He’s a ***** of in-
tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity.
What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me.
No one understands his esoteric complexity.
He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other
“practical” participation by the particularities.
Part of all that not even he fully understands.

Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism
He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung.
His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung
Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky?
“Unfair Question” he cries.

“Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies.
My brain is numb after one question, and a few words.
He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?”
Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes.
“Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?”
He must be on drugs.

A little philosophy makes a man an atheist.
A lot makes him a believer,
just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine.
Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign
Of conviction.

What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality?
What the hell were you thinking about?
He responds.

A stream of consciousness is all that is,
past is a referent future is a predicate.
I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.”
No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me.
For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without.
If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing.

I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him,
I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her.
“Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.”  
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.

tuppence middleton is careful of british ***,
she doesn't refer to british antics from
holy ****** soil in spain, bunched-up ******,
and diving into the pool from a hotel balcony
as a modern epitome of courage... / stupidity
without a cause or a sword;
while everything back home goes on in your
daily orwellian backstreet surveillance,
pristine (chocolate on rotten teeth clenched
elocution); she forgot to mention that the brits
have a viral infection worse than alcoholism,
they treat *** with the nasty-pill,
so they can make banter about it (jokes)
to carry on bloodhound drooling for more.
make joke out of *** you'll end up easily shocked
and shackled to no ***, but joking that
the burning bush that spoke to moses on mt. sinai
was the ***** region of his egyptian mega-*****
will get you further than expected.*

so she's writing her drunk through her twenties
memoir, one fascinating detail emerges
(i could have written thing, like all the philosophers,
to condense the vocabulary of a few categories of
words to reach the philosophical pinnacle
of abstraction, i said detail, although i could have
said anecdote, tarts in cardigans of printed tartan):
verbatim: i dropped a bottle of wine on kitchen
tiles and was lapping the drink like a dog,
along with dirt from the floor and broken glass;
i was half as bad, one night i couldn't mix enough
alcohol with the sleeping pills i'm taking,
i knew of one off-lice that sold alcohol into the wee
hours of the night, a few miles away,
next to a brothel i used to frequent, upon entry (drunk)
asking for water, the prostitutes bemused by my
courting ways without a chandelier ballroom in sight
(kissing hands after giving an ******, all that),
so i thought i'd catch the night bus (N86) to get a few
beers... on my way to the bus-stop,
2 miles away, i spotted a hit and run fox dead
by the bus shelter, a few houses prior a skip
with two bins bags... two spectators...
spotted the fox, emptied the content of the black bin bags,
bent over the fox, put him into the bin bags
(i was thinking of the guy who had to work a sunday
getting rid of the health hazard),
i almost choked and almost vomited,
i could snort up the odour of blood from the fox,
packed the fox in the bin bags...
walked back home,
weighed the fox on the scales outside my home
(9 - 10kg, about as much as my ginger maine ****),
then walked on, dropped the bag into the bushes
in the green belt...
(the closer i am to a brothel, the more i'm eager to go in,
which isn't particularly odd, given the slime juice
eagerness of the flower if not the pouch oysters);
and then a shamanism appeared out of mutual respect:
sat on the curb drinking a beer, sat with a fox,
a girl walked less than half a metre from the fox,
the fox didn't move,
drinking a beer lying down so close to a fox
scratching the fox's fleas could have jumped on me...
my ginger totem, you are my ginger totem...
so what about the sheep the wolves and the foxes?
who's to attire the foxes into a metaphor adequate enough?
but i'd never sip a broken glass bottle from the floor,
i mean, i ****** into my favourite mixer bottle
coca-cola, then poured it into a glass with whiskey...
but i wouldn't go as far as to drink it...
i'd wait and experience the fluctuations of metabolism,
cook some food, read a book, you see words
can salvage a man from the depths of drinking,
they're akin to stones, i'm basically piling stones
into a mountain, effectively there's nothing moving
them once they've been written, all you get is
a bemusement:
peel                                v.                         pelt
poker                             v.                         pooh
pill                                 v.                          no y in peel
new woos                     v.                          news
pepper                          ­v.                          penguin
in the word ego, the e is a prolonged syllable,
i had many more, better examples,
but the way i see it, without evident diacritical units
to example off, you'll get hidden aesthetics
of many particularities of expression,
based upon many odd instances where it's written
one way... but spoken another.

it comes from casual phrasing of / off something, the known pride & joy of any intellectual: coining a phrase. most stick to the cliche zeitgeist, i invented zeitreich (empire of the times, rather than a holy ghoul)... anyway...

so i'm reading this article about the L.A. dating scene,
it's better than a binge on horror movies
in a thunderstorm - the pictures aren't there,
but the words are, words, such is their nature,
the awkward silence amplified with encoding -
pristine ****** and any other -ism you can
think of - amateur psychology for starters,
Nietzsche made psychology so pop as if
it were the once despised arithmetic reinvented
that the calculator looks grim reaper-ish
(and everyone's a psychologist these days) -
writing extended maxims (i.e. aphorisms)
is a chance to avoid dialectics, i trust the rigidity
of the systematic approach, limited vocabulary
and the act of juggling, set parameters, known
formulae, and off we go into the labyrinth of Hegel
or Kant or some other German and his morose boozed-up
persona of a Minotaur - but this article, it just poured ants into my
underwear about the iceberg conundrum (i misspelled
that first time round, the English language, due to
its lack of diacritic marks and too many particularities
cistern, cat, crow, kettle, camomile... chamomile...
cheap... has an inherent dyslexia in it, very natural, this,
it's the least bit surprising, never mind mentioning
text English as written by one girl in the news
at her English G.C.S.E. exam - i can't write it properly,
but it involves the Pandora of U w8 4 me @ th-     -θ
school gates - oh right, the ****? chew but you say ski
resort paraphenelia, paraphenalia, paraphenilia, para
**** **** ****... dictionary! paraphernalia... thank you!
nwt the origin of the negated-ease (disease), what two
compounds am i not remembering to use? etymology,
scalpel nurse, cut open the syllables, technique:
para-     -phernalia...     well from chemistry para-
using the benzene ring is a location, i.e. para meta ortho-,
medieval latin! of course! no wonder i'm dyslexic with
this word, if the origins aren't pure Latin or Greek
then i'm sure to be dyslexic and burn witches at the stake
and believe in omens and hell... this is hell, resurrected,
-phrenalia: cut up further into a derivative of
pherein (to bear, modulated into a dowry), and
the ς-suffix of -al, like et al. i'm guessing, but this is
kabbalistic territory right know, -al doesn't exactly make
aqua sense unlike Al (aluminium) - that's when
chemistry picks up language, and other sciences, picking
up from the little nits (knit, gnome, knife... hush the first letter),
in the end paraphernalia means:
to have bearings side by side, or beside, at one side...
daydreaming? having a meal in a restaurant on a Saturday,
but realising you have mortgage obligations from
Monday to Friday? well, i guess something like that.
anyway, literary coinage, coining a phrase, a catchphrase
moment, so this article about the L.A. dating scene,
horrid mothers of artefacts in the woman's psyche,
the unflavoured Freudian theory of the Madonna-*****
complex... and all the ladies say... it's easier for us
to call these men schizophrenics and shove them into
the hyphenation than acknowledge either Madonna
or ***** in us... i get it, men watch too much *******,
but... here it comes... women watch too much
romantic tragedy (romtra), men go out there and they're
like... this is turning out to be an R.E.M. song
the one i love* - props! too many ******* props!
it's not exactly **** culture, that's about five minutes
simulating an **** with your hand (or if you prefer a
bony ****) and a tissue but no tears... it's not exactly
RomTra culture either... it's the dating culture per se...
and this whole self-profiling like we're all F.B.I. agents
spying on ourselves with either authenticity or lies.
so there, you have your literary coinage, a phrase, a word,
the most belittling quest to some El Dorado ever
invented.

He says the path to the universal
Is through the particular
I've moved very often
My particularities change

And resurface in my memories
Boston Strong!
Icy Charles River
Larry Bird more than Danny Ainge

Hints of Shiva
Women double themselves for Krishna
Yo Boonsboro!
People are strange

I share my dream with a stranger
London bus
I try to trust
Samantha James

             Secret Flames!

Strangers acquaint, announcing particularities.
Thrills run across hungry nerves;
pleasure mounts in rising expectations:
First ruminating, next devouring,
then coalescing into one complete whole.

Gently the wintry chill advances
imperceptible to unschooled senses.
Mirages of fullness fade while realization grows.

Ah, the tender vulnerability of intense gratification.
Discovery of naivety’s betrayal is complete
in the consumption of perfected death.

(Cold as mirrored glass, rebounding time,
numbing fire.) An embodiment of suffocating pain,
The paroxysm climaxes... waiting for release.

(Stretched, drained, quietly entertaining sympathy.)
This sultry expansion - extended abeyance of joy -
turns knowledge of fulfillment into hope that
blends with the waters of insecurity.

(Moments of compression, burning sickness
intensifying with each presentation,
development of indeterminate expectations,
vacillation between stimulating passion and alarm.)

A formidable moment charges toward the funambulist.
Balance seems impossibly demanding.

Abruptly the event ends, time stops, breathing ceases …

        The babe is held in loving arms -
        forgotten pain, dissolving woe.
        Her tender grace, alluring charms
        beget a great, supernal flow.

Kerry Ann Herrmann

now you thought arithmetic was hard... they really omitted telling us a clear deciphering of diacritical marks - kept the advantage. it's not really an area of expertise, but an area of clear interest worthy of a spider-web corner, something to feel cosy in... for god sake, even the Greeks started using diacritical distinctions on their beautiful alphabet... the English left theirs in squalor... *******... get moving! or you won't get rid of illiteracy in your people you sadistic *******! because, i mean, with the appropriation of diacritic you can teach people strong unitary measurements applicability of encoded sounds, that's what i learnt from Polish... e.g.: Ł (wha-wha Jimi Hendrix peddle voodoo child - ń is an n but pinching your tongue internally - kabbalah is the anatomy of the mouth and the nasal cavity, in kabbalah you have the organs teeth tongue nose mouth breath to deal with, expedition into vibrations... ó is just an aesthetic alternative to u... so the word looks pretty... you need these marks, otherwise you're first teaching people the alphabet, then you're teaching them syllables... great twigs and all... then you shove a tree into their eyes, a custard, an entire word... no wonder you have a syllabus (origin syllable) to teach them the atomic scaling of things: tree you teach as e e r t and you teach onomatopoeia as  a   a   e   i   m   n   o   o   o   o   p   t... and that's hardly a Mendeleev rational (French, prolonged a     syllable cutting on -tio-   prolonged n with -al, using diacritics: rātion̄al).

             diacritics - also synonymous with punctuation,
             syllable punctuation, not between words
             but inside them.*

as a Latin man, i'm still stuck on
deciphering the barbarism,
what barbarism you ask?
the diacritical marks added to our
alphabet - it's the last stronghold
of the literate class - i'm sitting here
wondering how to use them,
i have a couple i'm certain off,
but others just seem too impromptu,
too wobbly in how they're used,
given people cheat, gamble, and lie,
i'm not sure some of these marks
are properly explained in schools,
actually, i don't think any of them are...
not to my knowledge, with the English
language stark naked and it's
many particularities of grapheme hidden,
i could list you the oddities, but there
are too many unique examples to go
through; i mean, you could write
Joyce's Finnegans Wake on 20 pages if
the diacritical marks were included
and not this excessive spelling to capture
these stresses of accent.

I haven't been a part of life for more years than I wish to count. It's the absence in the moments I've seen long ago, the scenes I once clung so desperately to belong to. The abstraction in my memories say I was once there, but the irregularities in my heart rationalize the doubt and assure me that wishful thinking was the only memory that occurred. The particularities of this symptom- if it could be called that- are quite strange. It happens so rapidly, I hardly pay it any mind; but if my mind wanders, the old theater in my brain plays a reel. The imagined scenes are portrayed on screen and I can see myself within them.

Happy... sad, maybe.

It makes no difference. The mood of the filming is enough to make the heart start an analysis. I'll feel a tug or two at my heart and wonder where I ever got this silly notion. It's odd and a little depressing, but it only makes me wonder- where was I and why did I think this happen? Some days, I think I have the answer.

It's only longing.

© 2013

even i tire, as if expecting to reach to reach
the shores of a dozen,
let alone that of million...
             ambitions are rarely wished upon,
they are drives, drivel and drones,
just about the time i thought i could
spell out the dictionary, realising i wasn't god...
so i cheated, took to the shortcut of
a thesaurus...
         why oh why do i even bother to write?
i have vague memories of a life when
i didn't...
           i guess you can only call writing
the last and only expenditure...
                      or what's called the currency
of frivolous dependence, a per se argument...
      even in england this art-form is seen
as a mental illness...
                    rarely a coping mechanism,
after all, nature doesn't adore waste,
               so man makes it.
                   so this art comes back as an antidote
to orthodoxy of grammar,
                  and then at best a relearning of
the concept of pause,
            at first the punctuation markings
and then the higher tier of diacritical marks
that allow syllable incisions,
         because the double standards of english
can, and are confusing even to the most proficient
speaker... that ****** lack of clear indication
of the word being digested with desired prompt,
to, for example, read for an audio-book audience;
i blame it on the double consonant rule of english...
   e.g. as in little... or manner...
and given that english as a language doesn't
use any diacritical punctures, it's not hard to see
why there's no talk of dyslexia in poland;
the most you'll ever hear is the complete opposite,
the extreme of illiteracy...
the dyslexic conundrum is that english is
difficult, because of the difficulties it itself imposes,
but then if it didn't, it wouldn't be so ominous:
it truly is a language of calamity,
         obviously a language of almost omnipotent
rule, but still a bag of nerves (as the saying goes);
you travel into lands of obscurity (e.g. poland)
and you practically care to have a peaceful day,
because that's the only sensibility in that and akin lands...
you actually get to read books,
   doubling it up while with your grandfather
walking and talking en route the graveyard,
and then in the graveyard, talking hyena talk...
well... that's the name i invented for our talks...
hyenas of the graveyard;
             and yes, ...              punctuation mark
is a cliff-hanger.
                           punctuation marks and asthma?
maybe i am short on breath,
but then again i might be akin to a hot-air balloon...
see! i don't know if that difficulty of english
is because of the double-consonant aesthetic
or a double-vowel aesthetic... to be honest?
    i can recognise the correct encoding
if i have double-vowels to deal with than double- +
-consonants... **** me, did you see that?
  that's an antithesis to the paragraph right there.
otherwise known as the curling centipede move.
               people do call the smooth operator
singer sadé... but not the marquis, he's just plain
sad(e)... i guess as a precursor to an -ism suffix;
still, invisible things happening,
                  it's too late by now, english has too many
particularities to employ diacritical marks,
that's why someone russian in politics might say
it more plainly: too many oddjobs on those islands;
nicer to say eccentrics though;
but we really would have to employ a massive sieve
to apply continental distinctions to the english
language to even think about educational standards
to pass on the tongue...
      this isn't even me being unrealistic,
                                as any experiment goes,
       you try to fit in some realism into the perspective.
yet is it absolutely necessary?
                     well... are we here to speak local?
             given the time we have to spare
and given the dyslexia question...
                                      well ... is a cliff-hanger
that breaking up lines of poetry by sentences that
never fit into neat-tight rectangles, it would appear
i was making double-standards;
   no greater friend than the semi-colon,
which, mind you, begs me to ask the cause / case
of hyphenating words back into original saxon
        fudgeklebenauge...
    the practice akin to polymethylsiloxane polyhydrate,
that's the saxon genetic signature in english...
fudge-packing, goo, gooey, you really
have to strain your eyes on the ****** word,
again, diacritical markings could make it easier
to be said in one go...
                      the liberal english would add about
5 scalpel incisions into that word using a hyphen;
now to test intuition:
     poly-methyl-siloxane poly-hydrate
****... two too many in my prediction;
still, not a bad gamble... although i could have
dissected that word further:
      poly-methyl-silo-xane           poly-hy-drate
             1   +       1 + 1                       + 1 + 1         = 5.
genius... and then the equivalent of chewing gum
on the pavement when said really quickly.

you kept me hanging
in these vast particularities
without any guarantee
of what we could be

Awake guilty
Against my will
I miss them, I do
The unity and history
New, bizarre characters
New, bizarre old world
If truth be told
I don't yet fit here.

I am a broken man
My worst enemy, my biggest fan
I know that I can
But, can I?

I adore her endlessly
Her beautiful particularities
Little fingers locked tight
Pinky swear.

My love will complicate
As times continues to breathe
But it will always, always
Remain.

Finding my place
We aint even kin
But the pain from the distance
Still resides within.

As the lights dim
And eyelids grow weight
Demons within
Continue the spate
There is enough love in me
To devour over a lifetime
Go to sleep guilty
Against my will.