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

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

The shivering eyeglasses lazily coating the ground
Break way to the budding of the season.
To reincarnate is to live the anomaly,
The evergreen boughs bend in the wind.

Coalescing crystals form dew on our morn
To leave a fresh taste, on lips, on tongue.
The time is imminent, but the dawn is young,
My white Orchid, born to the sun.

Simply, optically, it's to weak to touch
Unworthy digits, to blind to see.
My scarlet levees, to right to feel.
The ivory blossom, to right to be real.

Under the canopies, the shimmering outline
Moves closer until the mirror cracks
And our reflections are polymorphicly one,
Our hearts still polyamorously two.

I yearn to dream of lucid lavender,
The aroma surrounds the dream, still dreamed
The scent so real, or so it seemed
Encapsulating this moment in amber.

Until we sleep, until we fly
Together. Our wings open to embrace the quilted high.
Our mouths embrace to fill the void,
Unleash the magic, bathing us in light

Bricks and mortar overlap my thoughts
But time alone is not a wall.
Time alone, it cannot fall
And it still ticks with the beat of my pendulum.

Oh flower, oh life, vitality aplenty.
Your hideousness, a secret untold,
Withers to your beauty, yet to unmold.
Le voyage fantasme is here for me now.

And now the grains slip between my toes.
The sandcastles caress the glass of our hour.
It's never too late, but always on time,
So before the light fades, kiss me and say

"I'll sleep tonight,
I'll dream of you."
Orchid, my Orchid, love, my love
I'll dream with you forever.

it's scary what people want to hear,
i feel, nothing at all, to be honest,
whenever i think of fame
i feel all famous people speaking the words:
don't become even by our standards moderates...
szlafrok: bathrobe -
              szuja: lizard-like-homeless person -
then again chattering ratty too -
does that mean: if i write i'll
get a penny for a structure where a brick is
worth just as much to the letter, the word
           or the line or the paragraph?
                  cukier: sugar...
   for every brick i'll get a penny's worth?
      writing discourages you from dreaming...
only the most adapted
                   who get encouraged by
   advertisement and who fake writing will ever get
the technicolour coat of Joseph...
         writing erodes your perspective of dreams,
it actually censors your ability to do so...
    i hear them, make novels from their body-language...
        and get an itch... nothing finicky... just
barring without baritone...
      poet's alphabet st. - barring without baritone...
antinomy of anecdote... false impression memorisation,
nothing rubric bound nothing alphabetical,
         nothing Pythagorean...
      antinomy... and there was me thinking of
antimony...                  there's no cascade of the sound
encoding of b or of a...
    there's the alphabet... and then there's
the dictionary... na na mmm, ma ma nun..
                    so cool with it, fit-bit....
      or should i claim you a toyo-bot?
           a ******* Hamleys' jack-in-the-box
     chuckles?
            either way... it's all a strategic **** -
or a macaque - or mà-cá-qé!
         herald the surgeon!
             grave a in the first syllable?
a delay... let's term yhwh as surd invocations -
           mà! (and yes, exclamation marks
are part of the necessary progress -
   unless you'd prefer anti-German anti-compound
allocation of a word to be turned into syllable mince...)
         mà! alternatively that's non-ambiguous -
what's ambiguous is the second syllable...
   mà!... cà!     màcà!        it's almost like holding-off
*******...          màcà!
      and then there's the qé!        or for optical reasons
as well as for reasons for the priestly monopoly
written as macaque - my-khaki-haka...
  (haka is a dance in rugby by the new zealanders,
   and khaki is diarrhea brown, diluted brown) -
   it's almost Spanish in a sense, huh?!
   well, because it's not exactly queue -
  or: que(h)? i.e. qweh?
well yes, it's a monkey, a tiny little bonsai
of a gorilla... cute... funny... loves tea-bags
and sugar... great company on a hot Kenyan night,
gets pestered with slingshots by the courtesan
   "bodyguards" of a tourist hanky-panky free whiskey...
  the time those kenyan entertainer girls
came up to me i sorta wished to play the
white-guy-****-history-joke...
stood my ground, went to sleep on one of the lounge
chairs one night... could have been stolen by pirates...
and i kinda wished it, but it didn't happen...
   still, the application of diacritical marks to
define syllables... the grave mark above vowels is
a bit like "holding back"...
         for some reason i first wrote mà-cá-qé...
but i realised... the avalanche only comes with
the acute marking above eh!....
        grave markings means restriction, a holding back...
and by this i mean that when the acute stress is
added, no number of optically adequate spellings
can erase it...
     in this case qé for what's encoded as -que -
   and still the four surds appear whether invited or
uninvited - softened laugh, eh? as in the asphyxiating
form of breathing, and then relaxed: ha ha ha ha!
       then again, i'm wrong,
they call them macaque: ma-ca-qac....
         so as a good revisionist does:
                grave and acute without a macron:
      má-cà-qàc - ma-cac-cac - not ma... ca-que!
   macaque!          Fawlty Towers and Mánuèl...
i know... nothing - hairspray romance,
and a horse called dragonfly...
   macaqué! olé!              
                          mácáquè -
    for the love of u - or parabola...
                 truth be told? i'll never know!
why? because no one taught us the rules of how
or when to apply such demands!
   let alone semicolons or commas...
                   macaque - barbarism sentenced to:
ma       ca              qak
                or simply my kayak...
**** me... it's still a monkey whether you like it or
not taking a **** and calling that chocy part of
its inverted intestines' toad-stool.
  let's just call it a mácàq monkey... because
the -ue suffix is just getting unbearable, like
an umbrella unfolded in one's **** -
   and applying diacritics to a suffix of pure-vowels
is beyond missing an ******, and making
rationale (the part where you miss stating an olé -
the part where rational is elongated into rationál
or the non-diacritical addition of -e)....
and then they worried why people never punctuated
correctly... maybe because people never applied
diacritical marks that they went beyond,
and didn't punctuate correctly?
                       humpty-dumpty hmm hmm:
                   eggs St. Benedict's, and a falafel Sunday!
me? trying to invoke a vocab that transcends
the ******* cool, however condescending i can be,
without trying or eating rye bread to boot,
    and then wear a balaclava calling it a Gucci neckwear,
drinking rather than throwing Molotovs.

Is it infatuation combined with the new lovely scent
With saturation would the hail begin to make a dent
The flirtation fades with each and every hour spent
The deflation sets in on our slow inevitable descent
The stagnation creeps up like another month's rent
As temptation calls out wondering where you went
A Castration can't compare to this type of torment
No frustration in the world like time"s resentment

If you could only flaw less in your never ending search
Go back to the drawing board or maybe even try church

History repeats itself, feelings of heartbroken violence
As you lay next to me breathing a beautiful soft silence

She"ll never truly be free, never let down her guard
Ironically we can never be, both emotionally scarred

Shared memories framed by another fleeting exposure
Shall never come close to providing adequate closure

No matter how this ends my soul will still need a cast
Smiling big as it mends, for moments lived like our last
Optically delusional to the pastures of greener grass so vast
Finally destined to arrive yet can"t stop longing for the past

Tragically we are meant to be, only if we are actually apart
Insane levels of pain tearing through the veins of my heart

Today we are again away, but our time I shall forever cherish
Tomorrow"s just another day without you until I finally perish

I have intentionally tried to fill the hole inside myself that your smile holds, my sweetest Angel. For that, I am ashamed. But there has been only the feeling of emptiness residing in that cavern since last I looked upon your smiling face and held you close to my heart.
The sun has risen and set, the seas have ebbed and flowed, the winds have blown, hither and yon. Yet, still I stand, unmoving through all of it, for the pain of not having your tiny hand in mine has left me cold, battered by the waves and fossilized by the sands carried upon the winds.
My eyes have withered from too many unhappy tears and nowhere near enough tears of joy, made all the more optically diuretic by my inability to look upon your face as you run and play and sleep and dream.
I am sorry, my truest of Loves, my Only, that I have chosen to ignore these feelings of longingness for so long. I could touch the pen to paper a million times, writing odes to your face and sonnets to your smile, but the distance that I feel has forced me to lull my heart into a coma. I have intentionally medicated my heart in an attempt to stop feeling (to stop all feeling), yet I cannot.
I feel the sunshine on my face and I pine to see the sun’s rays dwarfed by the radiance of your dwarven smile.
I feel my heart hang so low and wish against hope that I could pick you up while you raise me.
My soul cries out to replace you, yet my heart is merely attempting to survive. My soul screams for only you and the chance (nay, privilege) to shield you from the fears that cause you to scream in the middle of the night.
Why have I chosen to harden my heart, my Love? Why have I allowed myself to stifle my screams, when in all truthfulness, I only dream of easing your own?

So
You've found a girl who can hold your gaze
You've found a girl with those sinful curves
                that    girl    with the     lips     that you want sayin' your name

Oh she's beautiful alright.  How did you get so lucky?

Maybe you're not as lucky as you think you are?

Does being
    luscious, limber, lavacious, and alluringly lustworthy
make up for being
    lewd, lethargic, and a lackadaisical liar?

So what that she's
    ogle-worthy, optically pleasing, orgasmically ideal
if she's
    offensive, ostentatiously ornate, and overbearing?

She may be
    vivacious, voluptuous, and sexually voracious
She's also
     vain, vapid, vacuous, a vengeful *****

Don't let her
   exotic, ****** efficaciousness
Blind you to her
  egocentric, evasive, envious  nature
  
Those lips won't look so   enticing   when they're spitting poison barbs into your heart


Wouldn't you rather  have a girl
Who is likeable?
Who is original?
Who is vibrant?

Who is enough to make you happy?

It's all you need

Do I have to spell it out for you?

he should be called Jesus Lucifer
rather than Jesus Christ,
i mean, the illumination is unreal -
there are so many faults,
and redemption does come,
you're given a name by your parents,
then you're given a church name
at your baptism, then you're entrusted
with making a choice:
given your first and second name,
and your surname: 3 down, 1 to go...
and if the new testament wasn't
a revelation as a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, then the
Christian bureaucracy added to that
does prove to be a concern of abuse,
they said Idle        Joe Samuel Philip Esquire
was the same as      Y       H         W        H -
i'm only stressing these four letters,
because, when i approach them, they respond,
with that joke i'll hear coming from science:
the roving stars will be hailed as comets!
well, revisions of comets, Dobermans
(enlarged Dachshund, which in Polish
is read jamnik, curiously not Deutschehund): tails cut off.
honestly, in him our sole salvation,
i've seen so much **** in this world
i'd gladly do a Homer and earn blindness...
but the profanity of the tetragrammaton
goes beyond the four gospels,
it's enshrined in the first name,
the middle name, the confirmation name,
and the surname -
that's a desecration if i've ever seen one,
i didn't imagine it would be this
crucial as to follow falling brick
with falling brick when it came to spelling
out something a carrier pigeon would have
carried: so, honestly?
i think the a - z was born from a priori
sustenance was not enough, nothing makes it clear
why we would enshrine Chinese whispers
for empirical reasons, when they were from -
well, optically we invited transcendence
of our eyes, we basically put our eyes into our
mouths and asked our tongues to
raise a choirous rebellion against the ears.
               - now she wishes to be the gladly budding
flower... now she wishes she was more
home approving than: a house built on sand...
i've seen feminism turn into a sordid affair,
associating itself with many cares of bachelors
in the field of study...
this ain't picking broccoli mind you,
this isn't peeling onions,
ever wonder why you keep hearing a train
or the gallop of horses in the night?
i love that game children have: hide & seek,
which later translates into negation & denial of adults...
because that's how i will exactly deal with you people...
candy floss choo choo... you're
not in the invested in percentage...
but he clearly is, Jesus Lucifer,
he's so ******* illuminating you get bargain sales
in the calculator department... as describing him shows,
given the Church and first and second and
confirmation name and surname... a profanity
of the tetragrammaton, more harm done in that than
desecrating Roman temples in Syria...
you basically broke the bank
and said: Swiss investments following this
are budding with hefty approvals -
but it really doesn't matter... i'm used to jokes,
i can walk into a supermarket,
by my usual litre of whiskey and a beer,
and hear the cashier talk with another customer and joke
and laugh... i don't mind, i like entertainment,
they speak of the sacred chalice...
well, they joke about a sacred chalice...
in my mind i just have an imprint of Christopher Columbus;
his contemporaries aren't exactly laughing now...
they're tourists... camping out 1 mile outside of Las Vegas;
so yeah, ha ha, he he.

if not cited sparingly, and in a democratic number,
then at least cited as if minding the republic's senators,
concentrated influences - few, but certainly
in a concentrated manner cited.

when reading becomes as acutely distinctive as the hand -
never before have both hands reached an ideal
equilibrium - my withered manus lævus elsewhere -
esp. at Marathon, with the puny javelin throw -
Herculean balance in the right hemisphere -
yet although in physics the right held sway -
now it seems in my mind, the arithmetic pain busy
buzzing in the former ***** colony has gained
the upper-hand - its persistence beyond mere myth
of the boulder the hill the repetition as punishment;
such a grand way to use both without prejudices
of former believed-to-be satanic rituals in a Victorian
school.

perhaps going beyond Plato sinister sexology of
the soul and punishment via transgender migration -
if once a true and serious meditation, now it would
seem blocked by something, emerging from that
ancient theory and brought before us in practice -
that the left-hand masters of the quill were migrating
from Hebrew, from Arabic from Sanskrit?
less sexually orientated and for that reason, purifying
the old ways of teaching boys the practices of the state.

we are right in that we begin on the left -
and they have already left for the other world,
their theologies ensured they left -
but that does not necessarily make them right -
beginning from the right in writing with each word
they leave for another - a better one -
for us, who begin from the left and ending by being
right in our political affairs and our moral practices
(so supposed) leave us entrenched in this world -
by so right in doing the mere thought of atheism;
but times have changed... we're all moving forward -
only a retired general practitioner might have used
his index to peck like a crock at the keyboard -
youth spared me - even both my thumbs are used
when typing - notably the left thumb for the space -
or so the alphabet arranged for a quickness in type -
if arranged by some formal logic - the keyboard would
be a different battlefield against Peter Phantom and
the leash of surrender; yet what fingers used more often
than the crucial index of an aged doctor?
for the most educated class of people, they write such
terrible enigma scribbles on prescription notes -
for the most part, type font was invented to decipher
prescriptions - or as some would call them -
a chicken dipped its nail into an ink bottle and scratched
in good morning on a piece of paper.

so it came to be, when Latin imploded from the ******
and was allocated a pickle jar preservation aversion
to graffiti Latin on the coliseum walls it became
ecclesiastical Latin - power was hidden from the ***
blah gurgle - or the Germanic burp for: a pleasant meals
desires a compliment, echo in the cave, burp in
the (o)esophagus - a grapheme divorce -
but that's also beside the point - instead of mere writing
left to right or right to left - the grammar changed suit!
Latin names are the easiest to spot:
the barbarians and the Latins are like us and Arabs -
mirror and chiral thinking go hand-in-hand as a handshake -
some remind us of neschek the usury serpent -
or they remind us of demon-slug narchak engaged
to simony - by example, zoological quirks reminding:
corvus (crow) cornix (hooded) - hooded crow,
corvus cornix - corvus corone - carrion crow -
corvus manus laevus - left-hand crow, which by it's
hyphen refers to a deity - thus in original crow left-hand -
Odin's illuminating eye embedded for eternity entombed
in the companion that takes the sky as leisure equal to
a cushioned and scented parlour, and the wind as a mother -
away from the hunchback penitence as seen on ground,
pauper hunchback clad in black a futile scout.

as already mentioned - capture it at any one time in
unravelling Babylon - the grand spiral architecture  
unison - for that English was used - or "proto" Latin
without diacritical marks (stresses) - the one accomplishment
that arose from the mad farce of Nebuchadnezzar -
the Jews sighed relief when then plans to build gardens
above the sky (hanging) were foiled - the sigh of
the Hebrew slaves in Verdi's Nabucco - indeed va pensiro,
alter: ave ratio! the only one time when the Mensa society
are of any use other than training pet monkeys -
a democratic hooray! geniuses unread but good at
arithmetic... they're still children for goodness' sake!
but what have we exchanged for the hanging gardens?
the pyramids were already ridiculous,
the hanging gardens were impossible, but the tower
of babble-toe-babbling-tongue came to be prißed for
all the wrong reasons - sigma global, Atlas threw earth
away and picked up the Moon.

still the compass away from Bermuda dizzy in myth
or reality provides us the true North magnetism -
as Confucius said: man's importance lies in the head,
not the toe - we shall write from head to toe,
to motivate our understanding of the yet unexplored
gravity, this be our grounding... no grand empire outside
the evident physiognomy of Shanghai blinds of Buddha -
nothing beyond this reach of yellow -
the Mongol will try, but fail, the Japanese will try,
but fail, the Koreans are another matter, a civil war
ravaged them, and a true schism happened,
there was nothing Byzantine or Romanic about it -
the schism of reality, nothing metaphysical kept them apart,
a genocide division without a genocide -
an old father had a plot of land and three songs -
Yin took the northern realm, Shin the southern realm,
Ming became a Communist party member in China -
Tibet never had the exclusiveness of the Vatican -
the Vatican is not an ethnic entity, for starters -
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is...
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is... claim a son or a godhead
see how the masses entrenched in insect Darwinism
come about with coherent reasoning -
masquerade as a prophet, the easiest answer is that
the consistency of time will always precede your idea
of superior constants, neither Buddha nor Christ were
ever meant to be π.

the Chinese knew how to build a state, shame! shame
on the Slavs for biting the apple too soon rather than
baking an apple pie with Communism -
shame! shame! shame! ridiculous souls -
fickle hearts - i only learned this in exile, a proud
exile at that - not that i became accommodated in a superior
culture, these ******* inspired socialism with their
bile Empire monotony - am i proud to be British?
give me a minute, i'll just ask the Scottish separatists
if they think Andrew battled Santa Claus like St. George -
(anagram: Satan's Clause, an article of jurisprudence).
em... British? poet in residence or poet on a high-note
of a tsunami of change? i think the latter.
once the Scots rammed their way into Westminster
the Labour party was no more, what with the Iraq
Endeavour of Herr Barrister Milosevic -
**** up and Shrove Tuesday - **** in a fan,
chocolate milkshake with a sprinkle of shattered cranium.

when in Edinburgh i implanted into my brain the compass,
the perfect geographic locality, Edinburgh is,
i had a nice acceptance in Bristol by the cat-and-mouse
people from the educational firm University seeking
a scientists that had some vague sense of respecting humanism...
that really smeared chilli powder on my *******,
i left suspicious about the eagerness -
went to Edinburgh, the education reception was cold...
cold enough to be given an onion to smash against the
floor after it was dipped in liquid nitrogen -
but the city! the city! it breathed ancient fables!
and **** me... a city built around a mountain...
how many sunrises and sunsets do you think
i sore with every blink on my maiden voyage to the land
of the Picts? enough... plus my stomach was ready,
haggis was nothing unusual... i was familiar with haggis
in a pork variation - czarna kiszka (char n'ah kee shka'h).

so what will it be?
hic mali medium est                     or...
                        hic boni medium est?
i wish there was an ad hoc hidden somewhere, but
neither expressions are a nail for the hammer and
the planks of wood, but you can think of them like that...
i.e. 1st. here is the core of evil
                 and 2nd. here is the core of good... yeah, mm d'uh
that famous and meaning the two opposites are inseparable...
but i mean the compass! the compass!

the Firth of Forth helped, no, not Genesis' selling England by
the pound, and everyone somehow hates Phillip Cool Onions -
ever hear that one about another day forgetting paradise?
it's on there... i can't walk... i can listen to Genesis -
you just realise how complex English culture of lore yore -
that's long forgotten yesterday - everything decays,
autumn must come -
now the children play with fame, rather than work for it.

i get reminded every ****** time...
i kept the notes and extracts after the Cantos ended -
i neither wish to imitate - but pay the compliments
necessitated by the work -
when the rhythm section was more complex than
the solos - when it was always jazzy guitars on prog.
i kept the fragments unread -
and in between travelling to London to see
the Werther opera and the Don Quixote ballet
i was commuting with Kant - i know i mentioned
them as my heroes, given there would never be a battle
of Θερμoπυλαη and only the yawns of battle
with the critique - i too care to admit a defeat -
when i pick that book up and i pick up the Cantos
with the first i hear someone knocking on my door,
while with the latter i hear someone playing the flute,
optically and exclusively based on that to suit the final
exasperation of breath.

or you would think that by the standard of the English
mind at least poetry would gain favours if
French frivolity and German philosophic Benz fell out
of favour - at least poetry would be attended to -
and when they see the demonic form of the prised
asset of English intellect that isn't music, but the Yorkshire
dales and rambling naked and telling folklore and tall
B.F.G. tales would not shrivel into a tightened-strait-jacket
panic seeing someone juggling pronouns on a psychotic
cloud; almost every day the English mind allows
madmen in a different category - equipped with
suicide vests and the crowd of many - playing god
almost every other day - materialisation of fiction
with terrorist attacks - see both good and evil -
chaos demands both, order a distinction, the latter
played out so unfortunately to be constantly compared -
the former? well, either that or nothing -
of the essences so much was said countless times -
and countless times unsaid when the actors came on stage.

so rekindled Latin in encoding sounds ascribed hoarse
throats of the nomadic north bound exploration -
from left to right - then reinvented as if Arabic -
from right to left: corvus cornix - hooden crow -
well, at least it's easier to think of it as right to left
rather than left to right - than mere concentration rested
upon the stone not turning to bread -
higher in the pyramid than the water turning to wine -
as the pigs were fed, and the toils of man became
a fervency of all - as the devil asked:
are you sure you will be selling the aristocratic life to all
and all will be pleased? not all men were born
into a luxury of continual drunken luxury -
later the riddle turned into a choking joke of the 5,000 -
never show them tricks of the aristocratic class
for they drink to excess, and turn wine into water by
the day... but will stones keep the agile hands of labourers
readied for the next task if given water they turn into
debauched drunk sloths?

Being a weekend binge drinker I don’t really like Mondays
my poor fragile mind is in a alcohol daze,
my limbs are slow and heavy, each movement is a trial
I feel like I’ve ran a marathon after swimming the length of The Nile,
I lop around all zombiefied my legs are full of lead
my eyes are groaning loudly, like an extra from The Walking Dead,
I’m on the verge of snoozing, I do that sleepy involuntary ****,
I pinch myself real hard “Si you have to stay awake in work!”.
So I take a trip to the disabled toilet and have a nap on the ceramic floor,
hoping I’ll feel much better after this tad of a tiny snore,
I rouse after ten minutes and decide to control this ***** ridden strife,
I must get a grip soon, I want a grasp on this Monday life,
a light bulb pings out of nowhere to brighten my maudlin mood,
this sweet recovery will be engendered by lots scrumptious of food,
so I indulge in a savoury overload and gorge on toast and crisps;
Discos, Hula Hoops, Quavers and defo tons of Frisps,
on my dinner I scoff a Mac Donalds and then a Greg’s sausage roll,
this hungry Homer gluttony helps to sustain my whole,
the calorific sustenance does it’s job and my hangover starts to diminish,
I gaze at the computer’s clock and think “hey it’s time I finished!”.
I ponder “ohh I can glide home knowing my day is done
and if it stays sweet and bright I can enjoy a few hours in the sun,
after that I can watch Breaking Bad and catch up with Coronation Street
while busting out the texts and having more to eat,
yeah I’m see what Walter White’s up to while being really greedy,
wait a ******* minute, tonight’s when I’ve said I’d help the needy!
*******, **** **** **** ****, that’s my evening of chilling down the spout,
rather than a hammock night in I’ve got to venture out
and feed a load of ungrateful gits who don’t even clear their plates
and ask me if I’m a cross dresser while sniggering with their mates,
rather then see if Jesse gets caught by Hank and how the story unfolds
I’ll have to scrub those scrubbers dishes pristine while wearing marigolds,
as oppose to nodding off reading with a Rustlers under my front room lamp
I’ll have to put a load of cutlery away after making a 20 sugar brew for a *****!"
So I decide the Wellspring is off tonight as I really can’t be assed going
I’ll just graft extra hard for *** next week and keep the drinks a flowing,
so I’m just about to pick my phone up and call in with a excuse that’s pretty lamey
but then I realise if I don’t go I won’t get to see Amy!
Suddenly there is a spring in my step, my motion feels on point
I shower very quickly and post drying roll a joint,
I have a zip in my posture as I sail and blaze down the road
all my thoughts of staying in they instantly erode,
I think “Amy is ace and topper, in her company all is fun
she’d make a day of gloom resplendent with the sun,
her chirping silly noises are always brill in the air
she turns my giggles to def com one, I laugh without a care,
I mean I know I'm hilarious, I can feel my own strengths in my head and tummy
but when I'm with Amy I'm even more funny!  
She makes it all sunny!
Cos we can berate that gormless Declan who eats with the speed of a cheetah
say he's troffing all the time, like a professional eater,
we can spray a bit of water, have a lot of chat
teleport through nonsense with the free degree of claptrap,
chill around the washer where all the cool kids hang
kicking back like Gs, knowing all the slang,
flick a fleck of sausage then have a speaking swirl
flex the talking muscles with sweet balletic twirl.
I mean she's not perfect, she could improve her lot
she's pretty immodest, always going on about how she's so hot,
alright supermodel, calm down, yeah, okay you were blessed with good looks
be you know being arrogant really ******* *****.
And she don't like the ***** cats, her brain must have a feline blur
how can she not warm to their whiskers and their contented little purrs,
her eyes sometimes don't always work and she is optically infirm
and she steals pies from the scrotes, she don't know to wait her turn,
she'd stab you in the back for a go at the counter, she's always trying to grab the lead,
and added to all that she can't even ******* read!
(I'm surprised you can read this actually.)
But i'll overlook these foibles, her flaws aren't yet that drastic
she has to merge some yang in there to be so yin fantastic!
Ahh, in this life where what was can no longer leave a reflection
it's always super to feel the natural flow of connection;
glowing with simplicity
our joyous synchronicity!"
So i approach the door of The Wellspring and feel sweet and glad
and think, "you know for a Monday you aint turned out too bad!".

She was made of glass, I’m sure
Her beauty was her perfection; flawless,
Optically correct, one might say,
But she was hard with a sharp tongue,
And after a while the brittleness grew,
Her motives were transparent,
I should have been more careful, when I put her back,
But feeling dropped, she shattered
Razor shards and splinters flew, some cutting me
Oh, the pain of glass.

He dives into the night and tastes the colours of darkness;
He remains in disguise of the web of darkness,
Like a black spider, star burst horn baboon spider.
Grounded by the white stringed haphazard web of darkness
And he made darkness his covert, his pavilion round about him.
Dark waters in the clouds of the womb bearing seeds for the nation
Darkens and further occludes his opalescence into black and what?
He searches for the diversity of the rainbow with an iambic meter.


A biased accented and unaccented mirage of nations…
An optically dark-phobic illuminated biased meter
Synergism of nations is a phantasm meter display.
The hope of sanctuary proves hallucination by darkness.
Darkness is the absence of light, but light is light.
In his darkness he ponders

I'm loosing my mind, I wish I could get my life tight
Times is hard, but its harder to get my life right
What do you have left when it goes wrong, not right?

I look to sky
My confidence is on the ground
Where's those girls you ******
When you need them around
Where's the ones you love
When hate is what you've found

The time is here, the time is now
Tho, the last time I mentioned time
Things didn't work out
Like a stain on my skin
Just rub it till it comes out
I guess hoes are in
Conservative females are out
Even the optically impaired
Know what I speak about

My eyes have seen it all
My mind reads it all
My Heart, Hmm I can't tell it all
Tho, It feels a lot
When I talk to these girl I call
I try to stand strong,
Love makes me fall
But I won't fall in Love
Because I love them all.

I love the ones I respect
Not just the ones who's legs I've stretched
Lusting for their essence not love just ***
Tho my heart grows weary to see who's next
Not next to lay with, Next to just lay with me
No ***, All respect, Longing to spend the day with me
These girls, This world, My Heart , But No Girl
Who's next to bring sunshine to my world

not to mention the notes,
    who the hell enthrones a sadist
on what's a hyperventilating compass
......... and .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .
                 .               and .     .     .
                                        .     .     .
                                        .     .     . -
what's called conceptualisation, or
   the timessu doku* no. 8860, dubbed:
finding the first 5...
     fractions 9 / 9  and then 81...
it's an eye-sore, maybe it should be encapsulated
by .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
    but i left it it at
.  .  .  .  .  6  7  .  .
.  7  .  8  .  9  4  3  6
.  .  6  .  3  .  8  .  .
1  .  .  .  9  .  5  6  7
6  5  9  4  7  1  2  8  3               rectangles and squares problem
3  2  7  6  5  8  1  9  4                 (imitating a drunk
7  .  3  .  6  .  9  4  .                   watching the television with only
4  6  .  9  8  .  x  .  2                  one eye open to stop the carousel;
.  9  2  .  4  .  6  7  .                              ­  i.e. dajjal watching dajjal)

   that x in there? that's important, i think i can't
solve no. 8860 (i.e. finding the first 5)
because of it...
    and it's on paper, rather than on a digital
format, and that's hard to correct / revise /
solve...
                not to mention the ***** working its
purpose...  
                but such is the joy of being able to do something
that doesn't require crosswords...
  can't do them to save my life...
             i knew a guy once that could
do samurai su doku...
            i have to be content with this tier...
getting an eye-check...
          it's the spacing and 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
   arranged into a

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9      2      3      8      7      4     3      5     1       (e.g.)

so working from that, it's just as much as
knowing for to spell... it's optically infuririating
to have to compensate on something, somewhere...
some people just see clear spacing
and can do these puzzles quickly...
   it feels hard to attack humanism with science,
the whole thing is hard to figure out,
let alone no. 8860 (finding the 1st 5)...

unless you can compensate listening to the offspring's
debut album, no hero and black magic...
  but it really is a problem of spacing...

     i used the punctuation mark of a dot to emphasise
the digital canvas / pixel accuracy dynamic...
    
               how do you start to conjure these puzzles
into completion? should i put a ruler to the computer screen?
      but that x in the "spelling" of no. 8860
         undid me... just lost the heart to complete...
took me too long to insert anything after that...
and i didn't have a second copy, there was
only one 29th of feb. 2017 coming my way...
  
the best i could do is to write a poem counter
to what the theory states... i.e. not all poems
are written for a need of abandon... most of the time
it's a crossword, or as this case proves: a su doku.

           if poems are ever abandoned, it's to stress a concern
for tomorrow,
                     i really can't imagine myself passing
off a clean paragraph that composes a book,
that a book is composed of,
               i can't really imagine a better form
of punctuation than poetry,
           poetry to me is symbiotic with punctuation,
as in: you might just get to write another
poem / colon the next day...

              or like now... i hate that all these columns
of culture are pristine... then you get to read
the biographic sketch that gave such and such a book
to arise on in no man's land...
   like the koran and aisha...

         ******, i partied when there was no party,
i was found singing on a windowsill when no one else
was singing but a sparrow in the night,
the most beautiful thing i ever managed to see
was an insomniac crow, flying while the skies of
england were overcast... a kestrel on my fence,
a robin with a full orange bust fidgeting queer...
and yes, those parkinson sparrows...
   i looked at more birds than might allow me a stipend
to reach the age of 50... and have a saturday newspaper
magazine column actually giving a ****...

   i do not that ignition wasn't the debute album,
but given the sales, it was treated as such...

             i like the fact that poetry entertains sloppy...
   *****, raw, ***...
                    i could never rewrite or revise or edit
this *******, i'd loße my nerve...
                                     i *******... squiggly lines
and random patterns to antithesis phenomenons
that keep repeating themselves...
             i can't believe that writers spend 3 years
on a book, to then give it to critical hyenas...
this carcasss is heading straight down route s. beckett's
watt and j. joyce's finnegans wake,
and ezra pound's cantos...
             this bit of me is not heading for
a bestseller status... is down route per se...
                   because that's what i care, about...
that i am imitating darwinism's natural selection...
well... let's call it a ponce's selection
  and more snobs than screaming beatlemania fans;
or what the concept of persisting royalty does
to you...
            you half **** a refined talk of a    p h via t h
into thy, thigh         or veering into     thesp
                       ian,               or the said much more quickly:
finicky ***** of phonetic arithmetic.

but of no tongue as assured as tongue not spoken,
for even among those that once spoke
a tongue, none can claim the confederacy of mute -
remnants of the Cantos - kept as aperitif (a sign
of good digestion, like mustard eaten after
an autumnal meal of hot sprout and butternut squash) -
recitation from the snippets:
a. and for who demand belief rather than justice.
(synchronisation of the hearts to construct
  a church rather than a pyramid - labourer
  and priest alike) - And the host of Egypt
at Nag Hammadi resuscitated 2000 years on -
the pyramid builder, waiting to be born;
heart in tabernacle entombed also waiting his
expression of grievance - Helium chambers in
Auschwitz - they laughed so much they died
from last breaths - akin to rites - something
definite was noticed, far from atom and further still
from the tsar star - there too the mummified corpse
was resurrected to instil fear until Gorbachev reasoning
took to the plateau and the bloodied Soviet
feuds were miscarried by the Danish paranoia
concerning Chernobyl. i among the mutants still foetal
marked by a pseudo-cancer continued a supposedly
necessary breath - i too might add an 'O Artemis',
Ovid in Orpheus too would like a flute for the rats
than a harp to make a lover say: i will turn the other cheek.
you want really trust her while she wear nylons -
nor the feminist gobs that don't get any...
been to a ******* - you can beat me at crosswords,
you can't beat me at what you might think
my vocabulary should be like with your datum octopus'
suckers for a punch... how words are never seen
or heard but are somehow always doubly felt -
not seeing datum or hearing it makes feeling it doubly
personal... i'm sure that south american *****
in Amsterdam cared more for her moans heard outside her
window than some western discussion about a *******
thesaurus Rex, book of dinosaurs politicising big jaws
and tiny moving parts of the upper body.
across the maiden voyage Darwin stashed a few Ivory Coast
examples readied for a cotton picnic -
i wasn't there, i might speak the language, but as i'm assured
you might have guessed, i'm not a stoner Czech of Bohemia
lazying in history... und Anschluss -
i'm kind of bothered - i've been under Prussian rule,
Russian rule, Austrian rule... but the doctors around here
think i have a post-colonial ego-disorder, it doesn't help
that i don't live in an urban environment, theory don't work,
money claps... theory works... monkey wanks...
i can say ***** ***** ***** all i want...
i don't need active censors who haven't ****** a *******
into an ******... blah blah blah blah blah...
but the disparity is in reference to the notion of datum...
maybe people become too sensitive to certain words
because certain words (adding to fluidity) were
censored... hmm? i mean, if you censor a word like ****
into f&@k... you're bound to create a datum disparity in
the other senses... not seeing the proper spelling will make
you more imbecile when reacting to hearing an offensive word...
and upon hearing it you'll feel worse off... a datum x5 is
x10 if someone ***** around with the original message
architecture... censoring oath words in terms of optics
will polarise the same words when said and subsequently felt...
so... please... enlighten me! if you're ******* around
with a datum on the optic level, you will polarise the remaining
four vectors that the datum encompasses worth of allocation -
sense datum is a standard philosophical unit,
kinda like a centimetre in mathematics, or a noun in grammar -
you tell me π should be noted as 3.14xxx265 or anything
otherwise, you'll obviously become overly sensitive to a word
being said... when you optically turned it into A ******* NUN!

in english slang: you're a bit of a ***;
hence not holy water in russian orthodox,
but holy fool.

and as david bowie according to w.h. auden saying
'he became his admirers,' i too, but i don't care for admirers,
i have this strange affinity with alcohol,
i'm morose dirge clipping  in the night,
but during the day, i speak variations
of peacock onomatopoeias to cats
and laugh a dry fox's laugh
that insists on operatic regurgitated phlegm
for ointment for a vehement approach
to the sung piece of work:
much of our cognitive faculties are
based upon translating optically phonetic
symbols into action, unlike gob-gagging-droop
of seeing the creases (kreskówki, crayon drawings)
of colour upon colour, supra-colours of fantasy
that leave us speaking very little,
much is designated for the ah, within the framework
of dentistry's 'say ah...' aaaaah... good, not the filing
and implants. i lied, there are actually two
aesthetic phonetic units among actual diacritical
units in the polish alphabet: ó (u) and ż (rz, e.g. rzeka / river)
ę and ą are imitable by crouching with the knee bend
of the vowels - still the russians choke the joke:
'polish is all sh sh sz sh sh sz sh sz,' *no tak, i szczepta soli /
a pinch of salt.
and when i die, and die i shall, i want the shamanic winds
to turn me into deer and foxes, my greatest patrons
of the senses - and if i die in my sleep, i will never rest
for having the opportunity of looking death in the face
stolen from me; how many painful blinks it might take,
death conscious than death in my sleep.

omega (ω) umlaut - rho oh, tetra, and grammar, Anglo double u, w, and that too stresses prolonging the stance, given optically it's a double v, a Churchill, ******* up the *** will make the carrot tease appear dangling on the shtick: whip up a sultan with a salto!*

getting a "respectable" education
taught me ****,
they should have taught me
to deal with everyday mundaneness
rather than Pythagoras,
honestly, i became educated for no
apparent reason, well, no reason
to make other people jealous;
i educated myself for no reason,
and let me tell you, once you have,
it's hard to re-enter employment
doing menial tasks, no pride involved,
it's the way you were zoologically
tested to perform language tasks.

it all started so innocently, a man sitting in a
darkened garden, just prior, a thunderous
calamity passed the skies - in the darkness
he quickly surrendered himself to a mantra:
wee wee wee              vee vee vee
wee wee wee              vee vee vee
wee wee wee              vee vee vee
wee wee weekly         vee vee veering...
ma ma ma                    na na na
ma ma ma                    na na na
ma ma maternity        na na nativity.

upon noticing the many forms of the mouth,
the serpent tongue, whenever used, and how,
the collapse of the lips, or their opening -
it started on the optical basis:
why is *w named a double-u? optically speaking,
the symbol w represents a double-v,
after all, a cruder, easily chiselled-in symbol
for a rock-face, nothing akin to the omega curvature,
which does indeed look like a double-u (ω) -
phonetically speaking, it has to be investigated
looking at the pronunciation of every letter
when governing a word alphabetically -
for example, in using v, the central incisors touch
the bottom lip ever to briefly, there is no use
of teeth when *w" is spoken, although the lips create
a ~pout (approximate of)...

.........................................................­............................................
....................­.................................................................­................
................................................­.....................................................
...........­.................................................................­.........................
.......................................­..............................................................
..­.................................................................­..................................
..............................­.................................................................­......
..........................................................­...........................................
.....................­.................................................................­...............
.................................................­....................................................
............­.................................................................­........................

if the essence is a tongue, and the existence is a jaw... and that's mandible... it can cushion revisions, it won't exactly rebel against any revision, given the user is conscious of it being necessarily revised - or Darwinism in the linguistic realm - obviously less spectacular, but also less time-consuming - history looking forward, not back, not back to the regression forwarding an infinitude plateau of being perplexed by **** similis - you think bonsai felines would look at tigers in the same way that we look at the range of monkeys? probably not - petted and content - god and the simplification of thought, agile in the domestic and professional playgrounds - a one dollar banknote slogan.

drevo* rather than drzewo - meaning wood,
or the alias timber - sounds more Czech
and therefore, most probably, softer -
well, it actually means (etymologically speaking)
simply tree - but take the stress away
and write drevo (you can plaster in the double
v for the same effect - sound wise it might be
a uu, which ends up being an upside-down m,
but optically it's a double v - warily conscious
of the venture, Yoda, i am) - the freedom from
accents in writing spurred on countless interpretations
of English, but only in London, or the acquired
wee-chip-on-the-turban by Edinburgh Sikhs.
so it is: using English to cut off unnecessary stresses
in Polish, and likewise vice versus (rather than versa)
adding the collective European stresses to the 51st ßtate tongue.

Àdùké
Priceless is your worth to me
Even than cedars of Lebanon
You're to me the best gift
Divination graciously gifted
Never you stop "fìfé kémi"
Cos daily as I live
I long after constant assurance
Of your never lying love.

"Àdùké mí, eléyinjú egé"
Your cynosural eyes is captivating
So foxy that I'm knotted to you
Mindless mouths saying I'm influenced
By your pungent "èfó rírò"
If it's so, better it continually so
For upon this "èfó rírò" I helplessly
Want to be endeared to your unfading love.

"Àdùké elérin èye"
My priceless jewel
A simple definition of sincere beauty
The two "tóóró" on the either side of your cheeks
Signal muscle to my meaty lips
Sparkling euphoria of planting pecks and kisses
I often grow, each moment you wear a smile.

Àdùké mi
Gifted are your "ìbàdí àrán"
Way too delightful its rigmarole
Following your queenly walking steps
It's intensely appealing and optically endearing
I bet it's simply "àwòmáleèlo"
Little wonder my heart sticks to you
And my mind often caresses the thoughts of you.

Àdùké please "f'owówónú"
I know I've wrought deservedly of your angst and goodbye
But apologetically I beseech you
To not flip out nor bust up
Forget, forgive and stay with me
Sail me on your forever love voyage
Assuredly, you're my eterlove
My world without you is unimaginable!

©'Felaoye
#penmightierthansword
+2348065921819

am i the only one who finds
nudists  erotically
unappealing?
   i have to say
that certain body parts
of a woman, when given an accent
of clothing can mean more then
coupled  with the entirety of
the whole body
exposed for a sun-tan...
for some *******
reason, when i'm not teased
with body parts,
i turn into a butcher's son,
i just want to cut
the ******* thing up...
   mind you,
french nudism is a bit like
islamic niqabs...
i can't find the attention
pointers to start the
******* flirt...
           it's almost akin
to ****... optically, sure,
but **** nonetheless...
   i'm guessing muslims are
obsessed with oral ***
given the most ****** aspect
of a woman they ever discovered
were they eyes...
      islam is saturated with
an oral *** fetish given the attire...
i said the collar-bone bone &
neck outline + the hands...
and the **** cleft...
              eyes?
  that's like 5th or 6th on the list
of what's ****** about
women...
  but different culture...
you know what europeans do when
they find a hair in their
soup? they *****;
which is why i don't understand
with this islamic fetish for
hair...
             ever find a hair in your
soup?
          you'd regurgitate likewise...
but i simply can't find nudists
****...
           there are no accents,
no exfoliation of the certain parts
that allow a hard-on
to come to light...
             sorry...
      sometimes physiology takes
to the tale of: the other
            grounding of effort
for crafting a nuke...
     let's just say that
the eyes of women are the least
**** aspect of their body...
i share the same sentiment
as a certaisn 20th century poet...
i'd rather look into dogs' eyes
than a womans' eyes for
hours and hours...
    dogs' eyes are more appealing
than womans' eyes...
which is why i don't understand
the islamic claim that
eyes exfoliate a female appeal
toward a man's appeal...
  i already stated the three
major incisions...
        you know what the english
called niqabs? satan's postboxes...
to me the hands, the collar-bone
canvas, and the cleft of *******...
       then again, there's the thighs...
long gone are the days
of belly-dancers,
               and the slit-eyed-ninjas...
******* ponces of ******-inhibition...
i still find nudism an optical ****,
         like trying to *******
to watching chimpanzees at it...
          for some reason
nudists are albino in terms of fur,
but while that's going on,
i see them attired in thick fur:
that subsequently becomes
an explanation for a limp ****:
it would be akin
to bashing one off while
watching butchered pork chops.

In the posterity of what he compromised of his double mortality; one of these would bifurcate from the fearsome tyranny that subsequently dragged him down as he yearned to free himself from her purging. However, it was understood that he would have to retreat from his ditopikótitas or bilocality that was lifting him from the rigging of the Shamaim, which serenely reserved a Myein or arcane cloister for him until he detached himself from the Olympo that made him experience how to achieve his maximum unification with the Christianismós that would transport him with his subsidiary death from confinement, being a fleeting ascetic exercise with Orpheus and Dionisio and being able to access the unitive way of contravening the Myein or confinement of himself, until when he transfigured with his Himation into locks of gold they follow him transporting towards an illuminating purgative construction. Vernarth had already indulged in paroxysmal serials that repeatedly vanished from the stigma indulged in the non-rational parapsychological that bilocated extra-sensory, between the same helots present and ambassadors of Orpheus and Dionysus.

After drinking the fermented Ionian among those present, a Thuellai glimpsed him with such impetus that the glasses that broke in the same act, thus the lutrophores became weightless among this eternal battle between the eared handles of the carquesio, daring him to combine it with the rains of the tertiary zero that was settling on the Carquesians, and colliding with each other with those of their acolytes. Vernarth felt an abrupt alienation of the Myein towards a hyper-reality, but at the same time very aware that when the glasses crashed, they were made in thousandths of spaces in the realms that were detached from the hyper verbalized quantum with lexicons that emanated in the Duoverse way. ; That is to say, plenty of inspirations among the meditative and suspicious toasts when pretending to inherit from the Olympo, respecting and leaving the depositaries calm, noting that if one of them when grabbing the Lutrophorus had hirsute and hairy scarlet bristles activated in the back area of his hand right not hairy. Therefore, Vernarth realized that they were canons of the Kerberos in fact, and not of Orpheus and Dionysus, giving an immediate ovation of obedience and sudden minimal in the neglect of the place. This mechanism had broken down from a monotheistic hypersensitivity when he learned that there was a huge abyss of asceticism that distanced him from the underside of a possible cabal that supremely raised him with roots of hyper-meditative and illusory alienation that transferred him to the new reel of Hecate, which he reverberated with spells as he saw that his Kerberos distended from some hoopoe that lightened on Hecate's shoulders as they usurped Hestia's Olympian oikonos. Behold, Hestia's acquiescence was always close in Vernarth's metaphysical incursion, in such a way that the aviforme Hoopoe duplicated itself on Vernarth's shoulder blades, after emigrating from all the regions that were unknown to him, only from this ******* that is only possible optically sensitive in each hoopoe, and in each Vernarth shoulder after the transmigration of the great litters of blatant nocturnal Athena, not being condemned souls of Athena; but rather an owl with its wings wounded at its apices by splinters of coagulated serum from the very elytra of the Little Owl, a product of the severed of Hephaestus when cutting the skull of Zeus with his ax. Here is in this sub-quantum submission of how it implies that Vernarth takes himself from the elytra of the Little Owl, in order to impel him and achieve the conquest of the flight to Patmos where all his comrades were waiting for him, transforming his body into cells of Glaux of the Greek root γλαύκος (Glauko, bright towards an Ohr Hassadim), ibid of the same Hellenic as he traveled with the wings of the lustrous news that accompanied him, to ensure his return from the nebulosity to Ohr del Shamaim himself, pointing to the death throes of immobility of the team of oxen, which would never move from the wheels to take Lucia of Syracuse to the brothel, without the consent of Hashem.

Behold, Vernarth also within his ethnobotanical oikonos began to come off his second death as Astragalus Glaux with the sharp flowers of his garden famous in his allegories and belongings of herbaceous and confined litanies, which were the same ones that resisted his machinations by splitting them the calcaneus to its hoplites at the Arbela Site, unimpeded by some Astragalus Glaux that suffered in the substrate beyond its narrow ellipses, grouping them in the bleeding calcaneus of its phalangists, where the same length of the leaves served as peduncles dissecting and crystallizing the wounds of his faithful warriors. As a dry evergreen leaf, it was disconnected from the Glaux capsule that shone brightly from the constellation of Orion, and from Barnard's flowered loops, resembling par excellence the shape that extended to the cubic dome of the feet of all its soldiers. Falangists when at once they showed him once that they healed with the healing effect of Astragalus.

This sub-quantum could be attributed to a presumed stalking subplot, separating him in alienation but at the same time benefiting the concentrated attraction towards Sudpichi's coordinates in the Transverse Valleys from where his mother appeared to him from the Castle of Horcondising. His mother does not ask to feel part of some interference in the final awakening of his parapsychology, much less obstructing his liberation from the purgation that was already a concrete reality. Behold Luccica; her mother embodied herself in Thetis, giving her the imaginary role to interpellate in the final ceremony of Himation. Since Thetis constituted the sacred voluntary value of the Hellenes, towards a policy of agreeing her body in submitological assessment that would be legitimized once from the subsidiary body when it was split from its second incidental death of Olympo, already prepared to warn that Hephaestus had severed it. the head to Zeus when he prevented the birth of Athena, but he had two depository heads of the ingredient of Cronion-Zeus remaining until finally in this conclusive edict Luccica could receive his extemporaneous soul after being freed from the retrograde parapsychology that was re-launched in Piacenza. This exerts manumissions that are stubborn of his own will, but exercised through other deities, here Luccica had already learned that Vernarth was released from his kathartírio or Purgation, generating reconciliation with the church of Smyrna that had just been the final epilogue in Elegy VIII, as a concern of liberation such as Vernarth from the Chains of the purgation, as was what Tethys undertook when liberating Zeus from the chains with the drama of Fifth of Smyrna, from where some hold remained in the arms of the mother Vernarth with a duplicate of Achilles, but being Vernarth who was acclaimed with blood brother of all the lineage of the Heroes of the Triumph of the Hellenic Death.

Poem For A Day

She is muse for verse
that comes not from
inspiration but aspiration.

She is not a novel,
nor fiction neither, just
the actual camouflaged.

She hides therein
masked by her suitor,
lover, then to laureate.

She make believes his
fantasy and imagination
thus bringing herself to life.

She hides on his page
amongst a maze of words,
optically elusive.

She rhymes with his reason
and can even read about her
secret self, but, unknowingly.

She Sometimes is a simile
or a metaphor an enigma
often a figure of speech.

She is spoken of in
her own presence yet
invisible to the crowd.

She can be a proposition,
preposition postulation
but always gender friendly.

She’s a creative influence,
his stimulae for literary
composition.

She is nocturnal, a
silent presence felt
in times of solitude.

She’s ANNA a reflecting
pal'indrome every time
she looks in her mirror.

She can create illusions
mirages even marriages or
simply romantic concoctions.

She is what he wishes her to
be but unfortunately only one
day in the year, February 14th.





Ryan for Anna
14th Feb 2023
Valentine Poem.

The way to feel
is to close the
eyes and look
deeper with the
eyes of the spirit
into the soul
to feel what is
in the heart.
Painted on the
canvas of the soul
with the imprint
that is so subtle,
are the messages of
the spirit that only
the heart can
fully understand.
Written with love
and lavished with
infinite abundance
of grace and distributed
with kindness are
all that is
required to know.
All the joys
prerequisites
manifest itself in just
a twinkle of a moment.
The heart already
know how to immensely
and joyfully with love
draw our spirit out
to feel and understand
what is not optically
seen or felt with the hands.
The warmth of its
presence is deeply rooted,
and so indelibly blissful
in a magnificent exquisite
way in our spirit.
It is beautifully woven with
multiple amazing and
supernaturally astounding
impressive nature.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

i just pull these googlewhacks
out of my ***: from time to time...

https://tinyurl.com/mrxt88tu

i.e. russophisation capter

Russification... Germanisation...
familiar terms...
just like India was subject
to English culture...

            or how Argentina is...
distinctly: Argentina and not some
extension of Spain...

or how Brazil is... Brazil...
and distinctly so...
and completely devoid of what
Portugal continues to be:
being Portugal...

mind you: the tougher the ****...
the cleaner your *** is going to be...
you might just have to take
one wipe... and it's all rosy...
oh that: constipated sort of:
the closest man will ever come to
giving birth... this existential angst
of a tough piece of brown loaf...

geopolitics... once upon a time...
Western countries complained... moaned...
on the top of Cologne cathedral...
why will not the Polacks allow for
refugees! why oh why!

             fast forward... right...
     roughly 2 million Ukrainians are now...
living in ******-lack-land...
(a ref. to King John)... so you think...
it could be... sensible... to carve up Ukraine?
we could have all those lands up to and including
Lviv... how's that?

i'm only joking... but... we already have
2 million Ukrainians... if we incorporated
the western lands of Ukraine... while Rasputin
took the eastern lands...
hell... joke... the fabled reemergence of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...

yes: i too have a "job": i'm a day-dream of
sorts... when i feel really down
i replay the cinema of history...
i mean: to have one... it's not all:
Darwinism: just dropped from a tree
and started talking ooh-ooh grr gorilla
funny... albino ape that i: scratch my head...
ponder... ****-flinging contest?!

what am i going to reference against?
my genes were nowhere to be found
at the time of Edward the Confessor...
   or... the Scandinavian Raids of these Isles...
erm... some part of me at the battle of Britain:
****** fighter pilots...
remembrance placard in the underground
of St. Paul's cathedral...
Britain said: war! against **** Germany...
but no British soldier ever stood ground
on the disputed land...
while... Polacks ****** off... and fought for
Brish... everything Brishish...

repaid... demure of... copper-necks! in!
        that was the Brexit-argument...
too many Europeans mingling with too many
Europeans...

times like this... America and it's race...
and colour-blindness and whatever...
complicated little Europe and its ethnicity strains...
because: oh... i've been to Kenya...
i could tell you a Kenyan from a Nigerian: apart...
Kenyans are darker...
the women? they sort of glow at night...
as if smeared in... quicksilver-ivory...
i don't particularly... you know...
    entertain the idea of a black girl...
            but this one: in invisible ink... written on her
forehead: TROUBLE...           oomph!

curvy, plump... plum... cherry... **** me:
do i need to howl?! i'm not going to bark...
but that was the covert narrative...
too many Eastern Europeans...
           ****... no problem: fair enough...
we'll send them back... they'll gladly go back...

call me: call the Bengali UBER kids!
Scot?! scoot up! go on... shovel shovel...
diggy diggy...
             i never understood anti-racism...
i understood racism...
that's why it took me a while to sleep with
a black girl... a Thai girl... a Turkish girl...
a half-Indian girl... half half ha ha halves blah...
trans-racial Indian girl: how's that?!
neo-Brazilian... how's that?

i'll start going cross-eyed when blinking
on that banana skin of racial terms...
oops... slipped... into the Niger river...

that's the thing about drinking to excess...
you take a nap... because... oh god... the bacon was too salty...
that Carbonara came out all wrong...
funny: almost wong...
that dish? apparently invented during the second world
war...
when there was a shortage of... ******* everything...
those H'americano GI's came to Monte Casino
with bacon and eggs... hey presto!
the Seigl-Hi-Talians has some salt, water,
parmesan, garlic and pasta spare...
no onions... no parsley... oh come on... parsley:

prezzemolo! prezzemolo! eh! prezzemolo!
hide the dyslexic two Zees...
do i need to bring the Cyrillic in? the Greek?
preцemolo! come on... for the optics...
i'm not going to argue the stance
of dwarfs in the Lord of the Rings
against... elf vegans... but... optically...
if you're eating something as bland as...
pasta... some sprinkle of green will not hurt:
not the eyes...

right... you take a snooze... wake up...
you've had it rough...
there's not one intellectually equivalent
to you in the vicinity... ******...
right then... shut up... think some more...
but what i discovered... pseudo-hang-over...
water... starts to "taste" like... milk...
it's ******* magic...
i don't know how it happens...

       eh? sorry... i'm pretending to be deaf
to pretend to be thinking...

literally: you become so dehydrated that...
water... makes itself available to acquire
the properties of milk!
it's more "thick"... it's more... glut... eh?!
what the ****'s that?!
i have a gut... i'm missing a horse...
it actually tastes like something:
but it's water... it's universal...
it shouldn't taste of anything...
                 no no... no honey... this is *******...
Yucky-Yack milk!
this is a leprechaun milking a unicorn...
which... considering... Perseus and Pegasus...
o.k. sorry...               WHY>?
   i'm trying to flap my hands about like
an octopus' hello... telekinetically... i.e. not obviously..
head full of apples... juggling...
no hands... a pretty magic trick...

for ****'s sake... how did a unicorn ever replace
the Pegasus!
i know who to blame... the British...
too high-brow... no... taste for orthography...
i.e. that 3D project of reality:

vectors: ortho:
                meta:
                                    ­      para:

standard... in... discovering the benzene ring...
sorted... but not... oh no no no... no no...
that was never going to happen!

you, as a people, have not applied any orthograpahic
criticism: "criticism" of your tongue:
you borrowed all that's Latin: ancient Roman...
like pseudo-Afghani paupers of the north
with: pretense of non-origin... at times the Celtic
heart-bearers... at times the Saxons...
at times the Norman invaders...

your men are women confused by time...
that's what you are...
for all your glorious past...
i don't want to belong to it...
i can't... belong to it...
you... sniffing up the great *** of
H'america... i start to walk blind...
i stroke my bead: pretend to play the violin...

where is the orthography?
all those pretentious... sensible...
metaphysical arguments of an Englishman?
where?! where?!!
you ******* sulky little *******!
oh mate...

               i shouldn't be here... i'm not supposed
to be here... knowing me:
i'm supposed to be forever elsewhere!
trapped in katana or ideograms...
entombed... whatever...

  somewhere... where water tastes like milk:
in a firestorm of:
a gathering of the seven winds!
find me.. precious little fairy!
give me the patience: to wait;
linger with me within the confines of ice...
just let me

by now... water tastes like milk.

P    it is a poem of similar style
L                                                 to Seamus Heaney, who
O    had an ability to make lines of
U                                                 earthy furrows on a page,
G    with a headland, where his
H                                                 title cast an inky irrigation
I      between drills of propagated
N                                                 images harvested optically,
G    literally, laterally, by the reader.

the old face returned to the mirror
and almost instantly the melancholy lifted
and i stood reborn
in the wine of gravity
and of vanity
and it became so simply to obviously
so simply obvious
that it had to be right
that going to the Turkish barber
is like getting a ******* from
a wife
and i'm just burning my eyes out
i mean i'm burning my eyes
i'm scratching at them
if ever she might think i'm infidelity
personified
and i will not use of "right"
since no consequence of will
to balance the right to
and the right from
i.e. the evil and the good
and the good and evil
i have the right to breathe
but no will to life
but then a will to life returns
and i wonder just
now about Nietzsche's un-kept moustache
and i think of the weather
in England in June
and if this is summer this is the worst
Scandinavian summer
because in Sweden
there is a midsummer and a summer a twilight
and the white knights of St Petersburg
because i know that
there are the keys and gates
to St Peter's Gates
in St Petersburg
and not in Rome
not in the basilica of St Peter
but in a city of St Peter
and that is in Russia
and i think that's where i was
and oh god i look
**** again
because ****** hair
does not belong on a man's neck
like it doesn't belong
on a woman's feet
shins to be exact
and not on her face
and not in her arm pits
but sure as ****
i love to slurp a furry oyster
like i might be
the white man killing
the hairy elephant away
for having enough food to do
to do
a do of burning wood
to keep coo coo
a cooing a sensation of the fuckery
of backgammon and chess
and card
and other video games
and i was in the girl
talking about Roblox
and Play-station 1
and playing Metal Gear Solid
and Tenchu
and oh boy boy boy boy
no, sorry, girl, Reyla...
do you know how much time
you are wasting
by the modern gaming torture?
this is torture i remember
gaming like it was a narrative
a narrative sport
unlike the sports of hunting ducks
with spaniels
or fishing
i hear men disgruntled with the bread
and the circuses
and i see them hating going to football
seeing it turn into
a secular religion (gap and throw me
a bone
when i go to an event
twice as drunk as if
but really tugging my children with me
to keep me awake
now i think of the sudden rush
of exquisiteness
a piquant sharp
chilly sauce no hot towel
no i'm not here to relax
will finish watching Breaking Bad
with dad
and i will make Slavic schnitzel
and misery of cucumber and dill
and maybe onion
maybe the spring ones
oh jeez the **** is back the **** jaded
**** is back
resurrected
what of that un-kept mustard-gas...
mustard-gas...
mustard-gas... moustache..
    attache... mustard-gas attache...
but Martin now Merlin
does not remember me
he remembers Kamil -
now i'm thinking this is pair bonding
and this German philosopher on
youtube...
technology, internet...
authenticity "vs" profilicity -
i.e. the art of profiling
self
others
oneself
and others

my selves and my nouns
and my grammatical bumps
and skids
a road
a road to far away
i

i was just thinking about including
England in the Scandinavian
League
from Medieval Times
given that North Englanders
have more Viking blood in them
than South Englanders
which have more of the Swiss Bloodline...
from their reading of history
and close associations with
the Europe the Union
the Chains
i mean North England is like Wales
and who knows where the boundaries
lie
of this new sprout Kingdom
of which, i, Jarl and customs' manager
wonder in clue huh clue huh
the crows of england
fly in mythology
of Huginn and Muninn
which is while the crows
of the continent fly
in thracks - throngs....
          in market places: a carnival of flesh
flesh of the feasts of war
now subdued and no longer
heroic
like heroism and idealism (except for that French
dualism of *** on Descartes' table
cushion me
dearest teacher, the secrets...

            the crows of Odin
fly above England
while the crows of Barbarossa fly
over the Continent of Europe...

   ᚠᛄᚢᛏ

                    ᚦᚩ-

              (                   ­              ᚬ ą)


:) :) :) :) :) the apple machine forgot
to press ******* keyboard to find
the letter... ᚬ ą -
missing on Apple Machines...

                                                -ᚱᚴ
­
some ungrateful son am i
while grandfather was alive
Martin was the Prodigal Son
and upon his return
squandered his prodigy
in that he didn't once
lift a book to read
or write with finger
or clean his father's room after his death
and i did that
and now my mother went back
to the house of her childhood
and she can no longer
smell the death and museum of her
father
that i cleaned
that i cleaned
and i think that's why there was so much
shock upon mother returning
and "confronting" my grandmother
because that's now
not a case of Edie and her mother
and my mother and her mother
because now i have four mothers orbiting
me Miroslaw and Reyla
Miroswav...
     Miroswav

          SWAV

                SWAVA POLAYA
niet nad K
clan
klej
              klątva!

a curse upon my family! a curse upon my lineage
Martin knows who
i am i have been unmasked in the visions
of history and monotheism and the journey
of one particular god
who can forget
because not a universe god is he

          i am CAIN

i am the reincarnation of CAIN
    i have the mark on my shoulder blade
the right shoulder blade
where my wing was clipped
i waited and waited
in line to sing or say something in the court of
kings
and then someone clipped my wing
like picking up a telephone

and reincarnation can only happen
in the confines of monotheism
is they are pre-history of recorded cognition
and that does not allow
the reincarnation of Jesus Christ
it forbids it
it is a MAJOR HERESY
to even "think" and even THINK
that the reincarnation of Jesus Christ
is possible...
a reincarnation of Cain
Adam Abraham
yes...
but not even Moses!
not even Moses!

i.e. a Time of the Reincarnation
of the Illiterate
beginning with Muhammad!
ah! he he he ha ha ha he he he ha!
he's the first prophet!
Muhammad is the first prophet
if monotheism is to ever
reconcile itself with polytheism
and the polytheistic "reality"
of reincarnation!

imagine a time and the distant future
of the old figures of the old testament
being resurrected /
reincarnated
to write their own accounts...
easy: just imagine Cain writing a book
just imagine Abraham writing a book
just imagine Isaac writing a book
just imagine...
for a while...
Jesus was pushing the tradition
of saying but writing nothing
that tradition died with Socrates
and that's what ******* the Jewish intellectuals
at the time
and that was that...
Jesus took it for granted and so lazy
to think him illiterate
seriously?
Socrates had no audacity in old age
just old age
but for Jesus to imitate Socrates
in some airy-fairy sort of way
by sign language of the crucifix
rather than jumping mental hoops of arguments
and self-aversions

no... i didn't go and chase up chasing
the wheel in Whitechapel today
or trying to break into a Mosque like i might
want to break into Wembley
tomorrow
but i'm working so
now i look the part
but instead i thought better for the barber
and "stock up"...

   the Mosque can wait the wheel can wait
Ezekiel can't rise up since
he probably wrote
not even Isaiah
but perhaps Elijah
and perhaps there will be no horror
if anyone: echo! echo! echo!
did Elijah write anything? anything? anything?

there's not even the remotest question
of me "sobering up"...
rather a case of me unthinking the need for
the use of letters...
even with these seemingly wax
eyes
of being strained to black and white
like strobe light glittering diamond
in darkness
but if i lift my eyes up
there is nothing but the grey of the day

ah! message to idea
one selfie two selfie
just to look peacock and *****
for her too
looking **** sexed-up and sober
yes just relieved myself
by writing this...
so... yeah...
there was a thought at the beginning
of this:
i'll make sure to message Edie
about it...

             wife, *****, personal secretary,
something along those lines
form penance for going to church
like penance in Islam is a woman
wearing a Niqab
then the equivalence is
women going to Church...
so barbaric and foreign and backwards
and that's the fertile ground
for Christianity since
its culminated failure at the Zenith
of **** Paganism
a revival of the Myth of Lithuania
but fertile ground enslaving Africa
and South America
is not really because there's a Missing Spanish Link
i.e. this can't be referenced in England
but must be exported for a review
to a neutral ground...
no idea...
but since the histories of England
and Spain are so intertwined
well... there is just too much history at times
when there's something specific
about to be optically stressed in
either wording esp in wording somewhere
in painting
which belongs in galleries
and not on papers
in wallets
on stick 'em along lines of walls
and sometimes: no labyrinths
so straight infinite avenues
where no one really meets anyone
so unlike a shared labyrinth
a confiscating labyrinth of both self
and other self
since parallel to us the other and the other other...

p.s.
Hans-Georg Moeller...
notable mention
notable mention...
just wondering what
German phrases to learn
for tomorrow
but chances are
i'll be with the Spaniards
so it won't be much
fun not entertaining
the Borussia Dortmund
fans
although i hope i wish
and certainly on the egress
cordon at DC3 on
Olympic Way...
blah blah...
we'll see, we'll tomorrow is another
another

        some                     other

It's been decided at Davos
the pandemonium evolution
which is what it is, for control.

Little by little there has been
the good cop bad cop approach
Virus Vaccine Virus Vaccine etc.

Fear has been marketed alongside
security between blinks of those
who are being optically opiated.

The crescendo has been reached
next part of the plan will be their
final move that is ratio rationing.

The food chain is our weakest link
and the please sir may I have more
people will not be able to revolt.

HP should devote a special
site for the polluters.

In that allocated area where
they off load their *******,

ink gleaners would come
with brushes, erasers and

abortion vacuum's, so that
early terminations could be

performed before readers
are optically contaminated.

Failing that, some form of
Trip Advisor ™ system

could be put in place beside
the names of those poetic

imposters who should be
rated by real poets and thus

save the planet unnecessary
i cloud congestion which is

contributing to Global Warming
time wasting and discontent.


Signed: Gretta Thonberg.

whenever i get stuck on a sudoku puzzle,
i try to rethink it, or rather write an
abstract about in terms of -
symbols outside of 1 through to 9
that feel less restrictive -
   i mean: finding numbers along a gridded
space is sometimes very much
akin to thinking of a word -
which isn't a synonym -
   and then the spelling...
        even i falter on the name of
a sea... example...
        one word doesn't prove a dyslexia,
it's just that it is, pedantically difficult
to encode optically into cognition
than it is to remember how it sounds...
e.g.?
         Meditarrenean...
            i'll try more attempts...
it's not like i'm trying to spell Mississippi...
Mediterranean... oh ****!
it worked!
but you get the picture...
   some words are a bundle of...
not exactly prefix / suffix / affix clarity of
syllables...
the vowels get jumbled up -
with the breakdown of the Latin grapheme
æsc and Œ...
the English language, is particularly obliged
to have origins in how these
Siamese twins were seperated...
****... separated...
          always with the sepia...
anyway...
   yeah, whenever i get stuck because my eyes
have become strained and have wandered
to much, i write an abstract
for the puzzle...
    puzzle no. 10,188?
   a completely blank grid, of the nine...
nothing in there...
   like chess, you have to find a way to insert
one number in...
in this instance? it was an 8...
you have to corner a number,
which implies a chess equivalent of
a check...
                    because there's an 8
already inserted into the other eight
grids...
how did the abstract look of
the puzzle that eased my eyes and let me
spot the first / last 8 for the grid?
again, you have to move beyond
numbers and letters to ease the eyes...

||           \     \           \                      //
     =     //         =     ||   ||   ||   //  \   ||
        ||        =            //            =           =

since we're dealing with finding a number
in space,
   what eases the eyes is the spacing
difference in the pixel blank, "paper"...
it's a schematic exercise -
    a sudoku puzzle is some sort of
schematic...
   albeit a hidden schematic...
    on a grid of blanks,
   there are three numbers with holes
in them: 4, 6, 8, 9... and in the back of
my mind, 0...
   which implies: the grid is all 0s...
and i have to change the 0s...
  into the respective outcome of set rules...

perhaps this is,
a mundane aspect of my day...
but for some strange ******* reason...
it tames me, and elevates
the experience of music...

mind you...
you ever watch that Channel 4 show
that happens once a year?
the... child genius?
  with those quasi-autistic kids
who turn out to be trained
monkeys...
what horrific parents they have...
trained monkeys...
spell "perfect",
memorize facts, "perfect"...
spell words... "perfectly"...
  god, what a horrid contest...
a bit like that one they did
on the grounds of an insomnia
competition...
luckily the channel had only
one stab at the idea,
and the competition was deemed:
Soviet-esque torture
   replication, i.e. sleep deprivation...

just like me, today,
i woke up, and you know when
you're in that state of neither asleep
but not quiet awake...
in that subconscious zone
where consciousness isn't exactly
the unconscious,
and the unconscious isn't
exactly consciousness,
and you "think" that you're
seeing a set of "images"...
but are more or less "thinking"
and not seeing the "images"...

what a ******* horror-freak show...
like some slaughterhouse
of human remains and what not...
horrid ****, almost had a hard-on
looking at the *******,
which... i was either imagining,
or... i was imagining...
   consciousness isn't exactly
a bastion of imagination,
but sure as **** the subconscious is...
and there i was, thinking
that the subconscious didn't exist...
in the holy freudian trinity
of the breakup of man...

    point being,
these supposed child geniuses...
channel 4...
and autobiographies....
people really have lived more spectacular
lives than me....
but...
(a) i taught myself how to swim...
my father tried once,
teaching me in the South-end sea
with that despicable beach
of hard pebbles...
   FAIL...
   who taught me to swim in primary school
at the Barkingside swimming pool?
peer pressure... nothing more,
nothing less...
and...
(b) i taught myself English...
when i came to England
   aged 8 i knew two words in English...
cartoon and, network...
you know the feeling of an 8 year old,
shoved into a room full of English
speaking children,
  and not being able to speak a, single,
word, of their ****** tongue?
even i don't... i don't remember the kid
who self-taught himself
this language of the natives...
   it's not like i had the privilege position
of your atypical migrant parents,
who absconded from their culture,
settled, taught themselves your standard:
marked by diacritical marks /
accented "native" sprechen...
       i don't remember that child
who used to hide in the toilets...
  because, well... child development is
about learning a new language
aged 8?
               i remember this fat Italian kid...
same dumb-**** that came in,
came out... i call it the pasta fudge virus...
like these kids being the sons and daughters
of immigrant parents,
immigrant parents who sacrifice
their native tongue and speak only English
in their home, so that their children
only learn English...
and how some try to crawl back to their
mother's metaphysical ***** and
learn some native sprechen of their own...
because you know how or rather
why i taught myself English?
    so... there's probably about less than a million
Polacks in England at the moment,
moved to England, earned some money,
****** off back to Poland
to earn, rather than borrow,
from how the Western Europeans benefited
from the Marshall Plan after the second
world war...
       thanks... but no thanks with regards
to the cultural antagonism you're experiencing
from the, merry ol England...
    so there were those kids...
their parents sacrificed their tongue:
pretty much their souls for some ignoble
brat to come along and "think"
that he's somehow native...
                        more so than the natives...
i've met only one obnoxious
English *****...
ans that's saying something...
who? my neighbor...
who's grandparents apparently came
from Lithuania...
                 but yeah...
child geniuses, trained monkeys...
   it's not like arithmetic is littered with
as many particular rules as a language...
   instances where Puma is actually
Pū(h)m(ah) not not... ahem...
    Pyoomah...
       i've learned being corrected about
how words are pronounced quiet early on...
and it stuck with me...
           hey... no hard feelings...
it's not like the English language has
entertained applying even a faint whisper
of diacritical indicators...
  trained monkeys...
               well... monkeys that evolved
to entertain the pleasures of gluttony
        and the art of Roman regurgitation...
but as i said...
people have lived more accomplished lives...
and these two feats are...
   peanuts!

Arctic Cathedral

You are a Prism,
You are a Pyramid
You are the peak of the Pole.

You're an Icesosceles Triangle
You are a beacon or a Spike
You are a frosted Toblerone.

You are a Fuji
You are an Aspen
You are an Everest.

You are an Anything
You are a Something
You are an Everything,

You are a Sail
You are a Scale
You are a Chard

You are a Munch
You are an Ibsen
You are Amundsen

You are Nocturnal
You are Diurnal
You are a Star

You are an Icicle
You are a Waterford Crystal
You are a Stalagmite.

You are the Sine
You are the Cosine
You are the Tangent.

You are a Pagoda
You are a Point
You are a Paradox.

You are an Illusion
You are a white Seclusion
You are a Mirage.

You are Ribbed
You are Cribbed
You are Ad-Libbed

You are Algebra
You are Geometry
You are Trigonometry

You are the Alfa
You are the Apex
You are the Anthem

You are Sensual
You are Superb
You are Sublime.

Architecturally Eccentric
Optically Simplistic
Spiritually Divine.










Ps

The Arctic Cathedral is in
Tromso, North Norway.

Google it, it is stunning.
I wrote this whilst sitting
there today.

Pro's, cast a nation
into the extension
of eternal excuses
in an effort to deter
the inevitable whilst
hoping to erode that
is left of what used to
be called - - - - it, from
the minds of useless
eaters, by wizardry,
blatant confusion,
deception, falsehoods,
optically eluding, in
full view, on top of
the searchlight, the
safest place to hide,
whilst sniggering at
the Queens Abject's.

.           [::::::::]


Is it due to my dyslexia?

I continue to make that

same spelling error over

and over again endlessly.


Optically they look similar,

******* and Bandage.


It should be an adhesive

dressing with holes, but

no, it’s an aerial view of

Gaza, known as The Strip!