Struggling for a gift again,
Every year a new idea needed.
What can I get an agnostic who has everything?

Another Tiffany charm
Won't do any harm.

A clay pigeon shooting experience couldn't possibly miss

How about Afternoon Tea...
With me?

Wait, an idea that's viable,
A personalised Bible
Where, rather than 'God',
Her name instead:
"In the beginning Doris-Ann created the Heavens and the Earth"
Right through to:
"I am the Alpha and the Omega, says the Lord Doris-Ann"

What a revelation,
A new gift to sweep the nation!
A personalised Bible
Whose sales will rival
The good book itself.

Such a gift might be great,
Until, at St Peter's gate,
Doris-Ann might have to explain
That she was once God on Earth
And that should be good enough
For an agnostic not to be rebuffed.

sure sure, forgive & forget, but you can't do both in a one-sided simultaneousness: forgive with anger, but forget with peace, for your own sake.

that comic abstract i wrote about children
and mathematics being first learned in units
and not π, π being akin to the word onomatopoeia
in some pandemonium of reverse
of the novel, well, i know 1 is odd, 2 is even,
but when walking and drinking i went a step further:
0 (left leg forward), 1 (right leg forward),
2 (left), 3 (right), 4 (left), 5 (right),
6 (left), 7 (right), 8 (left), 9 (right)...
10 (right left), 11 (right right), 12 (right left)...
it's like that game children play,
they draw a checkers board with chalk,
squares the size of gifted feet missing tango,
schematic looks something like this:
                            1
                   2               3
                            4
                   5               6
                            7
                            8
   ­                9                10
(almost the tree of kabbalah),
so you throw a pebble onto a number
and then do a one legged kangaroo on
1, 4, 7 and 8... but numbers 2 and 3,
5 and 6, 9 and 10 you do the two-legged stomp,
pick the pebble up, and do the reverse as mentioned...
girls loved playing this game when young,
apart from the indoor game of surgeons with
asexual dolls of artificial *** and third party donors,
very horrid that game of dolls,
hide & seek was the boys' invention,
basically anything with running and camouflage
involved, be it shadow, be it anything...
i did skip like a boxer with the skipping ropes,
didn't become a boxer though...
so girls invented the profession of boxing...
behind every tyrant there's a harem of sadists...
i like this feminism they're shoving at us...
i'm one of the last boys to go to university,
it ended circa 2010... now about 60K more *******
fathom the upper tiers of psychology,
education and what not...
mathematics is still a male orientation,
no bullshitting, just: wrong wrong wrong, remainder.
it was an article in the newspaper, what can i do,
censor myself? along with the new elements
discovered, so unstable they live like *******
***** in a petrie dish the length of a male ******:
funky pumpy did all the work, mission impossible
message reads: DISPOSE OF. husband material?
tick. drinker? no no. it's like al capote's time era,
drink the problem... GUNS DON'T **** PEOPLE,
PEOPLE **** PEOPLE. you trying to make me
supermalt or something? all the black kids drank that;
white boys milked the cow from a pint bottle of milk,
ones turned into sprinters... the others turned
into dolphins. that's what i don't get about evolution
attacking theology and undermining itself
from the realm of humanities... you know black
olympic swimmers sink in the pool... clearly
i didn't bleach my skin in arabia going north...
i was a sea monkey! honest to god... the fat in me
makes me float... origins of non-aquatic monkey
sinks in blue water, a dollop of brown...
or that english post-colonial joke about another
member state of the union... you know any good
californian joke about new englanders?
an uninhibited english man (with poor taste in
tailoring) glorifies this fact: per capita,
poland is the only country with each household
having a toilet for each member of the household...
that's why they exported so many polish plumbers
to england!
when i was only but a child and i seemed to have
forgotten being one, when
i got a shock after my ****** hair / beard envy disappeared
and felt no ***** envy, and when i heard being
described as a man... i didn't write any st. paul
*******... so i delved on it...
and remembered my favourite movie from childhood
and the actors i wanted to speak the truth as:
favourite film - le bossu, swash & buckle, cut & ******
adventure starring jean marais (based on a novel
by paul feval)... and of course the three musketeers,
with richard chamberlain and oliver reed...
i so wanted to be the shogun that was chamberlain,
the philandering priest turned musketeer...
lo and behold... i ended up as athos...
not that i mind... but that time period captured
my imagination, as a child of decaying communism
in a satellite state of the soviets... the rule of louis xiv,
and the intrigue of cardinal richelieu...
i wanted to be there! just sniffing up the gun powder!
alas... not to be.
so today i braced myself for no donning an elaborate
hat with peacock feathers and remembering the yore
days of chivalry... walking the grey pavement and grey
houses with a grey sky above... if only the houses
were coloured like the houses of st. petersburg...
if only... and in the hospital after almost breaking
my index finger i did a bit of solo c.b.t. (cognitive
behavioural therapy), i sat in silence, feet not in turkish
or buddhist akimbo but like nailed to a cross,
hands crossed... in this house of pain and legal morphine
addiction, in the orthopedic ward... just sat...
eyes closed... and couldn't conjure any thought...
just nothing... is that a problem for the c.b.t. practices?
i bet it is... what sort of behavioural problems
can arise from not thinking? running a marathon?
driving a car? flying an aeroplane? exponential
flamboyance of memory brought to the fore in an examination?
loads* of examples!
i walked with this somali woman after someone misdirected her
to get to the hospital...
but the gift of all gifts came to seal the day complete
(after not finding lamb kidneys at the supermarket
for a steak and kidney pie)
was next to an islamic learning centre...
three guys ahead on my path, two talking,
one running from one edge width of the pavement
to the other, jumping on something...
he was about to rush back onto the stone
then he stuck his hand out...
his hand warmer than my heart, my hand colder
than his brain yet to be indoctrinated,
he extended it looking me in the eye and i into his,
this little ****** of about 6 or 7 too shy to talk,
his warm hand no bigger than my pinky, ring and middle
finger did a sort of high-five with me...
i guess one of my paediatric theories came true
came the high five.

i once loved, and it's a shame to
agree to: better have loved and lost,
than to have not loved at all.
and as i browse the pages of
a saturday newspaper article
i like to think about virology applied
to mental illness...
and how they: life is ****
   story could really be a viral infection...
i don't know, it's not exactly
h.i.v.,
                oh i can contain my own
*******, i'm writing it on the flag
of colour white,
next time you get a brain haemorrhage
and then get diagnoses as schizophrenic:
i'll take you the crucifix on golgotha:
and imbed your head into
the cross... silent anger, contained:
and all the more concern for inhibited
humour... because as Borat said: jak sie mash:
i like. so please, don't tell me
you weren't gagging for the new golgotha...
because i wasn't...
         and i know, most of the time i have
my mouth attached to a head of a struś
gagging himself in a pit of sand...
yes an ostrich, the grand inspiration for
francis bacon attempts to redefine geometry...
oh coming out of communism and into
capitalism, for a kid?, can be a rough ride...
you don't know what ideology to appease
and what ideology to dictate...
         but i'm wondering whether or not
mental illness can have the potency to
        become virus-like...
     and drain,
and i mean: drain the soul out of you...
or whether man as mammal ever did exist...
or whether this new fashion of
feline existentialism can ever take off,
narratives about spending time with your
bonsai tiger... you'd really think japan was
a bit freakish... but it just has a large
ageing population and no one thinks
that euthanasia is a standard of humanism,
unlike ******* ***** into a face of
a woman... because right there, no
one died... if had any of those anemic
tadpoles actually lived...
    which brings this about to concern me:
so... we live for nine months, in, let's
basically say: in an environment without
oxygen, you got gills stashed in there
with that umbilical chord...
how can it ever be a miracle of birth...
that's what a god might say...
a human would look at it and say:
huh? you joking? i'm part of this horror?
     but not until you have a brain
haemorrhage and get diagnosed as schizoid
and then you think: so what was the point
of forgiving your enemies come into this?
      i can't believe it has become so, so personal,
to actually have this nagging, decapitated
doll-head on your shoulder telling you to:
repeat! repeat!
       i could literally be writing this in
Auschwitz and be like: Neddy needs a jumper
and a diaper... cos like that really needs
you to fathom the logic of assembling an
Ikea chair...
                          i mean, talking in the west
is a bit like farting into a hippotamous' nostril
for a ******* jackuzi effect...
  jack! i said ***! what's with this jacuzzi?
English, mein gott... confusion everywhere
you pigeon **** onto a top-hat.
by the way: everyone becomes
dyslexic on the word hippopotamus -
there's a reason why hippos exist...
        you want acronyms, you get shortening...
and yes, since english society has abolished
asylums, the society has become a breeding
ground for asylum instigators,
rich russians, bewildered chienese...
it's en masse, one, massive, cesspit...
   i mean the part where you don't get the brown
steamturd floating about like some
  celebrity you'd love to slap with much
more than mere paparazzi epilepsy...
because violence matters, esp into language games...
i was just asking, because there i was,
working on a roof on some construction site,
and she calls me up and says that
she hears voices...
          that's what i mean certain mental
delinquents and their choice of Samaritan...
  what does a roofer know about "voices"
if it doesn't equate to a bad conscience?
    that's why i'm wondering whether certain mental
illnesses have a virus-like profanity attached to them...
oh yes yes, the unison: bob marley: we're one
type of ******* to boot, like i'm supposed to get
a hardy and a 'ard on about it...
               ******* spoof of a light-bulb moment: PING!
and there... ain't that just dazzling?
phantasmagorical blurp at the feet of
Eros at Piccadilly Circus... my ego is a canon
that just simply shoots out viagras! and questions.
and yes... that's what we call being part
of the clown...
    and if there's a lord of flies...
what's the guy mentioned by beelzebub drunk
doing about the mosquitos?
           ah... boundless at the crucix, once more!
i'm just wondering where
does mental illness become solipsism,
  and when in fact it becomes a sort of virology...
   i can romanticise mental illness as a type
of solipsism, that it has a cage, that it can be contained...
but when mental illness goes outside of the novel,
strolls outside its cage and becomes
something akin to kissing a *****,
     i want to know.... because i swear i have been
affected by someone's mental illness being
hidden in the shadow of taboo...
   look... i'm ******* exfoliating with vocab!
        how can you become normal after someone
exposes you the symptom of "voices"...
that's demeaning given the past history of
having relationships with angels and demons,
that's like a neuter noun.... voices brings up
more concern for a pronoun-****-up than
a clear, noun association... angels, sure,
i could start looking more closely at pigeons...
demons, doubly sure, i could start
chasing bats...
              but i need to know whether mental
illness is worthy of taboo, i.e. it's worth
the category of being physical, in that it can be
contagious... whether it can act like a virus....
whether it can become an epidemic...
    and to be honest, i think it can,
but that seems pointless, since western society
has exchanged asylums for taboo...
                  look at me now,
a once budding roofer, reduced to writing poetry,
i might as well be an ******...
            safe-guarding king Solomon's harem...
oh sure, eunuchs were able to **** his *** slaves...
they were slaves themselves,
what they weren't allowed is to usurp
    the ******* crown of the king passing his
d.n.a., mind the frivolity, never the seriousness
of geneticist, yawning when their genesis was to come...
    i'd love to see hans andersen on the trail of
dolly... the sheep... and dolly really does become
a trinity of animal prior to human in the out-reaches...
what with laika (man's best friend)
and later fiztgerald... oh wait (man's worst enemy,
the money) Baker....
   thanks to de Sade and baron Sacher-Masoch
we could truly begin the orthodox occult of science...
   how the two patron "saints"
interpolate... it really is a dualism worthy of
dangling a crucifix... shame the first monkey in
space wasn't called Brian...
    i don't know, then, perhaps, the Caesars at
the coliseum wouldn't boast so much about
   the: lacking the ambidable thumb
(yes!) googlewhack no. 4 / 5 -
mandible thumb you idiot! d'uh...
but still, a googlewhack at the end of it...
type in: lacking the ambidable thumb
and, yes = 1 result in the google algorithm...
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Have-Thumb-Deformity/728760,
i call this the alternative version of, or rather,
the digital version of fishing...
     a tail like a thumb, the grip baron...
   but my peacocking the tongue shouldn't
be deemed as: straitjacket panic button prone...
  why would it?
****! he used the colour azure in his blue period,
that picasso did! chain him! gag him!
stash him in a kitchen stove!
i mean the inspection of genuine viriology
dynamic concerning mental illness,
the anti-thesis of solipsism, as the proper counter...
or should i say: membrane / barrier?
    can mental illness make ranks, i.e. spread?
like a virus can?
            well, if you take to explaining a zeitgeist...
ideology akin to communism and ****** can
become virus-akin... so i guess... yes...
it had to become a self-serving question easily
answered... mental illness can be very much
akin to a common cold... it's not really a case of taboo
being the lock-and-key to contain it...
nor the asylum... i suppose the best prescription
is the idea of solipsism...
              but isn't this grand,
i'm actually lethargic, coinciding with
    a tax on robots... and the French slashing
their 35 hour working weeks to 32 hours...
    and the Finns paying their unemployed
    (2K, placebo dosage for the actual
   237,000 unemployed) - a random €560 a month...
such are the times...
           it really has become a sort of
year 0 orientation lesson... because it's just
gagging for a guillotine to snap it awake,
so a decapitated head of Charles I at Whitehall might
say it's final farewell...
              and is mental illness capable of
being akin to a viral infection...
     it probably can... you probe the waters in an
environment of poets... they're good enough
to succumb to a white rabbit experiment...
              question is: do you apply the rule
of solipsism or an actual asylum? in a post-asylum
society, i don't think there's an option
whether solipsism should, or shouldn't be used
to counter the more serious form of the flu...
   but, as ever, it comes down to the age-old
cartesian model of dualism... or as any siamese twin
might attest: i'm not that further away from
my sister as you might think...
  the dualism that served so well for so many years
to appear "peaceful" became a real dichotomy...
  the ergo suddenly failed... when people realised
that the fact "i think" didn't necessarily
precipiate into "i am"... given what the media is
interested in, and how many people become missing
and all that... the numbers were too much
for player uno to simply give up the canvas
of newspapers and t.v. to some poor schmuck
trying to impregnate his canvas on which he worked
his paint-brush (power) and paint (wealth) onto...
   the cartesian ergo simply failed...
    oh sure, the other two facts worked... but they
didn't necessarily congregate universally
in the crux of ergo,
        i was told it would be a monsoon of thought
established on earth... instead i got a light-shower
   and the Gobi desert.
in the same way the subconscious exists
as a fake of the trinity...
           to me it has no need for a chisel...
as a realm... treat the conscious as a realm
akin to Hades, and it becomes wholly
de-personalised... there's not individual in it
that might require it... it's a covert mechanism
of subterfuge... but if we're talking
making rabbit heads with our hands
   in the shadow form... we're talking
nothing but puppeteering...
   or like saying, let's create an evolved
version of the definite (the) and the indefinite (a)
article...
                      well... there must be
a direct and an indirect article...
                well there is...
con                                 and sub-con,
       un-con is an indiscriminate article...
meaning: what are the evolutionary gains
of dreaming, given the cinema?

A Poetry Journal for people with any kind of health condition, disability or visual impairment.

Depending on the person's condition as the parent, carer or professional you will know them, as you would be working with the person to support their individual needs.

Words are very powerful however not everyone can express themselves using words or be able to form a sentence and speak it into words.

Communicating with the person in the familiar way in which they communicate is the first step to creating a personalised poetry journal. Asking their consent is also paramount that they agree for you to support them in making a poetry journal.


Expressing thoughts and feelings through textures and materials is a fun and tactile way,
for a person to express themselves using textures. Prompting a sensory experience while supporting them with their poetic expression.

Examples:

If a person smiles and is happy touching a certain piece of material or a piece of a tree bark then this piece of your expression supply can be added to the personalised poetry journal with a word expression.

Examples:

Materials that are different colours
Yellow for the sun
Brown leaves for Autumn
Orange warm and happy
Deep blue paint, safe paints or crayons. I am not feeling well today. Finger mark with the paint.

You could have a seven day poetry journal
It could also be something that is once a week or once a month individualised to the person's needs.

Children and adults will discover creative expression, relief, peace and fun in finding different natural supplies, to aid words that can be used to express thoughts and feelings in a poetic way.

After creating a few pages the word or words expressed with the materials can then form a piece of poetry. Which the person can read through their person-centred communication aids or you can read it to them, which will give another form of expression as to their thoughts and feelings.

Creating poetry is for all ages and abilities in the process; well-being and holistic health along with expression is part of the experience of creating a personalised poetry journal.

© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney

Briefly entranced
by a swish of hips
as they sashay past a doorman,
he takes a breath, approaches
and asks to get through.

"Sorry sir," the tall man says,
"your purchasing record suggests
"that you dislike jazz.
"I think you'd better move along."

Of course, of course,
what was he thinking?
A narrow escape, that.
And on home through the empty streets he goes,
Untroubled by the wide wild sounds,
the horns and pianos,
the reckless freeform blast and chatter
that might ruthlessly have smashed through
his carefully constructed identity.

Safe at home,
his television allows him to watch
a comedy he has seen thirteen times before
and so must really love.

I love the warm smell more than baked bread.
I love the old stories flooding back through my head.
I love the middle-age chatter, with child like mutters,
finding old favorites in old familiar covers.

I love the personalised fountain-penned message,
carefully scribed and meticulously dated.
I don't care about the number of dog eared pages,
or the tell-tale signs of well worn aging.

Tea stains and small tears - they don't bother me,
each tell a new tale beyond what I can see.
I love the weight of the years sitting in my hand,
I love the tether to past lives multi-second-hand.

With memories of libraries with warm worn carpets,
wall to wall adventures and sun faded artists,
battered yellow seats, shooshed conversations,
quietly spoken protests at the books being rationed.

I stayed past closing, riding trains of free thought
with Tin Tin, Asterix and old Mrs Pepperpot.
I'm still drawn to the pages and the feeling inside
second-hand stories where memories reside.

i started smoking cigarettes
with my ex fiancé (olé!),
after i started smoking ****,
aged 21,
i was so anti smoke
that i remember my tobacco stink
clothes being aired
after a night out at the disco (ha ha,
oldie, discotheque quack -
albeit disco tech', not disco phi reek
of sweat and elongating cheese limp
limbs doing the dance of pharaonic
irony to banana ram boom bomb la la lamb),
so i moved to the quickie of all addictions,
as one jazz fem soul said:
a cigarette is the most satisfying dissatisfaction,
in a span of five minutes...
so i see the young poets mention coffee...
where's the cigarette though?
oh right, you left it at the gym, on the treadmill
along with don quixote? i bet.
so i started smoking aged 21...
vocally i went from angelic soprano
among the mule smog thickening over cities
to a personal base baritone of a personalised
exhaust engine...
but when i reached the reach of the rhapsodic
thespian choking on his own ***** of
un-originality i started sounding like darth vader
playing the didgeridoo -
i know the smokers' cough tuberculosis,
but lack of nicotine does that,
and active ingredient missing, head spinning
carousel of carbon monoxide...
as they say... take in the carbohydrates...
off the top of my head nietzsche said:
god is dead... yep... true that, esp. now...
and the replacement? diet...
centimetres of calorie intake:
drain the fat from yoghurt and fix it up
with sugar tax...
you do that while i relearn brushing
my teeth, once a day,
with a pea sized dollop of fluoride paste,
~20 seconds of brush and rinsing,
my teeth don't look like worthy of
twice a year visit to the dentist to get the nicotine
stains off my mandible bones - clean as norwegian
rain... shame the beetles didn't write a song
about norwegian rain of acid, export from
old coal england on the industrial complex
pacified without a warring-industrial complex just yet,
awaiting u.s.a.
otherwise it's a compositional irony,
i like walt whitman, i do, i like ****-****** literature,
but then walter becomes pompous bombastic
when writing about a *******: the damnation
of all homosexuals: i.e. writing about prostitutes -
spare the details of your identity... tell me
the parts where you squeezed the orange out
into goose pimpled juice.

Can you really label it as self harm
           If it saves you daily
                     From a detached
                                      Senseless
                ­                              Dazed
                                                   Abyss.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
Who tells you there won't come a time he won't be around,
But as the days turn to months and the months turn to years,
As you choke back your tears while you drown in your fears,
He is nowhere to be found.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll find 100 different ways to say that he loves you,
Each one sweeter and more heart-tugging than the last,
Watch him use them for his own manipulation,
Up until he decides that this is it, that his "love" has come to pass.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll express how he hates seeing you sad, making you cry,
But like a stubborn child, he never learns from his mistakes,
Protecting his ego and his sense of pride,
when all you wanted was to see him try.

Fall in love with a man who's good with words;
He'll need you to know that he thinks you're a goddess,
And oh, will you believe his overdone flattery,
But realise this: once he's done and he's gotten what he came for,
Every single flaw and secret will be made into a mockery.

The same voice that sang you praises,
will be shouting words shaped like knives aimed at your heart.

The same tongue that formed you personalised spoken poetry,
will lash out at you,
further crumbling the pieces he promised to put back together.

The man who's good with words rarely means them,
He's mastered them because they are all he has to offer, all he has to bring to the table,
But still you need to fall in love with him and his words,
So you'll know how to treasure the man who doesn't need them.

i know what the problem with poetry is...
it’s like nick harper tuning the piano
or tenacious d playing the one note song...
it’s almost like
had i the grace (#d)
to fathom the craze (#d)
of each acknowledging stare (#a)
we shared: i guess i’d fare (#a)
much closer to the stardom (#b)
of what i can fathom (#b)...
lead
-ed
red
well fed...
ya ya yawn.
apart from the humanities subjecting an art via mutilating
the one original craft of spontaneity
with such excess of scalpel and anaesthetic
as “discovered” theory...
no expression of language has as many “grammatical”
words to define its learning / interpretation as poetry...
whatever verb has against pronouns to make us anonymous
by excluding a personal stance of nouns...
so has poet against verbs to make us anonymous
by excluding a metaphor personalised given the nouns.
well one note does sound “serene” giving the rhyme couplet
when in music just the same old repeat of the so called rhythm: of a church at 11pm, i.e.
poetry is ruined by rhyme... rhyme kills rhythm
of spontaneity... and i'd hate to make poetry
the ***** of predictability of £110 an hour £10 extra
for oral *** performed on her... enter the realm of rhyme
and you enter a cul de sac:
i was headbanging, unsure whether it was the music
that got me started or the echo of my head autographing
a brick wall as a way to find teeth in a woodpecker's beak.

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.

there are still surprises

for you to be surprised

a way to pull you out

unexpected, from your mind

there are still surprises

coming for you, on their way

personalised, just for you

there are still surprises.

stone monuments are big here
circles and chambered tombs
monoliths, stone houses.
Folk from the stone age
building stone age stuff.
Thousands of years of
history.. going way back.
We moderns will leave
our own, personalised.
The graveyard for granite
headstones, wonder how
long they will stand.

Crash! Kapow!
You call yourself a hero?
You don't know the meaning.
I run, your personalised ball-boy,
The Dark Knight and his shadow,
Trailing behind, holding the coats,
Each day the same, never seen
Just a sidekick
...
Now I have grown,
Exchanged that emerald gear,
Black trousers, a polo neck,
No longer need to be seen,
People no longer stare at the man
who followed, the man who tagged along,
Getting into trouble and causing havoc,
I am who I am,
Holy Robin Redbreast! Scream tabloids
Have I said too much? The mask holds
Identity but what if that got lost?
What if the Robin opened it's beak,
the Bat would have nowhere to fly.

"It's been a long day without you my friend,
and I'll tell you all about it when I see you again." - Wiz Khalifa, 'See You Again.'

I think of you every day. There hasn't been one day where you haven't stomped your combat boots around the darkness of my mind.

Yesterday was a bad day where everything especially reminded me of you; you, who shot himself in the head earlier this year. I woke up this morning frantically searching for my phone to go on Facebook in a panic because I had a very real-feeling dream where another friend killed herself, too. I wanted to hold her hand and kiss her sweet face. I wanted to ask her why she didn't tell me. I wouldn't have stopped her, I would've held her hand and jumped off that bridge with her.

I woke up feeling like my chest was collapsing and I found out that it wasn't true, but I am still without you and
I don't know what makes me sadder, the fact that I can't let you go, or the fact that I'm still ******* here. Even my body rebels against me, against my attempts to strip this universe of my existence.

I don’t know what makes me madder, people, or having to act like everything is okay.
I go through the motions, I follow routine, but there's nothing inside. (The lights are on, but nobody's home.)

You are a ghost, but you are the man that I love most. Try as I might, but I can't let you go. It's been 9 months, minus 2 days and I have missed you for every. single. moment.

It's not fair. 19.5 years is not long enough for a good person to live. What have you endured that has broken you? Are they like what has broken me? There's so many unanswered questions, you robbed those you left behind of their answers. There's so much of life you will never see. You'll never get that house with the white picket fence, no dogs or cats, no kisses or impromptu late night walks to nowhere, no wishes of 'goodnight's and 'good luck's (Hell, no one even got as far as the last chance for 'goodbye.'), but then again, neither will I.

You haunt me. I would ask--I would beg--if you could please visit me in my sleep, but I don't sleep so much anymore.

// (I don't believe in any biblical Heaven or Hell, but if there is somewhere good people go after they die, I hope it is each person's personalised halcyon. I hope you finally received the freedom, happiness, and love that you did not in this life. If you are short, I will see you soon, and I will bring all of the third.)

it is just a gift
that keeps on giving
my personalised pithos of
things wrapped up in tears
reopening stories I had put away
discovering new chapters
combining short stories into weighted tomes
pressing down my heart
with unexpected plot twists and feedback loops
that keep crashing around in my head
oppressing my wins with blinding migraines
because I tried too hard and reached too high
did too much
it is just a gift
that keeps on giving
my personalised, Pandora’s pithos of ...(fill in your preferred ending)

@journeyofdays

You leave the only way you know how to
In the dead of the night
No explanation, no note
In the morning there will be a hunt
There will be excuses made on your behalf
'Must have gone for a jog'
'Would have left to buy orange juice'
It takes a while for reality to settle
It takes a while for your clothes to be thrown out of the closet
It takes a while before the house loses your scent

Some people take it a step further
They leave with no trace of their existence
No pictures on the mantle
Beds perfectly made as if they had never been slept in
No shoes at the doorway
No stray hairpins or guitar picks or socks
You begin to doubt your own memory
You are left wondering if you loved a ghost

You leave the only way you know how to
With tearful farewells
And eloquent goodbye speeches
You stuff personalised letters into their clenched fists
You leave parts of yourself in their pockets
Beg them to never forget
You make sure that there is no more pain than necessary
You make sure that you are only gone physically

Some people take it a step further
They fill bathroom drawers with their soap bars and lotion
Their notebooks with half finished stories
Are left open on desks
They give themselves a reason to visit
A reason to stay for a couple seconds
Then for coffee
Then the night
When they move half way across the country
They will still call you home
You are left loving an unstable traveller

You leave the only way you know how to
You make it a week long affair
There will be screaming
Ceramics flung across the room and picture frames smashed
Blame passed around like a relay baton
You run a race nobody will win
You leave making sure your car is chased until the end of the road
Apologies dispended as if they are public announcements
There is no silence in your absence
Your voice still echoes in the hallways

Some people take it a step further
It takes them months to pack their bags
Sometimes years
There will be days shrouded with hatred
They leave in parts
One strand of hair at a time
They steal one heart beat at a time
Leaving you cold and numb in the end
They threaten to disappear so many times
That when they finally do you cannot believe it
You are left unable to love again

.i can hardly feel nostalgic, when youtube was what it was, i could waste a good liter of whiskey and stay up all night trapped in the labyrinth of the most superior - ingenious algorithm, a personalised algorithm that was pure a.i.: it would learn from you, in the suggested feed, it always learned from what you like a priori and it would suggested a thesaurus interpretation, those were the fun odd days, a man could immerse himself in foraging for new music as well as butchering a liter of whiskey... lately my exploration days on the platform became nothing of human concerns, more a rat in a maze, even the drinking became dreaded labour of: "boredom"... some things had to change... what was the point of wasting a liter of whiskey per night on a screen that became as unshakeable as a mountain... so now, instead of wasting 20 quid a night on a bottle... half a liter will give me the lullaby effect... in terms of drinking that half a liter of whiskey: considering i will not enjoy using the internet as much... never mind the view count: i know that some written has a lower view count and that if it has a view count it builds up slowly... after all i am a modern contemporary... there's so much tolstoy to get through! the tally... but i will not allow myself the brahmi tally system, it's too complicated for my liking... and i can't write the european ||||(/) into html for some reason... let alone the chinese (正) version... i had to invent my own tally system - the braille tally:

           ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
           1  2  3   4  5  (6)
           a  b  l   v  à  (é)

    it's quiet a sobering experience...
                     only yesterday i drank about 250ml
and pretended to be asleep for six hours,
got up so refreshed that i started to decorate the kitchen
and made the most badass tagiatelli meatball sauce...
the trick was... onions garlic and two fresh chillies
fried first... a teaspoon of chilli powder
a teaspoon of paprika fried first,
   chicken stock added, then some tomato puree...
let that thicken...
meanwhile make the meatballs...
the breadcrumbs should be made into a paste
by adding milk... the meat fused with the breadcrumbs,
salt, pepper and italian herbs:
oregano, thyme, rosemary, basil etc. fried
and left to the side...
    a can of chopped tomato, worcestershire sauce...
some sugar... salt / pepper to taste...
then the meatballs would go in...
            the old youtube: explorer-tube is
not coming back...
        and... quiet frankly?
           exploring these alt. media outlets is a bit
of a headache...
what good is gab.ai to me,
                                         when i never used twitter?!
whatever this current: "culture war" is...
                  it's not worth fighting...
                             at this point videos gain
the traction of "count"...
         but then the "count" becomes diffused into
stupid comment sections where people need
the obligation to shout and pass the queue with
raised elbows...
                            repossession - a synthwave  music
mix...
                tomorrow i'll finish decorating the kitchen,
save myself another 10 quid...
try to find about 3 hours of sleep...
                     and i'll look back at the years
from 2008 through to 2016 as a glorious period
in internet history that has:
   unfortunately died and how the future generations
will never experience what i've experienced
when it came to an a.i. music shop assistant...
   so they say: a.i. will take away many professions...
by the looks of it...
   the first a.i. job for an a.i., as a music store curator...
the first a.i. music shop assistant?
fired... out of a job...
            it's strange...
                            oh but not so very strange...
a.i. to steal the jobs of humans...
    looks like humans hit first...
   and stole a.i.'s first job prospects,
on a site like youtube...
                     and what a fine job this a.i. did...
i never knew so much alt. music existed...
      well i did and i didn't: that's up for debate...
in translation? if you buy a vinyl copy
of a record... you still get a code to a site that lets
you download the mp3 copy...
so the best of both worlds...
                                a vinyl... and mp3s...
but bye bye wasting away every night on a site
that turned against its a.i. music shop assistant...
here's to sobering up...
                    by gradations...
       after all: one decent "poem" a glorious night
is enough to five spewed like venom spat from
                                                                      an u.z.i.

even i become remotely "o.c.d." when it comes down to
the english sway of notation.
                 i'm talking a basic arithmetic,
a basic arithmetic of notation in english, or quiete simply
english notation.
                         i deem         "    "       to denote:
                        a quote, of a quote - as in: third party
resources being cited.
                                            what i'd definitely be satisfied
with as deeming a quote, would be a    '          '      
                                                         encapsulation;
but the way english speakers denote a quote a quote
by using "         "     encapsulation? to me that's arithmetically
unsound...  or to use a blunt knife expression: simply wrong.
first of all             " = ditto
                 perhaps the english are unfamiliar with
continental standards of linguistic coding, but  " = ditto,
but of course         ditto ≠ quote...
                               " ≠ quote,
so why would you utilise the ditto symbol to imply, quote?
            it doesn't matter if it's either side of said words,
the symbol is not a quote-based symbol to be used...
   '        '       is; yep, two *******... now who's feeling creepy?
" = /as above/
        where no 2nd or 3rd party sources are cited / quoted -
at best the     "     "   encapsulation can only mean one thing,
and one thing only: ambiguity:
                        a bit like saying - a friend of a friend, said
that he once ordered k.f.c., and in it he found
        a k.f.m. (kentucky fried mouse)...
                                                but that's about it.
the ditto mark implies                               paraphrase,
you're basically rewording something,
                                  borrowing from the already stated
     in the above, given script, of your own original output.
so you see, i don't know how "      " encapsulation can denote
a quote, if the basic arithmetic states,    ' + ' = ",
                         and by the time someone supposedly quotes,
the notation of supposed citation will morph into  "'       "'
                       type of enclosure.

natural selection is the easy explanation -
of course the additions worth
exceptions that one blind man would
call an elephant, for each man and his
assets - or those missing -
but with natural selection the antagonist
ontology - begging the question
about what every philosopher does,
extracting from ditto (or the passing
down of units of meaning, i.e. words)
his own lessened bewilderment:
"natural" and "selection" - as in the case
of the memory recount: there's nothing to
be imagined, but upon recounted distorted,
idly surrealistic in the least -
if there is natural selection worth a house
a wife a pair of kids on the personal level
there's this unconscious rather than a natural
selection, which delves with mingling
memory with imagination - one might suggest
a polar opposite, we don't choose what we
remember, it's also automated, but more personalised
than what natural selection breeds based
on looks and aesthetics in general -
so much i wish to have remembered that wasn't
rubric based wasn't the quote
akin to that Jesus sniff about the corner brick
being rejected - religiously fundamental even
with or without scientific allegiance or sooth-said
alliance - thus still the continuum of ? -
and the sometimes secure ! extraction worthy
of a Newton - but when it comes to memory
i find no natural selection, unless like every philosopher
i like boxes and boxing things into the unanswered
categorisation of kept contentment as fuelling
contained capitalisation of the chance omitted second guess -
i can't equate myself toward a continuum of only two facts
by the Cartesian standard - one fact precipitating into
another - since from i think i spawn more than just
the fact precipitated into i am - of course i am on
the table of autopsy is disseminated toward the historian
and elsewhere - but before i think can precipitate
via therefore into concrete it has to identify the other
mental faculties, two major: i imagine (Disney)
and i remember - that variant of imagination wholly personal -
for memory is imagination wholly engrossed with
a nullified projection of originality - alt. aimed at
the architecture of self-worth. this is my bewilderment -
given natural selection understood quiet well
with so many rejections - why is memory not deemed
naturally selective? but rather unnaturally selective?
i guess the ~arithmetic of ontology per se can give us
clues why one is natural, and the other unnatural,
one one leaves us with a perfectly functioning example
of continuance and a loss of self-preservation,
while the other, due to its purpose of contentment with
as many questions as there are cares for packaging -
leaves us with the pinnacle solipsistic;
hence with natural selection due to aesthetics -
hence with "unnatural" selection due to psychology -
never was the inverse-anatomic putting-together
of man as necessary as these days -
hence unravelling the ditto, also ambiguity, also
instigator to mime / copy, also to originate from,
also a raw slab of marble to perfect into statue,
also a passed on no longer passable entourage of
citation, also a cut-off point needing revision -
and after all we were taught with Pythagoras in tow -
it seems a natural way to memorise life away
from the schooling - as naturally dis-inhibited
we became "naturally" inhibited in what life
constituted when memorised - for the lack of imaginative
escapes - the dark tunnel and the light at the end -
the Molotov horror with near-death experiences.

Occasionally, somebody comes along and unlocks
a part of me, that I never knew existed.

Sometimes, I am okay with that,
welcoming, the rush of warmth that floods my body.

Then occasionally,
more often than not,

I mess up.

Time, and time again -
never learning but always loathing.

I have changed though,
yet it appears it's too little, too late
and those that could have been an option for
joy, those who could have held my very own
personalised key to happiness,

have left already.

They sold Jesus on the cross with neon letters for flare
I wound up in the gutter when I went searching for answers there.

The poor stay poor or so some say, the rich get rich or some stock markets claim.

I spray paint the Vitruvian Man on a the side of City Hall,
Only to have it removed as vandalism, if we are Rome surely we shall fall.

I lay down in the limelight and perform for the masses,
The show goes on and soon is forgotten, it’s true what they say about absolutes;
Death and Taxes.

I watch the city burn, I may have fanned the fire.
If we are to ash, gather round and celebrate our own makeshift pyre.

The times keep on moving and we’re all trying our best to stay afloat.
The rules keep changing to fit the voices of the few but everyone is something,
With so much difference no wonder we can’t agree.

Sacrifice individuality?

Drive the nails in deeper and cut out their tongues,
The thought crime fits the punishment.
Don’t think- about it.
Don’t- think about it.
Don’t- think about- it.


Sacrifice individuality?

I wrote a personal manifesto in the sands of time, only for the waves to wash it away.
I chiseled a poem in stone only for time and weather to whittle it down,
It was then I learned that nothing lasts forever
I chased time like a hound after a hare,
I killed time for an hour
Then was jailed in a prison for abuse of a metaphor.

I felt the pity of a mother,
The anger of a parent,
I held onto the bars of my cell,
This was the pit and personal pendulum
Torture is best when it’s personalised to make a singular hell.

The halls of Humanity were so brightly lit that I forgot the basement I now explore.
Dim, cold and wet.
The dregs of the past lurk along the catacomb walls,
The rats chatter in the shadows, they sound like mocking laughter.

I travel through the cellars of time, history gone by.
The records are scrolled on papyrus,
The cave paintings show how life once was,
The broken weapons of armies old, litter boxes and tombs of kings and leaders,
All their stories and lives have been told.
Grave robbers snuck in under the cover of darkness, left what couldn't be moved
The rest has been sold.

Sould out, which is why I feel empty, staring at what remains and what may be of our current history.

We’re on a timetable of power, and it’s shifting ever faster.

Never aware of the dangers of yesteryear, so we work and build tomorrow today
Because by the time tomorrow is today, we’ve already outdated it.

I wander these cold Halls of Humanity,
Far below the current.
I rifle through the scar tissue,
I sing to the skulls,
I drink wine with the poet ghosts.
I hear the secrets that they hold.

strategically placed reminders
kind of personalised post it notes
set around the space I shelter in
remind of the long term plan
the one I think I would like
the one I would like to come to fruition
keeping in check the tension between getting there and accepting nothing is certain beyond today
and the ever present fact of being on the way, through the choices I make.

the questions he asked held no relevance 
he took notes and I looked out the window to the office 
opposite

another room with cabinets
people & computers 
water coolers
a broken printer
drably personalised work spaces with kids drawing and motivational quotes spat over an inspiring landscape of mountains or soft still lakes

dust settles and stays on the leaves of plastic plants

 (  disgruntled secretary, 
floor two, has her mothers ashes stored in a Russian doll on her desk and a draw full paper clips and staples ) 

I didn't get the job
they gave it to a man who likes fat woman to sit on his face

A pair of heavy, darkly-polished oak doors swing open, throwing moonlight across a wide expanse of pale marble hallway, veins in the stone winding like sinews into the shadows beyond.

Gilded in silver light, I enter. The steel tips of my heels click out a dreamy staccato, treading in the footsteps of princes, duchesses, rogues and queens. Their faces gaze down upon me from the high walls. Immortalised in oils, their traditional, inscrutable countenances reveal little of their passions, furies and secret obsessions.

I turn towards a chair in one corner, letting the heavy coat damp from the night air, slide from my shoulders. I lay it carefully over the velvet upholstery, shivering slightly in the chill, unmoving atmosphere inside the house.

I move toward the centre of the hall. Click… click… click…. click. My heels tap out an intent. Upon a small table, a crystal vase holds a single red rose. In rude bloom, the rose has let go of three petals, they lie as perfumed tears upon the table.  

An envelope is propped against the vase. Unsealed. Unnamed. It doesn't need to be addressed for me to know its content. Virtually every goodbye I've experienced has been unaddressed: I can't bear them any other way. A personalised parting ladens the heart, eventually rotting away to leave a brand in the exact shape of its pain.

I reach out a crimson-nailed finger and lightly stroke the envelope. The action pulls at the cuff of my silk shirt, exposing four rows of pearls circling my wrist. They gleam mellowly in the moonlight, exactly the same colour as the skin on his back.

I hadn't wanted him to leave, but I was compelled not to have him feel indebted to me. His love was weighty, dense like hard-packed snow and he wore his sadness like an overcoat. A good overcoat, and one which suited him, with deep pockets of melancholia and often-visited regret.

A cloud sails over the moon, veiling a fleeting wish for his return. The moon knows when to place a finger to the lips, lest foolishness begin drumming insistent fingers against our better judgement.

I turn and walk back toward the doors, pushing against their resistance, closing myself off to such thoughts.

In almost total darkness, the sound of my heels echoes again. A determined, resolute tattoo upon the path of my own better judgement.

Unseen, the rose drops another petal.

moving effortlessly in and out of varying realities
the mind is a personalised spaceship
and I am not sure who has the controls, or even if they exist.

the way i see it, Islam is in an existential crisis, the sooner we get through this 2nd schism of Islam the better: since being exposed to western secular traditions and antiquated Marxist cognitive dissonance the better, this Islam teasing at both Marxism and fascism... this modern Islam ***** without any Sufi integrity... how does Islam even function by ostracising the Shia branch? my guess: like western seculars ostracising Russians... Christ's passion is who's subsequent lament? there's no room for apathy here: not direct antonym - because reincarnation is impossible in monotheism, therefore? oh: what could i be possibly insinuating, hmm? i went through my lamentation: and how glorious it was, yet impossible to be reminiscent concerning (it): having met the antonym of Xanthippe... who has allowed me to become... a play on masculinity is that which does, while women are: beings, men are the doings... yet there is this transitional grey area of: becoming... i am becoming; in Edie's own words - once finding: giving love and being loved... in my own words: since we can give closure to half of the war waged we can focus on the other war: that we have to battle mortality... but how easy was it to so easily write about it with hindsight... my god: was it worth all the trials and tribulations... i will posit that my lamentation was as glorious as that passion on the cross... if people will want to dangle an instrument of torture around their necks: i'd recommend dangling iron maidens. also (of due note, nota bene, appropriately) - does anyone not think that Islam is in a crisis? NOT... heresy heresy blah blah blah... so who wrote the Quran? last time i heard Muhammad (ha ha... funny knowing two tongues... mucha... fly... mad... mad fly Muhammad, frenzied Beelzebub) was illiterate, so who wrote those **** words and why do they spiral out into nuggets, haiku sized verses at the end? my guess is that Muhammad's first wife, Khadijah **** Khuwaylid wrote the **** book, the dutiful wife senior to ol' Mo... drown in the empathy of the orphan? my own father was "technically" an orphan... more or less abandoned by his mother and father, although with a father-orbiter... messy stuff this glue we call family: easier to dangle individualism on a stick of otherwise perpetual conformity to adhesion toward a "something or other" that is civilisation: to ensure that our ontology does not revert to the supposedly pre-history pre-civilisation of that Edenic glorified working appendix: i dare you talk to someone clued in on biology as nutrition and how we "evolved" to not have the biological capacity to digest plant foods for their fat etc. - those adhering to a carnivore diet - no one can be stupid enough to not think that poor Muslims don't see the degeneracy in the United Arab Emirates, Qatar or Saudi Arabia and think... where is talk of the "ummah" and Afghanistan and Palestine? i know of the "arguments" when it came to Poland and the migrant crisis circa 2016... all those ******* glorious instances of multicultural injections of "progress": but who the **** took the majority of the displaced Ukrainians? Poland did... not diverse enough? too, ******* white? if i can ask a question: rhetorically, can i hear an echo of the same question: dialectically? it's like that analogy of the tree falling in the forest: if no one hears it falling: does it actually make a sound? i'll ask a question rhetorically: in good faith... will i hear the same question (or thereabouts), dialectically?

my new favourite word, coming all the way
from a mouth in Malasia... no: Malaysia -
i should (maybe?) have known it,
but no: i didn't... until now...

etymology and the extinction of languages:
soft machines - computers and the inner
dynamic: unlike hard machines
those associated with hammers and cars...

i made the mistake of drinking three coffees
in the morning,
to **** off the buzz and nausea
i had to resort to a downer: a 8.2% strong
cider: which, unlike the alcoholic's
go to with 9% strong Carlsberg
is rather refreshing: since that low alcohol
sickly sweetness is lost
whereby a cider becomes a better alternative
to wine...

Christianity: i have no problem with it
surviving: as long as it is a religion
of women: for women...
Christianity doesn't appeal to my masculinity,
Christianity is not a religion for men...
i'll be frank: the best lovers are Christian
women...
i am not a Christian man...
i can parody Christianity with my ******
catholicism: which, like Irish catholicism
is an ethnocentric gimmick for...

heathenism, mingling with Judaic occultism...
i problem solve with a demand
for pareidolia... now i will have to use Greek
(and i blame the Greeks for this,
"blame"...
i'm more inclined to the heathen philosophy
the ancient children of Greece
that conjured up atoms without microscopes)....

παρειδoλια

    ah... that word i was referencing:

πετριχoρ -

              petrichor: the smell of rain...
from stone the golden fluid that was mythologically
the "blood" of the gods...
sunshine up my ***...
        i only "love" god out of fear...
i couldn't possibly fear him out of love...
sometimes i get these glimmers of hope
for the destruction of my ego:
i already know it's a nuisance and unreal:
the ego...
just as much as i known that
our consciousness is born out of memory
yet our memory is a faulty faculty since
we don't remember everything
and what we "choose" to remember
is a bit like...

the veneer of civilization, yet this constant
bubbling of Darwinistic principles...
we pretend to be civilised
yet when the ontological buildings blocks
of 1 + 1 = 2 come into play... hmm...

maybe because Reyla is not my child...
that i don't feel my testosterone levels being somehow
diminished...
for the past few days i've been calling up
Edie and checking on her...
poor girl hottie Aztec chickety is down with
the flu and flutes of sneezing and
baritone brass of coughing
but still: in sickness and in health till death
do us part...
i've become OCD "clever" all huffing and
disorientated with: i need to be there...
physical barriers... transcended...

   a seemingly infamous concoction
of a raw egg yolk generously beaten together with
a teaspoon of honey...
milk with a tablespoon of butter heated...
the warmed milk and butter
poured over the yolk and honey: cured...
thus drank...
     some people break into sweats... others don't...
but who, ill enough... is getting enough
calories to battle a virus?
whatever the "magic" of this concoction...
day two of me trying to make her return
to her former self... well...
maybe it's just lining her throat...

mirrors... mirrors on ceilings...
mirrors on floors... mirrors mirrors...
mmm           mirrors in woods mirrors in the sky
mirrors in water...
              a mirror for a mermaid
a mirror for a minotaur...
                a mirror for a mirror for an eye...
by that i'm implying:
how far can i make the private public
or rather: how best can i disguise the private
with the public...
i'll say no more...
so instead maybe i should "talk" about
my bromance with an ex-police officer went
off on such an assured footing...
why he quit the police force?

PTSD... he still visualises the scent of two rotting
corpses he found hanging in a room...
he visualises the scent
of rotting flesh that was dangling for circa 6 months...
now that i discovered the word
petrichor i can fuse search engines
and A.I. steroid and...

        hey presto: σύν- + -αἴσθησις = συνεσθησια...
as i've learned...
the diacritical marks in Greek are variations
of meaning: ask a Greek about Greek
and he'll tell you that there are at least
4 gradations of the language...
i didn't get a classical education:
    philology:            or rather: it's something ongoing...
and to think...
i do have a historical artifact from the 1960s...
England: how rotten pedagogy has become:
the first sign of a culture in decline
is always brought back to pedagogic demands /
standards...
back in the 1960s Latin was still actively taught!
shame...

  quis es: quo vadis?
who are you: where are you going?
   ha ha: clarity: A.I. is equivalent to search engines
on steroids: more like customised,
personalised search engines...

- me: how do you say: who are you? in Latin,
  Google, as a search engine is being terribly
  inconsistent.
- chatGPT: in Latin, "who are you?" can be translated
   as "quis es?"
- me: so not: quis es tu?
- chatGPT: both "quis es?" and "quis es tu?" are
  grammatically correct in Latin and convey the same
  meaning, "who are you?". the inclusion of "tu"
  (meaning "you") adds emphasis but is not necessary
  for clarity. both forms are commonly used in Latin
  literature and conversation.

well well... and it's not like Polish isn't
an imitation of Latin, grammatically speaking:
of note: you can obliterate the use of
pronouns in a conversation: completely...
just like in ancient Latin...
i never understood this Hebrew pride on continuity
citing that Latin is somehow dead:
no... Latin is still alive: it just mutated...
it's alive: grammatically in Poland
and... well... in script pretty much everywhere
else in the world... in computers...
in preserving Greek ideas...     still ticking:
tick tock tick tock...
                                   oh but i understand the Hebrew
pride... i've even succumbed to Kabbalism...
but obviously Judaism being an exclusive
club: i would never actually become a proselyte:
i was handed the ****** hand of
catholicism and that's that...

              i'm not going to be another Barry from
the Four Lions...
that film has aged so so well...
about as well as: As Good As It Gets...
some memorable lines by Barry:

Barry : *******, I'm a liability! I am the Invisible Jihadi!
They seek him here, they seek him there, but here's not there,
he's blowing up your **** sister!
Omar : Invisible? Right. Like the time you got
on the local news for baking a Twin Towers cake
and leaving it at the synagogue on 9/11?
Barry : That is part of the plan! Hide in plain sight, you mug!
   (credit to chris morris, sam bain and jesse armstrong)

such oddity... destroying the ego by talking
silently before going to sleep...
who in their right mind would think that
the ego resides in the brain?
i speak by an extension of me thinking
therefore the ego resides in the mouth...
the audibility of soul: is that what we call
the "audibility" of thought?
my brain is my eyes...
              no: my brain are not my eyes...
i was just wondering for a tick
               my brain are my eyes?  no...
my eyes are my brain...
                        i can do away with all that 20th century
Jungian Freudian schematisation of man
boiling the secular trinity of
ego (consciousness)
   superego (subconscious) and the id (unconscious)...
i'll just **** it... it's a nuisance to begin with:
how much of my ego i need to filter out
is staggering... i swear it's a hindrance on
consciousness... feeding that yap-yap-yap
not-I of Samuel Beckett...
                                     people can talk about
viruses and biology all they want...
but what of the cognitive viruses: bad ideas...
like the preservation of Marxism
                             and its marriage to radical Islam?

Borderline thumps to a beat
It’s pulses and grows
Snows on my mind
Cold and signed,
Personalised in frost as mine,
The fire comes soon that thaws out the core,
To and fro mercury not knowing where to go,
It is lost til next heat wave,
Alternating between plummet and soar

She lived like a smudge.
Nothing defined her yet somehow, everything did.
She was hard to comprehend and easy to spill.
Her ink well personality confused all, most of all herself.
Prominent and invisible she liked to tie things up with words.
Writing poetry and imagining new worlds.
No one quite knew what was wrong with her and few dared to ask.
She got used to living with lies, she got good at making her own.
Weaving and watching she tailored her mask.
If she let you in, she would be your everything,
observant as a hawk and shy as a mouse,
she would steal your thoughts and morph them with her own.
Mirror face she reflected everything you wanted,
a personalised friendly home.
If she wasn’t so complicated and sad,  
she would be unitive.
She could be anyone but no one distinctive.
Slowly the lying and hiding started to break her mask,
melting like candle wax her brain began burning.
She couldn’t hide any longer
when she tried it was too obvious.
people stared raw and obnoxious.
Medusa exposed she tried to hide.
She hated life and it showed.
Her brain taught her ways to cope,
and some days it whispered, “just don’t”.
Nihilism is too subtle.
Her life quickly became about survival.
Trying to get to heaven seemed the most viable option,
hell had lasted long enough,
She put her life up for auction.
She never saw if heaven existed after all,
She decided if I am to live, I will live for love.