for logic to work, certain coordination words must be excluded from ever attain a thesaurus privilege, certain words must attain the same consistency as numbers already present, for worded logic to work, certain words cannot entertain synonyms or antonyms, and must be freed from the shackles of sophistry.*

can one animate object truly objectify another
animate object?
i ask, because this supposed feminist
narrative of man objectifying a woman
seems rather bogus -
as i have to reiterate -
can an animate object truly objectify
another animate object?
           i "think" (i.e. "i" deny) this to be
highly unlikely, near impossible...
                  i am innately inclined to the puritanical
observation,
that i can only objectify an inanimate object,
point being: a man can no more
objectify a woman than an animate
object can make an animate an inanimate
object without having to subject himself
to hammering a nail into a plank of wood:
using a hammer.
how can an animate object (a man)
objectify another animate object (a woman) -
without, first of all objectifying a part of him
as quasi-inanimate, namely his phallus?
  women do not seem to be complaining
about objectification of a woman,
rather, a man objectifying his member -
  and isn't that the point, to posses an object
that you're not subject to obeying?
                             once more how can a woman
be objectified, when in fact man is
attempting to de-subjective himself from
his genitalia?
                         an animate object can't
objectify an animate object -
                            since the contradiction is:
both are in animation...
                  the only time objectification
happens is when an animate object
subject an inanimate object into a purpose...
a hammer is hardly a woman,
while is hammer one-dimensional,
   a woman is either mother, sister, vice,
      a one night stand, a girlfriend, or a wife...
   women are never objectified -
   they are subject to the self-objectifiction
of man, by man alone...
and if you think that's post-modernist jargon,
let me spell it out for you:
T, O, G, E, T, A, H, A, R, D, O, N.
objectification happens when an animate
object subjects / encompasses an inanimate
object into a subject of the animate object's
intent...
        unless of course you care to disclose
a fetish for necrophilia...
since only in necrophilia are women actually
objectified.

i'm sitting on the windowsill like a crow
perched on the rooftop,
eating watermelon and downing
a mixer of whiskey and coca cola

while i ponder the *style sections of
last weekend's style magazine
a magpie in me draws open the curtain
open of the silence, and i make the
neighbour's dog bark with laughter -
the section in question that prompts
me is a piece about silent speed dating
(i only ever did that obscene
event once at university,
we left with L tattoos on our foreheads),
**** just didn't work, too much
systematisation with the cards -
i'd prefer a chess tournament to be honest;
in the speed dating scenario you
get zombies and Oreo biscuits,
cracking fun - mingling fruit with alcohol,
it's really a Saturday night in my head,
picturesque: i.e. picture it - photosensitive
epileptics on the dance floor shaking all
the possible muscle including the buttocks -
times up...
england is really abhorring toward poets,
only Shakespeare made it count -
as a playwright -
or as they say in Yorkshire - Germany
and the 1930 - 40s, not Beethoven prior,
the youth wouldn't read a book,
but would continue to shoot the Nazis in
computer games comfortably into the 21st century -
in england if it's not Shakespeare it's filth,
degenerate art, that's the reasoning -
from the saturday review not, one, review,
of, a, book, of poetry, not one -
if this is a healthy literate stance then
call me Mona Theresa and put a strap-on
***** on me -
it's easier to find bargains in the Amazon online
store than a good poem - worth of mouth
had an ammonia soaked handkerchief stuffed
in its mouth, and hey presto! cow manure
never met the chance of nostrils engaging...
in england what's prized above
poetry is journalism, hence by respect for
those who disengage from from coupling poetry
to music by making music laughable
with poetry's rhyming -
twang twang - #a, repeat... twang twang a doodle
do f, through to c, or something worth
a silent cipher on the page -
indeed journalism above poetry, ars umbras:
the art of shadows, the art of obscurity,
the perfect stance of diplomacy,
take the bureaucratic route -
'short of an umbrella?!' the cabbie questioned,
'short of ice cubes on ye'r 'ed?!' the innovator retorted?
and with that the audience became bemused
when the magician pulled out a cabbage head
from the top hat rather than a rabbit -
indeed poetry, had i been Voltaire writing
about england has almost disappeared from
english - mind my ignorant pessimism -
but mind that journalism took over,
and instead of poetic musicology what's required
is poetic journalism - i can't have stone age emblems
of care to coerce me into geological rudiments -
if indeed i am but one man
among the collective i am obviously wrong,
but should that matter, i should seize to care
whether i actually read a Stephen King novel,
since i haven't, as they say, appreciated the living art,
and chose instead literary necrophilia,
then i am sourced as a voice in the graveyard -
or as one homeless man said: a gem -
all it took was politeness and a free cigarette -
indeed this literary necrophilia -
it's quite becoming - and to then realise -
well, with each day a new mode of conduct
in the median of populace of the highest average -
harsh to consider in conclusion any if all
pronoun usage to be akin to conjunction and
preposition use as a care for a vain approach
in the use of language and self-buffoonery -
simply how the language works,
with that stated and the phonetic approximations
found on too many occasions to be realised -
e.g. can you please pút pooh bear into
       his enve-low-p', and seal
       it shút with ha-née / ha-knee rather than red wax?

I

Wonderlandia, torn off the submerged lung
of a daydream diary.                   Reoccurs
as she does with silver eyes, weary Alice
during tea time--bullets burning past her
                                     like flowing nations.
Everyday similar tsunamis fund
                                     the lack of 20/20.
Nose to tail--the surge of angry engines
splits the ends of her blonde strands.
    Each one the last witness to maddening hospitality
--utopia never sweats as it talks and withers.
Amnesia blots,
new aspirin machines
vaporize apples and ***
on the other end of spectrum,
                                                     trans-positional labels--

Guillotine gargling teapots
       have no patience
         to the bushes of Olympus opiates
                                      bound in yellow barrier tape,
                     five o' clock traffic
               welcomes her back to what we are facing.


II


Dreary weather of late fall                       and her beautiful,
              powdered face

great mouth of atomic hell,
         when she speaks--80,000 deficiencies boil alive
                                                   --Trinity's teething test
                                                           on the tired bones
                                                   of a story-teller's raspy cards--

"None the wiser," she speaks,
                                "during the transition of ships
                   vermin turn into krakens culturing
                               on the surface of a raindrop.
    Heroes, villains, animals frozen together
                 after now eating for four days.
     The transition of one genocide
                                                        ­  to the other,
                the delineation of cat-and-mouse,
   mingle too long
   with the dead
   and its necrophilia."

                 Blind Alice wanders off the highway,
leaves her brewed cup of steamy static
on top of the unimportant saucer, sticks pins in her *******,
             and enjoys the sound of Cleopatra
             rolling over in reincarnation.


III

      Dear Alice smells
sunbathing, studded tangerines
                      assimilating liquor within the vast,
       empty, glowing nausea that is--
                        the warm germ

Oil                                    and                 ­          water
               rippled glass too silly for skulls
              made humid by distant salt water,

blood, acid, enzymes,
cheating probability
that runners with drunk kids
have blood between their toes.
                                                      Death­ to the distillation within
                                                    --the chronic diamond too polished
                                                       in *** to see the roses in her *****
    She curses these wood songs,
             heritage patriots with the pelts of wild lions
             with antlers over their heads,
                                                  faces advertising war paint
                                                applied by gargoyle hands
                    --sad memoirs always drink people
                                                  that use God as a cookie jar.


IV


  Gorgeous names
  on graffiti institutions give her a home
                                                         a market
                                                         a nickname
           still                  Alice only accepts Alice.

Grace periods where she misses tyranny
                  rise and fall like endorsed breathing.
    Now Alice feels her dress fall off,
                                  extinct years message future occupancy
                                  about what to wear.
New era, this era, past eras plead guilty
in a      clinic museum
             of forcing demons
              down the medical
              throats
of first graders. Court adjourns at 9:01 PM, Saturday

             The populus can sleep now,
                          but not her.
                 No one gave her clothes
                 to cover up the drained monochrome.


V

Instead she celebrates her flesh,
                                        the broken glass,
   and quakes and leads off to expose
           others to its potential vital prosperity.

         Instead
                     headlines like bumper cars read
                     about the beheading of weeks,
                     failing rescue missions,
                     and debates on teenage tolerance.

Nicotine intoxication points Alice
to over-extended memories--wards of music
sequenced to point out the extinction of marble tigers.
                        Only 550 expected to understand
                         tethered to millions able to survive.

  Flood waters look at moral standards, a mean hurricane
                                   that collapses the death toll
     all patented 50 states
     have a dating service
     and huff paint as a way
                              to pray to art.
                                                      Double­-canvas faces
                                                      dyed in pixel     hope
                                                       that the media levees hold,
             but volunteer to herd sheep into poppy seed fields.
                                            She refuses to stay,
                    to watch the long night
                    of castration on men with mud-covered ankles.
                                      Television says eunuchs want
                                       to be prodigal's children,
                                       everyone wants to come back home
                                       to mom and dad, safe zones, away
                                       from themselves.
                                                     ­                 It says our ancestors want
                                                            ­          this for all of us. They worked
                                                          ­            so hard to tie up the hair
                                                            ­          out of Aphrodite's face.

                                     They treasure the silver eyes of Alice,
                                          but call them blue,
                                                  they issue her high cholesterol
                                          but pump sweet ****** into he stomach,
                                                  they tell her to put down the drill,
                                            so she can finish their orchestra--

her lightning
    is
     a
  string
     of
  souls



VI


     She decides to depart Sunday,
to discover the ordinary beginning,
                        painting WHY? on its delirium.
re-arrangeable viewers become
                      inserted sounds under percussion and piano.

       Caging various important charts
                                          undetermined
   ­                           as finished attention.
                                                      ­              Three movements in flux
open end the people                     vacuuming
                            craftsmanship blocks
                   from                                dogs and zen.

                                                 The
                                 suspended letter               is happening in 1951
   drenched in existential white                                            spacing
        ­                                                   the viewer
                        from integrated architecture.

Down
the
bell is a structure called
"the quarantined wheelchair."
                               Dead ignorance changes pattern
                               after six movements of the second hand.
Alice speaks, "To you all, know
                                       that this is an un-dramatic situation.
          Everyday windows with the same
           participants have girls drinking
                                                     orange juice, activate fluid,
                    both exist as objects
                    and caught propaganda."

                                                   ­                      Six tunnel
                                                          ­      audiences are watching
                                                        ­        drown in the plastic silk
   her                                                       built by the motorized collage
                                                         ­                                        spider.

          Alice, a kinetic mannequin pop star
                        is limp in the glass point.
             Rhythmic flux is objectified war torture
                         censored in fitness magazines
by simple toilet literature.

                                        Six tunnels worth of eyes
                                 latch to the *******
                                           as a way to bury **** protesting.
                                  A coat of pepper spray
                                   works in front of the exhibition.
This stage is shaded by moans.


VII


      Alice the female, has a door-to-door friend
                                                          ­    over the sea
of the cathedral's ceiling               who died of disemboweled
pulchritude             at the mutilated nuclear other-place.
                     Her friend was a synthesized example
                     of staged catastrophes. Her friend is her, silver-eyed
                                                     ­                                             Alice.

            ­                     She performs herself and herself
                                 but they are played by polished, scored poets.

Everyone of them incorporates the events
                                 of a dancing gunshot. Everything rests
                                                           ­ at an intermission

               but after fifty minutes of pondering,
          the lost audience remembers
         her name is Alice.
                   So it comes back on with a shower of sweat
                  and this clear
                                  substance
               ­                                 called
                         ­                              patience.
       This composing, peering vulnerability
                        psychologically destroys the flux tension
              like analog genocidal dictators.
                                   Ultimately this is dream liquor

     commentating war to the war tree
      using trauma and chairs as humor.



VIII


               Patience on the water level lives translucent
                                            on networks that brand flesh
                                            with displaced identity.
Alice convinces us all that pickled ***
                                                             ­               takes eight years
                     to ****** and we accuse it
                                         of being fake. Afterwards, her character dies
in confident silence.


IX


     Not majestic, but she does cough
                  to mock the earth.
        The seeds of Alice are ripe,
                        harvested early, and now her children come out and dine
        like speaking tongues on gibberish.
                          The room is fat with hair

and kindness. Feeble, mundane hands chew on each other,
                                                         feet stand proud.
We even call her Alice or "the beautiful *******,
                                             a black cloud feasting
                                             in orange."
                       Everyone feasts on the nectar
                                                         she has, but never the rye
which makes her round. Juice is squeaking and her children laugh
                         as in competition.

     It's a distinguishable game as the mixed
                                                           ­      couple up front
              begin to play whistles as
                                         everyone eats
                   the pride of the silver-eyed Alice's children.


X

                                                ­ The children's souls
                                                       bow and say
                                           "Thank you for barely growing."
                                                   and dissipate after five minutes.

          "Curiouser                                   ­                                      and
           Curiouser"                                                       ­                   they
           say                                                              ­                        as
           they                                                             ­                       leave
           this                                                             ­                         homage.
                  The decimal backbone
                     of each of sweet Alice's
                                   blonde strands
                   divorced by the gust/ of a green light's/ allowance.


XI Epilogue*


  The day crawls away
                   a vigilant pest
     of the nocturnal project
                   --suns beam down still, like
                  stomachs of grinning felines
                           at Valentine's day.

toxic-dyed fingers
                        soldered
to bodies pittering across rainy streets

--legionnaires with hearts on stones
                         we are waiting for her orders,

     thistled-teeth clench,
                                         but did she
                                          actually
          ­                                ever come?

objectification is very much a cul de sac,
it's a one way street...
      to objectify is to
       allow an animate object a
confirmation of an all-pervasive control...
objectification =
the inability of an object to become
a self-serving subject -
                  no hammer ever managed
to self-serve itself into a role of a screwdriver...
to be objectified is to have no
self-serving subject, i.e. a self;
         how can a woman ever be "objectified"
when she subjects herself to both
the object (that's her body) and  
              the subject (that's her mind) -
or, objects to the object stated -
  whereby by "objectification" there's
a reinforcement of being subject to the object...
her body, which reinforces her
                  subjectivity -
      when man is prone to objectification,
as pronouncing his extended members,
a woman is prone to subjection -
                           irony on the ob- prefix,
wasn't it ever reverse infatuation?
                  sure, not all the subplots appear
in being "objectified" -
                but at least being "objectified"
does not equate to being subject to a man's
will...
                 if you can't deal with
the "extremes": is being "objectified" as bad
as being subject to a niqab?!
                      besides the point,
i can't believe that one animate thing can
make another animate thing objectified -
            in the purest sense of:
    deeming an animate thing
            inanimate to be: a thing observed
without a self-serving self-aware ******.

It was strange almost as strange as Thanksgiving with Justin Bieber  at his grandmother's house.
Yes I'm sure that wasn't the only thing getting stuffed that year.
Who doesn't enjoy being serenaded by their grandson as he's naked with his pick in one hand and
his **** in the other as he stands **** ball naked in the kitchen.

Thanks Canada your like a ***** girlfriend who instead of giving a great ******* gave us ******  What do I expect from a country that also gave us maple syrup and call me maybe.
I know we just met and this sounds crazy but your countries music ***** so never call us okay.

I was alone in the Pub as  usual hell what do you expect from a site that has a showcase yet has no more groups from which half of the showcases are named after .
Yeah the owner has that true modern day logic like having a music channel that only shows
reality show ****** and knocked up ******* who complain about paying the bills yet are employed by the network yeah common sense it really is lost on stupid people.

I was having like half of a case when a hamster who shall remain unnamed due to she would
harm me if I spoke the name of which is not to be spoken of walked through the door.
Gonz set me up with a cold one  I really need it.
Really hamster I never pegged you as a necrophilia kind of gal but to each his own
good thing I got the paper let me just check the obituaries and make some calls
You want something fresh off the highway or you more into cold cuts?

I know I'm going to hell but honestly did you expect good taste  in reading this **** ?
Are you ******* nuts?
The agitated little hamster asked as she looked at me with anger and possible **** in her eye's.
Look I can always hope good thing I forgot my whistle.

Just give me a cold beer you pervert and that joke was tasteless really have you no respect for anything?
I looked at the hamster after handing her the beer and thought deeply and hard pulling my mental hair at the same time even though I don't have any don't ask.
Duh hamster!
It's my job  to make tasteless jokes and be a pervert what you think the time clock on the walls for?
Um employees ?
Well yeah it used to be until they whole health care **** I swear I give my workers one meal a week and provide a perfectly good basement for them now I got to give them health care duh
if I paid my bills what would I drink with ?

My customer who remains anonymous to  protect the safety of my *****.
Looked at me in disgust uh oh looks like I might be getting a spanking as well.
You really keep those poor people locked in the basement ?
Duh person I cant say your name there not real people there here illegally.
How can you say that I should call the cops on you .

The hamster was turning red and from the threat of calling in the fuzz I knew she must be
serious yet still I knew deep down she was just playing hard to get with her threats and restraining orders but enough with the foreplay hamsters.

Look I really don't see what the big deal is ?
You have people trapped in your basement like some dirt bag smuggler.
Now you hold on a minute hamster how dare you insult me I said in my grown up voice
I know I can act like a grown up shocking isn't it?

I was about to tell this hamster just what I really thought of people who take advantage of people
who just want a better life and exploit others and really preach some of that moral **** that sounds real good yet isn't what I think cause I'm truly a ruthless *******.

When I stopped and saw the clock oh **** hold that thought I almost forgot to feed the basement people.
I reached under the bar and grabbed four cartons of cigarettes and a case of wine.

What in the hell you only give those poor people ***** and cigarettes ?
Well  duh there French what else would they want?  
Just then a voice came up from the dungeon I mean basement of the pub gonzo more wine
you American swine I hate you yet still I applaud your efforts in destroying that vile
man child Selena Gomez  .

Ahh you got love the French sure that strange little man may stay drunk on a girl drink and smoke like a chimney but even he hates **** pop music as much as me.

My one and only reader slash customer slash person I enjoy annoying sat in shock.
You are so ****** up .
I looked as I took my seat behind the bar that no longer exists because some people
who shouldn't be allowed out of there cage run the site into the like button ground.

Yes hamster I'm a little ruff around the edges but when you get to know me.
You realize behind all the insults and perverted bad humor .
I'm well I'm far worse than you could ever imagine.

We sat there swapping stories the drinks flowed the French man in the basement yelled
something in that strange language  he spoke once I couldn't understand cause I
don't speak German.

It was a  true night to remember except for the part I forgot duh!
It was growing closer and closer to closing time I mixed us both a good strong drink
yet with a soft side and heart of gold like a awesome ****** or that man ****** Kim Kardashian .

Well I guess better head out Gonz.
Aren't you feeling like your going to pass out .
Um no why ?

****** its really getting bad when you cant trust a good street dealer to quality
roofies  .
The hamster was headed out the door but before she left she turned and said.
Oh yeah and you might need to grab a pillow.

And then everything went black but not like in the NBA .
No indeed I was out like Charlie sheen after a really good coke binge when he used to be cool.

I awoke upon the floor alone cold and hurting in a area far more strange than fifty one
****** man whya alien would travel across the galaxy only to corn hole rednecks and poetic madmen is beyond me but enough about what some owners of websites do in there off time.

Upon the bar sat the only cure for my troubles a double shot of good blended whiskey.
Next to it a note on a bar napkin .

Dear Gonz  next time remember to remember which drink you spiked you ******* .

I had to laugh and sit really funny the seat was a bit uncomfortable get your heads out of the gutter
children your almost as bad as me.

Until next time kids remember .
Good humor bad humor  its just ******* a joke to begin with so lighten the **** up.

Cheers and stay crazy.

bypassing the 502 error: title - whiplash...
body... cream...

original intent:

they're doing road works on a stretch of road
where the brothel sits:
house of the rising sun or whatever you want
to call it... i'm not ready for the thrist:
for the plunge that will extend into half a decade's
worth of not *******...
i'll give it a week or so... before i take the plunge:
proper... mind you... i've already found
the perfect formula for drinking...
the cheapest bottle of australian wine...
at 14%... mixed into the glorious Mayan drink
of the gods' that's kalimotxo...
and if i'm still not "feeling it": i'll top myself
off with some slender-man's whiskey glug-glug...
it worked so well for 4 years without
touching a woman's body...
what the hell prompted me?
to wake up from this slumber?
oh... right... i own two maine **** cats
and when i was grooming the female...
she stuck up her brunt right into my hands...
it felt like: trans-species ******* for a while...
a cog in my brain went loose...
for days i cycled in the night into central London
looking at the flesh market:
of the free peoples of the western world...
what prompted me...
i was grooming my maine **** cat and she
was tempting me with a: ******* hairy apple...
no... wrong... just plain wrong...
perhaps i swing around beard envy & ha...
***** envy (well... imagine a rabbit ******* an elephant...
big **** genre of: and how deep is that...
ahem... hole? standard kama sutra...
not one size fits all)
but when your cat starts to imitate getting it...
**** me... the night... cycling... sweating it off...
until you have to touch the antonym...
but suppose you come across a timid girl
and you get a case of erectile dysfunction...
while you end up caressing her: timidly kissing
her because she's timid...
pointing at her eyebrows... nose... eyes...
ears... pimples... freckles and moles...
the mirror... fingers... elbow... knees...
and asking her to say the Romanian words for them...
sure... a momentary lapse in sanity:
the reason(s) was already self-evident...
take a woman like Ava Lauren...
now... my god... by god... that's a ****-machine...
an *** like a Lamborghini and a body
like a leather armchair...
and she stuck through it... a mandible body
of the extension of the jaw...
some people are born to be boxers...
she was built to be ****** in the confines of
orthodoxy...
dead pornstars though... i.e. Shyla Stylez...
it's really a joke if i ask: would it be necrophilia
if i'm doing it to images of a dead pornstar?
"doing it": best on the toilet...
no... no scented candles... no eager kangaroo *****
no webcam... no thrill...
3 birds:  1 stone: on throne of thrones...
no better way and all the best excuses to later
jump under the shower and get on with the dead...
sorry.. day...
4 years i did... grooming a cat awoke in my a thirst
i thought i had long forgotten...
- kinks: mostly foreplay...
       kissing after all that 2nd base foreplay
while she's on top of you veiling you with her
Turkic raven hair...
immediately after the act: all that virility...
now... dilution...
            kinks: i still tend to rub my hands against
a brick wall before i enter their abode...
i rub my hands against bricks
to demand more from when i'm touching
flesh... nothing can come close when standing
at the altar of a woman's naked body
in dim lighting... with at least 2 mirrors on the wall...
reassurances of cleanliness are highly
welcome... even though by a tonne load of surprises
she would perform ******* with the rubber
commoner of promiscuity...
- kinks: any body attired in latex...
  that's the height: ms. gimp...
                          well... there's that or me endowed
with a cockerel sized endowment about
to **** a maine **** cat during grooming...
as "sick" as finding out you've been doing
the nos. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones
to a dead pornstar like Shyla Stylez...
in third person: lover-boy all smooches
and octopus tentacles reading the geography
like he might pick up the braille of all the grooves
and hinges...
interruption: i'm no pornographer!
although there's this one allusion:
    Venus in Furs... ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
on the tip of my tongue:
at the tip of my fingers...
to turn stone in skin...
   - i remember being in a strip-club once...
i had to fly to Athens for that one...
i walked into a market sq. and met up with
some random... Greeks... Algerians...
Medi- olive skinned folk...
complete strangers... we drifted around the nightclubs
and watched the girls coming out...
how's that scale of nought through to ten?
below average... and highly demanding...
the four of us decided: **** it...
we climbed into a car and drove to the outskirts
of Athens to a strip-club...
unlike a dog that's chasing cars
i couldn't just... look... a few drinks down
and still eyeing the prize
i had two women around my arms
and my face buried in one's *****:
while some demon-she look on from
the other side of the platform of lost clothing...
another put a green peg on the table
informing me i could have more...
by then i was out of debit... my card was
returned... a bouncer escorted me to the nearest
cash machine in a hotel... started talking
to the receptionist while i was pretending to
withdraw money i didn't have...
right there and then i became a child:
******* my clothes... excitement, fear... both...
dunno... drunks have this build in GPS...
Athens... a city i only just arrived in...
blind drunk mad with love...
i managed to find my way back to the hostel...
**** the guiding beacons into my dreams...
eh... a ******* is never going to be a brothel...

i don't like the argument of:
look... but don't touch... touch... but don't taste...
taste but don't... what comes after taste?
if ever i catch myself watching pornogrpahy
it has to be classic Italian flicks...
on silent...
i can never be fully absorbed:
i'll wait for a real experience to come
with the flood of the senses...
i can't give myself to simulation with all
the sense...
after all... i was probably one of the last
boys who bought a ***** mag in a shop
with... actual expedience of trade...
it was still in the open...
i might have died of shame but at least
i didn't hide it...

                  no shame in Belgium though...
we were visiting world war I graveyards
and the trenches... but at the same time
we were looking for the best brothel in Ypres
while i was the only boy buying a ***** mag...
all ****... shaved... unshaved...
no *******: because a man's imagination
was still fertile... you had a woman's body
impose itself on your psyche like
an x-ray... and you had all that imagination
to subsequently have to swallow...
third party ***** weren't involved:
you never felt like a cul de sac ******...
oddly enough... limp **** hey presto:
can't perform when asked...

ooh... ol' Turkic raven hair:
all her talents in the foreplay...
and all the smooching during *******...
thank god i could never marry...
father children...

4 years it has taken me to wake up to this...
"repressed" reality...
repressed or... even the Teutonic Order
had a brothel in their capital-citadel of Malbork...
Marienburg...
for the love of women who also love:
cleanliness... and the aesthetics of arousal...
for all that's love and all that's not love...
for all that beside love: intimacy without question:
but all the answers...
for two bodies imitating slugs or serpents
where no words are exchanged or given
toward *******: autonomous bodies reaching
for braille with eyes wide open...

- the road to the brothel was closed...
the guys doing the road works cut it off...
not tonight... tonight i'm going to bemoan how:
well... when you start writing...
don't expect to have the same sort of privacy rules
implicit of... whatever the hell you do besides...
why wouldn't a plumber raise these words
from the domain of thought that's probably
his most cherished freedom?
people can still pretend to hide in anonymity
on the internet...
but... why would you... write bogus comments
and troll...
before words become carbon on paper: pencil...
the circus of thinking ought to be enough...
unless: like me... you're going at it like a bull...
i don't think i can have "privacy" anymore...
not that that bothers me...
i'll wear a mask when i put my face on...
but literacy so squandered for the upper-hand
in slighting someone anonymously...

                    ha!           someone would have
written a confession: Anne Sexton brush-up on:
what's important... Anne Sexton... now there was
a ***** that if she was willing could make you
dream all day and night...

why are so many pornstars so... ******* attractive
that you'd wish to push them
into bird-cages with the parrots
or adorn them with white linen niqabs?
as much as i want:
my words are not sacrosanct:
but they're also no Mammon slot-machine
golden-goose mine: perhaps when i'm dead:
something might trickle down into the coffers...
but i doubt that...
words never become shapes or colours
or therefore paintings...
words burn... words and all that becomes
collateral as they dig and drown into
the unconscious: of course... no motive...
just a motif...
    
brother Balaam: fellow diviner of the god
of the Hebrews...
brother Balaam... give me the strength of purpose
to chase more shadows: more more more!
speak to me from under the depths
of the sea of death...
they have left these northern lands...
and as they now stand: proud in their multitude:
and still persist in their clinging to the diaspora:
for i will not glutton myself over
the accomplishments of but one Hebrew:
when i can glorify their deity!

literacy has been squandered:
best strip these people of their "knowledge"
of letters: letter by letter:
let them return to smearing **** on cavern ceilings!
hostile barbarians: paradoxically:
the Vikings were renowned in their celebration
of "effeminate" males: poets...
i could warn a dog or two to bark as i thus:
howl...
               little creatures of dispute...
little belittling lords of shovel ****!
hey! prompt! all verb no noun...
something these leeches might understand... "might"...

all this lubricated tongue has made me think
of something else that happened today...
beside me revisiting the cinema of memory...
grandfather and i: the hyenas of the graveyard:
although even he pronounced that
he was unable to laugh: i guess i started to laugh
for the both of us... eagerly, proper:
with the vowel catcher of the first
arm of the tetragrammaton: HA HA...
while the "other" vowel catcher would
smother the vowels in sighs: AH AH!
exasperated... almost...

       call it PR or whatever you want to call it:
i'd rather stack shelves in a supermarket
than work at a call-centre...
the deceit and the Peter Pan *******
i said: it's not the Shetland Islands...
it's the South East...
i was rummaging on an internet speed
of... 0.1Mbps (megabytes per second)
for a while... i reached a zenith of 0.6 - 0.8(Mbps)...

for a year... if not longer...
and there she was: she came...
this bleached-blonde pchła of a... she did put on just
enough mascara...
obviously taken...
i don't think *** entered my thoughts
when... she... didn't... parade her keychain
that involved a picture of her and her child...
pchła: an endearing term for a girl
of timid build... a body my shadow at noon
could break like a walnut...
i called her an engineer...
she wasn't going to construct a bridge...
she was going to fiddle with my router...
my internet connection...
a woman who had desire for fiddling with:
"dead" things: shadows...
arteries... veins... a concept of a heartbeat...

i just admired her hair...
obviously not natural... bleached...
     she was a body occupying a space...
a welcome intrusion nonetheless...
i sort of enjoyed the silence i surrounded her with...
"sort of": i clearly did...
best be on your way...
a female engineer...
well... from 0.1Mbps... coming up for air
now standing at... 5.6Mbps...
she asked: how did "we" manage?
we just watched a lot of the show live...
but... there were more important things to mind...

the bothersome truth is that:
you can't exactly dig into: pristine good...
this girl who became a "cable guy" engineer...
engineer: "engineer": "tech. support":
i'm not trying to demean her purpose:
i'm the one doodling words on a makeshift
canvas...
i'm no painter or mind having
enough nepotistic authority of: father painter
so i become a fashion designer... etc.

i pin-pointed the proper term though: no?
nepotism?
you just can't objectify certain women...
both of us beguiled having internet providers:
so... shouldn't they penalize the companies
that are all software and bar users?
will the software providers turn off my...
electricity?
the PR Peter Pan stunts... as i told her:
you being the engineer and me being the customer...
we can talk... face to face...
but over the phone?
put me in a confessional booth
with a woman from Mecca and her... double take
on what's to be seen: what's to be heard...
what's to be ******... what's not to be seen / heard...
eaten...

an eager *****: if a ***** is going to give...
but if... she's... this occupied presence...
it's impossible to penetrate her with words...
all i have is:
bleached blonde hair...
heavy mascara... something insinuating combating
nervousness: i am what i am: sorting out cables:
i reassured her: the aesthetics will be dealt with...
a drowning man will cling to a razor's edge to save
himself...
why do i feel so hardly alone
around people who invest so much
in... having children?
it's not like i'm expecting 3rd party sources
to come and salvage me: when completely decrepit...

a woman completely devoid of any ****** advances:
perhaps performing the role of a dentist:
a surgeon: it's already exploited by me
when it comes to: seeing her most ******
parts: her hands... at the grace of a supermarket cashier...
let her be... she's already averting her eyes:
i might insinuate a receding question:
there's the moon... the forest...
come autumn...
maybe i'm focusing on exaggerating myself...
i am: exaggerating myself...

toward a focus of timidity...
as best i can...
    i am a dead end joy-**** at best...
an underperformer at least...
              my own very self worn down
skipping barefoot in memory
right now probably better adorned by a straightjacket...
but who's fooling who...
the readied ***** or this girl working out
cables?

i can respect this one without a need
to pressurise her with a... ******* niqab...
until she might bloat over:
over-suckled... fat... nothing more than
a speed machine for *****-count...
something that doesn't deserve limbs:
is all torso and belongs
to the cult of the bone tomahawk cannibals...

that one motto cited by all Arabs
and pseudo-Arabs: there no water in the desert...
spoken in dearest of the dear that's England:
this green and pleasant land...
where's the ******* desert?!
shovel! both a verb and a noun...
how rare.... perhaps not so much...
        proverbs from the Middle East...
******* to the Middle East and let me
riddle my own: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
how's that?

better joy in the immediacy of your own:
than peace among your closely associated.
******* H'arab...
you're no Jew... esp. when sitting
on Dino-Lamborghini juice...

castles in the sky: so the psychiatrists says...
or cities built on sand...
every Pakistani / Bangladeshi knows this
proverb...
the times of appeasing the "forever" sober
Arab and his sober-Arab libido...
i'll wait... are now... like i once said:
the horrible has already ah-happened...

and if it hasn't: then i'm still... pretty much
taking a proper role in being the only watchman
on a sly of a kipper...
n'est ce pas?

irritation culminates with:
when you make your own wine...
but don't have the filter equipment...
all that excess "fibre" probably gets your more
drunk than expected...

i haven't had enough to my liking to
somehow dissolve the pledge
to keep at least 72 ****** on a leash...
all that's eternity: given all that's
available and will be:
within the confines of un-chartered space...
send me a postcard from the eye of Jupiter...
i'm more than asking:
imploring: i'm... sort of making:
chain you to me: demands...

tomorrow's a sober head:
tonight... i'll be drunk with both wine
of my own making and...
the memory of a naked body of a woman...
exactly: if she's an engineer: "engineer"
fiddling with my phone socket...
she has a photograph of her and her child
on her keychain...
i wouldn't even dream of...
usurping her... status...

            looking at her felt like eating...
oats... something wholesome...
i met up with you... herr grey...
i did't find any child-fiddling bits...
what... were... you... hiding?!
i will laugh: if you tell me: a heart...
melt my stony enclave...
burn the whole world while you're at it!
there was never going to be any sacrifice
in the crucifix pose:
only purpose for focus: for... submission...
as someone devoid of wanting to continue....
he didn't die for "our" sins...
he died in order to be worshipped...
**** him... let him hang on... father of proselytes...

- point of closure...
for now... i never rose high enough
to suddenly turn cold-turkey: goosebumps
on the *******... still... dead...
i wasn't born into a Buddhist harem...
therefore i sometimes relapse into
the gimmick of the tease...
periodically... every half a decade....
i drink unfiltered self-made wine
and talk about hardly the ******
"exploits":
i come across magnets equivalent to
timid schoolgirls...

some supposed ****** revolution happned:
lob-sided...
given how the girls took the strap-on off
and shoved the **** down
the ******* brains of their bank account
squadron...
     the ******: "******" revolution came out
***-****-side first: thirst:
lopsided: the girls have all their fun...
we die... they come close to old age:
it continues: men tend to think throughout:
that period of concern: supposedly-deemed:
life...

the feminine agony of old age...
grandma's apple pie: **** grandma's apple pie!
i want to drink my wine
with... blisters and...
dis-ingestion...
              
         sucker punch:
            suckle toward a knuckle that might just...
make creases with caresses.

Sorry it ended up like this.

Me out here, still wrapped up warm in my vestigial garment of flesh.

You in there, naked amongst your primitive ancestors like the youngest adult at a wedding, mingling awkwardly, embarrassed.

I wonder how you died. Your ribs look like they have been fixed back together after some kind of trauma.
A car crash maybe?

Maybe you struggled with long term illness, rotting before you ripened like a sickly bud in a wet spring.

However it happened your bronze plaque states it was untimely and therefore probably tragic. '(A young woman)' I read, not so much discovering but confirming what I already knew to be true when I first laid eyes first met yours across the crowded room.

You stand about as tall as me, your shining off white cheeks delicate as fine china. Staring out of you glass cabinet, you seem to beg not to be judged alongside your distant relatives, your slumping neighbors.

Fragile and sweet, you radiate a quiet dignity. It isn't hard to imagine the thin layer of blood, skin and fibrous tissue that it would take to make you beautiful again.

I plunge my hand through that glass portal, soft folds of meat transposed to brittle bone and back again, unifying you world with the mortal

It was obvious that you were beautiful, and involuntarily I envy the one who held you and kissed you last.

I wonder if anyone ever wrote a poem for you when you were alive.

five years
of slight tears
& subtle sadness
but i guess that's what happens when
you think our love's an accident.
i cant convince you that it's true
ill always feel the same
whether you do or not
but please
just let a dead corpse rot.

are you sure that we're supposed
to be buried in earth,
earth the closest we resemble
as ash...
             are you sure?
just wondering, because i've
just stopped looking through
my grandfather's rea ding glasses...
and what i saw through them...
was akin to having your eyes
open, underwater...
perhaps this whole one-size-fits-all
coffin packaging is great
to cut corners and run the treadmill...
hell, floating murk
of cremation on the Ganges...
if the druids were to be stirred...
the eyes of man,
  ought to be buried in the sea
or lake or river...
    the other body parts?!
dunno...
            because that would rob
me of the authenticity
of where I'd like my eyes to be buried...
or rather dropped into...
apart from the eyes and the brain...
i guess the druids would prefer
the modernised version of events,
given the progess of science...
    donor flesh...
               even the heart doesn't
exactly fit a burial worthy of
the earth... you could in earnest
bury a heart of a wild animal,
when performing a burial rite...
      but there's something
comical about the inverted necrophilia,
a higher tier of hue...
there is a dead man,
but a part of him is still living,
in another...
    hence my sour taste in,
peace be upon him, Christopher Hitchens'
atheism, banking on genes,
and an eternity solely via genes...
genes are but atoms...
      i see...
                 a heart of my calibre
beating for 10 more years in
a foreign body...
                and all this...
with the exausted poetic eucharist
of Christianity...
and before the techno-tenticle
explores...
         a complete inversion
of necrophilia...
         a subtleness of life...
         and the endless possibilities therein...
at least by cremation:
nothing is sacred, all is elemental...
not this, from dust you came,
but unto wax you shall return...
    Madame Tussauds *** doll
precursors, and a stag night joke
about ******* a helium sheep...
with all due respect,
peace be upon him,
there are more avenues to eternity,
than in the immediate sense,
atomist, procreation and the passing on
of genes...
           unless you are of course
a modern day Portuguese ****
with the no. 7 roy-al white...
less about prostitutes tier C,
   certainly not tier B (strippers and
the sugg'ah daddy teasers)...
    no, we're talking Gattaca ******...
tier A... surrogates.

Sy vra: "Hoekom is jy nou so n non"?
Ek sê: "**** is mos eintlik net vir die lewendes".

Ek is my eie memento mori.
Jy is die oorsaak van dood.
Laat dit so op my graf geskrywe staan:
-Hier lê die skerwe van iets amper heel-
,want nou sit ek weer aan jou tafel
en my laaste maaltyd is n herkouing
van spoegsels vergete tye saam met jou
En ek kou en ek kou en ek onthou:
*** warm jou hande was teenoor jou hartskou
, *** gretig jy was om my vas te hou
en na die tyd toe te snou.

"Ek sit nou waar jy gesit het"
, grinnik jou wellus oor die porselein rand
en ek wil vir jou sê staan op en gee vet
want almal wat daardie stoel beset
wals met die noodlot en wink vir seer.
"Kom ons probeer , nog n keer"
Sê jou hand langs jou ritsluiter
, maar ek voel n veer
, want kadawers ken nie lustigheid nie
en ek is oorgebalsem met n gelofte.

Los die dooies dat ons rus,
Los daardie "ons" begrawe in die kis.

my turtle doves are pondering the broth of my head space.
tingling.
they gibberish the nest and lay eggs of dragons that still believe in dragons.
they wish for thick lightning in the lustrous void. they beak the shell of no made thing.
the Eternal Hum.
the one Always that had Never Begun.
Only Ever, Ever Been.
and That's  It's
Name.

my turtle doves are robbing the bog of it's undead wyrms. they swoop in the morning.

down down down
to the gamma ray golf course lawns
of our suburban necrophilia. the one with the empty dreams in their peanut butter stars.
the one
with the eggshell Camary Toyotas and the delinquent epiphanies.
n' more ice cream than Ben n' Gerry's ******* of Selling
More ******* ice cream
than You
can Imagine.
Plus One.

my turtle doves are holding me hostage. in the dizzy breach. of god's contract.
a damp shade of misspent youth. the Old Way.
seasoned by the Eons
and the swollen Love of the First Love.
engorged in the Kingdom of Desire
like a fat mosquito. Sated on  Cyclopian  forearms.
and the shoulders of Giants
on a small blue world
in your mouth.

just sayin'.

the "mystery" of the transaction,
that's quiet legal in
Amsterdam...
      you can only actually subject
           a woman to "your" object...
if you're never made such
a transation...
            i guess you're left in the dark
with all the fungus-historians
that speak of the second "big-bang"
of an ape on hallucinogenics...
objectifying women...
            funny...
                           not even funny,
just odd...
              maybe the whole
    objectivity "vs." subjectivity is not
being allowed duality,
     that eventually becomes blurry...
and is instead
  this jargon quasi-intellectualism of
people afraid of Alzheimer's
disintegration of words from
words and words from ideas and
ideas from clarifying idea-neutral
narratives...
              perhaps it's an american
thing,
       since a stripper can't be made
        subject to the "objectifying" posit...  
make that's why there's really
only an objectification-of-object
and no, absolutely no
     subjectification-of-object-***-subject?
is objectification a reference
to genital "intrusion"?
      what if there is no genital "intrusion"?
******* crossword puzzles
that sometimes aim of exposing
working within the confines of
   the thesaurus...
                 a-subject made inconvenient
        by the-object?
     sure, given i was only the fifth
in line...
                        i actually don't know
what objectivism implies
with the confines
   of a woman who will not desire
to make me into a subjective
enterpire of, mothering,
wife...
                  and... what am i again?
object of an hour
    within the absolute lack of
subject on her behalf...
                 for some strange reason
she's more of a subject,
a canvas... than i might allow myself
to not be a stroke of a brush
and some, paint...
          but then public conversation
doesn't attach itself to
the intellectual murk of dualism:
                    it needs dichotomy...        
nice backdrop, a week ago:
   haven't seen a lightning storm like that
acting out parliament over
           london in a long time...
in the back of my mind:
      the subjectivism of women seems
inherently wrong...
   subjectifying could be deemed
more harroring for the idle minor-head
when turning blisters into
       golden flakes on the topic of
   ego                  body
           \           /           \
              mind                id
                                     cosine serpent...
given the sine serpent answer:
                id              mind
             /      \         /      
    body          "ego"
      i can only fathom a threshold of the point
of objectification...
        after the threshold
there's a breach of objects -
      unlike a guarantee of one
man, a hammer and a sack of nails...
       i'm just curious that
there is an actual legal non-debate taking
place...
                the sort of shrinking
**** sensation in english law:
    it's illegal to own brothels...
   but it's not illegal to procure
the act...
                       so what's the difference
between objectification
                    and necrophilia?
the former word isn't as fancy...
  it's not exactly equivalent to mana from
heaven for the Hibrealites...
    i can only undertand
authentic objectification
             as confined to necrophilia...
of what is necessary to express
the crude correlation of "fact" to act...
          since then the death-fore of
eating beef...
           but without actually *******
a cow...
                             so a dead end...
it's just a "problem" with too many
close-proximity words...
         namely the ob-        sub-
              prefix claustrophobia of attaching
a thought to explaining or:
   guaranteeing a decided congregation
on...
             2 years without
  having touched a human body in the way
that i'd like to be touched,
kissed, looked intently into the eyes...
   finding sparrows chirping
on gently toying with lips using
the bare minimum of tongue and teeth?
finding the gentle baron cartilege of
the nose also being gentle leeched...
                 and a giggle?
              just my luck to have synchronised
the two events...
   and written this a week later;
could never take to metaphorical *** antics
   in the known to me
               expressions of being *** starved;
i'm a butcher...
           not an Argentinian beef chef
                      or food critique combined.

the darkest of my fantasies whisper
Your body is a scuba suit
insist i breath with your *******, through your mouth
dive deep into claustrophobic waters, sink heavy to the rock bottom
where we petrify by gorgans gaze
i know we'll turn to stone because, of course, the gorgans can't resist gazing at You
nobody can resist gazing at You, land or sea.
Our permanent legacy, lost under layers of life
barnacles clinging, moss burying Our chimera god/snake skin

i am without Your oxygen
when breathing would terrorize the wind
where words belong
still, my forked tongue writes

i'm a theif to say i only want You to be happy
when i had You, it was still selfish
the revolving doors of pain and perseverance
more time invested in us
then money invested in the Pills that kept me from killing You
out of habit
You begged me to beat You
it's been seven hands dealt
rubbing my 5 o'clock sandpaper chin
on the tarot card of death
my tolerance for vacancy
a brownish red stain
i've only the thin line of medication between necrophilia and sociopathy
i want to lay with You at the bottom of the sea

the Pills... where are...
please no, God.
The Voice,            run!
         get out!

I would gladly go to prison
to **** your lifeless body.

I would gladly **** Myself in the afterglow
of your affection.

there is only one true Sin, Objectification.

I indulge relapse
in every memory, find

your shed snake skin
pull it on, like your *******

how disturbed I've become
with you gone

how selfish of you

of course "I" blames You
when the Pills dull

i indulge by studying Your location

i know where You escape too
i want to go there
does that scare You?

i want to bump into You
apoligise for what i want

"want" as a word
is like plexi-glass, or kevlar

standing between Us
keeping the bullet safe.

i want a hard impact
in a school hallway

where we drop all our
Books and look up and You

see my ghost, that would be enough for Me

i want the impact to hurt.
i want the tumbling of all our Book's
i want the messy hair and ripped knees,
then Our
eyes to meet
and linger
I want to watch the fear fill you.
i want to sit there,
watching.

petrify from parcel tongues
as i gaze at Your gorgon body
shedding skin

if i shed my snakeskin,
maybe i'll see You

i can't leave this Poem
i can't leave this Poem yet
i won't leave this Poem
please kick me out
Poem
Poem
end Me
..
end
.
I
..

i still get two alumni magazines
shoved through my mailbox,
edinburgh's edit, and u.c.l.'s portico,
they're alike, they're asking for money:
which is a bit like that mystery of lawlessness,
one word... money!*

i love poetry, i really do,
i think it respects readers more
than those glutton chatterers of off-the-page prose,
there's no need to create characters,
prose readers have an easy way out,
they have all the hidden architecture
keeping them involved with time-wasting
effectively-exploitative narration,
and then the characters, off the page
nothing like the readers with mundane jobs,
with menial tasks better augmenting
the cartesian thought and being,
ego and something that represents a passing,
meaning the unit, re-, of something the same
that changes each day...
readers of poetry are not readers of prose,
in comparing poetry to prose
poetry is naked... there is no elaborate
scaffolding... to concrete character study...
a poet can't conjure characters...
he can't even conjure rivers or readers...
when prose has characters, poetry has readers;
how many memorable characters emerge
from a prosaic narrative? one, two... fifty?
you see the pawn legion fall on the first
shot shadow of mongolian arrows...
you see their slain bodies hit the mud without
a word... so you see:
poetry is too naked, it's a mud-hut compared
to prose's glass spiral...
poetry will leave you an architect, rather than
a labourer... you will build your own you...
i wish i too could build from scratch
a horizon of distractions...
i rather you build that... you can't be a character
for me... you have to be a reader... not necessarily
an orator of what i wrote... just a reader...
and more than all the summations of characters
can be moulded into... hence the loss of tightly packed
paragraphs... hence the scarcity of composition...
if prose be a Chopin or a Liszt... then poetry be a Debussy or
a Satie... and i prefer the latter...
plus poetry is written so there's less eye-strain
bothering you... no loss of post-interlude starting point...
when poetry is read standing up...
prose is a style taken to bed and falling asleep to,
or that easy armchair: when i was converting my
grandmother to read poetry (zbigniew herbert's)
and forget the cheap romance novels... she was quietly
amused... i told her we write scarce words, once in a while,
rather than attempting to procrastinate
as most work is these days with the lost scythe and plough
on the pseudo-faustian bargain of Proust
(if it has no direct meaning, remember
there's a direct and an indirect article dualism,
just let it resound... don't treat it like a comet...
but more like rainfall... i treat ezra pound's like that...
like a hundred people could say the same,
even though only one did)...
the proustian bargain fabble? babble babble blah blah
babylon... the israelites sung about the babylonian
captivity... thought about the egyptian one...
i once said architectural necrophilia, and i'm true to it
like an expected tide...
but let us return to the title...
poetics explains economics the best...
new notation in post-existentialism, the ditto-encapsulation
will be replaced with a non-literary notation,
with the approx. mark, so a word is referred to
as approximately rather than within the skeleton
of ambiguity, loose the question mark, that way you will,
no longer "haiku" as referring to syllables, but rather
referring to length, hence the notation ~haiku, e.g.:
poet strip yourself of priceless / worthless subject matters,
the mechanics of the moon and the sun are too much,
you write of beauty for beauty be only a grandeur,
and indeed you take pick of the celestial bodies,
but you leave the two-pence coin on the pavement
when you pass it, and by not picking it up
not blowing on it for good luck (come one moment
come the next moment, gone),
so that the pennies can be increased...
write a thousand moons into a single poem
and still the thousand moons will not translate
into a thousand pounds: you speak of the nocturnal
moisture with a mouth of a desert, and a tongue
like a sidewinder... always missing the topic
you care for because you have never took step
on the object stressed, used...
don't make this a barren art-form.

I wonder where true love went
before the world plunged into chaos
selling itself to counterfeits
giving away pieces of its soul
for temporal, physical pleasure.

Life is more than just "fun and games"
often times, it is sacred.
Love is deemed to be
"just a game"
and who can be the best at it.

We search for the best players,
worthy playmates for a good time
or ******* opponents.
The only value you have
is your "gear"
and how you make the most of it.

After that,
it's a job well done.
A "game over" after
"good luck; have fun"

After that,
you're sick and done.
These players don't play fair,
and in games like these,
there is no honour.

Where has true love gone to?
No, not your kind of "love"
I'm talking about the one that
cares
respects
honours
trusts
is honest, and truthful.

The love that grows when in hurt
the authentic affection that stays
even when it's harder to stay
the one that
is the most patient

What happened to
REAL love?

Where has it gone?
Why have we traded it with some

fantasy

and instead of loving with our souls
we lust after

bodies

like

dead

corpses?

Along a narrow, vacant street at 2 a.m.



Underneath the threatening lights of peril



An act of ******* was taking place between



A beautiful cigarette and the orifice of my lips





Halloween had not yet dawned upon us



Yet as I walk Jack-O-Lanterns smile at me



Displaying minor quakes of bloodthirsty evil



While a serum of scorn soaks my tongue





With a heartless trick of ice, cold malice



Summoning the entire town to its kneecaps



Devils regurgitate lullabies resembling the sound



Of nails ****** a chalkboard sparing no mercy





Arousing the hopeless romantics



To awaken a graveyard



And **** the corpses until they're



Resurrected from their comas





As the nymphomaniacs ice



Their frozen flesh with *****



Painting an ocean of abstract thoughts



Across the edges of their frames of mind





Do morticians make up the majority



Of necrophilia related crimes?



Maybe so but, I bet they had never felt



A ****** so dry and so cold





Yet still the thrill of chills tickle these criminal's spines



While they measure their screams careful not to awaken



The beautifully disgusting corpses that lie before them



They turn their heads only to find a pair of scarlet eyes





Gawking at them from within a cowardly shield of fear



Darkness was it's home, Mother to all its desires



In my opinion it was just a phase; A massacre encaged

Sun cascading through the window,
The Mountains my blanket
Everything in its right place, and I in mine
For surely life is a wonderful thing
and I am no mistake.

Can a person be defined by a word? Can we, in reality chain a person to one word, or even a great sum of words? Can all that is encompassed within each individual human being, be summed up with a word, a description, a label? For the very meaning of word is a unit of language, consisting of one or more spoken sounds or their written representation, that functions as a principal carrier of meaning. Are words the most effective "carrier of meaning"? Or is it possible that there might just be something more, something deeper? This makes me think of the quote from The Mozart Effect, where Don Cambell says, “On the psychiatrist’s couch, the board of the local PTA, or at a job interview, we strive to assert our identity as strong, independent persons, our persona or public mask—all from the Greek roots per son, or ‘the sound passes through.’” Our very core nature is that we desire to hear a vocal confirmation of who we are and labeling ourselves and others with words, gives us a false security. The way we are labeled and seen and judged passes through us, it effects us to our core. When someone “fails” they are then in turn labeled a “failure”? My question is, by labeling a person who has made mistakes, or is even continuing to make mistakes a f a i l u r e , are we really encompassing all that is within them when we say the word “failure” and chain it around their neck? Is every action that they have done a “failure”? Do they not also have things that are successful about them, and isn’t simply their state of being a success?

I am convinced that we are all on the same level, one person no greater than another person. No person a mistake, no person a failure. For let us all challenge ourselves to not define people but rather feel them, seek to understand them. Let us really see them, for who they are, not for who we think they are or what we may see. Like the quote from T.S Elliot’s book Family Reunion, where it says
“I tell you, it is not me you are looking at, Not me you are grinning at, not me your confidential looks incriminate, but that other person, if person, You thought I was: let your necrophilia feed upon that carcass.”

Or the quote from the Invisible Man,
“I am an invisible man. No, I am not a ***** like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasm. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids- and I might even be said to posses a mind. I am invisible; understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless head surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination-indeed, everything and anything except me.”


These are both excellent examples of how our own judgments, preoccupation with our problems or ourselves, anything and everything, can distract us from really getting to know someone, to understanding them in the cell of their heart. For if we were silent and simply allowed the music of life surround us, we would listen and hear, the people when they spoke. For “to listen is to vibrate together with another human being.” And how eloquently Lao Tzu said that, I can’t think of a better way to describe what I am trying to say. What a provocative way to think about the simple act of listening. Think of feeling what people are saying as two harps being played in perfect unison, vibrating together. To really hear someone we must reach a place where we can be receptive to whom they really are, throwing aside our preconceived ideas.

How could we take the sacred and beautiful act of listening and distort it into something that is so uninvolved, so impersonal? How can we, how can I, constantly throw away the precious gem that is to listen, only to pick up the garbage of judgment and lack of concern? I’m convinced that constantly doing this has left quite a toll on the human race. When was the last time you felt that someone got you, really got you, or saw past your flaws or the masks you wear and simply heard you, felt your pain, knew where you were coming from, simply was just there with you? Chances are it’s probably not often. I believe that no matter the outward appearance or what people do that it’s the state of their heart that matters. We are all fallible because we are h u m a n, so when people in their own state of humanity, hurt us, let us choose not to take offence, but rather choose to see past our own pain and see their own pain that caused them to hurt us.

I believe there is beauty in our shortcomings, and humanity. Not that we continue to remain the way we’ve always been but rather accept that we are flawed and that can’t do this on our own, and then we will begin to grow. In our state of being humbled and broken, we grow, we change, we transform. Slowly and surely as the flower that springs from the cold ground and bursts forth from it’s shell and becomes something completely different, we as humans will break through our own “shells”. First we must admit that we have flaws for this process to begin. Being flawed is beautiful because it’s something everyone shares. We’ve all been hurt, but once we come to the place where we understand the pain behind the flaws and see how we can’t possibly judge anyone because we all have flaws, we all have failed.

We are all equals. We are all connected. We are all sons and daughters of humanity. We are connected to the earliest of times and the latest of times.

What happens to someone on the other side of the earth does in fact, effect us. I believe because we are numb to the reality of that connection, never listening, never feeling, that we miss the beauty of this great fellowship of human beings. When we isolate ourselves, not only are we denying ourselves that desire to b e l o n g that dwells in our innermost being, but we also can begin to elevate ourselves over another person. Which leaves me to wonder why we spend our lives awarding ourselves for being better then the person next to us, not doing what they did, when shouldn’t we be listening to them, hearing them, seeing them for who they are in their own brokenness, and helping them through?

We spend our lives harboring anger towards and event, person, or even ourselves and judging and comparing ourselves on a made up idealistic scale to define our worth. We are already worth so much simply because we are humans, and we are alive. Is not even a single rose still admired by the gardener? We are special, and if someone were to bring all the wealth of the world to offer for one person, or to measure the worth of that person, it would not even begin to compare to our worth, no matter our mistakes or who we are.

Just as we hurt and long to be accepted and approved of, so does the person that has hurt you or the person you see yourself as better then. Do we not feel our connection to humanity when we feel the sense of deep loss in our spirit, our innermost being, when our actions cause pain to another person? So since we are all one, all connected, why not shower people with love and grace and feel them, feel with them, instead of labeling them and trying to judge ourselves against them.

We have exhausted ourselves by denying ourselves the basic needs to be known, loved, heard, connected, and accepted, for far too long. It’s time for change, in both my life and the lives of those around me. We’re beaten and bruised from holding on to our anger, relentlessly trying to gain approval, judging our own mistakes and comparing them to others to see if our mistakes were ‘slightly less bad then those of the other person’. If we would set aside those chains that imprison us, and allow ourselves to feel the pain of others, allow them to see our own pain, then, although we will never reach perfection, we will grow, the deep yearnings and aches of our body crying out to be known and our pain from the wrongs done to us will stop.

If we’re willing to bare the burden of feeling with someone, or simply allowing ourselves to just be, exist, beside someone who’s hurting and be open to simply let the sound, the vibrations of their words penetrate our souls, then, and only then will our lives and the lives of others be drastically changed for the better. It would be infectious; spreading to every person we came into contact with, causing a worldwide revolution.

So what I’m saying is even after all this, I believe in changed lives, I believe that our impact on others is far greater then we will ever know.I believe that one single person, no matter how flawed, who stops for one moment and simply listens to another human being, and sees them as they are, then proceeds to reach inside their chest to reveal their beating, heart, alive and full of dreams, will change that person forever, whether we see it right away or never see it. It's the same in our lives, we may never see the fruits of our labor, but we must focus on the goal and not the distance needed to reach our goal. We impact people. When we judge people or don’t see them for who they are, they become dead to us, they can no longer change into who they were meant to be, or we simply do not hear them, the passions and dreams are not awakened, and in doing this, we are robbing ourselves the joy of knowing someone, investing in them, and seeing them change and they feel the effects too.

We all need to be awakened from being the living dead, to a state of constant awareness of our body and all our senses and the surroundings around us, the people around us. People as a whole are hurting so deeply, and I believe that one person can in fact change that. All it takes is one [broken] person to spark the flame and soon, others, much like kindling for a fire, will catch ablaze. I believe, that we must allow ourselves to climb into another person’s skin and feel, and see the world as they do.

We must realize that we are no better then one another, for we are all broken and need one another. I believe that no one is hopeless, no one a lost cause, for if we take the time to listen to them and care for them, something in them will change no matter what we may see on the outside. In this investing and caring, listening and feeling, seeing and believing, we will awaken in both the people around us and in ourselves the dreams which we thought for so long to be dead, and the world will see change like it has never been seen before in history.

I’m not saying that I have any of this down pat, I’m not by any means a model for not judging someone and seeing them and hearing them. If anything, I am the complete opposite of this consumed in my own problems and too busy to stop and feel. This is my apology of some sort to those i have hurt, and giving recognition to those who have helped me along the way. So thanks for believing in me. I believe that it’ll take some time, but that I can and will gradually change into someone who is aware of people around them, someone who is awakened. Even when my actions, are completely opposite of everything I’ve just talked about, there is still a part of me that is quietly reminding me to humble myself and see myself for who I am, no more, no less, and then see others for who they are. Somehow, I’m going to get to where I want to go, and I’m going to become who I want to become, I just have a lot of judgmental ideals, preconceived ideas, bitterness, pain, and self-absorption to leave behind to step into who I want to become. So I’m going to commit to this journey even if it means sometimes the only thing I can do is just be, in my failures and my success, and even when the pain seems unbearable, it is my deepest desire to stay on this path. I want to change and help the people around me, but before I can do that I have a lot of work to do.

I am one of three –
Shadow, skin, and light.
A triplet split from the same egg and *****.
**
Make it 3 and you’ll have me
Explicit.
It’s so ****,
Being cleaved into thirds.  
A ******* with myself –

The shadow is morose.
A needy, demanding *****
Begging to be cut up.
I want to,
So I can see the blood wring around my –
Her
Wrists like shackles pinning her
To my bed.
I know it’ll shut her up
But I can’t bring myself to do it.
I’m not that *****.  

The skin is boring.
A virginal flower
Dreaming of understanding.  
She’s too wholesome,
Always waiting for the right
Version of herself to come along.
Saving myself –
Herself
For the right time.
My tastes aren’t quite so
Vanilla.

The light is adventurous.
A psychotic, brilliant ****
******* herself into the ground.
Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter,
Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs –
Stupid, thoughtless decisions.
Protection?  Ha!
That’s for normal people.
There’s no need for me –
Her
To slow down;
We like it fast.

The skin doesn’t participate.
The *****, virtuous ******
Fidgets as the others 69 –
A disgusting yin yang
Of low and high.
The shadow drinking downers
Until she can’t remember
All the bruises covering her heart,
Too distracted by the bile
Smeared across her lips.  
The light popping enough uppers
To strip herself of her
Consciousness,
Naked and raw
She often wakes bitter
Of her restored senses.  

This ******* takes place
In a womb,
An amniotic ocean
Swaying toward the shores
Of existence.
Two will drown –
Vanishing triplet syndrome.
Only one may be pulled from
Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality.

The labor takes 33 hours -
Finally I emerge.  
Who survived?
There is no way to tell.

******* is what I live for, necrophilia is what I die for.

I had a dream
And i had a wish
It was an idea
But we agreed on it
We dealt with problems
We encouraged each other
Until the day
I was betrayed
Now you look troubled
Am i just a bother?

Your face turned pale
Something had changed
That's when you told me
You're still not ready
Not ready to take my name
Nor ready to leave your grave.

I couldn't accept it
I was enraged
I dug you out
I dragged you home
Just you and me
Forever now.

Why aren't you smiling
You should be happy
Why aren't you moving
You should love me
You're just like the rest
Nothing more than a pest
So i'll put you to rest
That's for the best.

I pulled you close
I patted your head
And then i realized
You were already dead
Oh well, i said
I didn't care.

.ich! schreibenmann! über oder mann: nein güt! ich! schreibenmann! alles gelb... ja?! entschuldigen (mir) verstecken (hocken).

contra millenial contra baby-boomers
no....
people didn't say much,
all they ever said was:
"we" have no problem with
you drinking yourself
until you reinvent
the yo-yo...
   i so too thought:
   this... "labyrinth reconstruct"?
this is not coming from
a rotten mind,
this is coming from a rotten
head,
the shackles of Brazil...
             good to know!
know what?
the fact that i will drink myself
to death,
iwill never have to be made
compensate for,
i will have a hybrid
choir of ****** overdose
addicts being entombed
in a vinyl collection listening
section / choir...
               ich, diable, ich père....
rob the poor man
of his metaphor,
to make dues of his...
missing quiff, ***** style 1970s
style!
      my *******
miane **** dog qua basset hound
cat..
2H of sleep...
no... i want, to, butcher it;
chose chicken and curry
instead...
but for the ear crsip:
i wish i could:
        
YOU BLATANT DUMB
IDIOT...
that's how we pet
animals in Slavic countries...
children?
you don't want to know,
i already know how they're
"petted"
in post-germanic countries
of England, or France...

only in a wealthy nation...
will you sooner see
a homeless man,
than a homeless dog!

I WANT, TO, SLEEP!
and i don't like being given this
excess of attention!
no!
circa!
       round round
the ******* go!
go! *******!

   i never dated in my life,
o.k., once, speed...
  i didn't like the whole
formality of acting a
pretense of...
whatever never for a fragility of:
no. that wasn't too soon.

     my... "culture"?
it isn't even on your, ******* map...
me white, your brown,
you hiati something
royal or something?
you no go, to the modern variant
of the Hermitage... savvy?
me white too...
but me no go
where your tanned
is already a tanned / non-nigerian
no-go... savvy?
              
i hope to die by toast...
you die:
by hope for forklift
in the ******* ****
of kilimanjaro doing
the black betty sing-along
through & through...
and...
what wouldn't i give...
for a kissing scene with
rooney mara...
esp. her most...
whatever that was
in a girl with a dragon tattoo...

gein: meet bukowski...
bukowski...
meet me...
    necrophilia meet
necrophilia...
i want to be strapped
in such an Arizona
stronghold with only...
a gueswork of tongue
to be given the leash!

i eat off the table that
becomes
the hushed crumble
of... that meme...
                n.p.c....

  which... obviously related
to the mahjong solitaire
and the "whole"
NP-complete-ness...
  
  i know of NP-C...
not that i am smart,
  but in that i have enough
ingenuity to avoid...
what cannot be a furthering
of argument..
    worth sustaining...

too much of unknown
to people geometry has
riddled them
beyond the compensate
of being related to...
what argument is there
to have,
when the people you're
trying to over-shadow,
are un-relateable,
in that...
to have to claim
defeat by having
no simple symbology,
having to perpetually
retort with geometry
that cannot implode
counter-intuitively
for a "sacred" scrutiny?

die kröne überreste die kröne,
als die volk überreste nichts mehr
"ein" der mensch'n;

ja? savoy.

tarah is  bubbly olive skin beauty, works late nights on friday and saturday, and up to 8pm on monday, teusday and wednesday.*

at the checkout buying my beer and whiskey,
'how much do you drink?'
asked the a & e paramedic...
'a bottle of whiskey a day, a few beers
in between, prior to i cook a gorgon curry.'
the matter ended, net day i hear of
passive-slavery... who owns MY liver,
me or you?
i think i can track the multiplier on that one
with all the multiple questions...
I DO... YOU CAN *******!
I OWN MY LIVER! *******!
i hate scientific humbling techniques
akin to a dogmatism, a religiosity...
at least religion makes you fearless
when it comes to death, and does not impregnate
you with so much knowledge...
you're basically ignorant, and the reward is
a garden of bliss... with the science tactic
you end up thinking of darwin's birthday date
to keep you cool, keep you sane,
keep you in the repertoire of things discussed.
i hate it... i achieved a respectable level
of understanding in chemistry and took nothing from it,
like all those contestants in game shows following
the money only because they didn't listen to
the a-level information and leave empty handed.
should have listened when it was justified to usurp
an ronin any other stance.
there was i with tarah in the robot aisles of tesco...
what about those zero hour contracts
like doctors on call, i heard lidl pays 10.50 an hour.
tarah said the 0 hour contracts aren't that bad,
it's outside the contracted hours.. you get excess hours
when they need you...
but it's not as bad as lidl with 10.50 pay...
german ethics... sorry... german ethos of work?
yeah, here you get to multi-task,
stack the shelves and then get to use the aisle cauldron
of bar-codes...
oh...
the managers walk about the place like gold gilded fur
monkeys like snobs with up-turned noses and stiff upper lips...
what about here?
see that manager in the shirt and tie?
yeah.
works over hours... stacks shelves on friday.
so he doesn't feel superior?
exactly!
mingle imagination with an excess of sexuality
and you'll get the renaissance with counter-reformation,
or the current counter of islamic reformation.
sorry?
no, not you, me.
you asked me your name, what's yours?
tarah, i'm wearing a ****** name tag!
i don't look at name tags, i look at faces tarah.
so those 0 hour contracts aren't all bad?
i guess they are not as bad as auschwitz shifts.
so if jesus saved the necrophilia of egypt,
turned the pyramids into churches...
you beg to wonder...
the coliseums of olden days with the neo-gladiators
kicking ***** rather than decapitated heads...
you'd think it was all perfect like refereeing in football
as if it was rugby... but alas the matrimony earthquakes...
graves are no distractions nonetheless,
football stadiums are indeed perfect to distract the populace...
of course marital carbohydrate bonds will suffer...
but we're debating the concern of animate things
making inanimate things animate with choke of a
chanting choir... we're not talking "inanimate" things
making inanimate things animate with tourism...
hardly a spectacle given that a football match ticket costs
less that a tourism to egypt...
i said it simple in my head... now that it's out,
i have to mind the intelligence of sophia
and she's a child of the fickle one who is asexual.

I am but borrowed passions,
Everything a gesture
To impress unrequited lovers,
My lips touched by corpses;
Caressed by the dead
As an object of ***.

Each kiss poisons--
Hollows this person,
Until she is naught but body--
Skin, *******, and withered bones--
Lying in a coffin, legs exposed;  
She'd call it necrophilia
But life had left, long, long ago.

i was eating a pepperoni pizza today,
and took a salty tongue into the night,
£270 on my bank account - great stuff -
took five quid out, felt like buying four
oranjeboom reds at 8.5% each,
instead bought two, and
perrier carbonated glass-bottled water...
god the thirst in this cement sahara...

the best transition accompanying drinking
and listening to music comes
from the heights of reggae to creedence clearwater
revival... no, not the eagle, not Leonard the skin-head
with an 'ard on... creedence... lebowski who
was bukowski's posthumous alter-ego...
so i did a galileo while drinking,
the light on my side-table by the bed light
glowed, put my sunglasses on...
the stars disappeared and the planets appeared...
oddly enough, as is usual the case of
counter-intuitive matters when looking
at astronomical geographies...
mars far left... venus in the middle,
and jupiter the biggest and therefore the brightest
far right...
i worked it out against linear tactics...
the distance of the earth from venus doesn't
make a difference with the distance from mars,
but the distance of mars from jupiter is greater,
see you in 100 years to prove the point
and whether it matches up to HARD, NECESSARY,
PROOFS... LIKE MAINTENANCE ***...
******* a girl with a really really exaggerated
libido, having to wear a ****** while she was
on her period, in the toilet and she bewildered
saying: 'most guys don't dig the female bits...'
hell... i'd do necrophilia...
shame the relationship turned to a sour toast with her,
shame, really... really really.
oh yeah, after smashing that £600 martin & co.
guitar to celebrate valentines day
(chłopiec z gitarą był by dla mnie parą
my grandmother used to sing...
well... sorry to disappoint,
i had her rastafarian shoelaces for
a pin-up belt to walk and play, or simply
stand still and note string twangs...
*była giiitara... ni ma giiitary...)
and bought myself a drum-kit:
well... just my finger-drumming antics
on my legs;
or as a wise man said: **** her, leave the rest
for a backward trek into life
without maps but only premonitions.

it's hot in a restaurant with the strangers you've since been stranded with

(look! You Finally Did It!)

and everybody knows your name but the symbolism of individualized letters with glottal stops and teeth-******* pauses and dyslexic lingering lisps is lost on them, they have their own letters to think about, don't you know?

(hundreds of pillows fly out my ears in increasing sizes, so i must be dreaming - Right?)

Yahtzee! Soccer! Give it the old college try!

(abstract oils crash and burn in a watchtower atop of your New Life)

It's Something to do with your Mouth, It's Something to do with your Hands, but we couldn't tell you why $2.50 wasted matters more than four months and the casual flinging of my (god forbid)

i n n o c e n c e

(you're happy and i'm unconscious, so in theory we're on the same wavelength - Right?)

can you assure me that everyone has two decades of nauseating mediocrity
or no - is it just me?
we Need coffee! we Need love! dread has to be evenly distributed - don't leave your years of it at my door!

(i don't want anybody's advice unless it's on how to fashion a fully-functioning noose)

tiny lips and long socks - i can't stop being in love with the whole two-eye/two-ear/nose/mouth ordeal but i'm utterly left-handed in my lust and i swear to god both hands are empty - but that's something else entirely

(back to where we started from, in bleeding headlights swimming on deserted streets)

'just wanted to throw an XO your way' say the eyes of every crossword connection i bend over backwards to trying to cater it to my thoughts of you

(For Sale: a storage unit of journals filled with sketches of you - it's pink and mushy and curled inside my head, if you're into that)

and it's only when we're in a bed together at 3:26 AM that belongs to neither you or me that i can consciously eliminate emptied emotions and neatly file them onto typeface notes hidden in bouquets decorating the dismal-ities of my freshly-planted tombstone

(fuse our bodies together and let's make this sarcophagus a necrophilia-polis)

That sparkle,
that immeasurably forgiving joy and affection is gone,
but the sound of your voice is just familiar enough to make me remember it.

What we're doing here is necrophilia.
It's gross, but we're ******* something that's dead and we both know it.
I think we thought we could bring it back to life with our selfish demands,
but this coffin isn't as comforting as we'd hoped it would be.

We've never talked about the time between,
that period of time when we never talked.
We should have talked.
Without words, you had nowhere to be angry so you swallowed your truths and they turned into blame.

I can feel it when you look at me,
I don't sparkle anymore.
Well, neither do you.

When we talk we say the least, yet every word has a barb.
Too jaded for affection we bob and weave through a minefield of unacknowledged truths.
Our words rot in our bellies while we sew each others mouths shut.
We never wanted this sort of intimacy.

We let the poison out with play, the kind that's done with knives.
So here we are, playing with knives in a minefield,
the only sound is our own hollow laughter.

Behind every "never mind" and "just kidding",
behind the scoreboard of our interactions and every slap of my *** are two shadows;
one covered in armor from breast to backbone,
and one purging a river of poison.

We're chasing a past we know we can't have back,
and the echoes of our old feelings make the silence so much louder than it was
when we didn't talk.

We were beautiful this summer, helplessly alive.
We had such good intentions but the silence and the miles and the fear have made this thing pale,
dead looking.

We try hard to be sorry.

Every kindness hurts because it tastes like the past,
so now instead we barter in bed.
Turns out *** without affection falls under Services Rendered,
but the shape of you so near to me makes me miss you more than I can bare and if you call me tonight, I'll probably answer.  

I guess sometimes the only way to make sure something's not still alive is to poke it with a stick a few times.

a note before i end the pending poem.

i know i'm not writing anything "in the groove"
or whatever urban tonguing i should use to invent
the new form of glue: to stick with the trends.
                    when people read candyfloss
literature i read lead literature,
  that's how it goes, i find too many poets
angry shouting down other people's throats,
i find them in positions where they think
they empower people: but rarely do.
   i write for the sole purpose of a demographic,
a democracy of sorts, i never want to hear
my voice regurgitated back at me,
i find it prickly, apart from the half-digested content
i am actually opposing being fed it...
  i can't explain why i don't entertain,
write one poem every two years either, apart from
the fact that: well, writing a poem and then
performing it? performance doesn't really do much
for what's an ongoing voyage, performance to
the art is like a Moby **** moment:
   you get to tell the adventure of a shipwreck,
rather than the proof that the earth is not flat.
the additional benefit, you get to see how your
thinking interacts with symbols, and how these symbols
will never betray the tongue that doesn't speak them...
   you get to do x-ray upon x-ray and find that
stuff like this: is actually equivalent to a bone in your
tongue. as with the moment: when artists are quoted
as having said: words are meaningless...
     i guess there comes a time when, with that said:
punching someone dead means more.
   oh this pithy sentiments that only empower politicians
and the media... i might have said
    a baby's gluttonous gaga drool and you'd be like:
yay! happy days upon us!
                      when poetry isn't performed it continues
into the nether region of thoughts: it's not jeopardy
of suddenly fizzling out into a state of a stale champagne
bottle... the residual power is confiscates from speaking
it retains a close proximity of actually writing it,
on the basis that it becomes prolonged, and more concentrated,
it cannot be allowed to diffuse into the open,
into a crowd, for a democratic hurrah on we go.
  i wanted to simply see poetry as an optical exploration,
rather than a vocal necessity of the art,
      philosophy was clogged up in too many truths
and untruths, and basically too many paragraphs,
   i wanted to make frank the medium that abhors paragraphs,
and by the looks of it: punctuation marks.
well, it's all about pedantry to be honest,
               but then i never desired the urban lingua
of keeping with the zeitgeist... i see how keeping up
with the times is enshrined with materialism and how
fickle it all eventually becomes... you can never reach
a status of cool reaching for the obscure,
but that's what all attempts at fame end up being:
a quiz show, trivia, obscure knowledge, 0 points
means the best points available, and after that, the realisation
that all is empty, and that attempts at fame
become questions in a quiz show where the aim of
the game is to: name the most obscure answer possible...
oddly enough the same show invites celebrities to
take part in the quiz for charity... *pointless celebrities,
first word, yep, that's the name of the show.
oh no, i don't shun television, i do admit that watching
a brick wall is more entertaining drunk than television,
but the sober me has to do something from time to time.
so poetry: a medium that's opposite of vocally necessary,
a medium to explore the bone inside the tongue
that writing invokes: ****** stalemate...
      would i care to say why every word has a meaning?
unless you can speak hundsprechen i'd say only this,
that sort of reasoning is dangerous...
            we wouldn't get anything done is units of language
was meaningless... (hold on, i'm going to create
a crescendo for this point)...
you can say language is meaningless when you're
singing... vocalising language from these depths of
what would otherwise be known as the graveyard of surds
on the pure basis of optics and all cognitive parameters...
      sure, from these depths into an angelic gospel choir
you can get a meaninglessness: because it's so ******
    pleasurable... you can't deny a good song, you
can't compare the use of language in singing to the use
of language in lecturing some obscure topic by simply
talking... for thus words are sounds, and not the dreaded
pluralism of conventional talking: i.e. meanings.
              unlike the Chinese who have a certain capacity
to remember about 3000 ideograms, we have a much
bigger capacity, but our words are shrapnel and what we
don't have that the Chinese do have is:
                 a capacity for the multiplicity of meaning.
i can't imagine any ambiguity with Chinese ideograms
in the range of 3000 symbols... but there is clearly ambiguity
in our system...
                      obviously we can say words are meaningless
at times when rules of using language are lax given
the lies of politicians and the media roulette:
the fact that media is not state owned is even worse,
shadow brokers and a tarantula venom disorientating people.
   singing is an escape route from the socio-political
conventions of using language, hence the ambiguity trail
of what's deservedly called: socially-acceptable mode
of conduct, something that doesn't receive the ****** frown
of what would probably look like a lemon smiling.
  yet, if language doesn't give you a chance to see a labyrinth
then you have the shallows of singing... mm, yeah, mm, boo...
         ye-ha! ******* cowboys the whole lot of them...
but it's what it's supposed to be, something to be sung
for someone else to hear... it's not something written
down for someone else to see... and subsequently maybe
think about... oh how dreaded that statement seems in
English, a bit like denken scheiße / shy-se!
          people only make statements about the meaningless
of language when they sing... but that's the point:
you're making sounds, akin to the rhythm of my heart,
hence i don't think and subsequently go into a moshpit
or nod my head with some pigeon-like "cool" approval...
language is a bit like Shrek talking about onions...
it has layers, "spooky" other dimensions, oooh oooh...
Casper asked for a weener so he could invert necrophilia
and ghost-**** that ***... it has layers...
         somewhere between the Antarctica and the Arctic,
perhaps in the tropic of Capricorn, but who knows?
but i'll tell you one thing... it's not a white guy thing...
i finally understand why i don't like rap...
a bit like saying: a crowd shouting at a football match
is not an onomatopoeia of whatever is **** sapiens worthy...
   i think that classification actually predates
the expression of it... it's out there, but on the fringes...
         it's like this standard of protestantism with the concept
of predestination: we might just get there by Sunday
in the year 2099, but who knows?
        now i do understand why i don't like rap...
never liked it... couldn't stomach it...
   then i come across a beauty... so all those things i said
before, it culminates into this...
    Akua Naru, ring a bell? probably not,
3mil is nothing in today's celebrity cut-throat backstabbing...
     http://tinyurl.com/lt8ayhg... now that's entertainment...
that's what i love, how every instrument is
actually heard... the bass kicks in to set the tone
with the tickly percussion accents...
                       she's baking a cake...
she's layering...
  it's unlike that ****-culture music of pounding pounding
overly rhythmic and for every band these days
   it's one guitar = 20 violins of an orchestra's worth...
                  this is the new-jazz, or what John Coltrane
insinuated with the words: a love supreme, a love supreme.
            i don't know if it's poetry...
                                   a weak message on a stage might
always require a backing band, like a weak voice
might require a backing band... but this little critique doesn't
necessarily mean i can appreciate it,
   and is the reason why i don't understand rap, and never will.

i write this from experience, not really
the one to save the drowning man
who would still, rather,
catch a razor blade to stray the gills,
i find that people are afraid of poetry,
so afraid on the play of words
that they invented grammar,
so i ask: in between laughing at
a telepathic joke that can't materialise
anything feely, after all it's just nothing,
and nothing can't materialise
in any cartesian extension of what
thought provides, which is exactly that:
in cartesia logistics the extension is soul,
where the substance is thought,
and the third part i'm not too clear about
writing... i envelop sartre as a novelist
but i dare say... he's a **** philosopher;
nietzsche matured in my youth,
i read the human comedy on the tube,
attracting homosexuals:
a different kind of voyeurism - what book you reading?
different with newspapers...
is that a monday? by jingles the uvula bells!
i thought i heard northern irish lingo!
by jimmy fitz patrick you did...
send into the green marshmallows,
i scented seaweed i yoda did...
bad grammar and no poetics...
i provide you with the choicest of the least cha cha cha...
i take pun, i take noun,
i take verb, i take metaphor,
i take conjunction, i take pronoun...
free bulbs free bulbs free, bulb! ha ha!
basically you take poetry and sacrifice the isaac
on the altar, the altar is not alternative,
the cats are curious: why does he sleep so long
like us? he drink alcohol and goes against
the prescription dynamism, he's a salmon,
swims against the current, dollops sleeping pills
with alcohol... dies of a weak heart heart attack in
fiji or kenya... make poetry amusing again...
please... don't make it a transition of language
from a weak **** / bladder into teenage feminism
so you wish i'd never *******, wishing i'd
always *******...
well no fucky fucky Thailand not Taiwan
got my bra on and my strap-on... missing a c-ring...
about as ***** as the tower of Pisa...
venice seems nice... nice to auto-shove the dirt
into the digged hole for a mausoleum of mahogany:
shining smooth... no five o'clock shadow to dim
the neon effect on the polished goods grieved over
supremely beyond the maxim of ash
and reductionism in the taj mahal...
nordic necrophilia is not exactly cannibalism
of the easter islands... they left no trace,
bunch of french nosed stone tyrants who sneezed
rather than coughed the truth out:
they did the inverse extinction of the dodo....
reduced to cannibalism they were:
no merchants of mecca or venice you see...
trade died before it could spawn...
but since i lost the track of things i better remind
myself that i'm about to be engaged with
writing out the index of my precisely arranged
"bibliophobia," i.e. the index of my library;
but you know what... some muslim school friend
of mine suggested a rekindling of the wartburg festival
of 1933 just based on a salman rushdie novel?
odd... it happened just before electricity
took over from the blitzkrieg parameters under
zeus' orders...
having written this... i actually don't know what
i laughed at... something to do with telepathy:
projection of pathology as ego insertion into someone's
own substance of being (thought); otherwise
known as pigmentation... well black on white,
diluted if not fading brown in sepia...
contrast in alabaster.

i vent, i'm sure you heard of the invention known as the ventilator... it's like a lung-clone-subservient of a "nanny quality" of automating the words: breathe in... breathe out... breathe in... it precursors the in and outsources the *out, there's a cult-like-scheme involving the use of... the stated tools... worthy of a suggestion that epitomises August as the month of harvest - i.e. the sun finally sets to auburn crops and **** me, isn't the bread rightly puffy?! toad-squidgy aye aye? go on, give us a burping caricature of a squeeze!

imagine uttering the words:
i hope your mother lies
eternally run-sacked with hopes
of former ****** glory,
*****, bleeding,
as if a Mongolian horde just passed
her with a glorious encore of
clapping to match...
because that's what i assert
as been done to my mother,
you don't even understand the verb
or adjective or conjunction behind
the noun.... after all, you're an African
Muslim and a pyramid builder,
a ****-wit...
jaded ****-strap and gag's
worth of you the Ben & Jerry...
praise the Koran
but don't understand that behind
each noun there's a collective grammatical
structure, ******* English political correctness,
*******! *******! have your Reagent's Street
and Oxford Street, have 'em!
behind the noun all grammatical categories
follow suite... universal noun, what category
for the particular? ape transforms into apish,
or Quasimodo or ~ape, nouns are units,
like centimetres, forget the other things, unless you:
let the shoppers drop dead like flies!
but imagine saying the words:
i hope your mother gets gang-***** by
an equivalent of a Mongolian horde;
yep, Mongolian necrophilia.
you said it to my mother, and i'm mourning,
alive, and counting.... once more... so ********!

it's necrophilia
but come on, professor! you
know that stuff is hot.

i didn't say my life was interesting, i said my life was boring enough to write about it, all the p.s. cf. bibliographical parts of what a life could look like, had there been a genuine interest in it prior to the ongoing thesis that will leave someone entitled with a dr. rather than a mr. or a mrs.*

the scaffolding was up,
i took to climbing it,
to the top of old college edinburgh,
climbed it and had my wish:
danced to the shins' new slang (https://goo.gl/OCYArw),
other time it was on prince's street,
walking back from a nightclub,
climbed the scaffold stilettos
and in anger, screaming at the moon
started throwing bits of a chimney onto
the street
without a care if homicide was on the cards:
i went out with a girl got engaged with her
who was afraid of graveyards...
odd to bury them, the ones already passed
to this element, maybe that's why it's
so precious to get involved,
fire **** and you get a billion blue indians
(very effective), use earth and you just
get an exponential rise of monuments
and libraries of serious volume awaiting
transportation to the moon for safe-keeping;
socially acceptable necrophilia to be blunt and still shave.
the idiot in me should have went for the girl
that asked me to dance the ceilidh with her,
who fell asleep watching a roman holiday
with greg peck and that tiffany's girl:
it would have been a wedding cake
cherry on top story, typical middle class
of immigrant descendants, cocktail of
iranian mongrel with scot and german mongrel
with pole...twilight... ever notice the sun
asking the land where cain resides, nox,
to usher in one innocent compatriot for
a brief viewing of the constellation of taurus?
neither did i... i sing for release and as such
i find myself in hex / allegiance with with mortiis,
that norwegian "freak" of pointy ears and deep shadow
of pandas' mascara...
but between you and me, there's a hobbit and
a nazgûl in me... the drunk me sees it...
although hobbit me likes the simple life...
the nazgûl doesn't... he stirs in the night,
remembering endless chemistry, laboratory coats
and imprints of the experiments to not be...
but i still danced on the roof of the old college
of the university of edinburgh to the shins' new slang,
with a jazz club below me where i first
heard neil young's old man played to a dairy cow
milked precision of matters... alone... like all those
edward hopper nighthawks: in a david bowie
space oddity of contentment: ageing to make
the face skin an akin fingerprinting of wrinkle;
like solomon, i have cursed the hour of my birth
a long long time ago.

I think the clock is off now
Conversations getting soft now

Thank you for talking to me
Why did you I don’t know
I got nowhere to be
Got nowhere to go

I could sit all day
At this table
All alone
Looking at you
Ill leaving in awhile baby
Nothing else matters but right now

Your words of hysteria
Verbal cafeteria
Speak of necrophilia
Learning new things
Making my head spin

I could sit all day
At this table
All alone
Looking at you
Ill leaving in awhile baby
Nothing else matters but right now

Your eyes engage me
Your opinions enrage me
Your insults don’t phase me
Let’s just share a laugh
Make these moments last

I could sit all day
At this table
All alone
Looking at you
Ill leaving in awhile baby
Nothing else matters but right now

it's, well, it's a bit boring to be part of this sometimes... what with insomnia new york, london, whatever.... i feel not allegiance to give my ***** a sprout of waiting to be, a fully functioning human: nurtured into a fathomable presence, to be later ******-about like a ping-pong... if huamnity had a deserter, a Judas, i'd be him, i feel absolutely no allegiance to this: man = animal, i feel no existential threat, nor bias... i feel no basis to keep an argument, to be honest, the current argument just makes me express sentiments of acquiring the darwinism of dodo... i can't, just stage, a necessary continuum... it's not that i feel lost and want to continue... it's that i am lost, and don't want to! who the hell am i to suggest for implanting me with this ghost of apathy? me?! so i mastu-***** myself into feeling it? colonialism, right? i didn't cut off my *******, right?! i can't be bothered, i am vomitting on darwinistic arguments, because, well, i can't sorta feel them... and given the numbers, i don't really care that i see them... seeing a tapeworm would gratify me more than seeing some loon John Smith take out a load of garbage... as you do. no, not really... what's being described is hardly a prescription, i don't feel it, and i hardly want to live in it and be aged 70... what you said isn't, and never will be: a postcard... i will never want to live in this anglophone ****-pile of faked-hope... it's actually a shame that i live in this language-sphere, i'd be better off in Mongolia scribbling quasi-Mandarin... i literally have no impetus to compete... i must be a half-baked monkey... but you know... you watch enough Renaissance painters, and you watch enough ****... being given the beginning with a monkey's hairy ***... you sorta need to lose the plot, had there ever been one to begin with.*

i mean when the gensis of the senses being dimmed,
and the origin of thought...
   for the senses to reveal a moral cursor,
a moral dimension...
   before the big bang, what came into our world
most debilitating... thinking...
   a case for making choices, and a reality
of moral agency...
           it's beyond the big bang and darwinism
replicating boo boo skeletons equipped with
a middle-class wives...
            it's when our senses became so *******
blunt and ineffective that a "sixth sense"
had to be established, that we countered running
away from a tiger to playing football...
         and running from a tiger
  was nothing... nothing! compared to jogging...
   what's the date of that beginning?
oh right... no date...
the genesis of thought, and the moral agent,
begins with us experiencing less and less
sensually invigorating anti-ego tsunamis...
     given that we were, literally pulverised by
sensual stimuli for such a long time,
   that for such a long time our medium was
sensually based, biased,
  that we heard so much than we wanted to heart,
sore so much more than we wanted to see...
    and had no need for narrative,
or an internalised moral code,
or thought...
                  we are experiencing the exhausting
end, or the banality of thought,
personally: i think the existence of thought
is banal, it gave us god...
         thankfully we are exhausting thought,
thereby succumbing to populace atheism...
thereby returning to sensual gravity...
            pulverised by the 5, rather than a single,
establishing plateau sixth...
         i rather prefer thinking about
the theory concerning: first thought
rather than the big bang...
   ever hear a bang in vacuum?
so what the ****?!
   when we first started thinking, and went against
the brutality of nature...
           and became more brutal than nature...
    i don't believe in heaven, or in hell,
but as an emotionally biased being
i like to think of both...
before i translate either case as a thought
before encouraging: die groß schlaf.
    
origin:              

they make the grave
a fastinating place,
the crowd really does,
the crowd really  makes so much
of an insistence or d'uh or applause.,
      i mean, it really antagonises
the people...
like the time i thought i was: sprechen deutsche...
but wasn't, and it was cool,
because i was kinda Sax and anti Schwab...
and a bit like bot: hope you don't rememeber
the Holocaust..
so i became transgender,
and, also, trans-phobic,
                so said: pronoun neutral!
and yes:
       the grave,
it's a necrophilia i wish i had,
the cold of Februay,
you allow me misery, i allow
yours, you deny mine:
    i'm sorta alive against my wish,
       and i sorta wish i wasn't,
bound to spend 5 - 7 in a restaurant
with you...
  cos you're just cutting up
my blues...
          no, you're cool,
if i was in need of an ice-cube...
      so yeah, you're cool...
  a ******* iceberg of wanting clues....
  chat chat and the crush,
if i make it to the medium of crazy-speak
with you, and i don't **** you,
you're lucky...
            i mean: i wasn't as ****** up
as you wanted me to be...
                 i guess listening
to metallica leaves you ****** up
after a while...
so is there a need to compare?
   i don't think so.
        it just happens after a while,
you sorta hear the whale's groan
and strart to mimick the groan...
   cave and ocean...
           an echo in an ocean...
      vibrations in water,
vibrations signatured into metal...
     apparently it's only as fascinating
as it is, that we dare to ****
  beyond encouraging politics
   and a gravity leading toward social
stratas and concepts of class...
   my... find me a masturbator content
with his hand being a ****...
and i'll find you an oyster! quicker!