the ethos of arbeit has overpowered the english speaking people, with a sarcastic notion of liebe, and made both work, and love, arbitrary, nay, nasally said: homophilic: too many phobias are spoken off, spiders in the guise of arachnophobia don't suddenly become islam! you see any gigantus aranea roaming the streets?! for the most part, i'm closer to see popes walk naked in a francis bacon sketch of the affairs... let's be honest, the holy ghost has become run over by the other spirit, the other phrase of sophia, the zeitgeist, not this church infested cockroach colony of the platzgeist with a few crimson cardinals numbed into mumbling their mea culpas ave marias... the senile old ******* just died, with: a few more thousand young men, born into a world without having to succumb to the "tender" female noir of a bambi (transgender times, live with it) harem ******* occupiers in the form of: zee heff! i'll be crying as much when, some other public personage dies... although i did grit my teeth when my great-grandmother died, managed to bite off a scalpel of tooth with my other tooth... funny, i can still tongue the canyon proof.
and it's the antithesis of the # (hashtag) generation,
namely? the súdokū...
plus the english ******* explanation of
needing the hyphen, as a diacritical mark
to ease, sorry, forget the poncy ***** ******
talk of "proper": lubricate the dissection
of cutting a word open into alphabet street...
it would otherwise look more like su-dough-coup
with the p in bracket form ( ), since the french
over the antithesis of dyslexia compared
to the english, they just add letters that do not,
require attendance / mention.
but that's the case, every time i solve
this *** sushi riddle i can't but compare it to
the zeitgeist of the hashtag...
so i perch on a windowsill like a
wake of vultures of a lion reaching gluttony scene,
and start thinking: hey, how about we pair up
and pecker off that sod of a robert plant?
give him the curly wurly momentum,
start to peck at his ***,
and then give him a vulture's barber effect
of trichotillomania?
there's bound to be a lesson in that,
what with ol' hef gone, we only 'ave to
worry aboot the hoff...
ha ha... when hef met hoff,
and the **** never stopped,
even leaving king solomon a tad bit jealous.
i sit on a pile of rubble, and call it a castle -
time ref. to counter the darwinist -
and yes, the saharan desert was once a
mountain range akin to the alpes - or the himalayas -
as any chemist would, side with the geologists
than than the biologists: mushy mushy doesn't
buy my effort, the biologists just expanded
history, we might as well make the *other
connection, between desert and mountain,
ergo: time,
takes a lot of it,
pretty much as much as space,
apes have become debased genesis foci...
too many variations of it,
you'd have to start with eskimo and say:
well: the orangutans seemed pleased with
a down syndrome replica...
so just the chimps? no gorillas?
i still like my counter darwinism argument,
the counter biology, the lost mushy mushy
cushioning of certainty -
like any chemist, i live for the hard stuff,
comes no harder than siding with geology,
saying: the epitome of times comes in
the form of the saharan mountain range,
that, given enough time (and we have a lot of
that now) - eroded into a sand-dial...
irony, or divine intuition?
and didn't the bible give off a whiff of:
and then a dinosaur went into eden:
hey, be gods, try to, even,
watch out, a ******* meteor might just come;
there's no fundamentalism contained
in a book that was written by an egyptian
prince...
just a lack of poetic integrity in the interpretation...
i still don't see how poetry is slagged,
but the basic tenet of poetic writing is
taken, without a pinch of metaphor,
or counter-metaphor, in that it can be expanded
and be applied like a philosopher's stone,
to turn any known material into gold!
which brings me to another point, well, two,
how do you gain respect from the cats
you're petting?
you sleep longer than they do.
point 2...
why has reading become such a "tedium" /
"accomplishment" -
i'll tell you why, i don't like a language
of thinkers, i live a language realm of babblers...
the right to say blah is worth more than
the right to think oh...
speaking has become too easy,
solidified by that fact that (if not even est.)
when someone writes a book, it becomes,
oh, the most glorious accomplishment!
wow... these people really managed to
shut their gobs, and write a book?!
wow... it's like seeing the fruition of
the event that didn't take place, that would have
been the out-doing of the hebrew architectural
tenure on the pyramids, that would have been
the hanging gardens of babylon,
that was, eventually, the poor nebuchadnezzar
crawling and snorting like a pig for seven years...
if you thought the pyramids were
a mad idea,
the jews finally solved the riddle exclaiming:
o.k., you know what, that's just
bonkers... you're about as mad as your hyena
grandfather, or father, or whatever he was
for asking to the seas to obey him by whipping
them (xerxes)...
it's that unamazing to write a book these days...
or it really is, given that you have ghosts
writing them...
****, and they said the paranormal
didn't exist... really? ghost writers?
maybe that's one of the reasons that when
don juan wrote his memoir,
after bouts of not getting any, he invited
himself to a better pastime than jerking off...
well, might as well die a boring sod since
i'm not getting any, any more...
me? i always thought of jerking off as
performing ****...
i can't imagine the hand to be anyhow
different to the muscular ****...
and for some reason,
i always end up thinking of the queen of england
waving: to add the seasoning of lacklustre
to the whole affair:
like i'm there, but not really, there -
the roy orbison effort to make that:
strenuous effort at opera -
and he was hardly the modern comparison
of a pop star with neck arteries protruding;
and he's still better than elvis.
word of wisdom:
in the medium of poetry?
write by one technique, and one technique
alone...
digression...
well, that's how i was taught english,
by a pict.
