Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form

1. Sunyata (Emptiness) is the profound meaning of the Mahayana Teaching.

Two thousand five hundred years ago, the Buddha was able to realise "emptiness" (s. sunyata). By doing so he freed himself from unsatisfactoriness (s. dukkha). From the standpoint of enlightenment, sunyata is the reality of all worldly existences (s. dharma). It is the realisation of Bodhi — Prajna. From the standpoint of liberation, sunyata is the skilful means that disentangle oneself from defilement and unsatisfactoriness. The realisation of sunyata leads one to no attachment and clinging. It is the skilful means towards enlightenment and also the fruit of enlightenment.

There are two ways for us to understand this concept of sunyata in the Mahayana context. One way is to try to understand the explanation about its true nature. The other way is the realisation through practice. What we are going to discuss now is about its true nature.

Mahayana teachings have always considered that the understanding of sunyata is an attainment which is extremely difficult and extraordinarily profound.

For example, in the Prajna Sutra it says "That which is profound, has sunyata and non-attachment as its significance. No form nor deeds, no rising nor falling, are its implications."

Again in the Dvadasanikaya Sastra (composed by Nagarjuna, translated to Chinese by Kumarajiva A.D. 408) it says: "The greatest wisdom is the so-called sunyata."

This sunyata, no creation, calmness and extinction (s. nirvana) is of a profound significance in the Mahayana teachings. Why do we see it as the most profound teaching? This is because there is no worldly knowledge, be it general studies, science or philosophy, that can lead to the attainment of the state of sunyata. The only path to its realisation is via the supreme wisdom of an impassionate and discriminating mind. It is beyond the common worldly understanding.

2. The Significance of Sunyata and Cessation

The Buddha always used the terms void, no rising and falling, calmness and extinction to explain the profound meaning of sunyata and cessation. The teachings of the Buddha that were described in words are generally common to worldly understandings. If one interprets the teachings superficially from the words and languages used, one will only gain worldly knowledge and not the deeper implication of the teachings. The teachings of the Buddha have their supra-mundane contexts that are beyond the worldly knowledge.

For example, sunyata and the state of nirvana where there is no rising nor falling, are interpreted by most people as a state of non-existence and gloom. They fail to realise that quite the opposite, sunyata is of substantial and positive significance.

The sutras often use the word "great void" to explain the significance of sunyata. In general, we understand the "great void" as something that contains absolutely nothing. However, from a Buddhist perspective, the nature of the "great void" implies something which does not obstruct other things, in which all matters perform their own functions. Materials are form, which by their nature, imply obstruction. The special characteristic of the "great void" is non-obstruction. The "great void" therefore, does not serve as an obstacle to them. Since the "great void" exhibits no obstructive tendencies, it serves as the foundation for matter to function. In other words, if there was no "great void" nor characteristic of non-obstruction, it would be impossible for the material world to exist and function.

The "great void" is not separated from the material world. The latter depends on the former. We can state that the profound significance of sunyata and the nature of sunyata in Buddhism highlights the "great void’s" non-obstructive nature.

Sunyata does not imply the "great void". Instead, it is the foundation of all phenomena (form and mind). It is the true nature of all phenomena, and it is the basic principle of all existence. In other words, if the universe’s existence was not empty nor impermanent, then all resulting phenomena could not have arisen due to the co-existence of various causes and there would be no rising nor falling. The nature of sunyata is of positive significance!

Calmness and extinction are the opposite of rising and falling. They are another way to express that there is no rising and falling. Rising and falling are the common characteristics of worldly existence. All phenomena are always in the cycle of rising and falling. However, most people concentrate on living (rising). They think that the universe and life are the reality of a continuous existence.

Buddhism on the other hand, promotes the value of a continuous cessation (falling). This cessation does not imply that it ceases to exist altogether. Instead, it is just a state in the continuous process of phenomena. In this material world, or what we may call this "state of existence", everything eventually ceases to exist. Cessation is definitely the home of all existences. Since cessation is the calm state of existence and the eventual refuge of all phenomena, it is also the foundation for all activities and functions.

The Amitabha Buddha who was, and is, revered and praised by Buddhists around the world, radiates indefinite light and life from this "state of cessation". This state is a continuous process of calmness. It will be the eventual refuge for us all. If we think carefully about the definitions of calmness and extinction, then we can deduce that they are the true natural end-points of rising and falling. The true nature of the cycle of rising and falling is calmness and extinction. Because of this nature, all chaos and conflicts in the state of rising and falling will eventually cease. This is attainable by the realisation of prajna.

3. Contemplating the Implications of Sunyata and Stillness (Nirvana) by Observing Worldly Phenomena

All existences exhibit void-nature and nirvana-nature. These natures are the reality of all existence. To realise the truth, we have to contemplate and observe our worldly existence. We cannot realise the former without observing the latter. Consider this Heart Sutra extract, "Only when Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva practised the deep course of wisdom of Prajna Paramita did he come to realise that the five skandhas (aggregates, and material and mental objects) were void."

Profound wisdom leads us to the realisation that all existences are of void-nature. The sutras demonstrate that the profound principle can be understood by contemplating and observing the five skandhas. We cannot realise the truth by seeking something beyond the material and mental world. The Buddha, using his perfect wisdom, observed worldly existence from various implications and aspects, and came to understand all existences.

In summary, there are three paths to this observation:

a) We should observe the preceding state and the current state of conditions. i.e., Observation according to the concept of time.

b) We should observe existences according to their interrelationships. i.e., Observation via the concept of space (either two or three-dimensions).

c) We should observe the true nature of all myriad beings. This is like observing the worldly existences of a point, a line and an area. Those with supreme wisdom understand the true nature of all worldly existences by observing vertically the relationships between the preceding and current conditions, and horizontally the interrelationships. Then we can understand the true meaning of void-nature and nirvana-nature.

3.1 By observing the preceding-stage and the current-stage conditions, we can verify the Law of Impermanence of all worldly existences. All existences, be they material or mental, be they the material world, or the physical or mental states of sentient beings, are subject to continuous change.

The world may have certain states of beings where they stay static or are in equilibrium on a temporary basis (for example hibernation). But when we observe them with supreme wisdom, we will find that not only do they keep changing on a yearly basis, but also that this change applies to even every briefest moment. After the current state of conditions have ceased to exist, the newly-formed state materialises. This is the state of rising and falling. The rising and falling of each small moment reveals that all existences are ever-moving and ever-changing.

Conventional scholars have a very good explanation of these ever-changing worldly conditions. However they, including the practitioners of dharma, try to make sense of the reality from the ever-changing worldly existences. That is, they are fooled by the material existences and are not able to understand the deeper truth of all existences.

Only those with the supreme wisdom of the Buddha and Mahabodhisattvas realise and understand that all existences are illusions. They understand that existences are not real from the observation of the flow of changing existences. The numerous illusionary existences may well be diverse and confusing, arising and decaying. But when we look into their true nature, we will find them void and of nirvana-nature.

On the other hand, since all existences are of nirvana-nature, they appear from the perspective of time, to be ever-changing. They never stay the same even for the briefest moment. Impermanence implies existences do not have a permanent entity. This is another implication of the nature of sunyata and stillness.

3.2 From observations of existence via inter-relationships, we can conclude that nothing is independent of the Law of Causation, and that everything is without ego. For example, the Buddha explains that the individual sentient being is composed of physical, physiological and psychological phenomena. The so called ego is a deluded illusion which does not exist in reality. Its existence depends on the combination of both physical and mental factors. It is a union of organic phenomena. Thus we call it the empirical ego. It is a mistake to cling to it as an infatuated ego.

The Indian concept of the supreme spirit implies someone who rules. The spirit is the ruler who is independent of is self-dependent and all causes. In other words, the spirit is the one who is free from all primary and secondary causes (for physical and mental aspects). The spirit is the one who has the soul of his own body and mind. This is the ego or supreme spirit that the theologists cling to. From their view point, the only way to avoid physical and mental decay is to be self-determined and self-sovereign. In this way, the supreme being can stay permanent in the cycle of reincarnation, and return to the absolute reality by liberating himself from life and death.

But from the profound contemplation and wisdom of the Buddha and Mahabodhisattvas, we know there is no such reality. Instead, egolessness (non-self) is the only path to understand the reality of the deluded life. All existences are subject to the Law of Causes and Conditions. These include the smallest particles, the relationship between the particles, the planets, and the relationship between them, up to and including the whole universe! From the smallest particles to the biggest matter, there exists no absolute independent identity.

Egolessness (non-self) implies the void characteristics of all existence. Egolessness (non-self) signifies the non-existence of permanent identity for self and existence (Dharma). Sunyata stresses the voidness characteristic of self and existence (Dharma). Sunyata and egolessness possess similar attributes. As we have discussed before, we can observe the profound significance of sunyata from the perspective of inter-dependent relationships. Considering dharma-nature and the condition of nirvana, all existences are immaterial and of a void-nature. Then we see each existence as independent of each other. But then we cannot find any material that does exist independent of everything else. So egolessness also implies void-nature!

3.3 From the observation of all existences, we can infer the theory of nirvana and the complete cessation of all phenomena. From the viewpoint of phenomena, all existences are so different from each other, that they may contradict each other. They are so chaotic. In reality, their existence is illusionary and arises from conditional causation. They seem to exist on one hand, and yet do not exist on the other. They seem to be united, but yet they are so different to one another. They seem to exist and yet they do cease! Ultimately everything will return to harmony and complete calmness. This is the nature of all existence. It is the final resting place for all. If we can understand this reality and remove our illusions, we can find this state of harmony and complete calmness.

All our contradictions, impediments and confusion will be converted to equanimity. Free from illusion, complete calmness will be the result of attaining nirvana. The Buddha emphasised the significance of this attainment and encouraged the direct and profound contemplation on void-nature. He said, "Since there is no absolute self-nature thus every existence exhibits void-nature. Because it is void, there is no rising nor falling. Since there is no rising nor falling, thus everything was originally in complete calmness. Its self-nature is nirvana."

From the viewpoint of time and space, we can surmise that all existences are impermanent, all existences have no permanent self, and nirvana is the result of the cessation of all existences - the Three Universal Characteristics. But there are not three different truths. Instead, they are the characteristics of the only absolute truth and the ultimate reality. This is the explanation of Dharma-nature and the condition of nirvana. The three characteristics are the one characteristic, and vice versa!

We may cultivate our meditation, contemplating the impersonality of all existences. This will lead us to enlightenment via the path of voidness. Contemplating nirvana and complete calmness leads to enlightenment by the path of immaterial form. Contemplating the impermanence of all existences, leads us to enlightenment by the path of inactivity (no desire).

The Three Universal Characteristics are the other implications of Dharma-nature and nirvana. The paths to enlightenment are also the same cause of absolute reality. All of them return to the Dharma-nature and the condition of nirvana. In short, the teachings of the Buddha start from the observation and contemplation of all worldly phenomena. They are like thousands of streams of water competing with each other, and flowing from the top of the mountains to the bottom. Eventually, all of them return to the ocean of voidness and nirvana.

4. Sunyata and Cessation is the Truth (Nature) of All Existences.

All existences that are recognised by worldly understanding, whether materially, spiritually or intellectually, have always been misunderstood by us. We cling to them as real, physically existing and permanent. Actually, they are only unreal names.

The more precise meaning of the term "unreal name" is "assumption" or "hypothesis". It is an empirical name. It is formed by the combination of various causes and effects. (These include the effects of mental consciousness.) It does not exist by itself. Everything exists relatively. Thus, what is the ultimate truth? If we investigate existence further, we realise that all existences are empty. This is the fundamental characteristic and reality of all existence. It is ultimate and absolute. But we should not think that empty means nothing. It implies the disentanglement from the worldly misunderstanding of the existence of self, identity, and the realisation of the absolute.

In the Sutras and Abhidharma, the worldly understandings are sometimes referred to as all phenomena (Dharma). Sunyata is referred to as "Dharma-nature", and hence there is a distinction between "phenomena" and "Dhamma-nature". However, this is only an expedient explanation that helps us to realise the truth of sunyata through the phenomena of all existences.

We should not think that "existence" and "nature"; or the "phenomena of Dharma" and "Dharma-nature" are something contradictory. They are just concepts needed to understand the implication of sunyata.

We may analyse the exp

.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?

ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...

p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.

well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic

              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.

Tired of being called names and listening to complaints from your partner because you snore at night?

But more than that, it is important to keep a check on your snoring as an excess of it can be an indicator of many diseases, one of them being sleep apnea, says Dr Kaushal Sheth, ENT surgeon, "People develop sleep apnea when their airway collapses partially or completely during sleep due to various medical conditions. This causes the oxygen levels in the blood to decrease and can be potentially life threatening when it becomes obstructive sleep apnea."

Elaborating on it further, Dr Jayashree Todkar, bariatric surgeon and obesity consultant says "Snoring is an indication of obstacles in a person's breathing. When excessive fat accumulates around the stomach, the lungs do not get ample space to expand when we inhale oxygen; this in turn leads to obstacles in the process of inhalation-exhalation."

However, there are many myths surrounding snoring which is a very common problem. To sleep better one must get rid of the myths that surround snoring and only accept the facts, says Dr Viranchi Oza, BDS as he gives us a lowdown of some stories around snoring:

Myth: Everybody snores, therefore it's normal.

Fact: Snoring is not a normal condition. Labelling it as 'normal' diminishes the seriousness of the condition. Snoring is not just about annoying your partner, it is a sign that the body is struggling to breathe properly during the night. Snoring on a frequent or regular basis has been associated with hypertension and can also be an indication of sleep apnea (pauses in breathing). Sleep apnea sufferers have been reported to have diminished gray cells in their brains, most likely due to the oxygen deprivation of untreated sleep apnea. If left untreated, sleep apnea increases the risk of cardiovascular disease over time. In addition, insufficient sleep affects growth hormone secretion that is linked to obesity. As the amount of hormone secretion decreases, the chance of weight gain increases.

Myth: Snoring only affects the health of the snorer.

Fact: Snoring doesn't just negatively affect the health of the person snoring, but also the health of the person lying next to them in bed. A typical snorer usually produces a noise that averages around 60 decibels (about the level of vacuum cleaner), but with some people this can reach 80 or even 90 decibels (about the level of an average factory). Sleeping with a partner who snores during the night has been shown to increase the blood pressure in the other person, which may be dangerous for their health in the long term. Snoring also causes the partner to have fragmented sleep and lose up to one hour of sleep

every night.

Myth: Snoring comes from the nose, so if I unclog my nose, my snoring will stop.

Fact: Having a stuffy nose can definitely aggravate snoring and sleep apnea, but in it's not the cause. A recent study showed that undergoing nasal surgery for breathing problems cured sleep apnea in only 10% of patients. Snoring vibrations typically come from the soft palate, which is aggravated by having a small jaw and the tongue falling back. It's a complicated relationship between the nose, the soft palate and the tongue.

Myth: I know I don't snore, or have apnea. I am fine.

Fact: Don't ignore your wife when she tells you that your snoring doesn't let her sleep. When a partner snores it is very difficult for the spouse to sleep. There are people who snore excessively and suffer from sleep apnea, but feel absolutely normal. However, snoring increases their risk of getting a heart attack and stroke. The only definitive way to prove that you don't have sleep apnea is by taking a sleep test. Screening questionnaires like the GASP or the Epworth have shown high reliability in identifying patient risk for sleep apnea.

Myth: If I lose weight, I'll cure myself of sleep apnea.

Fact: Sometimes. It's definitely worth trying, but in general, it's very difficult to lose weight if you have sleep apnea. This is because poor sleep aggravates weight gain by increasing your appetite. Once you're sleeping better, it'll be easier to lose weight. This is the one ingredient with many dietary and weight loss programs that's missing or not stressed at all. It's not enough just to tell people to sleep more.

Myth: Health problems such as obesity, diabetes, hypertension and depression have no relation to the amount and quality of a person's sleep.

Fact: More and more scientific studies are showing a correlation between poor quality sleep and insufficient sleep with a variety of diseases. Blood pressure is variable during the sleep cycle, however, interrupted sleep negatively affects the normal variability. Recent studies have shown that nearly 80% cases of hypertension, 60% cases of strokes and 50% cases of heart failures are actually cases of undiagnosed sleep apnea. Research indicates that insufficient sleep impairs the body's ability to use insulin, which can lead to the onset of diabetes. Fragmented sleep can cause a lowered metabolism and increased levels of the hormone Cortisol which results in an increased appetite and a decrease in one's ability to burn calories.

Myth: Daytime sleepiness means a person is not getting enough sleep.

Fact: Do you feel very sleepy even during the day despite the fact that you had a long night of proper sleep? Excessive daytime sleepiness can occur even after a person gets enough sleep. Such sleepiness can be a sign of an underlying medical condition or sleep disorder such as narcolepsy or sleep apnea. Please seek professional medical advice to correctly diagnose the cause of this symptom.

Myth: Getting just one hour less sleep per night than needed will not have any effect on your daytime functioning.

Fact: This lack of sleep may not make you noticeably sleepy during the day. But even if you've got slightly less sleep, it can affect your ability to think properly and respond quickly. It can compromise your cardiovascular health and energy balance as well as the ability to fight infections, particularly if the pattern continues. Lack of sleep has also been associated with road accidents (up to 60% of road accidents involve lack of sleep) and air crashes (Air India Mangalore plane crash in 2010 was due to lack of sleep). Sleeping for less than six hours a night is equivalent to legal levels of alcohol intoxication.

Myth: Sleep apnea occurs only in older, overweight men with big necks.

Fact: Although the stereotypical description does fit people in the extreme end of the spectrum, we now know that even young, thin women that don't snore can have significant obstructive sleep apnea. Sleep apnea begins with jaw structure narrowing and later involves obesity. It's estimated that 90% of women with this condition are not diagnosed. Untreated, it can cause or aggravate weight gain, depression, anxiety, diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease, heart attack and stroke.

Myth: Snoring can't be treated.

Fact: Have you given up on your snoring thinking that it cannot be treated? There are many different options for treating snoring.

Some treatment options are rather drastic, possibly requiring surgery or prescription drugs, but prior to exploring such options it would be wise to first seek out alternative treatments. You must visit a sleep specialist to get the right diagnosis.

Myth: Extra sleep at night can cure you of problems with excessive daytime fatigue.

Fact: Not only is the quantity of sleep important but also the quality of sleep. Some people sleep eight-nine hours a night but don't feel well rested as the quality of their sleep is poor. A number of sleep disorders and other medical conditions affect the quality of sleep. Sleeping more won't alleviate the daytime sleepiness these disorders or conditions cause. However, many of these disorders or conditions can be treated effectively with changes in behaviour or with medical therapies.

Myth: Insomnia is characterised only by difficulty in falling asleep.

Fact: There are four symptoms usually associated with insomnia:

- Difficulty falling asleep

- Waking up too early and not being able to get back to sleep

- Frequent awakenings

- Waking up feeling tired and not so fresh

Insomnia can also be a symptom of a sleep disorder or other medical, psychological or psychiatric problems. Sometimes, insomnia can really be a case of undiagnosed sleep apnea.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

from the simple email, to now a pitch-perfect complication
of the internet - no performance poetry found here -
performance meaning singing, meaning cascade of rhymes
to help you memorise sentences and shake your hands
about - ekphrasis (εκφρασις) - performance stand-up
but not stand-out - i'm not complaining, i'm just feeling
the fear and loathing too - or according to M. Schmidt (
no, not Martin Schmitt, the ski-jumper, but then again
the two seem almost indistinguishable when said -
counter e.g. gnome - 'nome and schmi'dt'dt'dt'tt stutter
at the end of words rather than at the beginning before
the dam gates open for the word to flow out from).
besides the point, can you imagine Kant using the phrase
a fortiori in his work that uses only a priori and
a posteriori? i only came across it today - but given
the big *** systematic approaches, you'd find it hard
to squeeze in a fortiori into the complex narrative -
an entire blackboard of mathematical proof concerning
disallowing the end product to be ∞: in philosophy that means
explaining something on a universal basis, the entire human
concern for things said, things done, things owned -
inserting the term a fortiori where once came a priori
would be a disaster for the Kantian narrative, he'd
have to write another critique all on its own to insert that phrase
among a complete systematisation of that phrase -
well the funny thing is, this expression goes in line with that
i observed about left and right, hands eyes whatever -
indefinite a- and the definite -the articles and then an ism -
i sometimes feel funny or at least embarrassed that i keep
repeating this notice from time to time -
but you would expect me to include gravity too,
or how i used to be a flower thief in spring bordering
on winter, plucking the eager flowers in the frost around
the countryside - well, i revived that practice today,
plucked two stalks of lavender (they were pinching my
nose when i walked past with a beer) and something
resembling lavender... google-moment... if only they
created apps that could tell you what flower it is you're
trying to identify, search engine impromptu -
well... it's either a coin-toss between
summersweet (clethra alnifolia) or butterfly bush
(buddleia davidii) - but it could be something else -
cigarette, beer and sniffing lavender, just my kind of night -
i swear to god i once drank a lavender-flavoured beer,
or cider... i can't remember -
but by definition, when i look at philosophy books i feel
they're much too bound to something said earlier
and followed by something to support it -
or in the case of a fortiori the expanded-upon basics,
i.e.: from a / the stronger (thing) - which means
it's a dual-carriage way of saying what you want to say:
from a stronger thing - from the stronger thing -
in real life that's like: what we get from a telescope,
or? what we get from a microscope -
stars aplenty - G-Rex 5571 in the Zodiac constellation,
U80802Z from the constellation of Poseidon -
i mean, flimsy answers - sky's the limit - then
the azure cage hovers over us during the day and
we turn to daydreams packing apples into crates -
telescope: oh airy-fairy, somewhere far far away -
microscope: got that needle and thread with you?
well, whatever we have, we know that our minds are
not build for the omni- affix when affixed to anything,
esp. god. Jews never bothered with it - there are just
as many necessary limitations of a deity as there are
as many unnecessary limitations of our freedoms -
that's how you move away from big ideas and narratives
of a Kant, with his chequers of analytic / synthetic
a priori / a posteriori and concern yourself with
knives (indefinite) and scissors (definite) articulation of
language - hell, we can go down the road much further
and say something about indirect and direct articles -
pronouns are the prime subscribers -
you wouldn't talk to a Jihadi directly as you'd talk about
him indirectly - i shared that curiosity with a local
stranger-mate in a park once walking his dog,
an ex-banker - those boom-bomb boys are being prescribed
the same thing that the Lufftwaffe pilots were prescribed
(pervitin) - but i doubt they got their hands on the pure
medical stuff, they're probably on amphetamines...
oh the R.A.F.? yeah, drunk like skunks.
but just imagine rewriting the Critique with a fortiori
and a infirmiori - disobeying "correct" definition,
as already mentioned the pronouns composed from
articles, as in condensed to indistinguishable parameters -
a fortiori - from something stronger            -
             a infirmiori - from something weaker -
(as already stated, the original definition of
  a fortiori was - from a / the stronger [thing]) -
so the articles disappear and couple themselves to the word
thing (word meaning, no grammatical classification is
really necessary, because if grammatically classified it would
be too obstructive) - but because of this lack of
grammatical classification of the word thing,
we are already associating the definitions via only the
indefinite pronoun - rather than a definite pronoun (i.e. nothing),
it would be pointless to write definitions using a definite
pronoun - well, up to a point, i suppose that
suggesting both a fortiori and a infirmiori to be defined
as: from nothing stronger and / or weaker we can create
a self-mechanistic-propeller, a way of self-overcoming that
in the end arrives as self-knowledge, obviously the
ultimate purpose - and this goes against all solipsistic despair,
as it also goes against making too many comparisons
with others, some who are weaker than us, and some who
are stronger than us - for the stronger will make light
of one set of propositions as the weaker will make light
of another set of propositions to suit their demands -
this can only be seen in light of Kantian-Darwinism,
survival of the fittest and what not -
Kant had in mind something simply said historically in
a condensed sphere of reality, Darwinism kinda did away
with historical realism, soon after the English Renaissance
after the second world war, Darwinism picked up again,
as a way to shut off the murk of the Holocaust -
Elvis did his bit, the Beatles too, but once the imagination
dried up, people decided they wanted to travel back
in time to 10,000 B.C. - and you think artistic expression
will end up a concept prog rock album, or a cute 3 minute
synthesizer song while M.T.V. turns into a 16 year old's
******* of a baby? i'm going keep the acronym, and instead
call it MORAL TELEVISION, or? how to buy a ******
or pull out early - but obviously i'd get a wisecrack comeback
from Juno - see a preacher man anywhere around here?
Kantian algebraic (big words, small people, Belgian waffles
too):                                                    ­              a. / s. after
                                           (event) x.
a. / s. prior
                                     what qualifies?
                                    - historical hindsight -
                                    - the current historical catalyst(s),
        THE BIG BANG... or as i like to call our current history,
an interchange on the words: BIG BANG BLACK HOLE...
BANG A ******* HOLE... get a BIG CLOCK...
******* HOLE... which is what it looks like at night...
two catalysts overall - and boy we're speeding
to Groundhog day - the biggest changes in history were
some celebrity's haircut - that's relative to
what happened when the Treaty of Versailles was signed;
BIG HOLE BLACK BANG (and that's thanks to dark matter) -
but to be honest, if i'm given only these two historical
vectors to work with... i'm not surprised so many
Islamic youths are disfranchised, choosing a third,
Jannah - it seems like a natural thinking process that
will never make it into popular media -
just thinking about it probably warms the heart,
obviously to an extremely violent end -
but this is gone way beyond the heliocentric and
geocentric arguments - because up there, where you
can see the earth where the hell is Copernican East
or Copernican West? it's nice to know that the earth
isn't flat... but that won't help you reaching the Panama
Canal from Portugal... will it?!

He travels great distance against all odds,
reaches the border, but turns back helpless
she just stands there, impatiently smiling
with extended hands, but making no move
to cross the emotional wall, they built themselves.

no number of opinions will alleviate this apathy, promised, paradoxically: a pandora's box of pathology, which is why attempting dialectics is a farce, a cheap magic trick for a talk-show host in being "understanding", to attempt in mediating, and then scoffing it off, like some under baked crumpet / scone, and yes, it makes sense, pivoting on the possession of a conscience... it's not that some people appear to now possess it, but that they are comical in possessing, and comedy is always nuanced, an ambiguity surrounds their conscience... the binary opposite of comedy? the birth of the tragedy, a succumbing to madness, a suicide... every person possesses a conscience, as the universal law of unit, but comedy hides a person with a grieving conscience, making the person so callus as to make them donkeys, laughing stocks, spaghetti entangled liars... it's only a conscience triggered into a tragedy that reeks with redemptive qualities ascribed to a person, cf. the already mentioned carl sergeant and 'arvey 'ard on weinstein... in the spirit of the film split: rejoice! for those who have suffered are redeemed! rejoice! said the beast. the comedy is near impossible to avoid in post-script idiocy beaming the letters FAIL; the tragedy of conscience, at least we know some evil doers in death are redeemed with the only puritanical act to redeem conscience: the bride of honour.*

can an intelligent person make a slapstick
joke?
  or is it that,
   a dumb person cannot make an original
joke?

besides the point,
  a question is a question -
  and as most questions go -
it's not whether there's a correct
or wrong answer,
rather, whether there actually is
an answer to accomplish
that stated question.

i've noticed a resurgence of dialectical
inquiry, but i have decided to
avoid perfecting the art,
   other than in person,
on a park bench, rather than on
a page in pixel white...

  oh sure, i have a life beyond this
outlet,
and i rarely write a platonic dialogue
to reinforce my experiences,
i once enforced a question
upon a child in a supermarket:
do you think animals are unable
to see 3-dimensional objects
     in / on a 2-dimensional canvas?
he didn't answer, because his guardian
thought i was weird in my
presumption...
which was, however you imagine it:
casual, cordial, orientated
within the adequate use of time and space
for the question to be asked.

personally i find myself if a binary
realm of,
   which isn't exactly a left right divide -
as a "schizophrenic" i am marching
down the middle, and asking myself:
   there's only the middle to mind,
and the mind is the only thing worth
juggling, sure, but juggling
a thesis hemisphere and an antithesis
hemisphere becomes lost in
the schizophrenic-quadratic -
      right down the middle.

which is why i find modern attempts
at dialectics so odd...
i prescribed myself dialectical escapism,
simply because there are too
many opinions i'm simply not interested in.

people seem to have stored these opinions
for so long, they are choking at not
having talked about them...
  it's apparent in comedy...
among comics...
                    they simply say:
if we can't bypass the comedy and sit down
with a cold beer, we can't actually
take the opinion seriously,
  if we can't, at first, make a joke of it...
that's hard...
              that's near impossible to stage...
you can realise the complexity of
enabling a seriousness with a comic precursor
antics to "soften" the blow of
approach...
that is why i await the awaited for
dialectical artist, who must be much
older than i, frankly the age of socrates,
i can only fathom dialectical escapism,
    in that i can fathom an opinion,
but i can't fathom being endearing to it,
keeping it, nurturing it,
       maturing it,
                     making the animate
water into inanimate ice...
                       which leaves steam
   a categorical conundrum of categorisation...

in terms of the human mind,
i can only find comparison with Alcatraz...
i am forever attempting escape,
i know i will be aided by the snitch,
judas, death...
     but i have to be lodged into
a vocab that may aid me,
  or hinder me.

                   the human experience is
an Alcatraz because of the a priori principle -
what came before me: set the rules,
the winding corridors where
i'm not the Minotaur,
but the scared victim,
   or just the dumb-enough brick of
the labyrinth's wall.
or? the a posteriori principle -
           i impose my own graffiti on
the walls, and be the Minotaur of the long
wait of life, with death:
my morphine angel.
                              
         but i see no desire to engage in
dialectical endeavours,
            hence my choice in attempting
a purification of poetry,
against technique of schooling,
  in making poetry less and less
musically orientated, and returned to
its primordial genesis: of narrative.

  hence my dialectical escapism,
i really have not stable opinion,
or opinion i'd like to adhere to, to subsequently
hug a pillar of a Parthenon.
                
- believe me when i say that the english
language has no inclination of
orthography, since it uses no diacritical
distinctions...
  and yes... russian diacritics is ugly as
your waning babushka of "secrets"...
  - the beauty of existentialism?
            avoidance of the thesaurus,
mismatching words, ambiguity -
the phraseology of: for lack of a better word...
     fiddly parts, you know,
            **** it, you can't exactly
interrupt a waterfall, so why bother
   attempting to boil some water in a saucepan?

  the world once believed in the enterprise
of dialectics, but since the emergence
of a third party mediator,
       what sort of "dialogue's" worth of
the dialectical endeavour is there left?
once upon a time, in ancient,
the mediator of a dialogue was a park
bench, after that a stage for actors...
who asked these third party ponces,
  more to the point: who invited these
plebs into our private debate so they can
mere awe and sigh their saturday nights off?!
who the **** let these plebs in?!

       i'm a pleb, i can call them plebs,
do i ******* look like i work at 10 downing st.?!
plebs only understand pleb talk,
  rude, incoherent, mildly orientated
in journalism, and ever wishing for some
marquis de sade hard-ons.

i encourage dialectical escapism, frankly,
because,
          i 've found that i have a bare
minimum, laurel leaf worth of covering my
genitals aspiration to keep opinions...
    opinions have become spare change,
you loose them almost all the time,
they're the pennies from heaven,
some other lucky ****** might find them,
and then the resourcefulness of that poor
****** is imminent: spend it,
what's there to debate?

                    the only truth of opinion is
that one man keeps them,
and by keeping them, idealises them,
thus becoming an idealist,
  or that another man discards them
as easily as a ***** peacock,
and by doing the ***** peacock strut,
discarding them,
          becomes a chameleon,
a "non-conformist" (**** me that's
stretching the idealist antonym);
  
   if there's a truth: it's a bunch of lies -
and if there's a lie: it's the only truth -
because the rule of pluralism (borrowed from
heidegger states):

          one truth = many lies
           one lie = only one truth

(there is no pluralism of a truth,
       but there is a pluralism of a lie -
the genesis of a lie is?
             a continuum beginning
with the original temptation -
truth is "plural" but it is not
a continuum of precipitation,
but even if it is dismembered
it is a whole, already apparent,
           or rather: to be made apparent,
it does not require a preceding step
to provide a pro-ceding step...
   lies are obstructive,
truth never obstructs; truth rapes,
while lies groom)...

   unum verum = falsum multis
   falsum unum = solum verum unum selem.

i thought it was ****** obvious what i was doing there,
i walked in with my Slayer band t-shirt off
wiping off the sweat from my face...
ah... a cheap bottle of wine... £3.50... a Chilean Merlot...
nothing like cheap wine for some kalimotxo...
and if that wine doesn't do the trick for a nightcap...
the cheapest whiskey available... no more than
35cl: but i promised myself not to drink both completely...
obviously the wine doesn't have an electronic tag
that needs to be taken off at the cashiers'...
but the whiskey does...
come midnight it's this long centipede winding through
the self-checkout aisles...
two... of the finest quality Hijab mystique organising
the flow of people...
oh... the finest...
                     first you scan the items...
then you're asked to wait for the confirmation of your
age... so someone has to some with
a ticket (so little about all of this is about
self-checking-out)... and then... you have to walk
to the end of the aisle to get the electronic tag off...
with your receipt...
so i went to the end... where the bit that takes
the electronic tags off is placed in a drawer...
along with... this night in particular...
a raw white onion... and some baby clothes that
were returned all piled up in a shopping trolley...
apparently i was blocking something important...
that's when i was asked this profound
existential question:
                           what are you doing here?
oh **** me... it hit me like a rock...
i sometimes wish for three things... a slightly bigger
phallus... a much more bushier beard...
and... a talent for wit... for waspish wit...
for playful wit...
   some whiplash wit...
                 something that i might: snap out of something
instead of... what just came out?
a what... sorry... didn't hear that...
'what are you doing here?!'
     exactly those exclamation marks with purpose
of interrogation...
- am i... just growing from the roots up?
- am i... is Goodmayes a no-go zone for white
boys after a 10pm curfew or something?
i grew up around these parts...
i went to school around these parts...
a predominantly Irish neighbourhood...
is this a no-go zone?

i mean... i don't expect pleasantries from
cashiers at... midnight... but it's not like i was
the only person there...
was i holding a cloud of balloons and
wearing a clown suit with full-make up?
did i have an pink elephants on a string
or a golden fly on a chain?

'what are you doing here?!'
what a snap of juicy vindictiveness in that
tiny Hijab specimen of beauty...
i somehow must have invaded her space
or some *******...
but... i was there to get the electronic
tag off the neck of my whiskey bottle...
i don't think i was there to later come
home and write this nonsense:
if she asked me that same question:
on the top of Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh
at 5am...
but then again: no one asks those questions
at 5am on the longest day in the year
on Arthur's Seat... a good morning:
chirpy one... isn't it? suffices...

    being asked a profound existential question
in a supermarket: at midnight of
a Monday is...

   aha... now it's sort of obvious...
            if i decided to go elsewhere with my wine...
say... to the brothel...
and i came across Khadaya... Khadija...
            Khada... all aspects of nakedness...
so this is what my face looks like
to women... after i lost... 20kg in mass?
  i'm attractive once more...
              honest anchoring... she's about to receive
£2.00 per minute for an hour...
and she likes my face... and i like her face...
eh... *** like a Lamborghini and a body that looks
but more importantly feels as comfortable
to touch as... one might hope to find oneself
sitting in a well worn leather armchair...

always objectification within the need for metaphor...
allusions to...
but a bit different when it can't be so obvious...
she's this Hijab donning princess Jasmine
working in the supermarket
and i'm just a cyclist wearing a Slayer t-shirt
who dropped in for a nightcap of cheap
wine and cheap whiskey...
or perhaps to her... i'm...
   some myth of a northern barbarian who...
arrived in Jerusalem with Barbarossa pickled
in a barrel... hmm?
         well... i'm not exactly a werewolf...
   not just yet...

again: was i there to solve a Su Doku puzzle or change
a light-bulb via mime?!
flow of people... i was placing myself
in the least obstructive way possible:
now... i'm overthinking the punch line...
it's coming off as if i'm somehow autistic or something...
who wouldn't...

in the most un-spec-ta-cu-lar of circumstance
you get such an open question...
before having my wisdom teeth pulled out
i asked the anaesthetic man:
quo vadis?

               seems more correct to ask:
such a generality... but not in such a defensive...
almost scolding manner...
i did mention she was a Hijab gem...
a petite little thing who forgot to objectify me
as human traffic of buyer...
with a purse's worth of whiskey
that had an electronic tag attached to the neck
that needed to be "dismantled"...

after skim-watching a few episodes
of the Sopranos... Tony Soprano is deemed an
attractive man by his psychiatrist...
so... what am i? a ******* ageing Adonis
or something?
now it feels bothersome to have lost
those 20kg in mass...
100 push ups a day... 100 stomach crunches...
cycling...
i knew this would land me in a spot of
bother... no more prostitutes joking
(kindly) that i have bigger **** than they have...

thank god the omission of a sudden limp
**** because: she shouldn't be in the profession
and i'm in no mood to ****
a tender, shy, deer...
               because it works when it's required
to work and i'll go through 5 before
it becomes resolute: that lilac / blue pill
will not make me prove a point on just 1...

dinner? cinema?
if she offers up the full platter of ******* oysters
and her body becomes the whole
complexity of cinema...
but not being corned by two Hijab beauties
at the self-checkout aisle
coordinating human traffic...

again: forever in the reiteration pause...
'what are you doing here?!'
am i supposed to be somewhere else?
the question asks itself:
why would a girl of your "sort" ask a whitey
that sort of question?
is this a no-go zone area akin to Malmo
in Sweden... am i expected to don
a ******* Pakistani pyjama to walk safe...
don a bushier beard than the one
i adorn trimmed by an Ottoman?

clearly i'm fuckable and clearly i also ****...
if she was allowed a different scenario
where she wasn't a self-checkout coordinator
and i wasn't speedily trying to get out
from the concept of a queue she might:
ask a less abrupt a question...

**** anything that moves...
       one motto worth keeping in mind when
reading Kant's labyrinth...
i promise this to anyone who undertakes
the "mission"... the part of the critique of pure reason
that comes last in the second volume
that's: a consolidation piece...
that's title: the transcendental methodology...
oh god... it's like this (almost) revelation:
but it's most certainly a joy a cascade to read...
that's when Kant relaxes and doesn't bother
to stress his... systematic approach to...
not language: to the idea...
what the idea is? that's my own to digest...
even these years later...

if she was older than me...
if she wasn't sizing me up... seeing how...
my shadow is probably larger than her body
come noon...
how she might just be...
constipated / claustrophobic through all her...
restrictions in attire...
how she was paired up with another girl
and there was no forbidding authority
of same-faith colleagues looking over them...
she asked me the most profound
question no one is expected to hear
in a supermarket...

           hence these words as spiral...
it's not the first time i've seen these two Hijab beauties...
i can't imagine...
having the audacity to write an autobiography
post... in vivo mortem!
i can't imagine writing... succumbing to write...
after... having lived... a most...
exploitative life...
i shudder at the prospect of reading...
Seven Years in Tibet...
i have the original copy...
it's enough that i read:
Harold Norse's: Memoirs of a ******* Angel...
that's enough for me...

             in writing there's only the fiction:
the fantasy... or the absolutely terrible mundane:
grit...
lives loved by the gods so that they might
be shared with as many as possible
do not belong in the realm of words...
however terrible it might sound...
all the ancient Roman poets wrote prosaic:
if not maxims then anecdotal evidence of...
taking leave: taking leisure in scrutiny..
too much of what's supposedly life
and how language is employed in "said" life
is limited to... bureaucratic fudge-packaging...
try escape that cycle of: abuse of informal language...
when you're expected to begin with:
dear sir /  madam...
   and end with: kind regards /
the distinction between yours faithfully vs. yours
sincerely...

she took a fancy after i already took her fancy...
perhaps it's a shame...
of the hierarchies of man...
and the stresses brought on by time...
all this... graveyard of space.

well, mind you the curvature of the spine,
furry all round,
now glacier smooth with forehead
as naked as a baboon *** -
i'll keep you minding that image -
now, enlighten me,
why are we sending super-expensive
equipment to the celestial sahara
that's mars?
                       why are we gravitating
our inquiry there?
once philosophy was born from awe per se,
now it's born from mindlessness -
and i know it's harsh -
but given the scales, and timing,
i succumb to the physics' time-scale
rather than biology's -
before earth was to be inhabited,
before it was habitable -
the earth was smaller and hotter,
hence the volcanic volatility -
indeed there was life on Mars,
but that life migrated -
it had a different ecosystem -
less obstructive and more inclusive -
when the sun was a higher tier cauldron -
when earth was inhabitable -
when the sun was warmer -
              an earth inhabitable,
life thrived on Mars, once -
but then life on Mars begot migration;
i esteem earth as Australia with all
the convicts dumped on the forgotten
bridges of tectonic continents -
i've been here before, but not in a gorilla suit
readied for a party -
standing outside all of space & time
includes a necessary evil of abstracting either -
and by abstracting creating a different
non-collective narrative -
and so it was:
when the lifespan of the sun at the genesis
point was at its richest,
it soon passed to be excluding,
hence the nadir, the exodus of the sun's lifespan,
when earth became habitable - and was -
prior to the asteroid belt of the celestial
umbilical chord of safety -
still earth resembles the colony that australia
became administering the empire's convicts
among the Aboriginals -
but why probe a dead planet when you
have a dying star to mind?
of course the third planet in question is
Mercury, since Venus is as gaseous
as Jupiter and Saturn -
the world where the red dwarf will become
a spectacular insomnia of the girth,
the equator - but why probe a dead planet?
it's inhabitants never had the same
ecosystem akin to ours - why probe it?
all this work for a ******* ice cube?!
you have to be ******* me!
time-scales, remember, i'm as absurd mentioning
this as society is measuring the Olympic
100 metre sprint akin to formula 1 decimals of
care... i don't care... one finished 1st, the
other 2nd... all it takes is the dipping of
the *** in the sand to begin measuring
the long jump rather than the extended feet mark...
of course there was life on Mars, there was life
on Mars... but the dynamic of the sun changed,
it cooled down... so the next profitable planet
could express itself in evolution
from volcanic eczema... there was once life on Mars,
but there's no longer a case to argue for proof....
globalisation gave us unity among once
warring ethnicities... but that will hardly
accumulate in a trans-global orientation...
i've spotted a u.f.o. once, by god i did...
it was fluorescent like a bug phosphorescent
in the dark with a disco ball *** to shine...
listen... this time-scale is long enough to craft
a future history according to what the Martians
did - and this is my idea of god...
happy? no. sad? no. anything at all? mm...
now we're talking - earth was once
non-habitable, too hot, hence the cold  blooded
lizards akin to birch trees, the scouts of forestry -
then the mammals all confused turning
against each other when the predatory aesthetics
were forgotten at kin and Gemini to lions -
life was once apparent on Mars, but Mars is
a dead planet, i wish it was an antique shop
that the n.a.s.a. hopeful geniuses wish it was...
but it's not... just imagine that train of thought
surrounding the sun like you do with the march
of progress... but with the sun imagine
a rotation of progress...
              hey! i wouldn't be looking for
liquid nitrogen bacteria mummified on Mars...
i'd be wondering how the circle
evolved from O, to 0, to ∞ (8)
given the squish - the opposite of two black holes
colliding; honestly, you can find more meaning
in things while you take the big to be small;
i know i'm not famous among nouns -
i can hardly equal the fame of casual noun usage,
no one can, and i know that the fame i sought
is actually an anonymity in verbs (actions),
i forever the shadow - mind yourself to be content
with such a fate as i have found myself content in
progressing to expressing such a chequered flag -
chequered flag, the irony, the invitation of the many
participants for a game that takes two -
the irony of the chequered flag as the death of chess -
anyway - Mars was once a home to those who
came prior, prior to when earth was not habitable -
bypass Venus and you enter the history of Mercury,
the last rock to be minded -
and no one will prove me wrong, to have lived that
long... it is, i must add, rather dangerous
to posit yourself outside all space and all time -
it's dangerous, there's no saturday night awaiting you,
there's no casual talk over a coffee for mortal
problems taking fold and shape...
once you breach the barriers of sane conclusions
that the river explains you will become a cursor
in the only dimension waiting for you -
a vibrating stasis, imagining geographies for
clearer conclusions of movement -
and since man's technological advances have provided
the entire mapping of the earth,
you will be cleanly placed to usurp any other
imaginings other than those prescribed to
the reduction of yourself as x
moving between             point A                and
                                       point B -
                    now try that without geography
and with knowledge, as the greeks famously answered,
             a coordinating cursor x between
point α                    and                                     ω.

i had a friend once, we used to meet up for drinks and talk *******... i like that notion: once... because it was only for a short period of time, i got ~bored of him, but in actual fact disgusted by him... one of those Dostoyevsky moments from Notes from the Underground... this is the thing about being well-read, self-educated, self-educated to the point where you can loudly say: university taught me nothing, hence my third class degree and ample material of having observed the pigs's numbed snout nibbling on the trough... how easily someone can say: i'm writing a book! i' writing a book! but when the question comes: can i see it? there's no book! i thought this friendly exchange concerning ***** and other juices of creativity would precipitate into a grand finale of actually seeing the sweat and tears on paper... so when i told him: i'm getting published, 100 copies and all, an introduction by an Armenian doctor... decent review... well... naturally jealousy came in... he said i should name the effort a word salad... funny thing about being well-read... you know certain terminological hot points... he was out there writing a book but really smoking dope and playing computer games like computer games are supposed to be played these days: about a million Stephen Spielbergs directing very economised games, very economised meaning: a great investment in them. he was being condescending with suggesting i name my first collection word salad, but that's the problem of being well-read, you know that word salad is a degrading term for someone not capable of writing a coherent narrative... someone who doesn't understand his own words, someone who writes loosely associated sentences of meaning, it's not a pleasant term... that was simply insulting my intelligence, not the sort of intelligence that's quantified within the framework of the i.q., when i mean the less statistical variation i'm invoking: intelligence quantum - a certain amount of understanding concerning a certain focus of interest - as with Kant, we choose what the mind might find entertaining, and discard what isn't entertaining - certainly, not everything contains in itself enough "energy" (for lack of a better word, hence the "   ") to be entertaining, partially because we are limited in what we find entertaining: a) something we understand or   b)   something we can barely grasp... usually the latter scenario, but sometimes the former... but to claim something is a word salad? let's just say i have enough psychiatric literature under my belt to know it's a degrading remark... and the hermit and a severed friendship.

people never think you're well read,
but they never, for once, think that
your isolation is due to the fact that you read,
as with the above stated scenario of
someone thinking you might not have
come across a phrase, that's essentially
degrading - too much video games and ***
will do that to you...
                          as with Bukowski
boasting about reading -
                                             he apparently
read Kant but doesn't bother to mention any
key ideas... populist at heart,
    sure... if i didn't bother to learn the laws
of spelling and punctuation...
                           i'd say as much on the rebellion
of never bothering to learn to tie my shoelaces...
it's pretty much the equivalent of...
     what he already said.
                              and philosophy books do
require patience... they're usually masturbated over
by students writing essays and instead
of going the full nine yards and entering
the narrative, they squeeze out a maxim and that's
that...
                       i'm 30 pages away from
entering the final part of the critique:
                                  transcendental methodology -
30 pages and i'm guessing two years since i
started reading the critique -
                                     well,
philosophy is more geology in terms of reactions
than it is chemistry, where reactions take much
less time to be completed -
                    philosophy in that sense is a variation
of geology - poetry and other forms of literature
are more or less chemically bound to be abrupt,
painfully drunk on the highs and lows -
                             and volatile -
                                                     hence the comparison.
   should i quote? i think i should...

idee czystego rozumu nie mogą nigdy same w sobie
być dialektyczne, lecz jedynie samo złe stosowanie
   ich musi sprawiać, że wypływa z nich dla nas
zwodniczy pozór.
                                                     (p. 303, vol 2,
                                      wydawnictwo naukowe PWN)

               another thing to mention... transcendental
methodology might be simplified in terms of
    transcendental grammar classification, i.e. borrowing
concepts higher than the general classification of words
allows -
                  the double noun exfoliation -
                                    apart from naming a word,
we can absorb the activity of the word beyond mere names:
         words that act as catalysts
                                   words that act as enzymes -
                 should there be specific examples?
                                   in general the substrate to product
transformation using an enzyme
                                                   can be voiced by sophists
throughout the ages -
                                 inflammatory coercion of words
to specific bundles of predictable excerpts is standard
                       when the pulpit is filled and all void denied.
but concerning the above quote, i too was thinking
something along the lines of *a priori being obstructive
       of the ideas of pure reason accommodating dialectics.

trans.
            ideas of pure reason cannot, ever, in themselves
                    be dialectical, but only the wrong application
of such ideas must cause, that from them there flows
        a deceptive guise.

      i could quote further, but the a priori principle is
the argued against dialectics are a false nature acquisition
in terms of these ideas of pure reasoning -
               that we've been given these ideas by a supreme
manifestation of nature in us, i.e. that this highest of
all possible tribunals dealing with pretensions and laws
of our speculation, could also contain within itself
primordial illusions and (loosely) spaghetti muddles.

            true to the reason behind moving from a)
a priori              through to          b)    a posteriori -
        if pure ideas are caustically anti-dialectical,
it's because dialectics would rarely mind the transition
being elementary -
                                       but then again,
i imagine the dialectics in a purely a priori guise
and the Newtonian debate given Einstein's counter-proofs...
in that sense, i somehow seem to disagree with Kant...
well, then again no... in themselves they cannot be
dialectical: i.e. disputed or argued against,
  hence the deceptive guise when Newton was supreme
for so many centuries and then Einstein came along
   and the mask that Newton put on the face of gravity
was to be found not straight, but parabolic.
so yes, that's true: time and space are ideas of pure reason,
and they cannot be dialectical -
                                        even though they are
but not in-themselves dialectical,
                                        they have to possess a dialectical
facade, or at least that's what they exfoliated
              and sedate with...
                                              i'd go one step further:
dialectics is, as far as i know, the only way to approach
ideas of pure reason -
                                           only once dialectics shows
us the ideas of impure reason (the Socratic daemon) -
as leading us into acknowledgement
                                              that certain things are truly
non-debatable -
                                      but that they somehow have
to be debated in order that they might be refined
for the purpose of them being true to their nature:
non-dialectical.
                                   this approach is at least better than
what becomes forcefully adhered to,
                                 i'm still facing a dialectical concern
over Darwinism...
                                      primarily because...
well... my concern is that a belief in a god is more comforting
not for some case in jurisprudence, a heaven on high...
          it's the bothersome timescale and the fact that
skeletons and drawings on cave walls are not much of
a comfort either...
                                   partially also, due to the fact that
i like to think about the item of concern, rather than
express some sort of benediction toward the item of concern:
    there's nothing insensible about that,
given that god, as much as space and time, is an idea
of pure reason -                if i was imbued with
   a natural supplement of atheism, i'd still be trapped
in a dialectical moment of concern -
                                 until i'd finally shed all manner
of a dialectical approach concerning the idea: and make
the final non-dialectical statement of faith.
the flip side is not whether you're right or wrong,
  but whether you actually can make that statement.
as far as i'm concerned (well, i never had that much
admiration for the man) - Mr. B never read a **** thing
of philosophy.

i find it abhorring to somehow feel the need for
a condescending approach to this subject of interest...
as any assurance there need be concerning philosophy...
one thing is perfected witch each new approach to
the subject: you never actually find the time to moan
about not being with women... or how poorly humans
treat each other... you never seem to complain about
solitude, you never once feel lonely...
                                                   you quiet simply get on
with it...                         perhaps that's what it always way:
the best way to entertain yourself...
                    you're basically having to write out with
ease crossword puzzles in your mind that precipitate down
onto the blank page... somehow with it:
life is bearable when alone... and there are more
entertainment hot-spots... none to do with gambling...
                 so that's about as much as being pegged
down to size actually means...
                                         never true: that cinematic
feat to depict modern (and very much Anglo) guises
of modern alienation...
                                           then again: he probably
did read it, but he never bothered to discuss it in any
way relevant as for it to be revealing his interest in
the topics... macho cool keeping it trendy, i'm guessing.

i can't believe i'm living out my life's
10 seconds of stupidity with
an un-payable debit account security
of future credit, loans, debt and moaning...
**** me double twice blind with a joker in hand...
of course i'm stupid, i got educated in
a world that pays you back with menial
labour, to look pretty... seriously,
don't do the stupidest thing imaginable and
get yourself a university degree, unless
you're a woman, that's fine, you'll get to
meet and voluntarily wet your ******
with the next president of Romania,
but we need idiot mechanics, and believe
me, i'd rather oil up car pistons like
stroking giraffe necks of Myanmar women....
from **** generals cited through to Epicurus' citation...
believe me, i wish i was smarter,
most of posthumous fame is a regard of
obstructive i.q.,
we were believed to not take offence at our
exposure to systematisation
which educated both thief and banker...
none of the two differ... both excusable buffers...
we trusted people... trust was our biggest idiotic remark...
and now the earth in spin... for endless maxims:
it's like that... and that's the way it is;
no wonder i end up watching serial killer
documentaries.

A bird glides gracefully whilst the discolored leaves are aflutter
   In the wind that rocks the cold rotted wood of the window's shutter;
   All while the obstructive trees cause the wind’s speech to stutter.
   Yet she still howls with an intense pressure on me chest; I can barely utter
   My feelings toward this heavy air of eeriness about me—
   Nearly as heavy as the insignificance in the noose of the tree—
   A decomposed mutilation of all that is good, hung for all to see—
   A shriveled neck and half-dissolved eyes that still long to be free—
   The blood long lost, the body now pale—why does it stress?
   Why is life in its eyes, why does it shrug off Death’s caress?
   And as the sun is fully blotted by the black clouds, unfatigued,
   A hot stench like the enhancement of rotten fruit—yet I am intrigued—
   Descends upon me with the force of a vise equipped with knives—
   ‘Tis the horror of what only the spirits of the dead can contrive.
  
   And visions—horrible visions!—overwhelm me and present terrors:—!
   Rain steadily falls and patters incessantly upon an accursed Earth;
   Surrounding the hanging man are graves—and so begins the second birth:—!
   The tombstones crack and crumble into hundreds of jagged stones;
   An earthquake manifests quickly, and violently rattled my bones
   And remorselessly disembowels the Earth of the trees’ roots;
   Suddenly far more prominent is the awful stench of the fruits;
   An unsettling revelation is brought to my undivided attention:
   The tombstones’ collapse and the earthquake are not in relation,
   But the earthquake is a result of monsters unleashing their power.
   And the tombstones—but what of the tombstones’ fall?
   Startled, I see that replacing the hanging man is a voodoo doll,
   Dancing with its tiny limbs and smiling nonstop, locking its black eyes
   On my horrified self; I cringe and tremble in this demonic guise.
   A screeching note erupts from its unmoving mouth; it hovers in the air
   While I am frightfully dehumanized by the doll’s inexorable stare.
   While the screech lingers, the wet soil of the graves shifts quietly,
   The noise of splitting, wet dirt drowned out by the screech of cruelty.
   As it becomes clear the voodoo doll’s dance is one of conjuring,
   ’Tis revealed to me that the tombstones fell because of remembering:
   The dead do not believe they should be remembered, reflected upon...
   The second birth’s process is agonizingly long as I become wan.
   But before I nearly faint—and leave the visions—I receive an unwanted help:
   The doll’s gesticulations are directed toward me; even so, she raises Hell.
   My mind is frightfully clear to see all before me, and the dizziness has left.
   Oh, why these visions? Why with this horrible curse I am blessed?
  
   I am met with the most terrifying sight of all; my heart quickens.
   As the rain falls harder and begins to puddle, my blood thickens
   And very nearly ceases to flow as I watch the dead come to life.
   Gnarled fingers, some broken and some missing, ignore Death’s inflicted strife.
   Fingers—disjointed, protruding in random directions, treelike;
   Grime under the fingernails—fingernails, chipped or long spikes;
   Hardly any flesh on the old, ***** bones; muscles dripping off.
   Bodies, mutilated by natural decomposition, burst with raging coughs
   From the eviscerated Earth, black with age, red with dried blood.
   The dead, limping and holding what organs they still have, slip in the mud,
   Fall, fill their empty ribcages with it, and scream as limbs are torn away;
   Scream, as they are free from the grave, the path that led them astray.
  
   Oh, the feelings of dread that are eroding my scarred mind!
   What awful horrors have I stumbled upon, what did I find?
   One undead woman is staring at me with unfortunately soulless eyes;
   A few long hairs messily fall from her shriveled head, infested with flies,
   And her eyes—oh, her eyes!—are as small as raisins, wrinkly and white;
   They hover in her sockets, the skull only half-covered—pure fright!—
   With dead skin. Why is her toothless skull grinning mischievously?
   Is she enjoying my terror that leaves my trembling grievously?
   Abruptly, the still, deformed grotesquerie releases a sickening gurgle
   And violently shakes, as if under some overwhelming mental struggle.
   Her jaw falls open, unattended from the necessary muscles’ absence,
   And screaming laughter flows out of her agape mouth; malevolence
   Seeps from it in the form of pitchy black smoke and tightens the air.
   And all the while is still her unfailing, gut-wrenching stare!
   Her chest, dilapidated from the Earth's engulfment of her, explodes—
   A black skeletal hand, emerging from the body that was its abode—
   A demon, a black skeleton, blood gushing from its mouth, fire in its eyes—
   And tattered wings spread as the screamer takes to the hellish skies.
   It hovers around the dancing voodoo doll, circling her,
   Worshipping the smiling thing that was sewn with maleficence and fear.
  
   “But what are these things?” I ask as the undead congregate.
   “Is this how horrible life will be beyond Hell’s gates?”
   But it is made revealed to me that the people are eternal
   Inhabitants of Hell—Hell inside me; the spiritual realm is internal.
   “Why do they gather around the doll and bow in submission?”
   But, to my dismay, there is no answer to this deathly war of attrition.
  
   “Vultures!” I hear, a thunderous, wicked voice from up above.
   “You do not know what you are to believe, or what to love!”
   The dead dance in slow, uncoordinated movements, circling
   The doll. Even the shadows ominously flicker, no longer lurking.
   The black demon floats and gestures to the moaning dead,
   Beckoning them to rise from their permanent deathbeds
   To chant and flail their measly arms in worship of the voodoo.
   What have I done to be cast into this dangerous world askew?
   “You are a vulture, searching helplessly for something to feast
   “When the desperate hunger is turning you into the demons’ beast.
   “And when the food is gone, you search for your next dying idol.
   “For you, the inevitable conquest for falsities will never be final.”
  
[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]
  
   The room of a once peaceful dwelling is a victim of an apocalypse:—
   ‘Tis as if it has mutated into the imagery of a drug’s dangerous trip:—
   The walls are bent in, threatening to collapse under the pressure;
   Books are shredded, shelves are upturned, and obliterated is the dresser;
   Blood drips from numerous cracks in the ceiling and paints the walls.
   ‘Tis many moments of being awestruck before I realize the mirror calls.
   Vision is blurry, a hollow ringing sings, and my surroundings fade.
   My legs of jelly drag my heavy body into the dark hall’s shade.
  
   I yell at the sight in the cracked mirror, but my voice is painfully missing.
   It appears as if my entire face is losing its grip and is slowly slipping.
   Gravity’s grappling hooks have taken a strong hold and are pulling.
   The entirety of my eyes is almost visible from the disturbing lack of coverage.
   My jaw refuses to rise back up, as if the muscles have lost their leverage.
   It adds to the terror—how unsightly I am! How revolting!
   I am no longer human but an otherworldly, disgusting being!
   A scream that is not my own bursts from my agape mouth and shatters the mirror.
   It deafens my ears like a knife; I feel the fiery tearing of my vocal cords.
   “Vulture,” I vaguely hear but clearly curl my dry, thin lips to.
   “Go, find your food, find your idol, bathe in what you think is true.”
   Violently, desperately, crashing into walls with wild, uncontrollable limbs,
   I purposelessly search for the spirit that will welcome my immovable sins.

Allergies exist on a scale
From mild to severe
I once had a friend
Who did not understand why I had allergies
Why I always sneezed
And had to blow my nose
Why I always opened a window
And looked like ****
The allergies became a nuisance to people
Annoying
In the way
Obstructive
Then one day
That friend developed allergies
He came over sneezing
Is this what it’s like?!
I feel so bad for you
I never knew how it felt
My body is attacking me
It’s horrible
You don’t have to experience things
To show kindness
Simple acts of sympathy and empathy
Carry other miles

i did study schizophrenia for several years,
i'd 7, in total -
                             but would i agree
with Kraepelin? probably not...
                       after studying five psychiatrists
with the power position of:
                 well... i'm not...
                                          what you think
i am in your attempts to treat me, i learned a great
deal of things... as you know the now infamous
national health service is doing a cracking job
at infuriating junior doctors...
              the media are pressing
for more investment in why no one has bothered
themselves to identify premature depression...
only because... schizophrenia... is... quiet frankly...
a non-medical noun... call it what you want
otherwise... it's a highly polarised name
for the leftist agenda: it's basically medicine:
politicised -
                       i.e. you can be a conservative,
a liberal, a socialist, a ****** fascist...
or a schizophrenic...
                                       i'm just thinking about
genuine sufferers huddling in their dozens saying,
in accordance with the previous name for
the condition (premature dementia):
   why the ****... am i so creative... all of a sudden?
and Nietzsche was right when he said:
individual madness is rare... madness en masse?
that's a norm...
                                 none of those bargain shoppers
waiting overnight in queues to get into
bargain sales at Harrods ever get mentioned...
but to my: i spy with my little eye...
        about a hundred crackpots standing to ovation
(deeply desired) -
                   **** me if you get trapped in this
windmill of the medical joke...
                     the part of medicine that left it open
to allow politics to engage with authentic conditions...
authenticity has a ring to it: John Nash's
Nobel prize medal and diploma will fetch
an apparent $4 million at Sotheby's (if not more)...
   i just can't see how schizophrenic are what
they aren't: wouldn't it be easier to say:
                  the other kind of dualism?
or Geminis without the ****** zodiac talk of:
peasant watching pheasants die at a shooting range?
     i don't want to be believed...
         i have my national security number,
i have my passport number,
   i have my date of birth... and **** me... a telephone number
  +44 01708 766 994...  
                i just hate the fact that people with
this condition aren't acknowledged...
    ****** me off, day in, day out...
                          the peasants just licked the salt
from the wound and added pepper for the extra sting...
it's the one medical condition, not
                 understood, precisely because it was reined in
by politicians... and, let me tell you,
understanding something while practising
rhetoric is how sophists go about their ways...
they're already two timing the ******* crowd,
and they can't seem to address what schizophrenics are:
hallucinatory self-esteem minders: basically:
they don't know how lucky they are...
             symptoms of the Buddha preaching a middle
path... or Nietzsche's beyond good and evil...
                  they are simply exercising
   an experimental duality without a need for
obstructive conscience or lack of it...
             yes, experimental because of the symptoms...
and therefore lacking all the symptoms of someone
without a conscience:
                     enclosed: the subconscious speaks -
and god forbid i like this psychological verbiage...
let's just say i want to make language pharmacological...
    i want to make the ideal pill in terms of language...
but never prescribe anyone anything...
                           but in popular press
the political elite always exploit a genuine
medical condition in order to quash their competitors,
while the genuine sufferers become obsolete
oddities...
                    because why would you first call it
premature dementia (two classes of old people:
the melancholic and the demented...
                the demented are suffering for past and hidden
ills done unto others... the melancholics?
      it is done, and all i have in reward is a television
set and a bribe from death to live 25 years in leisure
watching sea waves and wrinkles tattoo my forehead
with age)...
                         but imagine premature dementia...
(the praecox variation) -
                                    the older name evolved
into a description of en enhanced version of dualism:
or split-mind (******                        could evolve
further into duo-                   or two, rather than split,
            and hence the mind, or -phren) duophren...
the lost impulse to follow-up thinking of choice -
          in the "schizoid's" mind i see
                      the subconscious brimming to its full
potential and reaching a hallucinatory status -
and if ever you thought that auditory hallucination
wasn't the worst imaginable hallucination -
then your Darwinism is shy-locked into
    the fancies of Huxley on mescalin and the hipster
trend of the 1960's escapism...
                  auditory hallucination?
well... you're probably part of the bible crew...
       and that nutty fragrance of your words:
appeals to the few: frightens the villagers...
(**** break, headbutting the cat, yum yum yum)
           or the Sims...
                                  i stopped playing the first
edition after discovering a wormhole when
i steered the Sim to play computer games...
          you know how it goes: you're playing a
game of puppets, you make a puppet go to a computer
and play computer games, you're yourself playing
a computer game... ****! then you stop playing the
computer game.
                that's 7 years studying the disease
(lighter use of language? dis- [negation] of -ease,
          being denied a certain ease of mobility)
                  and not based on theory,
but based on experience...
                                   on the petition so far?
   Bukowski and Burroughs...
                                      obviously icons but not exactly
saints...
                                  but after a while, you sort of
forget scientific positivism...
             they're looking for life on Mars and a Jupiter moon
when they know that the earth as hostile to anything
but volcanic reactions... if there is life on these two
globes: it's way past gone...
                     as already stated,
            schizophrenics are actually the most formidable
political tools: the fear of men in white coats...
  because everyone accepts the apathy due to their
persistent lying (politicians): the men in grey suits...
                        schizophrenics, i'd say,
are the source of all phobias surrounding mankind...
         oddly enough: schizophrenics are the most
adaptable to fathom the divine comedy...
                        it's gone way past Balzac and the human
comedy... it really has...
                                         i just don't like the way
schizophrenics have their condition robbed of any
medical ambition to say something, but instead are
drowned in sophism, a mere rhetorical tool
to scare off opponents... 7 ****** years...
                      and as i began, i'd disagree with
Kraepelin, but agree with Eugen Bleuler -
a Swiss who i thought was an Estonian... never mind...
because psychiatry is at best, a populist version
of philosophy... like Christianity is populist Platonism...
psychiatry is a populist version of philosophy...
   and what we're talking about is not a sigma
interpretation of uniform evolution of species,
but the evolution of words, or, specifically:
compound words - the desire to replenish aged
standards of then original insight:
         premature dementia (dementia praecox),
that evolved into              schizophrenia
                                   (split mind)
                          that had to evolve into a tier of
acceptable dualism -                     casually phrased:
           to be of two-minds                   as in zodiac
in all alchemy shortened to:               the schematic of twins.
obviously the table will not evolve -
                          it's probably a borrowed word
and has its limits - probably Nordic or Germanic
and standardised to a babel transliteration -
             but concerning scientific words...
i see a need for a linguistic Darwinism (fancy words,
coming from someone without an
authoritarian position to prescribe pills to people),
                it has too evolve, primarily because the word
has been underused by the medical profession...
       and has been overused for political despotism in
shaming political competitors and exposé journalists...
       added to the fact that psychiatrists in
England are clueless people who were abused as
children... one even admitted to me,
a confession, musing aloud, not exactly prescribing me
with a delusion, although i gathered just as much:
             oh, he must have been abused as a child -
to which i might have added:
           and turned toward the study of psychiatry to
claim the ultimate fetish'o-sadistic status in society...
   a cowboy psychiatrist.
               they're out there... they're waiting with
the zombie pills...
                                    anything except sleeping pills,
vitamins and high-blood pressure pills...
             i'd flush down the toilet:
well sure, i used to weigh as much as i do now...
the weight doesn't make me uncomfortable...
               i went down from 101kg to 70kg
       over one summer riding my bicycle i

they say to love yourself

but sometimes
it's easier said than done
when all around you
there is an eddy of
slim thighs

                      flat bellies

                                            long legs

and all you feel like
is an obstructive rock
marring the perfection
of the current.

Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****?
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.

the blatant frustrations of live feed editing.*

enter the tablet, joystick free, one touch games,
quiet interesting that it’s so hard
to get a gaming addiction with such games
as candy crush soda, family farm,
bubble witch 2...
you will not see an adrenaline tornado on these
platitudes, no movie like involvement,
no plot... just time contraints, money constraints,
the adequate reflection of life: hey mort! when you coming?
hey forthnight debility cheque! when you coming?
(i too thought tetris originated in japan,
but it was actually of soviet design!
so in conclusion: games designed to be as reflected
by someone doing a crossword - i'm crap at
those, being bilingual is obstructive -
i'm in constant translation mode looking
for picturesque synonymity - or doing sūdoku -
which i'm not too bad at.)
a bit like that jesus debacle, so gott insisted on giving
proof of his existence to a baby... bad move...
the kid grew up in a bubble and thought he could do anything...
elijah just said to the priests: but if your god doesn’t exist,
what’s the point of having you? later he repented
on mt. sinai where god was but a whisper...
like the whisper of the dream of what rome was at first:
a republic. i believe in republicanism, i don’t believe
in that shamble that’s known as democracy, and is currently
the biggest export from america... exported to usurp
other nation’s republicanism - the elders of afghanistan
will never be modern family mr. jason wordsmith and
mr. jack wordsmith, raising an adopted / surrogate mother’s
kid... not in a million years... nor will revised buddhism
in western europe ever be original shinto of japan...
not in a million years... we’re not a monochromatic people.
back to jesus: there’s not one shred of christianity in
jurisprudence (philosophy of law /
etymology: prudence of having a jury) - but when you’re faced
with an enemy who’s a lawyer, and has connections...
and you’re a poor idiot who was forced into a paranoid schizophrenia
simulation for 7 years... you don’t set out to attack
and get compensation like that woman schopenhauer pushed
down the stairs... you set out to prove god -
and subsequently leave the ******* in his own waiting
line for karma - i hardly think there will be an oliver twit
in him to ask for some more.

Blithe golden cloud, that once tugged at my heart strings
enigmatic pubescent,warm master work of raising steam,
you did drift too low, to be real for my sun scorched world
but deliberately pretended cold,when I waved, repeatedly,
I ardently wooed, to the alarm of your admirers, a legion
how I longed for the secrets, you whispered,know you more
aren't you fire within, that burns heart,lightening concealed?
Formed in sensual, undulating softness, hiding, fiery desires?

I waited, for you to touch ground, as you promised,to explore
being naive, you inadvertently tangled with the tree branches!
Obstructive self seekers,who craftily trapped you in thickets
and little by little, in grey strands you vanished in thin air...
A lesson to all straying cloudlets,I had to be sadly a witness.

Time...a puzzle
   to realists and surrealists alike

Time...a puzzle
   of grand pieces
    obvious if obtuse
     obtrusive and obstructive
   laboriously laid to waste
    constructing a picture of existence
     solid yet stolid

Time...a puzzle
   of fine pieces
    subtle if sharp
     spacious and serene
   pensively placed at random
    culminating in a mosaic of life
      fragmented yet feeling

Time...a puzzle of pieces
   contained within a box
   ...or...
   in a different dimension altogether...

The overwhelming pull and flow
The doubtful peace we may once know
Surf and wave that disrupts the sand
Never receding except on command

The foam that's left up on the beach
Something the breakers can't seem to reach
Pops and bursts all in due time
Not truly obstructive nor truly benign

The tides come and leave again and again
A cycle continued never with end
The beaches will change and water grow warm
But the tides, they will forever perform

/                                                    so...

    gravity is a vertical

powerhouse...

  while magnetism

is a horizontal equivalent...

i get it,

     well, not really...

a fear of the night?
    
  counter a fear of open space /
large crowds...

   can the two never, ever,
be synonyms?

        but there's a sensation
replica akin to magnets...
  
  and the sensation doesn't express
itself sideways,
but within the confines of a copernican
up and down        \/===....

sideways? nothing,
up and down,
like my neighbours playing
my nintendo,
and almost experiencing
an itch, on the tip of my fingers...

you can't get this if you're
not a one child policy artifact of
chinese politics...
            enforced "solipsism" type of:
oh, look at you!
    not in my boat?
not a giraffe?!
          comes the time when
you tell a ******: overboard
with 'im!  ****...
bypassing: walking the plank...
he'll either giggle with the dolphins...
or look dark eye with the sharks...

but you can sense a magnetism
with a naked hand,
eased away, or rather, lost to the night...
there's this obstructive force
you entertain with north-north
facing magnets...

      sonny corleone type,
akin to the nonchalance: hey! a pizza!
        no biggie!

            what's gravity sideways?
yes, copernican, gravity horizontally?
police academy joke...
             what's magnetism vertically?
what's east, left, right, west,
up, south and down-trodden centre
                       (north)?
                        
     i thought flat-earth implied that:
you could actually navigate a car
past the rhine spaghetti of

duisburg, düsseldorf,
                  essen, dortmund...

you want a flat earth?
it's there...
   reading a printed map,
navigating a car like
      competing in a rally race...

3D earth is about useful
on this navigational crux of
travelling to poland from england,
like an ice-cream on a rolly-polly
shoved up a dead turkey's ***
on the 4th of july.

no one questions the facts
at this point,
   but somehow it's worth unquestioning
the copernican genesis
with a bundle, unfolded,
and stressed as: ably read;
i.e. what the metallurgy professionals
demand a technical drawing to
be...

      i still don't know whether gravity
is allowed a, sideways, a throw,
a horizontal aspect of existence...
  rather than increments, of up,
shying away from a jamaican 100m,
or the somali 5000m
                       for a sip of water...

maybe the heatwave, coupled
with: maybe the fasting...
            but magnetism is akin to
a sensation of numbing...
       sure as **** gravity doesn't
express itself sidewise...
             and magnetism is
left right up down and center
equally, being the same:
nodding approval...

                   magnetism and
a numbing sensation of obstruction
on the tips of your hand...

   gravity is too objective
at this point...
              it has exhausted itself
as a subject matter with einschtein...
and whoever roman polanski was...

             magnetism and the skeletal
unravelling...
   a numbing sensation on the tips
of your fingers...
   since... what's west of nowhere
when there's the universe that
is a one dimensional proportionate
aspect of "space", confined to a "time"?

a sensation avert to falling,
bound to encompass even
the sameness of such expression within
dreams...
an up, to a north, a down,
to a south...
           but then... regressing
to defame pluto as a planet...
  outlier moon... ice, thingy majig...

    magnetism! in the palm of my hand...
a numbing sensation
on the tip of my fingers, and then as
the entire hand outstreched...

   the concern for understanding
magnetism, will be,
what the 19th and the 20th century was
concerned, within the confines
of electricity.

rereading is sheer masochism; poems that are like quantum maps of complete disorientation, walking across horizons with a crazy Bermuda triangle compass constantly spinning, with no scientific entry point of potential of itemisation, a bit like π, and yes, re-wording or revising a poem in english you have to deal with conjunctions that turn out to be prepositions, and indeed pseudo-adjectives too; so many ******* modifiers of phraseology.

one of the reasons, i find,
why man encodes sounds,
is because of the images
he generates;
****, ******, war;
we encode sound to hush,
we encode sounds as a way
to trivialise if not simply obstruct
images, we find "peace"
encoding sounds, to limit the possibilities
of generating images,
we're not keen on generating images,
we encode, we encode sounds,
without the zenith (the sound of raindrops)
nor the nadir (the sound of rapes),
we try to encode sounds, but we never
really decode image recurrence
as necessarily being obstructed,
we say the same **** like our toiletry practice,
sure we encode sounds perfectly, elaborate spelling
and grammatical technique,
but when we paint we depict...
we can't encode to decode-an-obstruction in that medium,
we can't surd the **** thing from ever
repeating itself, we depict in order to
conceive a pendulum and a forward magnetism,
images don't seem to be artefacts of obstructive-decoding,
of sentencing to a taboo, more like passive-encoding...
easier the crucifix or an electric chair...
we can encode sounds, but we can't encode
images, since we exploit them
for an unnecessary repetition -
the regurgitation of life's something, and an awareness of it,
we can encode sounds with the 26 surds...
but then the medium of assembling contortions
of shapes in the medium of the rainbow
gives air to exfoliate - the oyster pores opening
up eagerly for experience, however painful...
try it... you can't encode red of a rose or the sunset
with oils of the required sediment / pixel...
encode it... *red...
we love to hush matters and brush them aside...
which is why painting by posthumous artists sell
for so much, we have civilisation but no tribalism...
no society as such...
we encoded the pains and pleasures,
but made experiences doubly opulent by a lack
of encoding the rainbow spectrum into either white or
black extremes... sleep or blankness...
indeed sounds are easily encoded,
but images and conventions of experiences aren't...
with encoded sounds there's no mirroring effect...
they remain, the everlasting imprint on the psyche...
i can convene with you over the sound of the periodic
A, as it supposedly instructs you in it being pronounced
via the allowance of being strapped into
the role of dentistry's guinea pig...
but where are we with green? is that short
of amber to instruct you in what? what?
imagining a meadow, or instructing you to talk
like a Hackney hipster after puffing dead a blunt?

In meadows, rich with clover, I have seen them here before;
those industrious little creatures at their pollinating chore.
Now the land is strangely silent, was Rachel Carson right?
Are we killing all the bumblebees? Have they made their final flight?
There are those who point to climate change as the source of all our pain.
If the bumble bee is dying, it is heat stress that’s to blame.
Others theorize a virus as the cause of their demise;
an illness ravaging the hives and emptying our skies.
I even heard one scientist make the hypothesis
that our overuse of cell phones is the cause of all of this.

Could it be that our usage of glyphosate is to blame;
As GMO spreads on our fields, our crops are not the same.
Monsanto is an Agri-Corp with bought friends in D.C.;
A “friendly Legislature insures profitability.
The F.D.A. is slow to act; Congress drafts obstructive laws.
It seems to me, just possibly, they already know the cause.

i find the children of immigrants born in a foreign land,
learning the inorganic tongue
parallel to the organic compartments
of schizoid conditioning, in the haystack of splinters,
the perpetual contradiction -
the unsure waves without a final
commencing tide -
i find these children the most bothered
to hear the coin flip, two sides  exposed: to be asked
whether the integration process was fulfilled
and the organic tongue was cut off
with the question: in what language
do you think? these children who are
in the cultural poverty of the jihad
who only speak cursor singled out words,
who have to welcome a cultural identity
by relinquishing one of their parents,
who's parents never taught them bilingualism
as an asset rather than a source of complaints,
who would sometimes dearly impress themselves
with inorganic points of view that might
**** their parents - like the cultural cleansing
of long forgotten welsh or gaelic: this among other
signals of a loss of posterity - forced into a smouldering
cauldron of ease, that's hardly at ease -
i find these children the most stunted culturally,
bringing no identity, no pride of distinction
that could empower all of us -
for the best they can bring... is a cookbook;
perhaps the sole reason for the failures of
marcus garvey was precisely that - the ancient
tongue turned numb, then turned to gangrene,
and slid from behind the ivory gates -
there's that: the need for an organic symbiosis
with the origin, but perhaps by then,
the west indies were too appealing to be left
for other settlers - but as all musings go -
there are many unknowns - the ancient tongue
perhaps shed, but the tongue given proved to
be too restrictive in its original guise: for the whip
and the exploitation led to a linguistic rebellion
of creating a unique people-owned dialects,
people were given a phonetic manna - for their
own safeguard, to deviate from all manner of
orthodoxy intended for the education of
"civilised" classes - which only proved the instability
of the english tongue, the existence of phonetic
approximations with beautiful orthography,
but a harrowing due to this beauty by certain
obstructive forces of the perceived tongue silent,
encoded by the 26 digits, inflamed by many laws
of particularised pronunciation: which established
english as an almost universal tongue on earth:
the lingua franca - a language that has no conceptualisation
of exhausting heat of noon and siestas,
of stressful nocturnal living expected for the friday
and the saturday every week, rather than everyday
usual - so if i were to write out all the particularised
pronunciation examples i'd be here all day - if only
but a few evolutionary traits upon inheritance of
the latin alphabet were allowed for the english language,
there'd be less bewilderment at having to excavate
deep into the caves of memory, the echoes shouted
from the depths of these caves would not actually
resonate as echoes do, but would be sharp and distinct:
one of each; or as they say of the y from the tetragrammaton:
the vowel modulator, invokes vowel-morphing:
ply (i)                               as one example
                                          and the first h being the vowel
stabiliser,
                 oh                       poker      
                 eh                       extricate (ex-tree-cate /
tri                                        bi),
and to stress a basis for kabbalah, once all theories
of worded expeditions become exhausted, as either
accomplished or never-to-be accomplished, e.g. utopia,
the only thing remaining to do is to check the limits
with these atoms in simple syllable compounds,
where a safeguard is kabbalah - not so much a mention
of elocution as the intended process of inquiry,
but apart from meaningful prefix syllables like
pre-, pro-, con-, a-, super-, trans-, meta-, ortho- etc.,
i see what optical dissections guide me back into
the realm of meaningful words:
the second h is reserved for laughter, the only
consonant that allows the freedom to laugh, given
laughter has to be expressed by one consonant
and at least 2 vowels, and no other consonant allows this
to happen.

Bow down to the kings of fact evasion
evading the truth on every occasion
occasional lies put into the equation
equating to a killing persuasion

persuading others to join the foundation
founded on this murdering fixation
fixated on their own classification
classified as private information

informed minds can be more productive
producing a way that is less obstructive
obstruction stopped by thoughts constructive
construction of the less destructive

Last word must be used in a different form for the first word in the next line.

Classy J going array, with such sassy display to you’re overbearing dismay. Blasting off today, I’m as cool as sorbet, but yet as hot as soufflé. Everlasting eternities as the cycle goes on for humanity, where some live for the moment and others search for divinity. ****** prey wanting me on their tray, the only thing I’ll give you is the direction to the doorway. Rick Ashley stray’s, I’ll throw yawl back out in the alleyway. Future class, never ever low on gas, if you mess with me, I’ll shatter you like glass. I’ll use a computer bypass, to shove a virus up your ***, not to be played with, bro don’t you know that I’m bats. I don’t butcher the masses, or overburden you like taxes, I’m just your average Joe trying to make good of all this blackness.

Not a sore loser, nor a party pooper dear querying lass, I stand my ground; yeah you bet I got ***** of brass. While some of yawl puff the grass, this creature is trying to cure the world’s tumor created by us jack assess. Don’t run on flats, tackling my demons to the mat, yeah I have gotten through life by crawling down its crevasse! Don’t listen to rumors, some call me a trooper, you have to learn how to maneuver all haters and accusers. Living life by focusing on the hourglass, I’m not one to sit idle peeping out the looking glass. But forget all of that because life is nuts, and I’m just an outlet that slams the hard truth to your guts. Enough with your meaningless chitchat, I’m done with all yawl fretting and *******, time to buck up pussycats. Your listening to a lyrical architect, don’t have time for rats or insects, this is just apart of the classy effect.

I don’t make threats, don’t you forget I make promises that will eventually be met. I’m just a twisted afflicted un-constricted gifted individual who tries his best not to be too cynical. It’s so inconceivable but yet so believable, not your typical rapper, yeah I got principal. I am always original, I am a mystical miracle; yeah I’ll be making sure you know I’m no longer going to be invisible. Beat the odds, unlike all these frauds, I know my place, I’m definitely not a God. Heated rods of critics who keep on trying to burn me, but it just feels like a thorn to me. Street with needs to meet, used to the odds, so don’t think we’ll grovel at your feet. We are not mincemeat, we are not just going to take a backseat, we stubborn as concrete, yeah we are not going to retreat.

Privileged trying to turn us neat and tidy, without them they say we incomplete, that even though we coloured we should strive to be just another ignorant whitey. Don’t you know it’s all about image? We are savages, yet they are the one’s who diseased and burned down our villages. No I don’t seek forgiveness from wily coyotes, we are not a showpiece, like some kind of conquest trophy. No I’m not finished, is there something wrong with your psyche, naughty sly feisty vermin that itch like poison ivy. I politely tell you to ****, love the irony of your fear and hate of aliens, when you yourselves came to this land from a ship, which to us was a UFO. Anyways like I said, I may go off on different tangents or phases, because there are places one needs to tread. I like to educate airheads, I like to make em red; yeah I don’t leave things unsaid.
I want to unthread this sideways planet, if you’re looking for someone who doesn’t mince words; well I’m your prime candidate.

E-town is what I represent, legacy I will cement, rap game I came to resurrect. Let’s rundown the extent of these frequent fallacious formalities, those auto-tuned drugged up wangsters that are the definition of distasteful unoriginality. I frown upon the dissent of where rap ended up, it sure need a classy clean up. I know music is subjective that it is all in perspective, but to me this garbage kids listen to is far from impressive. I find trap music ineffective and unreflective, I don’t respect something so obstructive. That’s just my two cents, and though to me it makes no sense, others may not agree and still listen to that senseless content. What I’m trying say is opinions are like *******, everyone got one, but that’s what makes us unique souls. This is just a part of the classy effect, can’t wait for what happens next, can’t wait for changes to manifest.

i discovered philosophy late, i guess the best age to lose your literate virginity to the subject is best asserted aged 21, prior to that i read, traded Linkin Park's hybrid theory for a favourite book of mine by Stendhal with a friend, spotted in a second hand bookstore near Trafalgar Sq., i read Sartre's human comedy where with unabashed delivery he copies the ending of James Joyce's Ulysses, a stream of consciousness where there is no punctuation, a river of words, a great metaphorical technique, forget punctuation, leave the reader making his own indentations... the book in question? iron in the soul, a mimic of Ulysses, absolutely no punctuation, again a metaphor of a maxim by Heraclitus... and you know what sort of heaven i believe in? a place were you can find how each reader punctuated the text, you can see what punctuation was used where, otherwise, all punctuation was missing - i need to find this library.

i know i can have an obstructive demeanour,
but i'm shoving these swear words in your
face like i'd be shoving you pictures of torture or
*******, ****'s for real, you can't be serious
to suppose seeing a correct spelling is worth
a f ** or mm mm mm something or other, can you?
a little bit of criticism goes a long way,
now that i found out that i'm part of the 1.8 million
threshold,
force of nature writing a sociology essay
plagiarising to beat the system of anti-plagiarism
on purpose, not that i'd be found out but that i
wanted to see how plagiarism-proof the system was,
i just cheated using the synonym principle,
and it does indeed exist, received a 1st plagiarising
someone else's work by being a grammatical plumber
or electrician, hell a barber or a hairdresser if you like!
fiddle a word here, fiddle a word here,
do the most obscene mindless regurgitation of theory
imaginable, yep, the synonym principle,
a bit like deep blue v. Kasparov, only i was smarter
than deep blue... the infinite diadems of language
as appropriated by individuation, no wonder this
phonetic encoding produced the omni- to which
everything was ascribed in that unit of connectivity
spelled g o d... Kant does indeed mention this, for about
40 pages he's stressing a simplicity, something that has
to be simple, something necessary and something
simple... some key phrases:
defined throughout all categories (praedikamente)
or quiet simply "unavoidable" predicaments (well
"unavoidable" because it's already apparent that a large
number of people prefer to kneel and mumble
the our father and desire a pope's pomp of attire),
a german word for fiction (erdichtung),
i still need to find out what scil. abbreviation means,
highest entity (ens summum),
highest thing would begin with res... summum
i.e. the sun,
                    i mean i could list all the examples, but what
a waste of time if you haven't read it yourself,
40 pages? give it about three hours, and oddly enough,
listening to Salmonella Dub's inside the dub plates
album... outside in the garden measuring adequate
light with the setting of the sun, i can get lost for hours,
perhaps adoration for this subjects stems from a lack of
care, or the simplest imaginable life, a life were
"reality" is unquestionable, in that you have so few problems
that you have to invent problems, metaphysics;
you didn't actually think my interest in this field is
purely pretentious? i find the hardest thing in written
philosophy is: a. disengagement from internalised cognitive
dialectics that makes Popper a bit like Heidegger
tongue-tied in an incompetent lack of persuasion
(i.e. anti-rhetorical) of their own arguments,
and b. the adjective, i mean, come on, pure reason?
what the hell is impure reason then? oh i know, a thousand
psychological profiles, you see the critique of impure
reason all the time under the curtains of our social endeavour,
criminals, news flash of horrific stories, all the ****** time...
for goodness sake Kant mocks malignant gossiping /
the socially acceptable form of lying as the least of your worries
that doesn't extend to mugging or stabbing you,
some might just now exclaim with a phew;
but 40 pages and what not, a horror movie scene...
a man walks into a supermarket,
puts a beer and a bottle of coke into his basket,
walks into the hard liquor isle, his cheap-*** whiskey isn't there,
he asks the shelf stacker if she could get a bottle
for him... so she goes to the storage room,
the man ends up waiting about fives minutes
looking at Sharon fruit, apples and roll-mops of
pickled herring, bread and t.v. magazines at a distance,
the woman comes back with a whole trolley of goods
that need to be stacked, but she says to him
that she needs to put on the security tag on the bottle
(standard procedure in English supermarkets),
and the man is like, huh? i'm going to buy it in a second
and you're telling me that you'll actually put on a
security tag on the bottle, just so another supermarket
employee will have to take off for absolutely no
******* reason? this is what routine does to you...
an elephant just walked through the room and you
only realised 10 minutes later after memory electrocuted
you for a snap reminder.

eyes rolling
about in their sockets
like bowling *****
rolling,
rolling
meadering through
such vivid hallucinations
what is truly real
may hardly exist at all
scenes created
the obstructive pins
of our lives
(b.d.s.)

please remember that some of my poetry is written in the vein of  ezra pound’s personae stylicism, i.e. i don’t know who’s actually  talking, it’s not necessarily me making conversation / oratory  monologue, due to the fact that it does not take place in an epic place  like the senate... but rather inside my own head.*

that’s what philosophy forgot... it said poetry was madness
and later god related; philosophy wanted an almost
mathematical expression of language, it became stiff regurgitation,
it refused to accept the work of grammaticians,
it refused to mention technical terms of grammar like noun / adjective,
instead it began and ended with really obstructive words
that could mean anything - e.g. anything, thing, etc.
it didn’t spot a chirality of its aloofness,
just because it (pronoun) and he (pronoun) are identitcal
in the grammatical categorisation, when expressed
the orka swam north west rather than north east, to avoid
the faroe islands’ slaughter, as depicted by marie mason.
p.s. what about an aristotelian cocktail?
you know that famous one... a man who lives alone
is either an animal or a god.
mash up!
take some human elements and take some ******* elements,
mix ‘em up... get what you want to be human...
god parts are generally regarded as internalised sounds
to create thought... also the complexity and variation of sounds made,
also being against the (0,0) coordinate of a meow...
meow on the roof, meow on a tree, meow on a car bonet,
meow on the sofa... you know what it is and where it’s coming from...
the animal parts? einstein’s warddrobe, i.e. wearing pretty much
the same thing everyday, like a fox with its fur,
the long periods of silence, angry evaluations of scenariors,
the tedium of eating - fast long enough and you get angry enough
and that anger you turn into the eating made necessary.
oh right, i forgot, i’m teaching this egyptian girl some lingo:

Rayhanakm 14 hours ago
                 I love ur edit thank you so much ... ???? i will share this thank u again              

Rayhanakm 11 hours ago
                  but i wanne tell you that my English language not very  good cause i  talk arabic more and iam new in writting poetries..so if i  could ask  you to help me in this thing i feel that you are so good  here  ????????            

Matthew Conrad 6 seconds ago
                  don't feel any shame about what you haven't perfected  given the time  constraints of your endeavour, i didn't speak to  perfection at some  point, i too acquired english, it's not my first  language - although i  have to stress that i'm not too conscious of the  transition between  being illiterate with it to being literate, since it  happened a long  time ago. but poetry is a good beginning, after all  poetry is a method  of abstracting language, which leaves many black  holes that will be  happily filled to provide a standardised form of it,  the non-poetic the  bureucratic version - the version that allocates you  to a mechanised  function - one thing to note about my transition is that  i was born  into speaking polish, but i hardly remember the alphabet of  months, i  can remember the alphabet january through to december  perfectly in  english, but in polish i'm like: stycze? luty...  grudzie?... i get  muddled... as i get muddle the actual english  alphabet... because i  first learnt it as a sing-along that's sung with a  crescendo when the  letters m n l o p come up... q r s t u v... etc.  make one aspect of  your arabic usage weak... then you'll see what  weakness you have in how  you use english... then, with hope implied, you  will do a perfect  juggling act of bilingualism. first of all...  concentrate on the little  words in terms of how they are arranged... for  example... your first  sentence is missing a preposition (a word that  presupposes an  engagement with a larger word, larger words are usually  nouns -  the others are smaller enough running could imply a 100m sprint or a marthon - but there’s still a consistency of them being similar, and they are rarely modified... for example  onomatopoeia  can only be modified into an adjective: onomatopoeiac -  having the  quality of an onomatopoeia)... the word missing is (cut in  point) tell  you that my english language usage is not very good (cut off  point) -  anyone can memorise what's called what... but there is a  complexity in  the arrangement in how that thing is modified or acted  upon in the land  of phoneticism - i'll watch your progress as you write.  ok?

The child was reluctant, obstructive, rudely derogated the rules of night-time. In return, the mothers smile crusted over; her anticipating face raged with love, with tenderness, with necessity.

Hold back desperation: “Shall I read you a story?” Yes, a boring story, a story to bore your little eyes closed and your little head droopy and your little snores out.

All children learn to say no and this one was a champion already. Still gentle and formless it was not quite male, not quite female. It was androgynous, sexless, precocious with the possibilities of a gender unslated -- as if pigeon-holes could be sated at a later date. A choice depending on pointing out a celebrity from a picture in a magazine, and saying: ‘that one’.

“I don’t want to be in bed.”

This was said from bed, defiant, huddled and muddled within the pastry of the sheets and wriggling like a still-living filling. Four-and-twenty blackbirds, all singing.

Isn’t this a pretty dish thought mother.

“But bed is good,” she reasoned, “bed is a fine fine thing to be in.” She eyed it herself, covetously, the crispness of the linen holding the warm buttered biscuit smell of a child’s hair.

“Bed isn’t good. It’s lonely.”

Yes, lonely, sang the mother to herself, alone to be with myself only. Swaying with sleeplessness, mother’s voice burst with secrets.

“Bed is good. It is. It is where you were made.”

And you, child, are a good thing. Making you was good. Therefore beds are good.

Mother blinked dreamily, lies rushing unbidden to fill the gap between a child's world and the truth; the question came immediately.

“Have you ever seen someone making a *** out of clay?” she asked in response. Her arms raised in front of the child’s face. “Have you ever seen the clay sculpted, squeezed?” Then she lowered them. “And this was the oven. This is where you were baked.”

She wondered what kind of dreams these lies would bring, dreams of whispered fertility, Freudian dreams of plumbers removing bottoms and widdlers. Dreams of children baked out of clay and, rocked from the cradle; falling, smashing.

macbeth: it was (once) the owl that shrieked,
  the fatal bellman.

aye, and i too would ask the urban folk
concerning family and congregation
for any event apart from the most cherished:
for i love only those with whom i eat,
and abhor those with whom i drink:
for i deem them sour company.

and if in haste? from Canterbury seek New York,
there you'll learn a thing or two about
gnarling from a yew tree strained against
the ranks and rags of French nobility...
there, dear sir, will you learn the Welsh Churchill
acronym, by the index and middle i say:
pointing toward the sky as if to navigate
a seagull pooping fresh manna
onto a desert plain for an *oasis of sustenance.
clearly the U was never chiseled into bone or
marble, instead a V... which always confuses
my expertise (2014 GSCE gimmick,
expert-... ease? titillation? prioritising?
no wonder they send spies to south korea to
feed off jealousy of the porcelain skinned
and squinty eyed crap of Zen... because Tao
was the practice of not dipping your head in
a honey jar and running up to a beehive for
a Frenchy) / in Grecian (yes,
poets have abhorring punctuation,
they're donning a take on rasta roots: dreadlocks
  inserted between the talk of personal hygiene
   and vanity performances of family life solidification
to seem the ideal citizen).
      poetry really is an obscurity of prose,
      it's that ****** cousin you hide in the attic,
when you stage poetry against prose
you never, really, get a snooze button fault
while taking a microcosmos of thought to bed
  and "forget" reading something....
   a true testament to poetry? something Mussolini
might say... i am a fascist fetishist: in that
i am also a schadenfreude: a shadowy frau...
   i like to see fascism in others...
          well, you know, Hollywood got sickly sweet
over the years, there's no enough Bruce Lee films
to satiate the palette of middle aged crimbo men...
  don't expect a ****** to know the cartwheel mechanics
readying a girl into ballet...
       cos no attitude brings no Bolshoi, girlfriend.
oh god, how can this age and my contemporaries provide
so many stereotypes?! they're all gay...
         there's me with my pouting but really alcoholic-bloated
face, rummaging in pop culture under the exacting maxim
of: the idiots have all the confidence, the smart uns
      have all things Cartesian...
             you swarm over reactionary talk?
i guess modern people really want to engage in dialectics,
but the current sophistry, the current rhetoric,
     is only based (in bias) against any Cartesian intervention...
the "i think" doesn't precipitate into "i am"...
for example? even wittle Adoolf thought he was good,
but then world war ii and therefore kicked in,
    there was nothing good to be said, apart from
a historical endeavour as to why: the New Year's Eve
Ball of Vienna faked a smile to solidify a permanent
audience...
                      this fire-yawning rhetoric is part of
the zeitgeist (holy ghost) of our times...
                                it's enough that i'm reading the
news review contained in a sunday newspaper on a tuesday,
but another that i'm rereading lawrence lipton's
the holy barbarians at the same time... yep:
the father of the guy that interviews actors on that
show the actors' studio... where we learn all things
sentimental... just before Robbie Williams tightens
the noose and everyone's bloated...
which is odd: it was a promising afternoon...
           i know that society really wants to engage with
dialectics, i've been watching lemon-*******-sessions'
worth of cringe concerning Milo Yiannopoulos -
papa-dough-pu-louse (Greeks have surnames like
dinosaur names: word and verbiage in one go...
a bit like decapitating Anne Boleyn,
executioner on tiptoe) -
                 it would be far more easier to stage
a place by Shakespeare that it would be to stage a
conversation by Socrates... that's how difficult
practising dialectics is... so much so that people invented
diacritical indicators to syllable dissections of words
and then forgot to use them... buttnaked Adam of Essex.
but one thing caught my eye...
  not in a rude way... well... Bruce Willis in mercury rising...
      isn't the Greek a tad bit autistic?
those darting eyes, and whenever a confrontation emerges
the sunglasses are invoked? isn't the confrontationalist
an autistic phenomenon? isn't this autism?
   aren't people rebelling against the spaz?
   the cover-up is obviously homosexual, because there's this
underlying subplot... high functioning autism,
i might momentarily get an eye-contact...
       but anglophone psychiatrists have only two notations
to curate the spectrum of "mental" problems:
1. biting your nails...
          and 2. eye contact.
                  if psychiatry is philosophy without thinking,
then philosophy is psychiatry without being...
              catchphrase? i hope to god no.
               god... well: that's when you say:
i do have limitations in my vocabulary... hence the invocation
to a ulterior being, other than my self
                 (yes, the reflective version of the reflexive myself).
      sure as hell there needs to be a dualism
rather than a monism concerning the 1 + 1 = 2 humanism
of cogito ergo sum, can you imagine a consolidation?
how, in the 21st century (which wasn't that spectacular
even though the evangelicalists stressed was the zenith
and a basis for: no future) the two would never meet?
    if anyone Descartes poked fun at it too:
i'm pink, therefore i'm spam.
                                       can you imagine why some people
were diagnosed with schism that later referred to a mind?
            uncomfortable people for social cohesion are ill...
it's because the healthy people are whipped into
constructing society.
                               adding to the fact that if mental
and physical converged and were made equally obstructive
in hindering people, a fewer number of jobs / specialisations
would exist to counter such grievances...
      you term mental illness i term lethargy and
thinking turned into the equivalent of what the heart is:
de-automated heart turned into poetic muse...
                but otherwise? an automaton pump.
and when thinking becomes automaton prone...
       and when thinking becomes too conscious of perceiving
the body as caged, doubly in a world and earnestly
in the cycle of eat sleep **** repeat... when too much
theory pours into an abstracting pronoun of forgotten Latin
and resurgent Latin with a summary of ego...
   when that becomes a Shiva-likened extra limb...
               when thought becomes automated
  but the body isn't... when thought diverges from any
moral construct to be made intrinsic in the complement
of choice as its sole outlet,
                 all variations of thought necessarily translated
into a narrative die out... because, as it turns out,
              not all narratives are pharmaceutical escapisms
to the equivalent of medicating seriously...
            even though the sky is blue in winter
and all decaying flush of colour of autumn is long gone...
i feel no bolder to stampede against the earth's
tides insurrecting a name and month of birth
                                      as sanctimonious:
other than what the polity deems worthy for me to
inherit, that, which will be my epitaph
is all am worthy of, given such contortions: as already
evident.
    
take your heart to Scotland my good friar,
and then from on-high,
   as if between Edinburgh and St. Andrew's,
take the kingly route back south...
                    and learn to educate those who's
tongue was never kindred to cliche and barbarism,
were it not talk of puritanism and
    a hidden dialect: for no cockney would have ever
heard the seven bells,
                   and definitely shied away, spoilt,
from the meddling cuckoo;
and oh how small this world will seem,
       once you've been woven the greatest attire
of all you command to peacock,
   that operatic Monday through to Friday
that'll always be more than Gucci or an Armani belt...
    routine!

it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.

but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the *carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.

I felt like a scotch tape stretch screech screaming out to hang pictures of tigers teeth

[Teeth dripping of the colorful swirling primordial ooze that is forming and foaming in the corners of your mouth.]

A slightly sickening substance you don't perceive as gathering worries reminding you saliva leaves a maniacal residue

[A film of acidic copper coats your mouth as the tension in your mandible builds with each passing milisecond relieved by jagged popping motions, but if only for a moment as your hands melt into the carpet making a pool of creamy peach nothingness, but if only for a moment.]

The ripple relief is tension relieved yet a remix of images perceived as water washing over eyes cleansing and clearing obscurity but still obstructive and obtuse overwhelming

[The filter is flipped off,conscious activity roams free as if it were a rain dance of visual, tactile exploration of serotonin amongst limitless creativity. Never ending like the far reaches of space but just as tiny as a molecule.]

A never ending meandering mingle of the mind with minuscule details coming to life and finding a force unlike anything you've climbed, realizing the mountain of motion and the commotion of sparked senses is a let loose expression of deep down inner desire

[Teasing its way to the surface and tingling under skin like ants in an endless procession of drone servitude. Consume, ****, die. And realizing the meaning of it all, the sole driving forces of life is *** and death.]

An endless one by one two by two march in line behind other droids digging lines in the sands of time again and again obeying their inner desire design by the man with the magnifying glass in the sky. And all we can ask is why don't we just be us, ourselves and fly saying **** the confinements of our meaningless antennae lives we have wings and all we must do is express it in jumping and believing in flight

We are butterfly's and birds feeling wings we once thought worthless and it's because of this substance stance we are taking and the dance we are waltzing that we get to have this enlightening experience

Chicago,

Your energy rumbles up my knees and out my esophagus.
I speak your language with each vibration,
And while others find it annoyance purely,
I treat it tenderly and loop it through each tooth,
Threading the words you teach me.
While your speech turns to sentences I come to understand your purpose, why we are here
On this gravity defying sidewalk.

I feel your kinesthetics with every breath I take,
Whooping back out cigarette tar and gasoline vapor.
The river, long and un-obstructive, flows down to the base
Of the brain stem which you funnel your strength and wisdom through.
The geese tickling your nerve endings in the water
Never realized this liquid is no longer their home,
It was taken hostage a century before.

This city,
With its echoing winds and cloud scraping apartments
Understands me.
A symbiotic sphere.
It sees the future while others greedily pull the veil over their faces,
But He is unwilling to accept the imaginary.
Someday the stars will no longer glisten,
While every building, innocent and newly ******,
Loses the fluttering heartbeat it once composed.
The windows will project no faces,
Only empty chairs and tables
Collecting dust and milky residue of the putridity its children once carried in lungs.

and they're right, those parents who almost
**** each other on the sunday football pitch sidelines,
because what sane person these days
would want their child to be educated,
to practice the butchery of being a surgeon
to prescribing cures of ailments
over the counter at a pharmacy,
when we can all agree of
the universal cure that's paracetamol
in the infamous n.h.s.,
where everyone aspires
to karaoke stardom
and becoming a footballer,
or a televised version of the ugly
prostitution where you're no longer
the one engaging but the salivating
pundit...
i did remark once: only idiots educate
themselves these days, as proven by "no-platform"
concerns about "insulting" / generating
emotions of whatever nature in those listening;
i actually find being educated to a university
level quiet damnable...
but then i'm speaking about the times
when the labour government was in power
and tuition fees were just slightly over
one thousand pounds...
i'm in debt of over £10,000,
and i'm not paying them back...
because why would i educate myself
and end up working in a supermarket?
i would have gone straight to the supermarket
and would have probably loved it...
i rather be a drunkard,
or as some might say: why bother with ingenuity
when you can get an algorithm to do it for you?
society is always looking for educated idiots,
most of these educated idiots would have happily
laboured manually, but by educating them
they find manual labour not so much demeaning
as obstructive in terms of what they learnt
when what they learnt is precisely the obstruction
of non-applicability that demeans a healthy
relation to perform manual labour, and come
the weekend - party party party!
i really wish they could un-educate me
to perform the supposedly "menial" labour...
at least my mind would not be trapped
in an insomniac fun-fare of pointless concerns
equatable with stacking shelves of depleting
products on supermarket shelves
that don't really require much existential angst;
and yeah continental existentialism
was translated as english pragmatism -
thought out of every instant became
out of every instant solving the problem of thinking,
many a many quirks and hobbies,
as one modern and powerful russian noted:
that island is filled with a bunch of fairies and
eccentrics who wear the right shoe on the left
foot and the left shoe on the right foot -
well, if that isn't the case then my liver just said that
overpowering my soul: bring in borat yeltsin's
talking head, i'm about to memorise the game
between deep blue v. kasparov reciting out the moves;
******* of a dance-floor, mind you.