1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o

The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!

.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:

i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair...  i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?

one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...

             again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
   ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...

                   african phonetic encoding....

debussy                                       chopin




satie                                              schumannn...

­and?
              there's too much of loon'don....
                   had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
               ****-ups....
  
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
   just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...

it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...

         my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
     going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
      i still visit,
  spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
   fix up the kitchen...

  but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
   dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...

a closure...
   the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
   he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
                 he remembers things
like the two SS-men
   posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
  the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...

    i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
        he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!

   at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
  the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...

dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
   when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
  he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
   why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
  to remember himself?
        
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
  hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
                  into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
   i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
               and i'm only 32...
          but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
   it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...

         i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...

   but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
                     point being...
a life opens up,
   but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
    
he's an old man...
   he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?

     me?
  some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
   wumpscut, two songs...
   thorns & wreath of barbs,
     bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
      enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...

  sudoku no. 10101...
    after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?

   it went something akin to this

[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]

that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
   with regards to how the grid is filled.

oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
                   פור day,
       drunk cruxion?!
                 lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?

   oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
       like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
    i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?

   i'll keep repeating...
              talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
  let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!

and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...

         i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
   and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
          great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...

    oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...

   abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
  it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
          or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
            now?

i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
          naan bread,
     turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
    mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
  one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
       smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,

em....
  [9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...

well...
     "apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
            i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!

braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!

    a.:   ⠓⠑   ⠺⠓⠕
                       ⠎⠑⠑⠎
    ⠊⠎       ⠁⠃⠇⠑
                   ⠞⠕
                                     ­   ⠗⠑⠁⠙

b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....

· · · ·  ·         
· − −  · · · ·  − − − 
· · ·  ·  ·  · · · :
                  · ·  · · · 
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · ·  ·  (a / b)
      −  − − − 
                   · − ·  · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · ·  (a)

(he who sees: is able to read)...

           i can attest...
             i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
                far more easier.

finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..

I remember
when you were young and wide eyed
excited at the possibility of the world
and afraid because it was all so big and you,
you were the smallest creature in a forest full of monsters

still, you had big dreams and wanted
so badly to write something
so unique and profound
something to make people understand you
understand themselves
see that we are all one
know that we all bleed the same
slippery shades of water color
even if the canvas is is different

Fear is an ugly thing and overshadows
and overwhelms, *******
the life out of life
and the colors out of the rainbow that
is supposed to shine overhead and keep
the bad the things at bay

it crawls into bed with you at night and
keeps you awake, drilling
everything that is wrong
straight through your skull and
into your soul like a
woodpecker, never ceasing
never letting you rest

there is so much that is so hard
to comprehend and make sense of
and it is so much easier to let the fear
take hold of you, wrap it's fingers
tightly around your neck
a noose growing ever tighter, strangling
while you struggle until
you have no voice left to speak

It left you choking
out fragments
and run-on sentences into a journal
that no one would ever see
that still makes me burn when
I flip through those pages reliving
the story of my life that you wrote
all those years ago

I remember
when you thought that no one could see you,
so you lived your life like a child
jumping up to see over the counter,
making make-shift ladders out of whatever
you could find so that you could grasp
everything that always seemed so far above your reach,
losing yourself so easily
in a sea of people
because they were so big
and you were
nothing

You words are a time capsule
that bring me back to a place when
when we stared at each other in the mirror
and curled our tiny fingers into a fist
wanting to smash the glass
because
we were ugly

But my words are a time machine,
my gift to you from the future

You are small still,
but the world is not as big as it used to be
and nothing ever comes easy
but your dreams are coming true,
you did not give up despite
believing so often that you would fail and
you are making a difference

I am afraid
because
everyone is afraid, but
I stand in front of the mirror
young and wide-eyed,
excited about the possibility of the world
and when I look at you now, I know
that we are learning to love each other
finally.

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

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

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

Death I see, that ugly spectre,
Coarsely overshadows youth.
Lame, they look for interaction
With the bondman.  Shame, forsooth!

Drowning in the dams of liars
When they could be shining lights!
They believe what e’er is told them,
****** in by the TV sights.

Culture told them there’s no future,
There’s no healing for despair.
Bet they never read the Bible –
Words of LIFE spelt loud and clear.

There’s no need for this attrition
Of our children.  Give them truth.
Let them listen to the old ones –
Hard they learned the facts of life.

By the power of scripture they have
Overcome the skull and bones.
Into joy and peace they’re marching.
Youth could follow in those zones.

Up to them to stop and listen.
Perhaps the media got it wrong.
Find a person in their nineties,
Who survived the wars and so on.

They are old because their attitude
Enabled them to plunge right in,
Boots and all in right perspective,
Shake and move, the truth to win.

They’ve believed in right and beauty,
Principles and sacrifice.
Not for them the great self pity
Serving death – man-trap device.

Rather they’ve bent over backwards
To embrace another’s need,
And serving, felt the great dynamic  
LIFE FORCE.  Yes.  They were a breed!

practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions

lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift

fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards

inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion

words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness

shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows

a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart

/                        innocent until prōven guilty,
contra guilty until
                             prōven innocent...

  ah!

         so the minority report?
guilty, while innocent,
    based upon a premonition?
hindsight with a zodiac
type of interpretation...

   innocent until prōven guilty
has no superiority
in practice over the continental
guilty until prōven innocent...

no... because the principle invokes
presuppositions,
                  of suppositions...
treating the two as propositions -
or rather... "verbs" inacted...

innocent until prōven guilty -
then no understanding of freedom,
at least guilty until prōven innocent
allows understanding
restraint, however unfair,
   with 18 years lost...
   and then the tears of relief!

                     Tomasz Komenda...
         an "espionage" case of staging
empathy...
               en masse...
   an innocent man walks away
from falsely imposed justice measures...
a redemption...
       a count de monte cristo
allowance...
                 but in reverse?
the evil man walks free...
     succumbing to old age,
    and dementia, a pontius pilate pardon...

there is no redemption aspect
of the saxon course of applying jurisprudence...
the... innocent, until prōven guilty,
contra: guilty until prōven innocent
   schizophrenia?
                the latter overshadows
the former...
                         because we're not babies...
at least with the latter:
there's a redemption exegesis -
     but with the former?
                bitter-sweet tears within
the confines, of an example akin
                             to jimmy savile...

guilty until prōven innocent
   has much more authentic emotional
content, with a redemption narrative...
innocent until prōven guilty
   has?    not much,
                                  just a grave,
and the stunted emotional expression,
what ought to be flowers
within the heart,
   instead: fungus, growing in the dark...
and thus... translating
to other hearts:
    
   let's allow this chemo-phobia
chemo-philia experiment
     be left intact in its the momentum...

honestly... the study of law -
   is probably the ******* game
in the allowance of games of
adulthood... one tier above gambling.

p.s.
   because you know there's proof:
and that the past-participle
thrown into a future, does require
   an omega rather than an omicron...
not an oh, but an ooh...
        hence? reign from above,
on the omicron, with a macron (ō).

i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)

º
               º
                      º

                              º
      ­                                                      º
         ­                         º
                                      ­               º

do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
  and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:

                          º
                       º
                    º

                       º
                         º
                          

            º                          º  

i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
   besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
******* hippies, and your age of aquarius,
     this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...

but i'll end it on a positive note...
  
   there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...

and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
  the sycophantic actors of attendance -

throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
   there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
        however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...

but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
    
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
  there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
  and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...

i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!

Dark Silhouttes are filled with billions of stories to tell about the righteous
A tragedy that truth had to die in the first century; buried by false statements that carry no debates
Still we search for something to believe in
Only to fatten ourselves with excess demons
Righteous men learn by themselves but in this generation the righteous men are the wolves
And they taught me that Jesus is lord, that Jesus is king of kings and that he will save us all
But deep down I know
THAT JESUS WAS NOTHING BUT A SCARECROW
for that remark, they will all mark me as a demned sinful human,
Only last week did i see-: mocking birds in the sky hymning a melody to the forsaken men who among themselves joined the wolves
"I am the sheep that the wolves will never eat" I said
And then christmas finally came and darkness crept in the room that I lay
As i was awaiting the Death of Death and the birth of Eternity
I am sorry, but the darkness was too much for me to handle when christmas came, Lest! a Mystery a werewolf I became!

My Strongest, My Weakest
My strength where it be my weakness
My weakness, it seems to be my strength
Alone on a bench of thoughts
Pulling out memories as straws
******* out the moments so I don't feel numb again

Waiting for the sun to shine
At night I look for the brighest star
At home I wait for the hour of glory
I write futuristic promising romantic stories
Searching and digging into the pit of opportunity
Grinding and drilling so I can find what the world has for me
Is the rock a diamond uncovered?
Is the diamond a rock long discovered?
What good am I in a hopeless world?
How strong am I to be still standing?

I have been blinded by pride and reputation
The chances flew right past me
This was my weakness
An illusion which seemed to appear as my power
Only to allude me and send me to the depths of hunger
How do I survive in this incessant famine
My strongest, my weakest
Is my prowess both a strength and a weakness
Is my power a fist that concentrates my potential,
filters all doubts and confusion,
then send me back to a writer's rhythm?

For the muscle of me, what is love?
For the scars on my back, do tears set a heart free?
On my back are scars which smymbolize the pain
The pain caused by those who have turned their backs on me
The muscle of me a solidified lump of heated chemistry
Chemistry broke for the vision was divided
For one side a poetic love affair
Another a fling of **** and ego boost
Lies lie hidden in a black book of truce
The tears shower and the pain overshadows,
and the lies fly out and the book burns
Nothing left but hurt, resentment, hunger and thirst
A chance of love comes again and again I am underrated
Shots that succeed lack poise and weight
I levitate onto the pillars of loneliness
The trial gives me cold but also clarity
A fool never unless my heart learns to jump again and I,
I will set it free.
Is this a mere cry due to weakness?
Is it a last strike so I can find my strength again?
All is revealed and I slip into a stream
I am on the prowl once more and I will never be the same.

But soon I will find, the lines that divide
Strength and Weakness
And the balance therein
I am in it and I search for the limit... The limit within the dimensions of existence's summit.

The cloudy nightmares,
Images of pasts, repressed
Forever dying

Their tombs are destroyed,
Gateways to the collections
Violently *****

Given a **** or
Second thought to understand
Tragic endeavors

Numbness overcomes
And overshadows, under
Dark circumstances

Sly, insidious,
Uninspired, and flawless
Miracles occur

Alone in my world
Stoicism has benefits
No one else matters

Dreaming, believing,
Living, thinking, and feeling,
But never kneeling

Twelve, thirty-seven,
Six-million ways to die, but
One to stay alive

see, what confuses me
is that i'm most often kept
on the outside
of your shining brilliance

i don't get to experience
the marvelous rays of
your genius
and that's alright, i suppose

i instead get to glimpse
from the outside
when i get the chance
and i've settled for that

standing out and looking in
is where i’ve grown accustomed
it’s okay, don’t feel bad
i’m used to it

( it is now a case of the day-to-day
rather than the out-of-the-ordinary. )

it surely isn’t your fault
that someone like me is
so plain, that your greatness
overshadows my own
mediocrity.

-d.m.

i see things in high definition colour, but
july is the only month that fluctuates—
between florida orange and, later, burnt sienna;
everything between the 1st to the 31st
is dipped in a honey-glaze of three things:
1. warm, sticky air
2. the feeling of 6pm
3. bicycles riding through fields of fireflies.

naturally, i spend most of july in my bedroom—
the heat gets to me, makes my allergies flare
and i watch movies; old, 80s, movies (or—tiktok clips
of the same movie, only broken up into thirty-six parts
that i view from my bed with my naked legs spinning vertical circles through the air).

i always forget the feeling of august
until it’s there again. july
overshadows it with the final embers, so i only realise
it's august on maybe the 5th or 6th. almost
a full week into a month that my brain—
which is never wrong about the way things feel—
sees a deep, ocean blue.

i don't write home about august. i don't hurry it up
through winter months, when i begin the countdown
to hot, hazy days. if anything, i view august
as the ending of something, of a summer i wished so hard for.

and every time, it blindsides me with love.

i love things more in august. i love the smell of summer-
rain on the pavement. i love songs i listened to in january.
i love waiting around for halloween. i love my bedroom,
the pause of heat-sick sleep, the blue-sky mornings.

i write love letters to autumn in a time capsule. i text july and ask u up?, and wyd?, and come over?

and still, when summer ends, i will never want to get what i wish for.

There can be no good
Without bad

There can be no light
Without dark

There can be no happiness
Without sadness

But isnt it funny how there cant be a positive without a negative, yet the negative seems to be heavier...?
Humour me

It is better to be good, or for something to be good
That would be, well good.
So to balance out the good, there must be equal bad, right?
'cept the bad outweighs the good you see. Bad is heavier and overshadows the good.

Bad > Good

It is preferable for there to be light
Light is in a generalistic sense, a good thing.
So to balance out all the light, we must also have the dark
'cept once again, the dark overshadows the light. The darkness is worse than the light and presents itself as a heavier presence.

Dark > Light

Last but not least, oh ** **... Happiness, it is the greatest thing,
Thus it is a very good thing.
But to balance out the happiness, sadly there must be sadness, and sadness is one of the heaviest emotions because it outweighs the good, the light and the happiness by so much, the happiness is almost non-existent

Sadness > *Happiness

why is pixel-white seen as a medium where you're "speaking"? i guess that's due to the immediacy, and bypassing orthodox publishing contracts... i'm not talking... i'm thinking... the difference between the age-old white of canvas used in publishing has changed... in a blink of an eye... the poorest of the poor have now attained a monopoly on the medium... which is why visual art had to become elitist, because artists could never fathom the freedom of having obtained such a freedom of the once monopolised medium of a crisp white page... and yanking the donkey further... i have no intention in treating this as me talking... the talking part is bound to the comment section... and once again, we can bypass the monopoly of literacy with the freedom of the medium also bypassed... i'm not talking... i'm thinking... the talking is done in the comment section... this isn't a care for an intellectual shoot-out... but why in the word do i have to write this, and be remindful? oh wait, now i know: i didn't have to chop a single tree down to then write on it pressed down as paper... but then i wouldn't have... because, if i had enough wine and château... i'd be writing a Dumas novel.

i feel like writing less and less the days,
3 weeks spent in Poland
exhausted me with talking and reading,
and having the rest of the world
alomost forgotten, among the pines
in a wood, with neatly fallen snow...
i can almost hear the words: you should
go back, then!
yes, and having lost investment in
22 years living in england, and perfecting
the tongue...
    had i not perfected the tongue,
i wouldn't see the maggots engaging in crowds
across the western world...
   what a sight...
      should they only be two serpents entwined...
but this is a world much different from 2007...
it's hard to pick-at an almost shared ethnicty
with the people of the Isles...
   the Romans are dead, yet we share the same
alphabetical arrangement...
     i'm not even ahead of my times,
i write less and less every day,
            because as my irish "friend" once suggested,
that i known language like i might
slurp custard, that i should be bound to my
local community of Poles in England...
   i guess like Seven Kings is basically Paddy
O'clock... drowning his sorrows: while
i spend the same hours, infuriating my passions...
and i get the only narrative available to us
these days, i get how darwinism has killed of
subjectivity, we're about to build a robot,
and how we don't like feeling that much...
i get that...
but i spent 22 yeasrs in these lands...
   why am so entrenched to give birth to
the one i had at "home", but feel no care to return
to the place?
        edging toward the third bottle of wine
on an empty stomach, and i write this...
  apparently you can feed your heart that took
to being an apple thrice-over to attract a satanic bite...
   the dalai lama is a *refugee, what a grand
title, better than the pope could hope to be...
   i am an exile, and the worst reasons for exile
are economic...
   but no dumb-bound irishman can really
call that: i too was on the titanic, to better land sown!
i love the scots, spent three years in Edinburgh,
but the society i came to live in, the society i was
schooled in? i remember only 1 englishman
in the school... the rest were primarily irish...
terrible gnats...
               i live in england and it became to late
to meet an englishman...
   i'd sooner meet one abroad...
    i mean, if you knew someone from youth
and he says to you: you be better off with your kin...
my kin? my kin? on foreign soil?
and what? create these pocket like blisters, these
crab scabs of existence, so that i might live in
England but never learn the tongue?
this paddy hadn't even read Joyce, and i had,
and he tells me to be like him, a wasps' nest
kind of existence... the Poles have but one motto:
never congregate in exile... the 'rish evidently
didn't learn that motto... so they congregated...
and started doing the mating pigeon strutt
of a puffed up chest... like skunks they marched...
   i mean, who the **** does that?
i go to Cheltenham and everyone finds my "accent"
undecipherable...
             this coming from the same guy that couldn't
flick a lighter or cite the alphabet...
    i can go to Cheltenham and become lost
in the crowd... i'll go to a poetry reading and
stand, and clap and encore aloud when the poet
finishes...
             i wish i could go back to the native... land...
and go back to a: life, as usual...
but when you have lived 22 years in exile and
the most constructive years up to aged 8...
you dread the reality of being a child once,
and having idealised the life back where,
communism was dying... esp. given that your
grandparents have a steady pension,
and your father can't hope for one with
the state being applauding him for the efforts,
that the state and the worker are no longer
bound to an umbilical chord when pension age strikes...
  not since 2007, when it all began...
i can't be seen with the words of accusation
against my antagonist in any place nearing
a protest, i'd be scrapped-heaped and lost to the usual
comparison that men are:
  with celibacy intact: shoot anywhere other than
the ******, and you're wasting yourself...
but i wasn't circumcised, sure enough,
if you're circumcised and shoot that load into
a tissue... well... you sorta did touch
the philosophers' stone with your phallus...
    ****! ****! the deadpool movie is ****!
and i can't say that the dada art movment
is worth nothing... the girl, this blonde from Seattle
mentions nothing of cubism...
         modern art isn't useless...
        i can't be epileptic bound to faint before
a mona lisa... i can't do that... but dada wasn't
anything anti-art, of whatever movement...
      dada was anti-war... dada was an anti-war
movement.... it ensured that art be equated with
the whole futility of human endeavour...
   art will make no sense if there's no heroism
and men sit in trenches with wet socks and wet
cigarettes and rats will they ever walk the same
on the marble pavement of Florence...
             dada was anti-war... dada wasn't
anti-impressionism or anything like that...
      it's when artists started experiencing mental illness,
a psychic relapse into dough, dull, and lullaby
worth nothing...
                                  it's about the time that dada
emerged (world war i) that warfare had to turn
to guerilla warfare for some sense of Mars enduring...
   i thought people might think it stupid
during the Napoleonic wars... walking up to your
enemy and at point blank range shooting them down...
so no eastern martial arts agility...
      no wars makes the same sense as the depravity to
reproduce: eager soldiers... given there are none
to replace the numbers.
    yet, that language of darwinism, that objectivity,
that language of: no will unless the will of the species,
a species akin to comparison with ant or other
worthy comparative multiplier of insect worth...
     i get it... meaning i feel nothing for the examples
surrounding me, and i get hyper-sensitive about
the theory...
                    which is a great shame that i feel
no great feat before me when looking upon a woman....
  but then again i could merely qualify as
a ***** talking... because that's easier done...
    and you'd think that bilingualism wasn't such
a proper, well, it is, among the poor...
     it's a real... a REAL! a real threat!
           for some reason i get the feeling that Polish
has to become a bit like outdated Gaelic...
           a great story over campfire... that we once might
have spoken it...
                 i still speak the **** tongue
because i like listening to folk songs...
         but hey! that's my private life... i can still
talk English to you in that grand social-contract of
ensuring we interact... evidently that was the least
liked possibility...
                     i was expected to forget it...
and integrated with the ******* Paddies in England
and speak Polish: no more!
                  i don't want to forget Polish in the same
way that the English don't want to learn
a foreign language, and have the empire upon
which the night never sets upon:
   you're telling me it's not bound to perpetual
daylight working your way from Alaska, New Zealand,
South Africa and England?
   insomniac empire not there?
   i swear i could see it for a minute...
oh, my bad... maybe it was really all about
a drunken night in Dooblin...
            as i remember, not since 2007 has everything
been so: bonkers...
       it's just a case of trying to claim why
my native country ejected me from it...
   or why my parents thought it was necessary to
flee...
                but then i can ask any question
i want and will never get a good reply...
               now that i speak the language i don't
know how to erase 22 years of incubation...
      i can drink as many wine bottles and whiskey
bottles, but it never does it justice...
    and will continue to do so...
    when i get my answers...
                  and, as it looks like...
  i'm bound to be prone to being blamed for a tsunami
than take a blame for having friendship-binds
    when growing up,
      because the a.i. needed improvement,
and that Barabbas lived no life spectacular after
being admonished by the crowd prior
to the desecration of the tetragrammaton by
the crucifx wielder.
    well, this would appear a world salad for a paddy...
given that words for him are all merely verbs
and none address pondering them as nouns
  to reach a nuance...
                       and a delay worthy of 2000 years...
but then again...
           what do i know...
                 once i was the lost to pounce
     on the argument, now i seem to be the first
            to say anything...
                  but here's the therapy...
         people can speak such a godly narrative
  and incorporate it from ants to humans,
   bypassing the mammals the prime mammal
is making extinct... and taking no impression from
fellow mammal... bypassing the mammalian
category, for the sake of number, and argue oh so well
many intended arguments... ants...
    and then get ****** over by an avalanche...
and then wonder with the non-bewildered chemists:
dunno... physics?!
    humanism is trapped in the greatest robbery of
the human heart, if it once belonged by the crucifix,
and with due need, become humbled...
it's now under the ******* microscope and "ennobled",
pride hardened...
     it's an objectivity that doesn't encompass all
   categories... i can so much about ants having perfected
its hierarchy... and i try to imitate...
         sure, it works...
                  i have no need for subjective scientists that
poets are... i need more plumbers... but, wait...
i have to import them from Poland...
                   because i actually no actual
   pill for objective anaesthesia to be implemented
   given that i have the same automaton tendency to
feel, as i have to think, as i therefore have to reciprocate
by being existent...
                 but then again being prescribed
the shadow theories of darwinism, while turning
epileptic with paparazzis dumbing me at the catwalk,
work together... they're not mutually exlcusive...
    mutual exclusiveness is the argument usured in
by moral relativism, whereby moral relativism believes
in the non-existence of mutual inclusvieness...
     inclusivelly the standard bearers are bound to
the coordinate functions of (+, -),
       exclusivelly the standard bearers are bound to
the coordinate functions of (x, ÷)...
meaning that inclusviely: 1, 2, 3, includes 4...
                 1 + 1 = 2... 2 + 1 = 3...
        the near proximity... adding and substracting
are less abstract than multiplying and dividing...
   they do interact, the two factions...
     it's not magic, it's the limitation of my ability
to use language... philosophy really is about being
able to reach a limit of having all possible
competence with language morphed from
phonos to the rightly defined logos, as that
which encounters optics and the higher optics of
cognitive experience; deemed thought,
or the moral compass... and how rarely thought
is not bound to it being a moral compass,
how many times the moral compass
exists, pointing toward the θ / N...
    and the -ought is merely squandered to fiction,
and other such pleasures... and rarely
asked to be done to the moral principal that
overshadows mere naturalistic observations...
trans-category... we, the pinnacle of mammal,
behave like no mammal...
              once again i'll hear the retortion:
infantile argument!
                                it has always been infantile and
delusional, haven't you noticed?
     i find it strange to be living in times of
such rational, truly gifted "adults"...
   i could swear to be looking at the current civilisation
as a kind of kindergarten.
     but then... why bother argue the point further,
when you can laugh, drinking the third bottle of
your home-made wine?

It's simple really ----
it's mice to just sit alone,
listen to some
music & meditate.
If you look at life carefully,
you soon come to realize
the beauty overshadows
           the flawed.
                                                                                     Jon York   2019

There are times in a young woman's life
Where she has to protect herself
Protect her heart and words
Because nothing ever lasts
Unless you know boundaries
When it comes to love
When it comes to trust
When it comes to honesty
When it comes to security

Girls grow up thinking
''Growing up sounds fun''
But then, as time goes on
We begin to miss being *young
Being free spirits in terms of youth
In terms of thinking and feeling
And the importance of confidence
As well as being free to have fun
As if life had just begun

Young girls are more confident
Well, in the childhood days
But as they grow and understand
The importance of beauty overshadows them
And as they go through puberty
They realize how much beauty
Is a major factor in happiness
When they become obsessed
With self-appearances
And body types
Make-up
Alcohol
Drugs
*****

She stood under the bluest heaven at first she was just clothed in the latest smart fashion as our eyes
Met it was the genesis of love picturesque a slow lazy slow cloud drifted into view a piece of this white
Chiffon texture descended rested on her shoulders and then like a drape being lowered flowed down
Her body and dream like hundreds of grey doves flew up all around her making the sky a tender loving
Grey where your thoughts find the sweetest release at that moment I couldn’t discern if my heart had a
Fluttering sensation or was it the doves wings making such a sound did they all coo in unison that
Perfect conditioning that floats to you when one is near and it overshadows all the scenes and place
Instantly all is pleasing with such clearness the rest of the world stops to give this natural wonder a
Reverberating wonder or was it her voice soothing as water softly flowing and falling over placid rocks
Music drawing air and sun in a mixture at first as if to collapse but then it swells as if from the deepest
Well or was it the pools her richest brown eyes afforded to try and stand on a solid footing impossible
As fruit is welcomed by gravity and pulled from the tendrils there is no escape it is the plunge then the
Basking first it is just her surface experiences that attract with curiosity but then the inner warmth
Of the soul is felt luxuriant her heart you feel its strong pulsating beat enthralled you travel to beauty’s
Inner Sanctum here the strength of her femininity charged and with aliveness shoots the most delightful
Rays into your heart and mind the sweetest delirium carries you to isles of bliss you are elevated to a
King by her wishes alone your former heart of stone now melts into ecstasy of thought and knowing
Yearnings pass you to throngs of unquenchable longing together you stand under the beating water of
The water fall it flows on out into the dry waste land you occupied only moments before I just described
The outer smallest details of falling in love words are too limited to tell the whole story that would
Explain Why guys sometimes become speechless try to harness a raging river bare handed and then try
To describe it at the same time impossible just find a special someone and enjoy the ride of a lifetime

dear immoral,
              salt
seed of
    s
                              la
  ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
  the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
                  gives callously
  equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
  each persnickety biochemistry
is the
  longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
                    No content,
  j
                      us
            t web,
                                  you
    r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
                agile
                    computation
 ­         today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
                    trembling
    je
      we
                l­er
confidant loves increasingly
  languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor *******
perpetual on my
          quick
                              bible;
  my psychotherapy roves
into a
            bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
  tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
          psychoanalysis's
  preferably quick
      psych
    otherapy-
how
        ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
        punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
              stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
      he

                        unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
          overshadows
  his youth

  so
                                  that it is contemporary
grin
            quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
  into appreciated ca
                mar
          aderies
psychotherapies rove in
            my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
  grip
              of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
              on my quick bible;
  my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
            journey;
  my
            paralysis ambles
onto a
      crazy hotel.

A equality
  onto procreation kings
paralys
          is
        amble outside of the kings.

Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
  extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious

warm-up.*

yep, and i turned a trombone into an elephant
trunk... and i didn't even touch anything,
i just looked at one thing, then looked at
the other thing, and then, boom! a synonymous
equation.

like i once said: at the quasi-end of capitalism
the far left will encourage everyone to have an artistic
expression, all the madmen also have art sessions
in asylums... art and the healing process...
please tell me when left politics begins to get
serious, the right would say: you want to escape
a job as a cashier? take l.s.d., forgot about the need
to "express yourself"... more harm than good...
but the prescription by a joke of leftist politics
is just that: become a closet artist,
or become a closet intellectual by simply donning
the groovy look of a beard and some chequered
shirt and ripped jeans and Converse sneakers,
or something, making you fit the profile of
an atypical Camden High Street shopper...

you see what i mean about art these days?
they said the same thing back when it was oil on canvas
or Dürer's carvings - people will spend millions
on paintings, that's how they understand the worth
of art, they invest in objects that the artist invested in also,
meaning buying and selling dynamics:
paint and canvases and brushes and renting messy
studios...

the modern artist overshadows all other artistic efforts,
the cheap stuff, poetry is cheap ****,
pennies from heaven... what? that's the reality...
i wish i could say: taking interest in poetry,
liking poetry, and other such statements are equivalent
to in-secret liking some pop song... given that
the pop song is actually psychologically crafted to
the make you an automaton in appreciating it.

so it's called art, the Turner Prize 2005 winner...
turned a "shed" (take a look at it,
that's a shed? how big is your garden?
looks more like a storage house on some Caribbean
island where pirates roamed in the 17th century,
given the size) into a boat, sailed it down a river,
then rebuilt the boat into a shed...

are we laughing now? no one these days can compete
with artists, there's no classical
notion of painting, or writing, engulfed by advertising:
advertisers use rhyming - the old notion of art
has become engulfed by advertising -
however good you are,
you have to be a carpenter or a sculptor of some sort,
the rest is nothing; so this leftist prescription of keeping a
creative side when living in the mundane world is sickening...
all the jobs went to Asia, a bankruptcy of production...
if they only allowed us to have meaningful jobs
we wouldn't have to hear the ******* of being prescribed
possessing a creative side...
                                                  in the quasi-end of
capitalism we're all artists... all of us...
                                                                    am i desperate
about this state of affairs? should i be?
                           i have my trombone turned into an elephant
artwork - all the best to Simon Starling,
i'd be too lazy to do something like that...
           what seems difficult to gulp down is how far
removed the 20th century is from today,
about how people appreciating art are primarily concerned
with large open spaces...
                          the idea of art these days fits perfectly
with the modern notion of claustrophobia...
it's supposed to be mingling with agoraphobia -
well, that's how i see it, who can tell if i'm right or wrong
if no opinion can actually be sustained by a prodding
conversation to deal with an opinion further?
well, we already know the end result of dialectics:
i know nothing - that's how the antique mouth of
Socrates changed, back when he invented it
i know nothing was a presupposition... leaving the
art barren, we know how it's going to end, which is why
we like strutting the peacock with sponge-like brains
of opinions.

i just look at the size of these art exhibitions -
massive open space rooms, a large piece of art, you
enter such a space and you attempt to mingle
the claustrophobia of a large crowd - and with such
a piece of artwork, notably it's size, you get the impression
of having a much larger reference in this world,
that you are more important than the world deems you to be,
well.. agoraphobia is a form of claustrophobia,
some phobias are synonymous,
                                                       a large open space, inside
a large piece of artwork...
                                             i feel big...
i live in a few square miles and don't really venture out...
well, that's apparently called life...
                 tiers of the many platitudes...
       or as i say?
keeping Shakespeare, for all his greatness is just about
making traffic... we're queuing - nothing more...
          it's not even about holding to the dear life -
it's holding to the life that passed and will never return -
making our contemporary interpretation of life
                                    a hush, when their's revived is a roar -
great trick... keep them with us long enough
so we get scared then the lions roar -
                  then watch them enter the classics domain
and become entertaining to a dozen people...
everything just seems to have a: u.b.d. (use by date)
and b.b.s. (best before date).

Traipse towards the elven forest
Say hello to the trees
As they offer words of wisdom
Sit still and listen
They contain multitudes
Open your eyes
Watch violet stretch into
Ebony’s fingers
And wrap it all together
Giving you the gift of night
The moon guides my footsteps
Illuminating the path
Enlightening my mind
And the stars sparkle bright
Your dress glides close behind
Carrying pieces of the fairies
With you
Beauty is real here
And here everything is beautiful
While beauty there
Is trapped in a narrow looking glass
A privilege only available
For a select few
I was never a part
Of their corruption
Because their windows could not show everything
Selective at best
Where truth is a rarity
Like the so called unicorn
That only shows up for those who believe
So I traipsed here
Where the ghosts of yesterday cannot follow me
And I can flow freely into the blue
Swaying gently with the breezes blowing past
Breath is a sacred instrument
That cannot be tainted
By empty words and broken dreams
So I put the pieces together
And find I am part
Of a greater whole
Fear is not fear
Because power of love eclipses
And overshadows the dark

Back's against the wall now.
What am I to do now?
The pressure is weighing down on me,
the masses surrounding me.
with their mouths open, guns loaded.
mouths going,
guns blazing.

I don't wanna hear it but my ears are wide open.

Their Mouths are loaded with malicious and poisonous utterances.

Their Mouths are filled with hatred, ready to be spat on my face.

Whatever I choose to do, isn't enough.
It isn't good enough.
I am never enough.

As I'm getting older, I'm realizing that Their Mouths are of no significance.

Their Mouths and presence are only here, to TRY and bring me down.

Self love and self confidence is what I'm working on, but the feeling of not being good enough overshadows my realization,

I am enough.

belgravia on itv... and the world is filled with...
odes to charlemagne -
or rather: the emperor has risen...
in the form of a bonaparte...

       i lost my virginity to a french girl
from Grenoble - a one ms. psychologist
Isa-bel-l'ah...

              and i had three pictures hanging
in my student accomodation overlooking
the salisbury crags...
           one i put my amp on the windowsill
and did a rendition of...
                            something from the movie
crow / last days...

there was plato... there was the marquis de sade...
and then there was napoleon...

i was immediately reminded...
but napoleon did x y and z...
       i could swear the zeitgeist for us begins
with the end of the 2nd world war?
well: i lost my virginity... didn't i?
          
             and come to think of...
there is the trafalgar sq. in London...
      and there's the monument when it came
to Austerlitz victory...

           napoleon and that old bias...
for all those that encompassed in the duchy of warsaw...
or from under the partition
shared between the prussian the russian
and the austro-hungarian empire...

a short-lived affair... but...
        she minded napoleon but not marquis de sade...
come forward 200 years...
what are the monuments of the 2nd world war?
what are the... ******* monuments of the 1st world
war?
the cemeteries at Ypres for western europe...
the death camp memorials
   and the little ghetto lockets of memory and:
gypsy good fortune in the east?

a picture of the mushroom eating
and clinging onto the flesh of men and animals
in a symbiosis and mind-control dynamics
of the fungus keeping the host alive...
unlike a virus?

   where are the monuments for all that was
achieved in the two wars?
where's the trafalgar sq. where's the arc de triomphe?
between 1803–1815
   or between 1939–1945... well...
              12 years is not 6...
                  i guess you can't achieve much of any
sort of "meaningful" war if...
there's not a decade included in the mix...

oh i'm sure it's going to be hard to imagine
the führer as the kaiser...
     because: dressed in khaki like a whittle
hanzel schoolboy when all the big boys
started to wear schwarzgekleidet of zee SS...

from a perspective of history...
                             i am unsure as to why...
this ms. psychology major would grieve
the affairs of napoleon...
                             perhaps if he was a bit taller...
she might have a fancy for him...
then again... as kaiser... as emperor...
come to think of it...
the notation: Frank would included
the swiss... the belgians the dutch...
luxembourg...
       but not those rascals...
in the rhineland-palatinate...
            or north-rhine-westphalia...

schubert symphony no. 4 in c-minor, D. 417...
i always thought that schubert...
was the pianist competing with violins
to tackle shumann... never mind...

     then again: illuminating life of those
that still have a toe in the remaining posit
of life... yet 3/4 of what life is willing to offer
has both feet in the coffin and a last nail
to beg for the closure and funeral procession
of that chapter of human details
to be: ascribed to the realms of solely learning...
about it... there's no great-grandma with
her wheelbarrow of memories to grant
you "perspectives"...

he was a führer... but not the kaiser...
come to think of it...
the rise and fall... from the confines of being
rejected from an art-college...

today one of my cats (i only have two)
accidently burned the hairs of her tail
when she signatured it (the tail) across
a burning candle... and... you wouldn't believe it...
the smell of burnt cat furr...
i can imagine escaping my episodes of
solipsism when venturing into sniffing
someone else's farts to be more appealing...
than the smell of... the burning of cat furr...

i did remark... i don't think it was all that
pleasant working as butchers in those concentration
camps... if the burning of cat furr smells so bad...
if the burning of skin, nails...
bones... i'm starting to think it was a hell-hole
for both the camp "workers" and....
those about to be forced on the altar
of the belly of Moloch...

                          and when the hebrew god
conquered the gods of the philistines
and the caanites...
      did he "fall asleep"...
    thinking they wouldn't somehow use
people that wouldn't otherwise pay direct
homage to them... for their devilish enterprises?

where are the monumets from world
war I or world II that aren't cemeteries
or memorials or the death camps themselves?
there's not point merely seeing...
imagine going to Handel's messiah
at the royal albert hall...
           and only seeing an orchestra play...
most associated with seeing are:
the quality of either inanimate objects
or moving objects...
but there isn't a mention of the sounds locked
in brimfuls in these things...
but most importantly... i can't smell that
death circus...
well... no matter... i don't need to visit those
death camps and pay some spezial ode to
memory: it will just take a cat accidently burn
its tail furr brushing it over a candle...
that's enough... thank you...

           i don't need to see those camps...
not out of denial outright...
but... without the scent of burning hair
and flesh... the infamous cracow's winter
snow of cremations...

but the smell is missing...
i don't need to visit these places
for a picture of unused hammers and nails...
in their pristine gothica of still slippery when
kept in a mummified state of being
oiled for use... i don't like to rumminate in
echoes of: what this oven was used for...
the scent has subsided like a tide
and all that's exposed is never the living
proof... i have archeological proof...
that it is so sudden... doesn't matter...
i don't have the "perfume" to riddle me
with an immediacy of a recoil!
for that? i just need a cat to accidently burn
a few hairs of its tail over a candle...

it's one of those needle injections straight
into the nostrils...
seeing the oven will do very little to give
an expanse of my: sisyphean weight to tow
along...

faster than the speed of light:
or the digestion imprint of a photograph...
faster than the speed of sound...

    ssssssssssssssssssssscent...
          i don't need to see what other people decided
to want and see...
the burning of flesh and most notably unwashed
hair and furr...
       that's plenty...
i don't want to discourage myself from
cooking anything else in the future...

sometimes my room becomes a hotel for
either moths or flies...
i currently have an early waker...
she must be nearing being a year old...
you can tell... her flight is more methodological...
it isn't that usual flurry and all
that excited presence of itself: unique
in a bounty of life...
i will not bother this fly...
        if she was a mosquito... perhaps i would...

i am longing to see the spawn "maggots"
of moths eat and curl up in cotton...

where are the monuments to call it:
the end of world war I and world war II...
it's as if... it has to be shamed...
this whole genesis story from half-way
between the past century...
and into this... swamp-en-masse...

          last time i checked... that "something"
between the serbians and the croats
and the muslims of yugoslavia...
                    the 13th waffen mountain division...
or head east... the ukranian infamous
insurgent army...
        only recently i heard some major
****-wits decided to drill holes into the tires
of ambulances... near bristol...

as a perfectly just cold blooded heart...
is the crucifixion the epitome of a demigod's death?
what about... being spiked?
being forced onto a pike via
the architecture of where the intestines
meet the coccyx... the *******...
the ****... and the pelvis?
with hands tied?
what about hanging off a meat-hook...
with the meat-hook making the incission under the jaw?
hands and legs tied?

the crucifixion is just an out-dated symbol
of sacrifice... no wonder all that came after
had to become so... more... adventurous...
wouldn't we be foolish when it came to slacking
on the chapter of torture?

but at least one aspect of life can be still felt
to be pure, "aryan"... un-disturbed...
pain... is so un-interrupted by competing
subjectivities... that... well...
it's almost akin to cross paths with god...
pain is pure in that it is true...
forever: there's that other great democratic force
at work than mere death...
by the time we're through death is but
a bureucratic notation of a statistic:
a near miss of anonymity...

                there's that great leveller of pain...
from a simple toothache...
it's as if an ****** that comes on the wings of
being... a sedative of consciousness...
pain as that...
   pain is an inoculate agent against reality...
against consciousness...
all for that ****** of dreams...
lucky for me... i don't dream so well...
i forrest gump the whole affair...

some would think pain as a defining moment
an event horizon for their numb-skulled
crossword puzzle zeniths of "life"...
     i see pain more in favour of...
      i want to be cured from having to curate
so many mediocrities of this life:
as served and as service for others...
so dilligent at being busy-bodies in the shelter
of hierarchies and the shadows of:
the impossible perfection of mountain
replicas of Giza...

pain is illumination...
    beginning with a toothache...
once this temp. filling is ready to be scrubbed out...
and a root canal is to be fitted...
i think i'll begin with an oyster-esque "typo"
readying myself for an ******
when asked 'would you like an anaesthetic'
and the reply will be... 'no'...
                 clearly i don't have as many
avenues as are readily available
when it comes to a holy trinity of mouth,
******... *******...

      self-serving pleasures of the extensions
of pinching... by either crap pincers
or the cold of virus simulation of crowns
when having an ice-cube placed into my palm...

in that i am wholly sympathetic to pain...
well... what good did reading walter benjamin's
illumination(s) essay do to me...
beside what i already know about...
the difference between collecting books...
and collecting books and reading them...

              my personal library would shrink somewhat...
given that i own pretty much an assortment
of what has already been read:
i'm not my grandmother:
unlike watching a film... i can't re-read a book...
give me 2 years reading one...
but i will not re-read it!

this extension of a mollusk's zenith via
a ******... of all that's the sensation that rhymes
heart with brain...

         tow the bones...
       tow the bones...
                   come to the horizon where
the soft tissue blitzkriegs past the bone to the marrow...

arable lure of the prosthetic ghost, limb...
and limp...
       soft zenith pleasure...
while at the same time...
entertaining "things" that only secular
sensibility measures can instill...
do not cross paths with mythology:
goodness! you might forget being
snarky and insensible come tomorrow's year
monday when journalism catches
up from... "somehow" being detached
from her de facto and carpe diem
mantras of modus operandi!

i might call it: the moth's seal of the lips...
enough to lick a postage stamp...
hardly enough to actually kiss...

sold: christianity: metaphorical cannibalism...
i would rather taste the real thing...
if ever such an opportunity should
give sway...

       a führer is not a kaiser... back in the day...
there was respect in post-napoleonic war London...
in belgravia...
how did the h'american white house originate...
the Belveder of Warsaw...
vermin, peoples of the world: nibble...

                   i'm here to claim my future:
my anonymity... i'm here to scatter with the dues
of the frail... waiting for no clarity of
locked: stature worded in baron...
no stature worded in kaiser... führer...
      i am on the sole minding of... the gnostics...
the heretics...

i want to burn blue when all other dogmatic
breaths burn yellow...
           that i drink is of no solace...
bribe the reader! inner vacuum otherwise
a handshake with my shadow... by candlelight...
which is a bribe for an audience of death:
that personification on a theme of romance...
thanatos... chilling the spine...
and the serpentine...

                    i want to see the gallows...
and allure of seeing ***** and rot come oozing
from their baptised fleshy bits...
i want to be curator of the last abolished screech
of existence... i wand to hush them...
by sharpening a knife...
i want to find the idle fork...
i want to find the crown of ferns...
and kick and stab... the house of already dead
roman emperors... sitting... nay...
loitering... the anger of pride on their
laurels...

             napoleon... even with a name like that...
you can stomach the usual: steak becoming
a lump of minced beef...
but when it's ****** or stalin...
czopek or elert...
                    you'd wish for a horsehoof
to be dubbed: smith...
                     -smithy...
or some other... lucky you: frauman...
                      fregel...            made it up as
we went along...

yep... yep... i get it... drinks a whiskey...
****** out a lemonade...
and for whatever "genius": genius...
that third tier of being... not spawned by the gods...
but by man... in between angels and demons...
the geniuses...
that autistic master-class of...
****'s itching kinda eerie!

   i'm drunk: most of the people are sober...
i'm not going to have to
give an apologetics lecture on the sober
sods... am i?
romance period... a bit like being
a modern brit and all that wham!
sputnik dazzle of the: grit brighton!

jokes aside... the winged hussar...
                   also mongol...
******* that clad themselves in dog ****
to imitate... what would later become...
the 365 harem of an alexander...
          
   would it be any good reading
the greeks?
     can you really want to "catch-up" on so
much... when in fact you should be
reading the people who have re(a)d...
the ancient greeks?

here's me taking heidegger's advice...
spend 12 years reading aristotle...
          martin... oi oi... that leaves
me doing more work than the already
work required in pretending to be catholic...
and doing a spin-off sunday...
how about me just reads up on yous...
how's that?
2 years worth of you... is about...
       whatever it took you to "master"
aristoteles: ah-chew: chow-mein sucker...

     life is or at least has become or will
become... too impertinent...
  then again... lassitudes of being kept
in the confines of one's own allowances...
i can't expect... in the same way...
i can't become expectent...
it's a two-way-swoe-order in the guise
of a phoenix... (missing phenotypes)...

             the best held advent of:
if you weren't a part of pappa's genocide of
a clarifying sputnik's *****-out
into frog's dream-alike all mammalian
when you're already on your way out
with the moloch altar sacrifice of
no foetus would be born...

call it a... champagne bottle uncorking
ritual when it comes to...
and all that other drifting ritual
of "entropy" whenever a sobering / ***
note would awake a hannibal lecturer
for and what more...
that was necessary...

           stipends of: gotcha...
eagles - witchy woman...
ol' cliff does a little number:
like no intro for a jazz megahit
quintet when the bass comes along...
devil woman...
or the totally camp...
  dale winton...
because turning totally gay only
arrived in full bloom and daffodils
in the trenches...
when true gay arrived...
well... any other hole to fill...

              this hole's better than
any ****** eye's...
who's that backdoor man of
assorted gifts, to begin with?

          rhyme rhymes rhyme rhymes...
easily to make a happy than no
alcoholic into a: no thank you...
  
                                   discretely...
suburban... those desperado... casa-esposa...
the pride of the son: a mother...
that's usually enforced...

las orgullo de hijo: una madre...
           bad spanish... bad german...
mongrel of the either and some anglican
and some ****** catholic...

                                        if there was still something
of a worthwhile partition of time...
****** was never going to become
the next napoleon...
even though... invading russia was
a plagiarism... and the retrdo-event of all
that waste of time... 200 years
and the waste of time with the air onslought
for the battle of britain...
the u-boats...

     no mention of waiting a while...
     in that "what if" universe of revising...
one two three four... with:
einz zwei drei vier...

or... the eager panzermensch...
and that tunnel under the sea...
         it can be noted that a 100 year war
did exist... between the english and the french...

if the napoleonic wars have the monuments...
for what sort of reasons were
the 20th century "ende von alles kriege ende"...
******* proxies of the yugoslav conflict...
vietnam...
        
the monuments of the greatest wars of man...
monumets? cemeteries... or the death camps...
was this the turning point where...
death by war was to be... lessened by
omittance: "keep calm and carry on" *******?
the celebrated en masse of one single
male *******?

how isn't citing german...
an exfoliation from speaking mere peasant
english?
der zunge ist berufung die gegenwart:
ein vater: ein vaterzunge!

scheisse und höllegrube mit es!
                der "vaterland": fathers of daughters
of would be mothers... mothers of sons
of would be fathers... motherland... fatherland...
mothertongue... a ******* great big itch
of grammatical concerns! blah!

where are these monuments akin to trafalgar sq.?!
what's to be so... gloated... about defeating the nazis?
where is the gloat in mere words...
but sorely missed when it comes to sacrificing
bone and marrow and muscle
to focus on making escapades of marble?!
where... are... these... monuments?!

      my own shadow overshadows the testimonies
of... two... very... minor... wars...
perhaps world war I had covered one or two
hurt prides... hurt egos...
but... after all... a khaki attired boyscout...
when all the bad boys
were later... morphed by hugo boss
into schwarzgekleidet steinherzimmobilien...

ein führer ist nein (ein) kaiser...
not like the title napoleon acquired...
napoleon was cited as: emperor...
        a reicarnation of charlemagne...
   too bad for whoever barbarossa was...
  rutger hauer?! yes... but rutger was, dutch...
for ****'s sake!

napoleon was crowned emperor
in a church...
****** walked into an opera house...
heard some wagner...
some wagner not in that anemic proposal
of the walhall from das rheingold
via michele campanella...

              all that becomes the litany...
prior to the peeling to the basic grammar...
and then an attack on pronouns...
as if all languages had...
gender-neutral nouns of the anglican-sphere
of "talk"...

strip me down the the Diogenes' basics of
sodden cloth and dogs' **** to attire...
perhaps i'll show you Cleopatra smile...
or Mona Lisa frown...
             whatever might be the eventuality...
this is not it; nor could it ever be... "it";
the "it" of what you seek.

and in our childhood we beheld the beauty of
theocracy - all of us - bedazzled by it,
enthralled by it, we reached the pinnacle
there and then - in our childhood we beheld
the beauty of theocracy - each and every one of
us cherubs worthy a plucking for the heavenly
choir - and like Adam and knowing through
to Eve and un-knowing that a man might
riddle trousers with a kilt - just like that,
it's not a belief in god that's required - far from it -
in childhood we sensed theocracy - the grand
hall oratory place of inconvenience - a talk to the hand
moment; thank yous and not yous -
we were too young to formulate a being as grand
as god - too young - even though it was implanted
in us by others that came prior - we're maturer now,
it's not the idea of god - we were young and
the prospect always hanged in the air of inhibition -
we weren't entirely eager to exhibit prayer and petulance
equally - in childhood as in nostalgia (for the two
are equal in meaning - a rarity to remember outside
childhood, romanticism and whatnot) - in childhood
as in nostalgia it's not god we're searching for,
it's more or less: theocracy - we're nostalgic about
a system of politics that overshadows what came with
the fall / maturity of man - man answered democracy!
and so it was - our version of politics always sends
a shiver down my spine - belief in the midgets of
the caricature of spine-and-wing is not that far apart -
no one in their truest mindset is searching for a god
in order to receive ridicule, not a personal god that
overpowers a man's personality to a U-turn abstract
of what was formerly known of a man -
against the strain of that some champion as necessary:
individuation - the pressure to a coup d'individu -
that sort of god isn't there - the pressure is to find a
the once intrinsic theocracy of childhood -
now that we have the governing body of democracy
hanging over as: demo politics - demonstrative,
demanding, debatable and... debatable -
and to merely think outside democracy is to have a
thought of an autocrat and a mouth of a slave -
otherwise you're just mouthing everyone to a lullaby
of intrinsic Tory toff-ha-ha. we're not missing god,
god is hardly dead, it's that we don't have the same
theocracy that children have governing them -
we have democracy - finding god in singleton-land
of proofs is about as good as finding a teardrop in
a sea - it means abandoning your personality in order
to skip the hardships for the perks - who is anyone
to collect knee-bending at the altar? why wouldn't
an Orthodox attendee of a church in St. Petersburg
let me sit in church while the choir sang?
oh right... the priests here still have their backs to the people
when reciting the testimonies -
and this simply sprung to mind after reading a psychiatrist
or anti- write out his the bird of paradise (1967, r. d. laing),
a psychiatrist opens up and thinks he's writing prosaic
poetry - great in theory - i mean lucid, frank, simplistic,
but the conundrum comes when no theory is
passed down - no hereditary intellectualism - nothing,
starting from scratch - that's the existential brick-wall
of notation focusing on the i the existentialists used -
the unit they thought they could bounce theories against
and get some original echo back... the only originality that came
back was mere criticism - nothing more.
i'm not looking for god - why is anyone looking for him?
everyone in democracy has this sudden urge to
become a cult-leader or despot? it seems so...
i'm looking for theocracy - in the democratic spirit of
transition that's been given to me - so funny...
god is an uncertainty but death is a certainty - strangely-funny
how the two never seem to coincide - unless in the mouth
and eyes of a madman who shoots you at point
blank range and says the words: time to meet you maker;
Jack'oh Wacko.

I’m a bystander
In my own life
I should’ve known better
Then to think that I’ve changed
That I can grown in my skin
And be truly happy
At the end of the day
It all comes back
To one definite conclusion
That I am a passerby,a fading memory
shoved into the back of the minds of others  
Rotting ,smothered and suffocated by the dust of ignorance and the bliss I don’t experience
I watch
All I can do is watch
I was born to be a helping hand and it’s all I can amount to
My poor parents
They didn’t deserve
What did they do to deserve
A child who would not amount to anything more ?
A child who’s importance is limited to
‘et al’ and not the proud glorious name that overshadows it in front, sitting like a trophy on pieces of paper
that
control
And hold power
Over judgement calls and hierarchy
The subtle hierarchy we pretend to shun but really
We adore
And we praise
Because it keeps the inferior in place
So the confident exceed
the socks shoved underneath your bed
The very ones which offered warmth
In the darkest chapters of your book
Sob silently
As they stay still
Alone
Unnoticed
Confused and left feeling used
and *****
As they realise
That you
You’re perfectly fine
Without them
You never needed them
That they were a mere stepping stone into the future you contemplated ending
Of course you didn’t spare a thought
To them
It was wrong of me to think
That I could ever amount to anything
That I could build a name for myself and be happy
Feel what it means to be alive
Smile like a Cheshire Cat
As I lay in euphoria
Happy relationships and having friends who know so much about me
I realise I don’t have to suffer alone
But it’s a facade
Behind the scenes
They all draw lines
You’re just another figure to add the picture
You make their social life look stellar
You’re just someone who helps them grow
But what do you get in return?
You’re recycled, battered and tired
You have twisted and turned
And sobbed uncontrollably to yourself
At night
Contemplating to end it all
But no
You wake up
And manage to smile
And lead them to victory
As you burn into ashes
the ignorant flame thrower who

who forgot who helped ignite the flame
who bathed in glory
ran off
as you
a simple bystander
never got the chance
who could only dream of being happy

withered
and burnt
to crisp

you know what's more intimidating beside speaking of a personal detail in the life of a person you know? speaking of a universal truth; there's nothing more intimidating that giving reference to a common fact of referencing life, one limb of the triad crumbles into a suckling squid... revealing the sparring partners you get to: well, you juggle with three *****, you puppeteer two.

i could understand english humour -
sure, the black comedy "tact" -
but then the anglophone world was
overtaken with comedy -
the last tier before the final bow of
downfall - the one prior comes in
the form of a "fascination"
with culinary escapades -
   prior to the last resort of humour
comes the culinary escapade -
i once understood english humour,
more than was worth since it was
reinforced by canned laughter -
but there was something to be had...
these days? maybe english humour
imploded: and it attacked its worst
ally: ***.
   make fun of ***, you're making
fun of life...
     and how isn't english humour
not peppered with too-overtly
sexualised jokes? jokes by children
of divorcees...
  tell you what: life's short,
you're *****, see a ******* before
you see a psychiatrists...
cheaper, and you get the full
workout... after all, vietnam made
the war zone pocket sized...
            i don't understand english
humour... it's beyond political satire...
these people are pushing the absolutely
wrong buttons...
  i remember watching this
video in trafalgar sq., these two white
kids, bouncing a basketball -
      then one bounces the ball
off the head of a black guy,
and the white boy is so "jokingly"
apologetic...
                  what happens next?
the black guy smashes a glass
bottle over the white boys head...
the white boys is hit unconscious:
**** me, that was funny!
            the anglophones have
really ******* the genre of comedy...
i can call them anglophones -
  speaks not good english,
but he overshadows about 100+
anglo boys in his roofing job...
     my father...
    the english are slackers in
the industrial industry: which is why
it's filled with slavs and romanians,
but at least they do their job
and never bother going to the gym...
the english ponces?
do a ****** paper-fiddling job
and then hit the gym...
            horse-hoof lickers.
          i was once acknowledged
as speaking spaghetti english:
yes, but when my father questioned me,
he didn't mind me not having
learned the full alphabet:
what am i, a trained puppy?!
         now he lives with his father,
with his father having divorced his mother
and living with a thai ****** breeding
chickens...
        guess my loss in the "friendship"
case of "affair".
            the english have actually
exhausted the genre of comedy,
they're not funny anymore...
    they're pathetic...
         i'll joke the next time i sucker
one's head off the clock into
the unconscious minutes...
          the english overdid comedy
by a mile, they're as about funny as
a donkey-riding rider alongside the
remaining three-horsemen...
slouching toward jerusalem...
                   the fact that the english
are telling are joke: reiterating that they
are: seems rather troubling.
   i don't want to know its a joke unless
i actually laugh, a comic telling me
"it's" a joke is rather troubling...
             why have the english changed
from a culinary fetish to a joke
fetish over a decade?
         ****** food makes for a good joke...
oh yeah, me, beta-male,
  when all the best restaurant cooks
are male...
                    i still will not get an english
joke: the so-called *nuance" is
only a *nuisance -
     there's a threshold of acceptable
nuance in comedy, after a while it's like
lying: thinking you'll get away with it...
it's called: "being" subtle...
when in fact you're a vermin nibbling
on the edges of peoples' patience...
  after all you stop excusing the self-excusing
comics who want to catch themselves
excusing themselves and retire with
a backlog of canned-laughter lax.
                   no point in comedy:
if someone laughs for me.
          what's the point of comedy if
i am not the one to spot the self-imposed
prompt for a laugh?
   what am i? a ******* windowlicker who
laughs when taking a **** holding
his pecker?!
                      you conniving little
******* wanks...
                              i have to say:
the big laugh comes prior to the creeping
weep...
              no, i forgot you being "intricate"
in "nuance" -
  nuance is gone, baby, nuance is gone,
we're dealing with subversion,
and the last word ascribed is "nuance"...
i always said the english as perfecto
two-faced actors: they lie telling the truth,
as they tell the truth, while lying.
        next time i trust them with a hamster
i'll ask just more than a vet nurse...
and i don't mind pakistanis -
i just mind the english pakis -
the anglo pakis - pakistanis are fine with me,
i event managed to grit to an invite
by one muhammad to admire his
crocodile farm in kenya -
  anglo pakis? hate them like i hate
my acne skin... i'm thirty and at the ends
of puberty, yet still: the explosion of
hormones... might as well be a down syndrome
kid: l'oreal should look into extracting
down syndrome genes to make the face cream...
******* never age:
mother's aged 80, and he's shy of 35.
            n'ah, the english did comedy once,
they did it well, they didn't have to ****
off canned laughter obstructing me from
laughing at what i found funny...
   they took the complacent communist rule of:
****** laugh when all other idiots
ought to laugh...
that black guy in trafalgar sq. smashing
a glass bottle over the white guy that bounced
the basketball off his head was funnier
to watch...
         comedy these days is not
nuanced... there is no nuance:
what you hear is what you get:
   and the english way of a dog curling up
its tail between its legs and running away
is not gonna work...
                     what you said is what you
meant: given that blah blah bi bi blee boo
was intended to translate into:
         can you get me a tonne of glue?
the origins of comedy are not based upon
excuses of nuance: comedy can only
be excused by canned laughter:
not nuance.
               politics is nuanced:
if you drag comedy into this cesspool of
nuance: you're not exactly riding
a horse fully shoed into the sunset of
laughter...
   politics is nuanced:
you can't expect comedy = politics -
    to thus express: oh, we're just misunderstood
akin to politicians: nope, we're just lying
is not going to cut it...
          the best jokes are from a people
who say jokes the least:
after all, the omnipotent psychology says:
the most nervous person at a party
tells the most jokes...
    guess western society has had
its turns...
                    first they make comedy
intelligent, then they make cooking mundane,
then they make comedy excusable,
then they make wacky dishes,
     then they make comedy "nuanced",
then they get a glass bottle smashed
over their heads...
          then they make a case for
the microwave...
           and then the once ha ha become an aah...
     that sigh of relief...
         watching this spectacle:
slayer's behind the crooked cross -
   not the jews, but the greeks invented
sado-masochism of the northerns -
the greeks painted the jews as irrational -
   even though the archeological findings
disprove the greeks' little "messianic" story...
i still find english humour naked, lacking,
you can only push nuance to a certain
sisyphus moment in time,
  before sisyphus decides to give it a rest,
and toils no more, and never allows
the stone to roll up the hill,
   and interludes with pondering...
        after all: thought is never a medium
of futility... it being: the ultra-verb,
it being the omni-limb...
                             these days we know
that the englishman is no longer funny...
because his jokes are overtly plagiarised
by "excusing" himself with giving
a nuanced explanation: rather than a punchline:
comedy has a limit: on how intelligent
is can become... children laugh at calamity
short-scripted:
    do you think adults ask for a long-scripted
"base" for giggles, when the narrative prior joke
ends up being so mundane,
to be only backed up canned laughter?
euro trash, sure, but what an island of trash
to back it up...
      i love intelligent tragedy...
the english invented "intelligent" comedy:
people laugh at this sort of crap
by a mimic format: everyone knows its not
funny: then again: by laughing at it
it's peacocking to impress...
                   there's no intelligent comedy...
people who laugh at "intelligent" comedy
are bystanders, eaten up by canned laughter.

She sits on the cold tile floor
Her life flashes before her eyes
4 am regrets.

The lack of sleep is just getting to her.

The shadows loom over the curtains
The pictures of her past start collapsing on the floor
Her head hits the back of the wooden bed panel

Could you wish for anything more unhanded?

The music from the neighbors flat echoes into the night
The barely visible drawings on the wall sneer at her
Its past her bedtime.

Who are you waiting up for anymore?

The ringing in her ears grow louder
The hours pass by slipping through the cracks of the drain.
Who are you crying to anymore?

There is no one to confess to.

The mirror overshadows the bed like church pews at midnight
She tells her that she never loved her.
She disappeared into the clouds that loom over the moon.

Her watch tells her to sleep.

She sighs and climbs back into bed
She remembers that she never loved her.
She remembers the scars that trail along her back.

Her life cannot help but flash before her eyes.

The ceiling morphs and twists
Her eyes flutter shut as her mind plays its tricks
She caresses the scars that itch at the roots of her hair.

Maybe its better this way for everyone.

She can no longer hear the heart beating slowly in the closet
Her mother told her that she is worthless
She begs for the sleep to take her.
Before her mind starts wandering to that point.

The darkness feels cool against her skin
The crooked mattress settling in its place
She sleeps on her side to avoid the bedroom mirror
The world grows still around her as it walks

on ******* eggshells.

The dawn permeates through the broken window sill
She never was a heavy sleeper.
She went missing out of nowhere
The ringing of her phone echoed in her ears

like Sunday bells.

And there was no more trace of the former shadows that pitifully gazed at her in the corners of her room.

-Kore

Its large scaly head rears back.
Fire roasting its throat,
Spewing out of its fanged mouth.
Veiny wings spread out,
Raising its *** into the air.
Its majesty dwarfs all,
Weapons are useless
Against its armored hide.
Its beaut graces all,
Fangs, fire, and talons
Destroy all in front of it.
Its elegance overshadows all,
Lesser beings run in fear
Of facing this beast.
Isn't it sad that we will never see
This wonderful, fantasy creature?

Working on my first folk song*

My demons are many
My angels are few
and the time for redemption
is long overdue
For the songs that we sang
from that merciless pew
were just words from an old
dying tome
But the gates of the garden
are opened at last
and an old voice is calling
me home

So to all of my critics
and all of my friends
I’ve loved every one of you
time and again
But the wheel must turn
from beginning to end
and my time with you
is now fading
For the darkness that
soon overshadows us all
will not long be keeping
me waiting

And finally I must
in good conscience proclaim
that the gods that divide us
are one and the same
And it matters not much
if we call them by name
for the names that we praise
are illusion
For the gods resonate
in reflections of men
and within we will
find absolution

i gather, all philosophy is written on the anti-cross, or a sickbed... and all maxims on the deathbed - in between there's nothing but vain distractions that have no basis for a consensus of surprise - they are merely therapies of manual labours, shadow-caste by weakness to invoke a sense of belonging to this world akin to a labourer of pure action - reduced to the same pure action: as one might showcase faking one's own death.

Kant said of poets: bothersome flies -
here to steal the cupcakes of my pondering:
zwischen die volkern erzielt wird
a mondus vivendi - in vivo or in vitro?
alter: mondus quasi vivendi -
and all that talk about sabotage (canto xix)?
his own poetry - even the sarcasm, but
especially the sarcasm shines through pristine
as if Hannibal Lecter talking about Alabama:
i gawt dem tousand doughlars tough mak 'em...
        awl over the plaice -
            got to give Ezra the cheek for demonic
slapping to shove that one, up their pristine
temple of ahoy ****! still, the variation is there:
usury and simony - talk of,
       Thomas the Cartesian -
Peter Simon the Usurer - the rock that gave
way to 1000% a.e.r. of maggot - interests rates
and what they said about her:
         piece of meat for the film, *****,
second rate: ***** slapped to Disney - and aren't
women natural sadists? i guess the Cesarean section
was a move in the wrong direction:
*****, pain! *****, pain!                well...
          if i was ever to be bothered, i'd be bothered now:
they're saying you need your genitals stretched
like Armstrong winning the 8th tour de france -
but f.g.m. is bad, bad bad bad -
hey, i was the one who said: get an abortion,
i didn't love you in the same way i ****** you...
you'd think she wouldn't think she was a murderer
akin with me, until the **** ***** turned into
a yanking diaper wearing blob -
                  i love how precursor physics akin to
post-physics (metaphysics) is entombed with pepper
ante: so sneeze into the benzene ring and get
either para- or ortho- physics out -
but she was russian orthodox, which is worse
than roman catholic: no feeling of guilt -
just the relativity factor: forget female rights:
let's just **** the ****** for giving her freedom -
yeah... and i just graduated and couldn't find
a job in chemistry, was working as a roofer:
she has two apartments in St. Petersburg and a mansion
in Siberia... and she sums it up as: i have no money.
blah ha ha ha ha; and i have an aunt in Warsaw
who sends me monthly stipends to drink myself to
death while i write the alternative to Proust.
  he really gave it to them in Ohio: i really gave it
back to London, imagine being published in the town
of your birth, simply because the western notion
of a book: is actually a brick, or a rubber door-stop -
unless you're famous? forget it... seriously,
they really have destroyed poetry with the idea that
autobiographies will **** poetry off...
question is: if you lived an interesting life...
why would you write a book? why would you?
i'm sure you'd continue making life interesting,
Don Juan wrote a book, Faust was like: bartender!
next round! and what's with these ghost writers?
that's like taking the concept of narration
and inventing a fourth dimension -
            our literary tastes and ambitions... are actually
ruled by dyslexics - people who not only can't
write... but who primarily can't punctuate...
now... if this is a healthy society (that we live in)...
then i guess Iraq is an improvement after toppling
Saddam... bra-*******-vo.
                         if i were the west i'd shut up
for one generation, and stop this political fetish of
foreign policy - but, as you guessed it... it won't work...
           just today, a program: 15 years after -
truth, lies, and conspiracies - well... if Guy Fawkes
did blow up parliament, we wouldn't be having
bonfire night celebrations, we'd be having debates...
but since Guy Fawkes plot was a failure:
ola anonymous! ola whoever...
                  and that massive tower in Dubai?
it was an architectural coup - let's freshen things up,
let's keep the competitive streak coming -
who's ******* overshadows all other erections
(egoism)? point is... i don't even care,
         there's no point playing hide (deny) & seek
(doubt) with these people... there's no point!
         i'm not seeking the ultimate noun -
    or how you perpetrate grammatical cleansing:
you basically strip words of meaning,
   and drop them, face-down, into their respective
grammatical category, and the job's done:
no grander meaning, no ulterior purpose,
    no alternative suggestion;
        or rereading Nietzsche - you either recite
something by the author, or you cite the authority
behind your own investigation - the former is
sycophantic stagnation, the latter a narrative continuance:
                furthermore? continual nuance.
    that's how rhyme will remain until i find
the original intention of poetry's need for rhyme to
   be anything but what it currently is: unappealing -
it's like poets want to write something that can be
classified as poetry... which obviously leads to
  the controversy of: but it's so ****** unappealing!
  hence the revision of rhyming to and from couplets -
   i only came across an interest in philosophy aged 21...
  any sooner and i'd fall for reciting dogmas and
upholding the arguments of others...
                   but i only came across this subject through
a collision with strife: or the lost care to strive
   in order to suspect a need for social ascension into
  the heights of respectable society of: horse racing
at Ascot, champagne and caviar: and airs: oh may i,
   oh you do indeed, sir.
                            and in each and every one of us:
   the brute: the comedian.
       what Nietzsche did to emphasise with italics,
  i'm doing it with the colon - for it is said that the colon
economises emphasis without Niccolò de' Niccoli
                           (ò) - i.e. Nichole - née coal -
in French: cut short; which means? have you ever seen
a new form of literary monopoly emerge
that wasn't ecclesiastical? i have... the diacritical markings
on standard Latin letters - they're not taught:
merely accepted -                   suspension of illiteracy
             hibernating in ages of education:
on purpose dangling - the stick a metre from your
head, the carrot a Don Quixote fata morgana -
  truly: a mirage.                SKY: believe in better.
all those guys in advertisement know their philosophy -
once i met a guy who once worked in advertisement
and was shocked when i summed up Sartre as:
                                                                         voyeurism.
  but there's a new monopoly on literacy in town,
it's obviously more refined than the old way of
telling secrets -
                            it's refined in the sense that i too would
have doubted whether that's haiku in ensō or enso'h -
dried up laughter, or the desert of once heard
laughter: lo'h 'n' behold a stammer for an earthquake -
so soon? yep, that much sooner.
                           looking at it, it's all Copernican
east north south west with some encoding, or all of them:
   up there, on the international space station
you get a hard-on thinking about nautical mathematics.
   i get him though, Nietzsche the Preacher -
              although i limited my experiences in order
to never agree with his observations that precipitated from
his experiences - none of them could have come
from *a priori musings - what with his menage trois -
   again: ménagé (à) trois - or faux pas, i.e. fau(x) pa(s) -
                   as Xerxes said: war!     (alias Łar -
     warsaw - or?   Łarsała - siała baba mak, nie wiedziała
jak - chłop powiedział: a to było tak... a sea-saw)
  while  some dwarf Polish Duck, a.k.a. politician added:
     V'AR!         -             while in this
  retreat in France - Taizé - i served out lunch and dinner
for the congregation, working with this German
  who preferred spiritual duty than army conscription
service; a memorable quote by him though:
   vey d dn't oonderstaand my good En'glish arr-cent:
   plus the Schwarzenegger for comparative literature.

I dream
how her morning nakedness
overshadows the depth of old plants
and how her tears of joy twinkle
at the edge of my deluge

I forget
how in a gray black past
my pillow was wet with tears
and I kissed it because I could not expect
ever to embrace someone like her

I honour
forever how I found her
the pearl  in a sea full of mines
and how she quenched my sadness
as if it had been hers for many years

I cherish
how on a late day in June
on an ancient brigde in Prague
I asked for her hand and how her eyes filled up
with the light that keeps me warm

I hope
she will stay