"philosophise" poems
i'm just bored of having to feel what other people
feel, limiting the realism of things,
a woman with a child's severed head in moscow is
sensationalism to them, but when they get a mild
reality, Kashmir chilly on the palette, they make
cheap Monty Python jokes to scare the facts away...
the so-called satire that requires canned laughter;
was given a library of 25 philosophy books,
not one of them by an englishman,
went as far back as the greeks,
i guess the version of english egalitarian
was not worth a communism,
somehow the two synonyms became
antonyms... 25 volumes of philosophy,
not one english philosopher...
the english intellectualise: i.e.:
regurgitate facts....
the english do not philosophise,
i.e. instead they cite facts... they're intellectuals by rite
of citation, the citation of facts,
they can't philosophise i.e. not cite (facts)...
they intellectualise, they cite and recite
facts with a dogmatism that fears a demolition
and no rekindling of interest...
to philosophise is to avoid citation:
to work from nothing,
the english cannot philosophise because
they intellectualise and by intellectualism
they cite and recite facts like an ave maria
pi = 3.14... Galileo's spectacles...
etc. the english cannot philosophise, they're
just intellectuals, they cite and recite facts,
they cannot engage from non-citation or non-recitation
of a fact, like a greek might ignore a stone
and fool himself claiming it's nothing,
the english cannot allow a confiscation of
a subject and treat it as nothing,
it would not make sense as to why charles i
was the precursor of the french aristocratic en masse
meeting with the guillotine if darwinism wasn't
discovered on the islands of Galapagos...
although i beg to differ with a thought on Gauguin
and the islands of Tahiti: make a turtle yawn
and you'll jinx yourself a blessing to live to be one hundred years old.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire
untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...
patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...
19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.
suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...
panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?
you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
In amongst the billions of stars
and the circling souls of our world
In amongst the trillions of dollars
and the failures of our humanity
In amongst the hundreds of ideas
that philosophise innumerable thoughts
In amongst the towering glass houses
and the poverty that they brought
In amongst the thousands of successes
and even more rejections
Lies a singular truth
You and I belong together
Through the love we created
We grow for ourselves and the other
Inspired and
Undefeated.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
The road was broken in segments of dream huts
clinging to 10 sqm of waterless, worthless plains
beside a million flies teeming for life sustaining energy
from rancid smells and miracles of justice that never come.
Living in the light of palaces, the poor understand pain
and poverty like life's great gifts of wonder
to philosophise and burn in the tabernacle of
rotund politicians. How easy for them to girth
the national wealth under a huge lie.
Out in the open the crows capture the days sound
with raucous caws of indiscretion. Unrestrained
by manners or moments of ecstasy, each crow
sounds off the days entertainment.
At nightfall the city slimmer's to sleep
and the slums awake to underground life
living and moving relentlessly, from one
moment to another, unheralded, unsung
fully awake with hunger, even as the darkness
closes in and absorbs the days movements
with its blanket of silence.
Tomorrow is another day for the cycle
to turn one more cog in the direction
of no return. Sad. Sad. Sad.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Drink. Though I do.
Smoke. Tell me about it.
Make money. Story of my life.
Prophesise. It's too cloudy.
Philosophise. In a way.
Columnise. Working on it.
Be right. Got over that at sixty.
Be high. It never lasts.
Make peace. **** I'm too angry.
Be young. See above.
Be humble. I love me.
Be graceful. At sixty? Really?
Be positive. Depends on polarity.
Eat healthy. I do had whole grain bread pizza today.
Be lovely. Not in my mirror.
Be kind. Depends on my moods.
Love unconditionally. Trying to.
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
this really has become a really bad greek joke, i knew that the romans could sing, **** me, they gave us castrato sing along, but i never knew greeks knew humour, perhaps too much emphasis on their philosophical prowess... 'so you're telling me we've been basically lacerating ourselves and kneeling just to get the puzzle's end result, a ******* clock?! you have to be ******** me... thanks to this device we're more prone to insomnia, news channels of 24 ******** global trading & global warming...' i say, the greeks really know how to tell a joke, first they philosophise so everyone takes them seriously... and then the punchline... christianity!
and indeed first, simon (peter), a name for simony.
simon (peter)
andrew james ibn zebedee
john ibn zebedee philip
bartholomew 3^ thomas
matthew james ibn alphaeous
thaddaeus simon the zealot
judas
and indeed judas, last, meaning the son of judiciary.
^but look here, a clock emerges, the trinity of
the hand of the hour,
the hand of the minute,
the hand of the second, and twelve names
as sentenced to 12 (simon peter),
1 (james ibn zebedee),
2 (philip), 3 (thomas), 4 (james ibn alphaeous),
5 (simon the zealot), 6 (judas),
7 (thaddaeus), 8 (matthew), 9 (bartholomew),
10 (john ibn zebedee), 11 (andrew);
**** this greek contraption!
back then the zeitgeist ("holy spirit") of humanity stated
that it was both α & ω, and indeed this was true,
look at the past 2000 years, we know so much!
but in the current state of affairs, the zeitgeist
of humanity changed, since it states a shortening,
a dried up river, it states that the zeitgeist is shortened
to α & β, the whole alpha / beta male dynamic,
sex-fuelled ******** gladiators with electricity bills,
Odysseus with a dilemma over carrier pigeons
postage stamps and email...
but aha! don't forget the ω male, who seems to be
walking into the freezing plateaus of mirrors,
for whom the α & β dynamic means life is too short
because it's too quick... it means the α & β
are competing, the former is a billionaire / banker,
the latter is probably a journalist...
and the ω male is a pedestrian... remember that guy.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
It comes to us all, we ask ourselves
Is love the source of bliss?
If true, then why did I love her so
And yet feel so amiss?
Could it be conversation that
Would bind us, heart to heart,
Or physical stimulations that
Would sour, before we part.
‘It’s always been such a mystery,’
I said to Anne Marie,
‘What was the force that drew us in,
Why did you cleave to me?’
She shrugged, and thought for a moment,
‘Why must you philosophise?
I thought there was something welcoming
About your soft, grey eyes.’
It wasn’t enough, I knew it then
There had to be more than this,
How could you build a relationship
On a stolen midnight kiss?
I needed to know the locks and chains
That would bind us, as they should,
On through a distant future, when
In thrall to a different mood.
I told her that I was leaving her
On a cold dark winter’s morn,
‘I knew that you would,’ said Anne Marie
As the sun came up at dawn,
‘You’re not content with the time we’ve spent
So your love was not for me.’
I couldn’t tell how my heart was full
With my love for Anne Marie.
But I thought it had to be tested,
Love’s not sure ‘til it’s tasted pain,
By leaving, there could be one result
And that one result was gain,
It would either set us apart for life
As our ardour died in the flame,
Or qualities more substantial would
Draw us together again.
I knew it was quite a gamble, that
It could well change my life,
Tampering with a primal force
Could only bring me strife,
But love would have to be strong as steel,
Unwavering in its course,
To prove that everything else was real
Not waning from the source.
I disappeared for a month or more
But where, I didn’t say,
None of our mutual friends had seen
Me out, by light of day,
I thought to set up a mystery
To prove an ancient saw,
That absence makes the heart fonder
As it did, in times of war.
Whatever I sought to prove, I did,
The proof was in the gruel,
With plenty of time to ponder, though
The lesson learned was cruel.
I crept up there on a starless night
And I heard her whispered lies,
‘I thought there was something welcoming
About your soft, blue eyes.’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
I killed poor Bill
'twas mistaken identity,
but, now in custody
I think?
Who the hell was he?
He was born of rich
parents on 5000 acres
in upper NY
with relations in Maryland.
He was but 24,
loved to shrug
as big as a boulder,
he just bugged me.
But, see, don't critcize
or philosophise my indiscretion
"twas mistaken,
not, cause he was truly
an ***
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
The same old routine's dragging on
Our zombied bodies slump along
We philosophise more and more
Making our forgetful brains sore
For we are rotten, we are gross
But isn't that just how life goes?
We all will fall, we all will die
Nothing matters so we ask why
We have to live, we have to be
We have to pretend we're happy
*Because in actuality
No one lives for eternity*
So what's the reason for our race?
Is it for love or for disgrace?
There is no clear answer just yet
Or else there was, but we forget
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
*You can philosophise all day long,
this world contains more than we know.
More than we see, and in some cases
some things we've already seen.
That strong sensation of having been somewhere,
of knowing what a place had once been.
Never getting lost in new places, of remembering old faces.
This precognition scares science, they label it
'Schizophrenic', 'anxiety' and my personal favourite;
the 'dissociative identity disorder'.
Here's a straight jacket for you!
I prefer déjà vu,
such an elegant French description,
even better, they don't hand out a prescription to 'cure' it!
Déjà entendu, "already heard",
the experience of feeling sure that one has already heard something,
ever thought your name was being called?
That you heard whispers in the night,
Only to be told it's the 'house settling'?
How many of us have shook our heads,
and said 'I'm getting old, I'm hearing things!'
These phenomena don't come and go
they stay, they are older than time,
they've always been, just never seen.
Platitudes placate your puzzled mind,
but what if these things are just rips in time?
A leak from the past, occasionally a glimpse of the future?
Or maybe it's all just history's forgotten soft sighs*.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
a man of my esteem can digest direct violence than witty violence known as ridicule / the sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow’s denied (pearl jam).
so be it... unless i be irish and my use of english be celtic,
then i trully am raw potato with raw cabbage
with lettuce and raw tomato speaking through my ****
so be it... i’ll concentrate all the world’s republicanism
on the democracy of england and see england and those it
deems kin to export democracy elsewhere -
reduce old age to dementia rather than wisdom - to be forfeit;
what can i learn from you old man?
fucky fucky sucky sucky retirement is grand?
it took an old man to define the failures of democracy...
it will take a youth to define the failures of republicanism...
one by one... that thing on the cross digesting its kidneys
is in no way the in-between.
*each abhores his father, but each returns to his father
for guidance akin to a compass in defining the definition
of what's north from sun, and east from the moon,
so if friendships only provide conversation
as means of exchange, a fox provides more to man
than man unto man...
because it provides the sort of conversation
that prompts thought...
and man without woman converses with thought
rather than the obedience for a continuum
that woman is modelled on...
man's guardian, man's womb without woman
that is thought is what abides to philosophise...
but philosophy is a bad joke in england these days...
hence the convenient safeguard of darwinism
and american politics to simply provide the nodding
for the first oscar of mexican wave build-up of un-originality:
easily philosophise only reading psychiatric
books or logistics of a missing soul with an engaged
logic of 2 + 2, as the english intelligentsia is prone to excuse
when it uses it... why practice psychiatry when
you have not read a single book of philosophy, why, english psychiatry?*
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
philosophia est scio nihil, continuum timor et taedium ego: actus automaton: in excelsis hospes.
in england the ad hominem principle
is easily brushed aside,
someone might have something
interesting to say, even though
all would agree to an abhorrence
in terms of moral relativism
which is an abhorrence-in-itself,
why make anything apart from
space & time relative? people change,
get with the grooves and your
free will and your freedom to commit
mistakes...
in england the ad hominem principle
is a farce... it doesn't exist...
that's why the english can't philosophise,
they can sing, but they can't philosophise,
because instead of ad hominem
we have the principle ad populo,
yeah, i'm an apologist of heidegger,
it took me 2 years and several other
books in between to finish his being and time,
because i believed he was onto something,
and the argument against him
on the principles of ad hominem is deflected
toward argumentation ad zeitgeist,
yet in england engaging with controversy
of the times is curbed and censored
by the principle ad populo, i.e.:
to the people.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
*the last few days have been strangely warm for december,
there’s a bit of fog, the foxes do their usual weekly scouting
while people take out the trash and the foxes nibble into black bin bags,
it’s been warm, and foggy, and the perfume in the air
is like inside a barn where smoked salmon come from:
pungent sweet & smoky; almost like that tokaji flavoured whiskey,
where a pole sniffed a glass, and a russian looked real deep into
the glass to philosophise what wisdom came from that forgotten
shamanism.*
as i was expecting, thus it came into my *****
the full roundabout u-turn,
the contestants sang their hearts out, i listened,
the overbearing presence to keep rhythm in
modern music with crescendo after drum & bass
to slower rhythm of dub step like that maverick
anonymity that’s distance, vex’d and burial...
it had to come, no longer content with ensuring the
drums keep the rhythm, the missing bass in metallica
after the original bassist’s tragedy, i.e. just
a massive ha ha aha ha (sneeze insertion) hush,
it had to culminate in operatic pop music...
i spotted four lungs worth of breath with that blonde cutie...
(death cab for cutie - soul meets body, great song)
it’s so ****** ballistic, there’s no underlying originality
with these vocals that can be expected rhythm guitar and bass,
there’s no easily recognisable signature monotone,
it’s just a massive crowd pleaser to test the vocal range...
which is a shame... i’m just watching air-guitar all the ****** time,
it’s pretty much all solo moments with those air-balloons
filled up with helium rather than carbon dioxide that flop
and dangle like male genitalia...
it’s a shame, i want recognisable rhythm vocals...
and i also want a geneticist to write me a genetics formula
of how man became ~99% ape arrangement
and “~98%” genetic structure of rice... i want the equation,
i don’t want the aesthetic crap of the easiest explanation:
mandible thumbs you see... no, i don’t want that
to antagonise religious groups who can be easily duped,
i want a serious carbohydrate relevant transition equation
of the genetic re-arrangement.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:31 PM UTC
How much longer will my stairs be able to hide my problems?
Up, up, up, they go! Face? Are you still hanging on, even by only a last mascaraed lash? Say what you want, but spiders are in.. At least that's what the street kids and i
philosophise. It's time for the cob webs to do their dance, there is no meaning.
I only have minutes left, 3:48 to be exact.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
philosophy is a cul de sac venture
for old men,
for old men are inexperienced
in terminology of change,
no chance of a plateau before the drop
that's death,
philosophy need youth and inexperience
to feed the Aristotelian maxim
designating the essence of philosophy:
genesis of bewilderment, genesis of awe...
old men have seen too many repeats
for the youth to grapple with in order
that the bewildering status quo be kept
like the firmness of the architecture
of complacent tourism allows for a photograph...
unearth the hidden routes, shelter the
most encouraging roads...
limit the old to simply die rather than
allowing them to philosophise...
take away the cushions of duck feather
from their bedded heads and replace them
with blocks of stone... and see how quick
they'll philosophise a return to the drama of life...
but so ineffective their return will be,
they will become shamed by the opulence
they were given, a greedy voice for change
they could never make gunpowder evoke
a volcano birthright of boom.
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 8:11 PM UTC
/ ) ) \
/\
^^^^^
( flower child song )
"""
Mother of Earth
"""""
she sees what you are
and she won't go there
no more
•
( time for Purity )
//
It's like a poker game
Before you place on the table
A ***** , 2 **** , and your heart
You should know exactly
what they're worth !
••
We have become
little images of grafitti
Being blown
Down the street
To end up as ***** stained fragments
Of old newspapers
In some alley somewhere
//
LIFE !
How we philosophise about it
When we all know we are too stupid
To philosophize about life !
( just look at our lives ! )
••
The tiny insignificance of a girl !
( The little flower child ! )
She wanted to be an EARTH MOMMA
But the earth is gone !
•
We have abandoned her completely
Yet
We cry out for love !
//
On rainy streets
Poetry
( Looking for a poet )
Talks in subtle tones concerning
The great mystery
Few notice
Though some do actually
Heed
••
And love so tender
Can somehow
Be felt and seen
X
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC