's worth...
  this goo this google this custard:
this fudge-brain sloth...
                        accenting out a replica
Kandinsky...
this is enough: this is most certainly enough...
i can still retain pride
and i can still retain "honour"...
because what i've written didn't
take much: it rarely should...
i will settle for the lazily done so...
and put all my energies
on glug-glug-glug
   and the ears propped up to the smiths...

to write fiction would be
what has to be so impossible for me...
to lie: it's not that i abhor lying:
i just find myself incapable to do it...
and if fiction is not lying:
then it's probably, at best...
imagining oneself as lying...
    i have been grieved with
symptoms that stress:
some things you will rarely want
to imagine...

              to be alone in a house
where sometimes you hear a murmur
of a cat waking from one
sleeping session
beckoning a second...
and there' a pristine vacancy
of a talk outlet reaching your...
meta-hearing...
meta-ear...                   it's all a jargon...
but if you know what words
to be equipped with...

                   for all its worth...
a feast of a day... and i didn't force myself
to remember Paris from circa 2004 - 2007.

You can’t not see like I can’t escape my vision
How many cells your body have? my personal prison, no schism
People grow old, simultaneously imagine grown limits
Stationary is the go-get-it
They bullshittin, the faux-witnesses
The materialists the fools gold riches equipped
They know it’s it is
The Truth roll friction with wits