My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.

This is an ode to Adderall,

that wonderful mixture of

dextroamphetamine sulfate

dextroamphetamine saccharate

amphetamine

aspartate monohydrate

and amphetamine sulfate capsules

that all combine together

to form a prescribable pill

questionably similar to the Schedule II controlled substance street drug

commonly refered to as "Speed."


This is an ode to the children

who are bundles of energy caged in a classroom

incapable of concentrating

on the miniscule tasks given to them

by pedagogical authorities that

promise societal success and economic happiness

to those who complete their work on time

without a fuss or a doubt as to why they're

filling in bubbles on paper in the first place.

The confused children who watch

as others with calmer brains

fixate eyes on textbooks

rather than out the window.


This is an ode to Society

deeming these individuals as broken

choosing to wound then medicate

rather than proliferate.

That took their inquisitiveness

and locked it in a book with the label "DISORDER"

stating that you will never be anything

unless you think and feel the same way we do.

And much like a mad doctor

lobotomizing those whom he thinks insane

they synthesized a pill

to dampen a torrential brilliance

allowing them to place their sedated children

back in the box where they belonged.


This is an ode to the college students

chained by academic standards

expected to excel towards great things

if only they reach that ethereal diploma.

The students who crave the artificial focus

the increased capacity for concentration

with the broadened spectrum of perception

the sense of purpose in the tedium

the ungodly ability to think clearly

and perform the meaningless tasks they expect of us.

The students who go through illegal means

to purchase said drug

to swallow or snort

and dive back into the mountain of responsibility

with a new found sense of productivity and motivation.

An ode to the students

unable to find purpose in studenthood

the ones who find more virtue in watching the sunset

burn clouds into firework oblivion

before then blessing us with uncritical night.

An ode to the students

who discover more education

in climbing to the top of a mountain

and yelling a nonsense decree of passion

just to watch the echo

bounce from shore to shore

in cathartic reverberation.

The ones

for which our pill

is the only possible manner

of assigning purpose to purposeless assignments.

These are the ones

who must binge

cram for days before

the big exams

going whole nights without sleep

or food.

The ones slowly cracking under the increasing pressure of academia

spending more time questioning why they must complete their homework

instead of actually completing it.


This is an ode to my brothers and sisters

who stand in horror at the mold we must fit into

crafted by an unknown unshakable entity.

The ones who lost the appeal of cookie-cutter success

in exchange for a small understanding

of the way things really work.

The cogs that twisted off the machine

and now sit lotus-posed in the corner.

My fellow birds with broken wings

still expected to fly.

My fellow carpenters expected to build their estates

yet not given the proper tools to do so.

The ones of cursed cold clarities

perfectly capable of clutching

those fifteen minutes of dynasty

yet refrain from doing so due to

the immaculate futility of it all.


This is an ode to a drug induced rant

that no one will read

the one that I chose to write

instead of doing my **** homework in the library

like a compliant student.


This is an ode to the pressure-oriented procrastinators

that delay and yet again delay

their petty necessary obligations due to purposeless and exhausted motivation.

Swallowing substances to summon some sort of incentive

to fill in the bubbles

and cater to the Society they find so confusing

the ones who only under influence of synthesized chemicals

find reason to squeeze into that culturebox

that cascades down a bumpy man-made conveyor belt

branding a diploma onto your forehead

injecting an occupation into your veins

transforming your pupils to dollar bill signs

demanding you breed children

to do the same as you have

and you'll never be happy unless you do these things

right?


This is an ode to those who reside in the shadows

of our broken social system

and conjure up great conversations

pertaining to everything and nothing

that are as wonderful and necessary

as the prints of your fingers

caressing down a comfortable torso

just before the sun rises

the untouchable indescribable realizations of life and love

that are completely irrelevant in their eyes

but are entirely necessary for our survival.


This is an ode to the overwhelming feeling of love

greatly exacerbated by a pharmaceutical delight

whereupon connections with other humans

become both incredibly appealing and oddly magnetic

for a few electric hours.

The oxygenating satisfaction felt

the instance just after the small talk architecture masks

fall to the floor

and right before we put them back on.


This is an ode to the minutes before the amphetamine crash

where the world still doesn't make sense

but we briefly don't mind

because a few fleeting moments of energy and purpose

in this otherwise detestable confine of reality

are all you can really ask for

as you complete the assignments

then step outside

to smoke yet another cigarette (they're absolutely wonderful on Adderall try it some time it'll **** you slowly but then again what won't?)

only to witness our Sun

breeding fire clouds in the east

illuminating the Western Abyss into purple-gold spectral oblivion

and in consequence therefore

between puffs of a necessary cigarette

you grin to yourself in quiet victory.


This is an ode to misaligned priorities

to those who when walking to everimportant final examinations

think not of the curriculum beaten into their skulls

but take careful measure to step on every crack on the sidewalk

who stare not towards the future

but to the beautiful reflection reflecting back from the broken mirrors

that are the weary days and weary ways

of this curious existence.

To those when stepping into the absurd spotlight of Society

unapologetically proclaim:


"Though I must play your game,

you will never win."

'i've only ever really read one poem. i, i have to admit.*  
You know, that, that one poem that everyone’s read, whatsit,
Howl by Ginsberg, 'best-minds-of-my-generation-destroyed-by-madness,-starving-hyste­rical-naked,' , yeah, that one;'
'It's just, I identify with it so strongly.' she says,
'That poem is soo me.'
It's funny how commentary on a generation 60 odd years ago come across as timeless insights..
how we learn that true spirit of rebellion and counterculture three generations ago,
  as it is taught to us by two generation ago countercounterculture academics.
but I guess, inevitably
                                         we
                                                  return,
  to those half drowned pontifications inevitably decried into transcendental truth by the onward spilling ratchet of cultural recognition;
  that sense of universal oneness generated by the unwashed ramblings of beat-generation hipsters dense innuendo in run on sentences running, running from their upper-lower-middle-class New York homes and their privilege of true vacant meaninglessness and despair,
   to those nervous tucked in shirted clean shaven scholars swooning over the same seme drugged, melancholic bearded men profussing the deepest of opaque truths only found up the furthest reaches of their own *****.
  As we push through to our lectures, the mosaic in motion of blazer wearing mac-users and mac-pac wearing blazers,
  As we hysterically interpret the formatting conditions for our reports, which could hang in the balance of whether the dreams we once had will ever be actualised,
  As we felt lost and found and found and lost at those park benches under the stars, where occasional strangers strolled by offering sessions and life-stories,
  As we paid exorbitantly to get out of our parents homes, and into tin-can flats with broken windows, absentee landlords and cracked paint only held together by all the moss, (the empowerment that is wage slavery,) for in our youth, poverty is not an ever-present pejorative, but the rite of passage to show that we are alive,
  As rituals of manhood are defined by two things and two things only; how much insomnia one can accumulate to meet insane and inane deadlines, and how much one can illuminate the walls in ***** from all the beers, spirits, cheap wines and questionable home-brews,
  As the government dismantles the human-rights commission, and we nervously attend the rallies initiated by the radicals, and the man on the megaphone calls on the crowd to chant and we can only mumble and laugh nervously at ourselves,
  And when the next speaker runs onto stage feeling the need to plead to this already nervous, placid mass that this is in-fact a PEACEFUL PROTEST, and that we are all true patriots and they insist everyone start singing the national anthem and we all look down and we again mumble, or pretend somehow not to hear them,
  and when, in this biggest independent rally around a unified cause our generation's ever seen, we have never felt so alone ,
  and isolated,  
                                  we
                                             remember,
                                                                    those earlier days,
  When we'd bleach our hair; we'd poison ourselves white, in the vain mystic hope that this was just the transition period to the time when we'd get true colour into our lives,
  Remember our wonder at the Eurocentric Asiatic television representations of the Abrahamic faiths, given transubstantiated holy revival by the medium of Saturday morning digital pastel pasture; when we were children staring excited and wide eyed into the Metatrons Fire of Sinai 'Random Almighty Mega Damage'; as Dante and the seraph class Tyrant-infused-Michael inevitably made battle with YHWH, -in the one True End,- as we grinded within the monolithic emerald obsidian halls, Mystical wonderment spilling forth from our reddened hollow eyes, at the beautiful unlimited expansive world contained within our console/consoling digital unit discs; conformally mapped and etched into the convex hull of our minds,
  Where we were gods, doing battle with every possible creature in morphospace, filleted into overpriced cards and cartridges, for which our strategies meant so much to us though none of us really understood the game,
  When we could quote verbatim every piece of dialogue in GTA2, and get concerned glances from our parents as we conjured veiled imagery of bukake-ladled innuendo which we didn't really understand until six or seven years later,
  When sexuality was a special secret club our elders and the kids in the years above came across so wise for being a member of, rather than an anti-turing test; a farcical ritual where everyone tries their best to imitate the hyper-reality of MTV while hiding the nervous feelings that this whole thing was really meant for someone other than us,
  When creating a whole new lexicon for our self-hood (be it artistic, ******, political or philosophical) felt like existential emancipation; a transcendental rebellion against the normalising identities and semantics of old, rather than an impenetrable circle-**** taxonomy,
  When one day we'd unveil a new term in some text, and it would completely change our outlook on every corner of our lives,
  Or, the next day, when we'd give up and just sit back on rolling banks, and look out at a veil of stars,
  Or the next day, when we'd wonder desperate and painfully, which of the last two was the real pursuit and which was wasted time? (Or was it this day, the day spent building an illusory dialectic between them?)
  Remember when we were in kindergarden, and you had to pass through the kitchen, -the adults zone,- to get to the toilet, and you'd feel both shame and wonderment listening in of the snippets of conversation muttered by these titanic figures; discussing abstruse issues from the newspaper in foreign yet noble tongues?
  Remember when we were teens, and every form-checking observation and question from these same adults was so painstakingly pedantically banal and asinine, that one could only respond with monosyllabic grunts and silent hysterics?
  And remember as 'young adults', when we'd inevitably entered this same dull Aristotelian world of forms, how we'd ask the same adults for advice on filling these paperworks, at once still asemic gibberish, and at once the fine-print that contained and predicted our lives?
  Remember when our dreams for the future were not bounded by the economy of our grade point averages and just how much debt we were willing to incur
                                …
I've seen the best minds of my generation climb into pre-packaged little boxes; and pay through the teeth for the privilege of doing so.  
  Akin to a 'Howl' they call it? Our cry for selfhood? What a scream.
It's not even a cry. Barely a whimper.
More of a zombified groan, completely aware our intrepid Journey of Self is just a pricey guided tour. (Tv Ad's static commodified existential emancipatory platitudes; 'your place in the world' / 'well it's my place and it's my time' urgh.)
And so we march asleep; all lame all blind.
  Trudging through the mind-fields; arguing, unravelling the semantic distinctions between the empty boundaries and the boundaries of emptiness.
  Transcribed down for essay deadlines,  /  assessing our lives trajectory as dead lines,
Becoming increasingly aware,
  We are not the living beings, the dasein, the Übermenschen being actualised; we are the machinery through which the institutions, the factories, the markets and education facilities actualise themselves.
  (While the only acceptable language we can breathe in opposition to these ratcheting pedagogical machines is the lexicon they provide us..
  ('oh, you hate systemic neoliberal alienation; the deestablishment of ontological anthropocentrism? Tell me more about the esoteric uselessness of academic culture.') bluh.)

But

       the more we follow those phantom images we built of ourselves,
the more we become aware they are but sirens; hypnotic dreamlike figures luring us to our doom,
  and as this awareness dawns; and the cognitive dissonances and schizophrenia grows,
       We


                                just try to keep calm and carry on regardless.

Can we really claim the arrogance of having a better path?
The conceit that there's a better cliff we should be guiding ourselves to to top ourselves off?
I don't know,
I reaally
really
just don't know.

Write lyrics like spreadsheets with number crunching
Calculate the isotopes
numerical accuracy in the vein of vain attempts to overcome
the show off tendencies of artist who exhibit flow to illicit
concern about existence beyond what they can see of pedagogical poetry
more concerned with numbers and patterns
who gives a **** what the stress is on the vowel in the third stanza  
lyrically despondent personal correspondents for a publication that says
more about what you know than what you feel
and who you are
computer says no, statistically impossible, synaptic haiku
five seven five
musical ronin
go go gadget of talent
extend-o-pole and flying nimbus as you train like son-goku
hyperbolic chamber where time is an illusion only to collapse
true Saiyans are warriors from the womb until death and after
over nine thousand and the scanner short circuits
write on the clouds with light so hot that it burns on thought
not contact
no constants, just variables, electron microscopes to try and hear the angels sing.
Large Hadrons small dreams, no love, just roman numerals
XIV, ***, Blood transfusions in the realm of “O Positive” and you're just a pessimist, negative Nancy at the end of evolution
Flesh and bone as a tent in your double helix of a genome,
flesh like clay in the hands of some master
but you know no master
no nations, under no gods but Darwin
all 23 chromosome pairs making 46 parts of your brain
screaming neurons fire
WRITE
WHAT
YOU
ARE
If you should so choose as to end not with a bang but a whimper
then your memory is forfeit
contribute in some meaningful semblance of sarcasm and sinsethesia with anesthetic medications of pop remedies and voided memories
of sinthesisia
Smell the colours and taste the sounds of pen on paper
when you never own a pen or a pad
just a bright white rectangle you stare at for hours on end
No thoughts just Digg and Reddit
your only contributions a thumbs up or a red thumbs down
like buttons
but no dislike, because if you've got nothing nice to say
then say nothing
unless you're outrage and full of spite
and morose
at the state of human nature
beauty and song thrown out in an effort to leave nobody behind
and so we have a generation coming in
at the age of 5, who are told new math
new science
wrote memorization of equations
no thought process, no argument about relation
theory of relativity, the genious mind just numbers and letters on a page with squiggles and lines that don't have to mean anything more than they mean on the book
we have a generation with no lust, no hope
Do they dream in black and white?
do they dream at all?
is the consequence of IQ tests and graded paper intelligence
the thirst for knowledge and creativity?
WE HAVE TO SCREAM
at the injustice
Burn it to the bricks and ashes
we hurl through the windows
in the streets and in the parks
car radios and clock towers sold
for cheap homemade *****
dance around the fire like the wild things are
LET THE WILD RUMPUS BEGIN
but then we're still hollow
no happy medium, just excess
in the pursuit of Dionysus, trepination,
demon possession is illegal in the eyes of the police and federal law
spread your legs and lean against the car
as they frisk you and plant the seed
of doubt
in the cuffs of your jeans
You have the right to remain silent
but I hope you don't
refuse
question
resist

I was a teacher once.

My students seemed
like glittering
fantastical birds.

The girls flew and flashed
in their keen new beauty,

the boys perched sullenly
and stiff as boys seem
always wont to do.

I was a teacher observing
the flittering
ephemera of youth,

that one thing
we all remember
always

though it only
stays a little

before it is driven
by worry and the world
into memory

and flies away
into forever.

"A college professor is someone who talks in someone else's sleep." - W. H. Auden

Off to teach once again.
Another semester beckons.
Students who don't read,
respect or understand words.
Colleagues mostly
young enough to be
my own children.
Migrant worker wages.
If only I had learned
a decent, honest trade,
like mortician or plumber,
I wouldn't be in this fix.
Oh well, we must all do
what will feed us.
Once more, into the breach.
  - mce

By: Cedric McClester

Call me a chump
But I’m with Trump
When it comes to Carson
He can’t be accused of parsing
When he says pathological
He’s being pedagogical
Using the man’s own words
Which completely under girds

What the man said
About the thoughts in his head
And it’s no more than logical
He said he’s pathological
We must wonder hard
If he’d still go that extra yard
To practice his absurdity
I know the thought’s occurred to me

Cuz if you take a look
Inside his true confession book
You’re gonna be amazed
As he recounts the different ways
He showed off his temper
With his mother front and center
Then a friend or relative
Who he tried his best to shive

It may sound like a joke
But thank God the blade broke
Then there’s the guy that he rocked
With a solid steel padlock
But no one can recall
Because the tales he tells are tall
Though he insists they’re true
But those who know him asked, "Who knew?"

















Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.

Flippant polymaths exude the frippery of travail for lapsed inordinate surgical gains in temporal but temporary acclaim that owes its provenance to the gullarge accentuated by the guttural tempests of silent windfalls that wrestle with sharks and snarky cagamosis with pilfered fame without rulers for rules that own the profligacy of a cineaste game

We cannot surpass our talents with ease when the treecheese of inevitable distance between equipoise and insanity is a tantamount inanity of prolixity for the sake of freedom rather than servitude to the slow meandered steps of trudged verbigeration that needs to be exorcised from the seat of authority for the plodding inconvenience of time earned that shakes the listless yearning people who lie and spurn

Demagogues are trifles because they are anoegenetic and care not for the abligurition that consumes the energy of a dismal life lived on fringes rather than reaped with grimaces for binges that continue to absorb the painful pangs of twinges that hedonists are of interest

We cannot exorcise the demons that give stygian weight to exchequers beyond the gamut of money but rather the currency of velocity of thought that owes its weight to weightlessness of spaces between the spacious and the limited tract of isolative territory that many mendicants looking for sustenance travail in insolence and in perjury of their solemn duties for self-serious honesty they lack a vista to see their crimes as more than just a pettifoggery of disputatious wranglers that wrench and then contemn the objects of their moral scruples to contend with nothing but the vacant expanse of a limitless injury for a momentary slip of cultivation and countenance

Frippery is hard to cobble with lapidary wit because succinct grievances are fallow ground for the permanence of atrocity and the temperance of felicity to conform to the desiccated pathways of limpid but livid excoriations of willful ingenuity met with aleatory rambles that sprawl incalescence with words as a dying occupation that is resurrected from the abeyance of its pragmatic utility to distinguish class from crust.

The triadic fatuousness of snarky sharks recruiting the gullarge of paranoiacs to deputized alacrity lead many strident vocations astray as they pilfer the nullibiety of spectral ignorance and defy the gravitas of the primiparas of a swollen technocracy, an outrage that scarecrows with prevenance have adumbrated against with strident accelerations of sublime velocity

So we swim in perilous straits against the demiurge of inclemency in fated rittles for the turpitude of wraiths and engineer every aborning day a new foofaraw of unalloyed atrocity
Now more than never should be deployed to ensure that the castigation of scoundrels and guttersnipes that exert a rip tide to those stranded on the shores of littoral desiccation might find the pristine beachgoing public an amenable treat proffered by exorcised sheepishness in reiterative bleats that quarkswarm only the antinomy of sentient masteries by shoveled civilizations proctor to horological insistence in design

So we designated an abeyance of heydays to create a rippled nostalgia that creeps in the winter storms that singe even glabrous ignorance with the twinges in absentia of the regal crows that circle the sun as the sustenance of the alighted moon as we reach for the heaved Richter teeming with ablution for venial commination of prolix croons that exert a Palo Alto rhyme

Phenomenological fields distal to the cephalocaudal origination of limber and the ironic counterpoint to that strife in excess rather than dearth of the henchmen behind the exchequer showcase that fluid thoughts surpass the limits of the dentistry of cosmetic cosmology simultaneously a scientific boon but a coarse albatross

We are criminals in a world stranded by ****** apostasy because of the sincerity of minstrels meets plodding human ignorance as exemplars rather than the apotheosis of divine excoriation of wastrels and flattybouches who webdoodle their way into the extinction line in some computer file swiped from eccedentesiasts who often in uncouth barbarity forgetfully abide without the temperance of floss

So what are we to make of magisterial wits of wiseacres who pilot tenable objectives like Indiana Jones flexing his comical whip when the gunfire of cacophony inundates our ears with a lisp of cockalorum imposture rich in chewing tobacco and its ungainly gripes and tenacious grip

Should we seek salvation from the treecheese of arboreous terrain amenable to the newfangled windfall of agricultural whims that dare now with caprice but not quixotic disdain to reconfigure the parsimonious levered engagement of melliferous fungible transaction between sabbaticals and chief financiers dubbing the vociferous limn of the primeval fulgurant incandescent ethereal quips?

We strive for palaces issued with dimes, dozens and scores of retinues that retain the patina of sophistry as the gullarge makes the vangermytes cozy in their defensively mechanized citadel buffered against the unheralded malversations of mammon intersecting with primordial chemistry that give the philanderer a guise of philanthropy despite professed gainsay that perjures because hucksters are winsome with fiduciary risk

So we calumniate with lapsed puns and Potter’s Spells as we dredge the indemnity of bustling heydays that extend beyond the bailiwick stated because of the prolonged trace of nostalgia that frazzles our voluntary expeditions with misanthropy as each libertine instinct becomes subject to stop and frisk

How to balk at such a garrulous repartee as proffered by swanky intransigence that shakes it off in a quaky town that hates the Swift refrain that endangers the fatalism of recuperated foresight borrowed from the armamentarium of corrupted killjoys who swim in a dalliance with the itchy myths that drift from powerlessness to voguish debauchery of insouciant internecine fringes frayed by the tomes that decry Stygian drift

Shiftless and rooted in rintinole absolved by plackiques that enchant the voyeurism of repined squalor of industrious frippery deracinated from the aureate complicity of largesse calibrated to mobilize the skittish mercurial yuppies to a dance with divestiture, taxes and an earthen death, we sprint the evergreen mile toward the scrupulous invention of enthusiastic euphemisms arbitrated by the procrustean silt of the leaky faucet of enigmatic timelessness etched by chiselers to beat “Us and Them” and warn the vanguard of the front rank about the thespian rift

Exhaustive rescue squads prepared for the dearth of monetary heft in times of perilous drought denigrate the authors of famine to the indulgent parents of inordinate sabotage of narrative for riskless arbitrage that is the outrage of sciamachies between platonic indifference and the tantrums of the feckless in the dangerous hearth of the cavernous wilderness of limitless imaginations that stagger so far beyond orbit they become satellites to vagrancy and whittled paragons too distant to dissolve in the ethereal chemistry of incalescent uproar sadly flanged by the Dopplers of ephemeral fate

Squandered by the desuetude of a snarky intervention I issue invective at the proctors of deafferented limbs for barbarous swine meeting expediency in demise, bemoaning the placid distaste of rectified cries that issue candles for each acrimony beyond the permutation of the staid inflexible limit of 88’

Bashfully we careen through argosies of curiosity to fossick the stalactites of timeworn intuition and reckon with their converse ironies that drip faucets of mildew that remain hidden unless poked by plucky flashlights to inspect the paragon of erosive filigrees of a bewildering paradox of polarized design that one meets the ceiling at inception and the cousin strives to clamber empty space to know with faint certainty the bulldozed irony of superordinate coexistence

Now we return to the majesty of a spurned wiseacre that evades the snappy parlance of a wrenched friction between the physical and the metaphysical elements that constitute a commensurate reality so supernal that its ostentation creates lifetimes of reiterative growth that spawns crimson red and bloviated blues to find a fulcrum of balance between the malversation on one hand of criminal sinister machinations and on the other hand the execrable self-righteous ignorance of a hidden vehicles of dexterity that are subsumed by a subtlety of legislative graft that owes its forbearance to the sanctimony of perseveration without the laurels of persistence

Now we wed the concepts between the ambidexterity of a monolithic titan who wanes rather than waxes himself because his glabrous head already exposed requires nothing new because the empire that struck back is denuded by the thorny imbroglio of a sunken Rose

Timmynoggies are perfect for haberdasheries of saccharine and glib excellence as measured by the ****** cacophony of unmerited applause that strains the resourcefulness of the silent mastery of magistrates in mellifluous alcoves surrounded by the soundproofed rigors of an execrable dereliction wilt into the imaginations of the few that watch movies with errantry rather than pleasantries of gaudy nonsense enchanted by a striptease of the wanton zeitgeist that some balk at but everyone knows

Time earns the spangled banners of sloganeering because of the fastidious creations of pole folders that maneuver between quips borrowed from antique movies and swindled affectations of yearning of many of all fears inevitable with the malevolent passage of the technocracy from cheers to vehement inveighed jeers

We should fear the watershed because it necessitates the evaporation of winsome ambition and implores the subservience of a guiltless fascination with abominable regress concomitant to the acceleration of money preceding a whipsawed downfall ensured by the funereal spates of requiems to oneironauts who plunged to their deaths on headlong flickering whims past the craggy landscape of lunar concordance and through the abeyance of qualms to flabbergasted self-importance in the eradication of provident fears

Memorials exist encoded in the temporal twinges of agony that straddle the cardiovascular throbs of impermanence that sweat with each simple beat to blather about the repetitious nature of a livid nature scrambled in exodus of the emigration of senseless blather to the subroutines of regimented sleepless paragons of travail in every pedestrian feat accelerated with each passing foot traversed by vigilant and eager feet

Tempests crowd the cluttered hamartithia of dredged incompetence leading to the foreclosure that precedes the simple derelictions that amount to grievous uncertainties that squawk in the plumage of the frippery decay of an autumnal fall from gracile riches landlocked without room to sprawl rigged against every track that is a surefire gleeful keepsake to meet, greet and serenade the claques adorned with the monikers of the Greeks

Trembling beneath the weight of mellifluous sauntering dingy designs that exude the anguish of our provident but incidental remonstration against the plodding indifference of the artistic clerisy we sputter against intransigent annulments of the emotive human engine calibrated with creaky pistons that rumble with furor of abrasive protest in timely haphazard elemental designs for vanguard ears

Tridents shed the fossicked leaves that are divisible by two but not inevitably glue that solders the identities of people congregated around a situation of gleeful sprees rather than wistful regress into a temerity without regret that gets dangled in the purview of the spiteful wings of armies that drawl when they sing vapid songs for vaped bongs but not the soberly cheers because of the deafening din of conformity oblivious of the honorific crescendos that still peak after so many restless years

Confederates line the avenues of bustling caverns of cumulative human disdain so willfully flouted by the wrenched corrosive frictions of vibrant deformation of the cultural narrative that encapsulates the collective bubbles chewed and jettisoned like bandied candy and then defamed without justice because  hurricanes churn up the reclusive emergence of protective vanity chased down as a sunken cost for a siphoned glory of tribal pride despite the strictures of logic

Creeping with insistence is a subaudition of governing gravel that entombs many steadfast lies that embodied people living delusory lives under a paradigm that has been subverted by the feats of science into a morass of irrelevance and the chances are many of those so deluded still breathe the air now more polluted but balk at the memories of the fallen passengers on the convalescent train that accelerates sunblind but respectfully toward a systematic engrossment of swollen intellects whimpering about the tautologic

We finance our prescient rodomontade with rodeos equipped with zany clowns who spurn the tridents of Poseidon because of the iridescent gloss of sheepish and flippant zealots who churn against the wrestling match of televised irony with accentuated eccedentesiastic disdain amended by a tolerable diversion of ennobled gallantry zip-zagging among the many valid quodlibets and missing the mark entirely on purpose to vacate the possible raillery of those who balk at time’s chosen serpentine tracks because of limited pedagogical tracts

So lets solder a forceful brunt against the senseless regalia of modern omphalos and return to the plenipotentiary fields of resourceful human inquiry into the chagrins outmoded by convenience but amplified in vociferation by the prosthetic extension of a grangull humanity outfoxing itself into a zugzwang inevitable in the future with collateral losses because of senseless invidiousness orchestrated by the immiscible dermatology of divisive facts often about race and ineluctable tax

We conclude with the optimism that refineries become gentrified by the superlunary squadrons who bask in beatific beams of anonymity and that the pollution preceding our evolution is just adventitious rather than central to the amelioration of wavy screens ennobling so many upstarts to teach themselves the majesty of lucid dreams and to capitalize on ludic ideals divorced from the urchins of radical idealisms that ironically poach rarefied air with smug pollution of narrative scares

Without trepidation we can muster the largesse of civility to create a progeny that has a recursive progeny of heirs that defiantly imagine a world bereft of specters of the soporific imagination enforced by the lapidation of insight from termagants who stride with ursine acrimony naked bare and envision a global meliorism that is careful, picaresque, pragmatic and filled with meritocratic care

With those ornaments of an aureate measure in mind


We leap beyond the enumerated infinity in time's proper design

Hie did/do cha did cap cha a clue
you want me....... yes sigh dew
and will hew
a path in tandem with the help of uncle loo
on guard on mind our peas and queue
in an effort to earn my stripes for u
and even join tribe of village people per view
wing a Flintstone lifestyle where…whew
mebbe, many a close call chased by a giant beast,
   and saved
   by the released arrow whack,
   sans bulls eye thwack (no lion) respite of a Zulu.

---------- while ----------

Awaiting my modified sentence  -
A fictional injustice landing me in the slammer for fone he ears - with no penitence.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
No way to dodge fiat decreeing death sentence twill span
the rest o' me life, cuz such incarceration haint part o ma plan
for this abetting dodging, hedging rambling man
voicing objection - that thee trump petting don iz no fan
of mine, and who felt unready to kick the can
on account of violating what...freedom of speech ban
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Against abominable illegal mandate
with no way to commute death sentence this late
for simple act of voicing opinion against
   existence of heavenly gate
nor hellish underworld despite religious ******
decreeing penance as one articulate prelate
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Spurious pedagogical poetic rant,
ache kin to melting wax growing a candlewick
not the ravings of some half mad lunatic who doth tick
tock carefully plotting recitation that springs quick
from combined teachings of kant did *****
the mind of this jolly old Saint Nick
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Charges ******* up per this average don
purportedly blaspheming judeo-christian paradigm
as an atheist many beliefs outdated and fore gone
upending blind faith equated with hill of beans upon
which dogma erected epitomized by
complex edifices via grime
+ ****** tears and trifle pay for toiling for a bombastic scion
sweat shed by Polish slave labor
usurpation of freedom stripped analogous
to yearning Palestine yearning their own Zion
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Until outspoken persons risked life and limb
to invalidate existence of supreme deity
many still accredit with creating life proper and prim
whether for extra credit or perhaps on a whim
Adam from whose rib cage without anesthesia
but razor sharp knife sprung Eve
with a physique quite pleasing and trim
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
But rather than get lost in the Garden of Eden myth
final seconds countdown of existence tick away
while this keying nonchalant hammering word smith
doth not capitulate, aye deem heart of religion flimsy as pith
without intent to recant statements
   solely acceptable to b’ni brith
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Prompting last words of mine as oye vay
thing in the wind or house of cards vulnerable to blow away!

even i didn't expect Heidegger's VII - XI
to be so centrist on account
of pedagogy...
a reading tedium... sure...
i wasn't expecting so much concern for
pedagogy in the 20th century,
but i guess a concern
for pedagogy stems from
the 20th century,
and the 21st century is rife
with pedagogy posits of
notable interest...
no...
it's not easy...
it takes weeks,
months,
perhaps even a year or two..
to finish reading
a book of said genre...
unless it's Kierkegaard...
then it's butter to
a warm toast...
     Kierkegaard is perhaps
the most readable philosopher
to date...
     the rest are a tedium,
because they have to encompass
the replica of the tedium of existence...
per se...
          akin to:
you never listen to Wagner...
you listen to Wagner,
in the sense...
  there's only Wagner...
and no other music exists
outside of, Wagner...
               i guess that's how
solipsism implodes and is
made rational...
                    i guess inverted solipsism
works akin to:
Wagner...
      it's not that "you" believe
that only "you" exist...
that's what a child might expect
to experience...
no... when appreciating
someone's work...
   a text, a painting...
   a piece of music...
   what doesn't actually exist
is a "self"...
but what does: are two individuals...
a twinning of the selves
that nullifies both within
the conceptualization
of both individualistic concerns,
for, a, "self"...
              i listen to Wagner
minus the orchestra...
  and i have no nationalistic
allegiance to Chopin...
                 there is none...
**** me...
  i'd forsake my bias for Händel...
     akin to that time i missed
Messiah as the Royal Albert Hall...
where i went to the brothel instead,
and kept hearing the opera
in my head while i ****** her soulful
yet silly embrace...
   i'd forsake my bias for
Händel:
  if it only be:
               Wagner, minus the orchestra!
the bare minimalism of
a once encountered doubling
of effort!
                    and always, always,
said minimalism,
exposed on, a piano...
             no violin...
                  the foundation is different...
Wagner works pristine
assumptions within a piano confines...
Strauss i'm sure will doll dance
the Vienna waltz on merely a violin...
          
but there will always be something
haunting about exposing Wagner
to nothing more, than a piano...
an unsettling: stillness...
   a harmonious marriage toward
existence, and post-existence -
minding the artifact that is death...

i can't look elsewhere for culture than
in the pseudo-genesis story
incubating the Germans as
source material...
                 dritte reisch or not...
   even the Yids bemoan a sour taste
for Schubert...
given the historical artifacts...
               after all...
the Hebrews invested the most in
assimilating into the German language...
for ****'s sake!
terrible Polish accents...
but spoke northern Hebrew:
a mongrel of Hebrew and German...
Yiddish!

                           such is the graveness
of the lament...
   a mere killing is what it is...
but undermining creating a new mongrel
language?
  devouring...
                   even with 10 million dead...
a quasi-language,
  a marriage of German and Hebrew...
****! gone? within a span of 6 years
if not longer?
          
i know how i feel about language...
sorry, i'm not french,
i don't push it outside the realm of
reasonable logic, so i refuse to "i" my way
out some sort responsibility...
    
perhaps that's why i'm not fond
of either French philosophy schooling:
too impracticable...
or the English philosophy schooling:
too practicable (pragmatic etc.) -

assured, as i am:
there were only two "schools" of thought:
Greek... or German...
and i can't be dealing with
outdated cliches concerning
the Greeks, in order to get laid...

yes yes, the live not investigated:
Socrates...
yes yes, the theory that only your self exists:
solipsism...
  ******* yawn...

but i'm not ashamed to have
to read a philosophy book unlike a novella...
technically you're not
supposed to...
   if you do: you really haven't read it...
where's the interlude of thinking?
the footnote non-existent in
the book, but much existent
in your head?

   frankly...
  i'm disappointed at Heidegger's
    ponderings VII - XI...
i never anticipated so much
pedagogical stipulation...
    
                  but then again...
the most daft, sour, most dry writing
by a German in this genre...
out-competes this sickening
English mockery of realism -
this... pragmatism...
       this... over-insured posit from
the focus of biology...
           it's like i want to
spew my intestines out,
and then ingest them in sushi
bite-sized mini-horrors...

                 i can't read an English
philosophy book, nor
the French...
i tried...
       i really tried...
                   vague success with the French
ascribing philosophy to fiction...
but the English?
they're ******* islanders!
   what is a philosophy of islanders
other than the two tenets:
isolationism and eccentricity?!

         not much...

          i'll die sooner than find myself:
soon... reading a book by Locke...
can't stomach that ****...
  
great poets! Milton over Dante:
any day...
              pretty ****** thinkers, though;
and don't get me started
on the "supposed" genius of
Elgar...
    ******* wombat...
                      an elephant stepped
on one of his ears, in which he related,
constantly hearing a jazz
trumpet which he could never pen
down...

   different story with
ralph vaughan williams...
  *******...
   EVERY, SINGLE, TIME...
i cry like a baby with the right spike
of bourbon when i play
thomas talis...
            but philosophy?
the English don't know philosophy...
never have, never will...

unless you impose
something relating to monetary exchanges...
hell... they assure other
Germanic uncles and aunts...
that they're not inclined to
the stereotypical *** mentality;
which of course... they are...
and yet... of lately...
very ****** when it comes
to managing money.

To avoid the pitfall of prospective homelessness
which near future prospect
induces existential angst I confess.

Today (written
countless years ago), I wanna die
and bid good riddance grandly
going gamesomely gra grave,
de deum, and cymbal crash
to Bing mulct emotionally,
physically and spiritually -
all the grinding hardships
would be gone in a flash
how tempting to seek
of a solution sans hemlock

or other deadly potion,
whereby toothless mouth need not gnash
boot simply swallow
and drink from the goblet of
mortal freedoms renting psych *** under
with purposelessness mine hash
tag, which bout with suicide
while n the edge of thirteen -
Anorexia nervosa defeated -
then as now experience
10,000 banshee maniacs whip lash

lacerating, flagellating,
and repeatedly rousing thoughts
shin to circle back to why death
be not proud when life on par with a mash
up of ennui, futile
gobbledygook housing incubus
analogous luft waffe bombardiers quash
the joie de vivre per
je ne sais quois spritely spring
in step happy jollity,
and levity attempt to make light

of psychological me's mental illness rash
whence thru the then lvii roam min years
as chief garbage taster of trash
hurled my way gnome matter
the gremlins dwelt within the Wabash
distance to inflict din er
of dissonance targeted
this mortal for'er abash
as soon as he got expelled
from the womb,
his reddened ears did bash

from sonic screaming boom
causing astir the nurses
into the maternity ward
of me late mum sped like dash
her, and fast as a comet
Prancer doth emulate
a con ***** dancer,
cuz ova this rude half
re: that came a boot
from genetic
chromosomal DNA wash.

/to recraft, if not to refind, the thrill of rhyme in poetry, as if it were a sleepwalking happenstance of: déjà vu... coincidentally, in some countries, they'd rather teach memorisation of poems than of soulless mantras in bones without marrow... rhyme as... happenstance, rather than a pedagogical drill, which would wake even Beethoven from the resounding, fading out, echoing... tennis match instead of orchestra phonics... termite lingo, for nothing more than: hello, my name is bob, insignia safety.

yep, went to a Puerto Rican *******,
a Bulgarian, a Romanian
and a Ukrainian...
because... apparently,
all the engliah girls were recovering
from a moral hangover...
or saddled to the baby-sack
aged late teens,
since going to the gym was no fun...
forget about womanising...
walk into a herd of nuns...
and you'll be circumcising
yourself, using nothing more than,
a routine check-up
at your dentists...
           ******* hybrid chastity belts
those "Rodin" marvels worth
of ****** / dodos and butch Panzzy
wha-wha "boys" in leather
and acne, could become...
    and never allow language to succumb
to a poetry with a: death to language
by rhyme...
      fluid as god's given amber (beer)
and ambrosia (milk)....
       that spontaneity of rhyme that's,
actually rare to find...
    unless I interrupt the narrative,
don't give me 2 x 2 = 4
     with roses are dead,
      violation of the blue rule:
   rhyme in poetry,  in reality,
is like a *** note...
               easier toying with "arithmetic"
in puzzle...
or rather: women sooner remember
kindergarten rhymes...
      no wonder,  antagonism
of St. Thomas' gospel...
              at Hel, a curvature,
and dead end...
                              i am apparently to
be bound to despair...
            sieving lies like ****
through the regurgitating gobs
of flies...
               plenty of leprechauns
dancing the jiggle in the pope's
2nd take on a soupbowl;
should he ever mind to retire
into clemency,
   from the bombast and opulence
of peacocking perched,
prior to...
           a "necessary" memory of
ancient Egypt,
    translated into a framework
of erasing today, and conjuring up
tomorrow.

i try to not make excessive
         demands of criticism:

perhaps one,
when Nietzsche called Kant
stupid:
   well...
   perhaps Herr Nietzsche was
simply... too stupid to read
enough of Kant...

god, i hate being so pedantic about
the ***** affair...

i too was harsh of the pedagogical
focus of Heidegger,
***, aphorism vierundzwanzig...
of aphorisms acht...

    it is rather, pedagogic...
  but what this, "****" wrote at
the mid-term of the 20th century,
reflects, precisely,
what's happening to 21st century
universities...
this... "****"...

if i made videos:
fair enough...
            just because i write this on
a public "forum" doesn't imply
that it isn't a private thought...
   again: i said ****...
                 you found this writing
like you might find
a penny on the street...
  who's to blame me,
if you cognitively read it...
but say nothing...
and if you say something akin
to this content...
who says what? me? or you?

no, i didn't like the Nietzsche critique
of Kant...
   Kant was stupid because Nietzsche said
so...
or was Kant too smart
for Nietzsche to read?
is this Nietzsche critique going to
aligned with the sort of criticism
be the kind of the ******* audience
of Jordan Peterson?

do people still think that Hegel invented
the thesis v. antithesis "dialectic"...
i'm pretty sure Hegel was a thief...
when it comes to, whom, was the original
instigator...

mind you...
Darwinism outside of England?
hardly a hot, focal point
of perpetuating proofs...
   no... not really...
      outside of the English speaking
world?
      Darwinism is a minor trade-off of ideas...
no wonder the English are mad about
it...
  outside of England? Darwinism
is what the universe deems it as:
a glib...
                 a minor revision,
a minor, revisionist's tale...
     by now something so ******* obvious,
that reminding people of it,.
is deemed by the French to be
nothing more than a: faux pas...
anything but revolutionary.
              
i still can't believe i'm reading a book,
borne from the 20th century's ****...
that reads like
     a forward thinking observation
of the state of universities in
the 21st century...

after all... let's face it...
Communism = globalist socialism
****** = national socialism...
fascism = Macho-ism...
the antithesis of feminism...
             i want to be a fascist because
i want to be a man...
and i want a stomp of the foot
to scare off vermin from my garden...
big ******* difference...
when you see the distinctions
through, as, self-evidently-disparaging.

mind you...
    fascism persisted to exist even
in capitalistic societies...
   ever had a friend,
who wanted you to come to
a martial arts class with you?
the sort of friend that subsequently
became apprehensive of walking
alone at night,
because he forgot to focus on
his shadow as his twin
walking alongside him?
  yeah... that sort of fascist.

/enlgish: a playground... mind you... who wouldn't want to see so much more of boris brejcha sampling old disney movies? the ori-, the original thought... ah! when does the mea culpa mantra elevate itself from succumbing to a solipsism? mea culpa? i thought that was autistic, solipsistic *******... kicking the can down the road sort of, *******... ever wonder why the original disney cartoons were so, macabre? apparently in england it's all ******* squiggly clean... king Xerxes started to whip the Aegean Sea (again): Helen! come back! come back! i never liked the credo, nor the mea culpa mantra... it appeared, that no one existed, who could be blamed, and i was bound to resort to, blaming myself, masochistically... enter logic: only i exist, no one else exists! that's what the mea culpa mantra equated itself to... early black & white Disney... cutting edge... the guillotine cartoons... hello! autistic christian world! mea culpa my ***... the ******* donkey could vouch: and i speeded up, because the holy prophet whipped me into a gallop! mea culpa... mea culpa... my own fault... ergo, no one else exists!

this will have to be the funniest petition
ever...
    for one, it's impossible,
but secondary to that impossible
is the reaction to the blatant introduction
of "hieroglyphics" into
a modern language...
      that's ******* troubling,
    ancient egypt is staging a resugrence
within english, among other languages...
i can't let that happen...
   what with emoticons
     acronyms and emoji whatever
the ******* want to call them?
             that's hieroglyphic spreschen,
hot air balloons, zombie heads,
   voids and more voids, inside one giant
void of: the black hole explains everything...
yeah! it does... ever play the PS1 tomb raider?
ever become fascinated about
those two dimensional ferns and bushes
in a three dimensional space?
            rotating like a tasmanian devil?
that's a black hole...
            a two dimensional object in a three
dimensional space...
     who says i'm wrong? who says i'm right?
you have empirical proof to say i'm wrong?
anyway, this will be almost impossible,
fair game for introducing the german
   diacritical distinction into english,
the es-und-zed (ß), when there's ambiguity
concerning the spelling of (variance)
  systematisation     vs.          systematize
hey presto!                
                                       ß,
    zaire                                               sire.
now that's the easy part, the difficult bit?
  no one spotted the lack of diacritical necessity
with regards to the letter R.
                 none!
you can have the squiggly on the N in spanish
as in a tilde: Ñ....
                    invoking a juggling act of
                          ι + . . . = ñ        (j)
                    **** me, a clown juggling...
but exposing a trill on the R, when a language
has devolved from applying it,
other than harking phlegm while smoking
in paris, or making vampire movies?
  the tilde isn't even near the trill representation...
i had to go to russia to think something
up, to fill the vacuum... w'eh hey! found it!
      яobot,
                 yes yes, i know, the russians
state я as ya... whatever...
      to me, the lack of diacritical application
to the R has this solution...
      it's not an R with dentistry's anaesthetic
so you slobber... it's harsh, poignant,
self-evident... let's call this:
     reinventing the wheel, well, it's not
so much rolling, as rattle-snake against
the palatine raphe...
                 pneumatic-drill of a letter...
a complete drum-kit...
   but since there was no diacritical markings
with either liberal (theoretical)
   or orthodox (applicable) usage:
   no, i will not learn the silly linguistic
alphabet...
                 all the americans did was
insert god's right hand into the matter...
    a... wait for this...     a                        H...
that's all they did!
         my my, what a ******* improvement
from /ˈpɑːdən/  to [pahr-dn],
  if this could be art,
   i'd call one: cubism,
                     and the other post-cubism...

but english is the current version
of the wild west...
      diacritical markers can come in...
"reign" from above,
   and sieve from down below...
it's a barren land,
compared to the already existing
european languages...
            e.g.?
                         łąka - field
woe-k'ah...
but that's a primitive phonetic
association,
given the original canvas of
the used tongue,
used only two diacritical markers...
hovering, like u.f.o.s
above            ι        and        ȷ....
     you want the dead hydra,
don't you?
        why not... embark upon
the aesthetic of...
   citing:             ȷump!
                rather than jump...
or...                        ιdea!
                      ­         rather than idea?
all ιt takes ιs allowιng the people
to guιllotιne two heads, no?
          look! hey presto!
                an alιgnment!
   because why wouldn't you?
there's no caron above an S...
            to hide an H... in šeep...
          there's no caron above a C
to also hide an H... in čatter...
so... why bother with the poιntless
     twιn "halo" hoverιng above
            ιdea and ȷustιfιed resonance?
two dots...
                   .                     .
                   ι                     ȷ
                       you don't need them!
curves rather than curses:
     look at that!
                                                    ȷ
     ­                                            ι
almost makes a... U! yew yew?
                    no... upsιlon: up-sιgh-alone...

hell, people wanted a hyper-"ιnflated"
lιterate world, "order"...
      graffιtι dιdn't do ιt for me...
nor dιd the meme culture...
                       ιt was only a two headed
hydra to begιn wιth...
                              hardly a
   ghídorah (well yeah, sιnce the H
ιs sιlent, "hιdden", but ιn plaιn sιght...
there has to be an acute attaché to the ιota,
and yes, that H at the end?
ιt's a vowel-catcher... equιvalent of a,
sιgh)...
                                 you try intruducing
diacritical marks into english,
things become, "sketchy"...
  e.g. when = łen...
                            woman = łuman...
              the tetragrammaton ȷust
keeps probιng...
          hell... let's go as far as:
sz  (ш)                     szcz (щ)
   sh  (ш)                shch (щ)

e.g.?
                     щэкa - a dog, barks...
    щыптa - pinch - of... сoли
                                                    (salt)..­.

        шэпт ( szept /                whisper)...

in all honesty?
   english is the ugliest language in known
history, when diacritical markers
are applied,
and the language is translated from
a pedagogical convention of spelling,
its rubric...
   of: the eyes see what the ears
will hear, but cannot converse with...

introducing a diacritical critique
to the english language?
            it's ugly... it's like frankenstein's
monster actually found himself
a girlfriend after all...
   i haven't heard of the phenomenon
of dyslexia outside of the english
language,
perhaps i might have found it in fwench...
i doubt i would find it as
"pop" in deutsche...
    given... the saxons were behind...
keeping chemical names
in strict accordance to the usual:
complex compound noun structure
of modern german...

eh... norman davies, the historian,
could have claimed poland
was god's "playground"...
    to me?
                the english language is
a "playground" worthily ripe,
                                      for, plucking.

Just a poetic (souper) side note courtesy chief
wordsmith brother unaware ye experienced grief
diagnosed as walking pneumonia please bull lief
yours me, he doth care and breathes sigh of relief.

Gratis the miracle of modern medicine wife
of Richard McGeehan, he offered succor
during serious bout when ye suffered strife
lovingly tendering lifelong counterpart
spelling finis regarding any galavanting nightlife
nurturing mother of their grown son (Brendan),
who immersed her whole self as housewife.

How aware ill luck of the draw
found thee inexplicably stricken
with serious malady against the law
nearly necessitating travois
(maneuvered by Kit Carson)
to transport thee to medical center.

The above stanza unbeknownst to you
analogous to current reading material
myopic eyes of mine view
historical fiction titled
"A Most Desperate Situation"
authored by Walter Cooper,
I just might maintain as keepsake
among various and sundry other books
lined up like soldiers upon shelved queue.

Courtesy perusing selective material
not so much to become boastful
self pedagogical ace,
but merely to expand knowledge base,
whereby latest erudition
preoccupies mindscape with displace
called realm of imagination
allowing, enabling, and providing me

to travel into hyperspace
only welcoming family members
like thee dear sister into myspace
a beloved sibling
thirteen plus months older
glad ye got begat December 1st, 1959
whereby ye got fifty two plus weeks headstart
to join (chance throw of genetic dice)
entrance into human race.

Though Amelie Beth Harris-McGeehan born
more than three score and three years ago
if series of unfortunate events would befall thee,
this sole brother would certainly mourn
and with futility emasculate and scorn
himself until... his own plaque
designating his buried cremains
in lieu of tombstone worn.

you're a genius she moaned
there can only be so much money in circulation
he replied halfheartedly ******* her abacus
the moon arose sharp as a razor
and they set about creating a dynasty
a master race of thumb ******* idiots
that arose from the dead at midnight
with pretensions of divine right
she was a plump desert highway waitress
with a mile of sunny cleavage
a beckoning oasis of hope
to every **** sore trucker
he was a cadre from the Cro Magnon bloc
raised by the Sisters of Inchoate Ire
in a constant din of prayer
a model of pedagogical endurance
a time of war ravaged the land
the grip of the Dept. of Antiquities was strong
wizards made the oceans boil
mystics buskered the street corners
will work for the contemplation of food
a few actually knew something
but in practice were a bit too bent
by the wind blinded by repetition
to be true in the rigorous mortis sense
nothing to be done except perhaps
another detached from reality ******
now that the past was in hot pursuit
but the leibensborn are clever
and they were smuggled to safety
in boxes of radio parts
he picked up the Bardic Hour
on the Welsh Luftwaffe Network
she was wired to the 220 dryer circuit
and clicked through the channels
Gamble for Your Soul followed by
Ladies of Leisure followed by
Nearly Inaudible the game show
which asked the same question
if the picture is perfect is it changeable
this is how they ineluctably became
the enemy of both sides
the rim shots were deafening
but histrionics had worked in the past
you'd think we were defending against death
rather than a better data set
so it is with surface addiction
a searching modern art piece