perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -

it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.
   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a

or the alternative precursor to the spice girls
(yes, i did buy their debut -
      baby spice, well, my infantile
fetish with cute, clean cut blondes, meh,
old story)
                 but **** on me, President Reagan
was a former actor -
     i have no personal interests in the debate,
well: i like to see real life Hollywood,
i like films, from time to time...
    20th century moustaches are these days
relegated to hairstyles....
  you know why we don ****** hair?
the ***** are pruned and trimmed
for a ***** movie: we like to fiddle with it,
esp. the hair crop on the chin,
     i could become a violinist with it.
what spurred me on? Marvin Gayes heard it through
the grapevine, or as i say:
  down the **** gold, auburn, amber, beer,
whiskey, **** me! a correlation!
or a categorical imperative some would say:
             heard it down the wheat shaft
in between men having their prided little Richards
cut off - fun ******* fun -
         that's me and washing my hands
writing poetry in advance to my body language
transformed starting to style myself
on the baguettes hit from the 80s:
dance like a pigeon, nod pigeon in a walk,
the guy that was so jealous of me
is now a manic depressive -
       and i'm like: so what? jog on!
                      i was stupid for 10 seconds of my life,
better write out bail...
                        they should call it
the s.d.i.             (sniffer dog investigation) -
it doesn't look even remotely disastrous,
     only with that Antoinette quiff and a moustache,
      oh we loved the pern wigs
before the bowlers and top hats...
          it's as if the Victorian era was an era
for mourning the death of God, truly.
all the little revolution stemming from the death
of someone ending a bio at 1900 didn't matter...
    he was philosophising at a funeral...
i'm just watching the vehement application
of Vatican non-curriculum activity stemming from
archeology started off in Egypt under the
title: St. Thomas' account the doubter / the philosopher
gaining ground in all things trans-,
                a return by "popular" demand,
first the authentic Christianity of the gospels
and now infuriated Islam and the unauthentic application
of the recovered gospels -
   can you imagine there being a brokering
       gamble on literacy back then, would the priests
have made fishermen literate back when it
was stated: keep them wholly physically intact,
let's not interfere with their physical prowess,
we need their physical strength, undermine their
physical strength with being able to read: and we're ******!
   a fisherman wrote that gospel?
                     (insert snigger) -
        only in the 20th century could the benefits
of education a son of a roofer / metallurgy agent go
down sour... first they said they wanted me to
come upon the plateau of what education is about:
the just dispensation of wealth,
   but then they heard about my background and
simply said: nah, that ****** can clean the dishes...
the worst part?
      i would have agreeably been a street-cleaner:
but not after having invested in education!
      that's a ****** insult!
                so here's me,
high as a kite on *****, listening to poets talk
about depression for a while thinking:
    where's the wheelchair?
                             and when i'm through
i tune in, listen to Marvin Gaye and start dancing
like a pigeon strutting:
           guillotine horizontal chopping the air up,
        twerk a bit in the bathroom
and feel Chappy Jolly -
                   i'd stick a thumb up my *** if i wanted
to as reversal of the *******
                                being accusatory -
don't educated me and steal from those who don't
want to be with their common sense education
                and give me absolutely nothing
chemistry related to do it...
        i'll just start writing and turn the heat up on
being a hermit...
                              becoming educated is a monstrous
delusion that the priestly caste of society dish out
             once they dished out literacy,
              but once literacy has become exhausted
they dish out education in the broader sense.
i was walking back from the supermarket today,
and picked up a pound coin from the pavement
(thanks Sinatra, that'll pay the rent)
    and started fiddling with it in my hand:
some people have lucky charms, emeralds and
what not in necklaces and other memento forms,
i started fiddling with this found pound coin,
  Whether's Original colouring - not quiet copper,
indeed more like solidified bleached out caramel,
when i walked with my hands partially clenched
like a gorilla's and balanced the coin
on the *******'s phalange -
        and suddenly i was holding a philosopher's stone...
        it all became visceral - clear, poignant,
this little thing can transform anything from
        copper into gold -
   from iron into gold...
               where the alchemist sleeping when
they were passing this stuff about, including
the blimmin' cobblers?
                       it can also include asking
the magpies to fly in and say: not all that glitters
is gold... where are the silver spoons?
              oh for sure, the eagle as emblem / mascot of the state
  is doomed, take the Third ***** and the Roman Empire...
             no one ever bothered the sparrow to be engulfed
in replica on standards of a marching enemy...
    the crow seems pretty safe too, funny
            the eagle is a crushing curse of failed predatory
alliances when embedded in metal for man
   to strut toward a harrowing end.

man will have no true love for a woman,
if he cannot be given a brotherhood,
and instead be forced to embrace
philosophising... man will not have a true
love for a woman, if he should be left
barren without an outlet of brotherhood,
to be instead forced into solipsism and
subsequent thereof philosophising...
**man will not have a true love for a woman,
if she should be left without a chance to
encounter the brotherhood of man
as if a Hemingway novel... and thus be forced
into only encountering the love of Sophia:
the abstract woman; a woman in name only;
himself a quasi of a woman, goosebump
tickles on the testicles: licked by castrato
widower swans: St. Thomas' doubt
enigmatic in the breadcrumb gospels of
Nag Hammadi with its stupid Chinese whispers
                                                and musical chairs!

All this poetry I write
is here for a reason.

I am feeling rather nostalgic tonight
my room is clammy and hot
whilst on the inside, I'm in a freezer
unable to move from the isolation

I am currently listening to a song
it is singing me to sleep
and singing all my consciences
without me having to think too much
philosophising everything

I'm tired of being here
alone all the time, and
I can't carry on being second best
even third, fourth and so on
like a never ending cycle

the term 'wallflower' is so perfectly beautified
and evokes imagery of aesthetically-pleasing nature
but I find this so hard to believe
as I feel like a wallflower
but certainly the opposite of beautiful
more like the uninviting sight of a prickly ****
needing to be dug up
because nobody likes its presence

irrelevance is probably the only term I can use to describe
just how things are
no one wants the companionship of someone
who perceives others' opinions as negative
all the time
and their own thoughts are just as diabolic

the thought of myself
ever being denoted as beautiful
is at the height of impossibility

It doesn't matter if it's wrong,
It won't make a blind bit of difference
philosophising, moralising, judging, denying,
It won't change the simple fact that
We love.

You, who have never been mine
And never will be.
I, who dream of you
At every turn
And can never arrive in your arms.

None of it matters,
If we act, if we don't.
Simple fact
Unchanged by perspective, or debate.
Love, love,
It's there
unbearable, undeniable,
So simple, so immense.

i do a pretty good rendition of vader’s cover of mayhem’s track: freezing moon.

i tend to forget what it’s all about the minute i think of it,
obviously thinking about something can’t make you doubt it /
esp. if you think in a way to deny its existence:
if something is doubted it’s not thought about,
there can’t be a doubling of anything like that -
if it’s... it’s denied... pushed to the back of our minds:
theme park thrills to deny gangsters and terrorists -
there’s no such thing as a cartesian “chirality” - whereby
the thought attributed to something can work
in the classical sense of *i think, i doubt, therefore i am
(cartesian chirality exists on the doubt v. negation axis).
it’s not being that’s doubted, but the consequences of undoubted thought:
that abraham did right, for example...
but it’s not really about that...
i was reading a part of plato’s defence of poetry by julius a. elias
and i recognised, there and then: my aversion to christianity
is due to platonism... i’m from the root of artistotelian philosophising,
not the platonic root... i couldn’t go against nietzche’s rebellion -
plato the boor... plato the bore...
why did plato assume all poets are liars?
why is it necessary to reveal the real of a potter’s *** making as basis for lies
in poem... and excuse a crap bit of pottery as above a really good poem?
as in the language of roofing... someone does a **** job and it leaks...
kiszka panie picasso... kiszka! brussel’s pâté! van damme muscles no more!
there’s a great point being made right on page 12...
i don’t have the original but it sent shocks right through me,
it’s the old chair and table fascination...
should we **** on a chair or **** on the table?
that’s plato to me... more **** than yawn.
it’s not about representing the chair as it is... that would simply
be boring... it’s about distortion, it’s about finding the self
in such a way as to provide a “callous” interpretation...
what would be the point of originality in the creative process
if it was otherwise - the gods created, man interpreted, and only that to
harbour existence per se?
we’re standing on the membrane of originality, given this world,
why would we suddenly comply to it without a “delusional” distortion
to ensure the self is encrusted in it? there would be no point
in such an endeavour... we'd all comply to 90º of the angle
and 100ºc of boiling water and london would
be the capital of hawaii... i.e. i don't lie, i just read a lot - more so:
i guess you get to be a plato supporter if you study philosophy first...
and not science...
i guess you get to be a disciple of plato if you start sheering language
to the bare minimum - the theory of forms...
but i like the telescope and microscope (autism) of aristotle looking
into a bog with tadpoles for spiderweb niches...
so the god of the jews beamed corrupt because of the ******* snipping...
‘looks nothing like what we originally intended!
what metamorphosis of the sword of his will give to rust because
it’s missing a sheath...’
thoth interrupted him - ‘guess what my people have done...
they trim the girls’ *******...’
‘tell you what thoth... i’ll go down and sort it out...
i’ll disguise myself as a burning bush.’
‘ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! ***** on fire! ha ha ha ha ha!’
the god of abraham to abraham concerning isaac:
‘don’t circumcise him! there’s a massive empire in the right top
corner of africa that’ll marry you and prove
i’m a god jealous of the others gods with your warring phallus!
the other gods just don't get involved!
i didn’t want to be involved in the first place, for *******’s sake!’
abraham losing the plot: ‘you want me to **** isaac?!’
‘no, don’t circumcise him! ah ****... too late.’
the whole story loses the medial aesthetic after centuries of
religion / being squeamish / 9am to 5pm / 2000 years of sunday being the last supper:
which is more viper confusion venom injection than the planet’s orbit
provides already: stop the carousel... stop the carousel!

Profligacy in restlessness
At alcoholic anger
Unflinching in collision
With a femme fatale’s charade,
Philosophising’s netherworld,
A place of sprawling labyrinth,
Perfidious to fiction
In a novel written hard.

Compellingly original
In counterfactual verbiage,
Accented to the ******
With a leggy broad’s demise.
Discarded on the pavement
In a moonlit show of disarray
Auburn hair cascading
To her open, hazel eyes.

M.
Auckland
20 September 2014

The one who faulter
Always see the misuse of clausal
In words other folks utter
But their own level of blunder
Is beyond semantic border

When people see the Faulter
Their voice’s got to come down
I mean; they’d got to mutter
Or else he’ll out-hauled ya
And make y’all feel like defaulter

Anyway; don’t bother
He’s just a wave; I mean disturbance
Who’s trying to put you under
And make you feel like you’re smaller
With the hurting words he utter

The one who faulter
I see; you get phrasal appraisal
For those you syntactically ******
And those that you make feel like you’re worth than
And for your ballyhoo blabber

The one who faulter
Always note the mistake of others
See; the one who faulter
Always speak to impress
When others do express _ themselves __ he jest
Aiming to make them feel less

The one who faulter
I heard your first name is grammer
You’re the top gammer; infact you’re the alpha
But; how far
Is that a reason for you to see others as gamma

The one who faulter
Always put on his shoulder
You know; a linguistic hunter
With his fanatic grammer
But listen to this word-art
Fluency is not the portal
To a successful life span

Let’s put that aside
Why’d you act like you can’t commit liguicide
When none is above grammatical suicide
So, why give yourself ah heart-attack
Or pro’ly ended-up berserked

You call yourself a philosopher; I wonder
Have you win a soul over
Or it’s fun making heart sober
And de-philosophising others
But unlike them; your psych cannot put me asunder

The one who faulter
Tell me; what have you achieved
Beside you being a criticizer
Brother; don’t that make you a freak
Coz your mind state ‘s been altar

Now listen
Even scientist like newton
And others who invented interesting new thing
Don’t need your linguistic-type English
To express their point of view
Hope that concept gets to you
*
Anyway Mr Faulter
The aim of language is to understand each other
So, leave the grammatical slogan
For the linguish brother
More important; English is not the language of my ancestral father

My perfect date would probably go something like this:

Night time adventures and park benches,
staring up at the stars because the sky is so clear we could probably see
Venus if we squinted, looked hard enough;
dark canvas the pupil of God's eye, Him, smiling
upon us as we blossom, knowing what we will be
though we don't - not yet - tentative fingers and flitting touches;
a gasp of a moment as lips brush against one another fitting so
sweetly oh how can this be the first time
how can we not have been made to be like this for all eternity
how can you know my crevices so soon
how can this moment be so beautiful, witnessed only by the whisper of the air?

And
gorgeous idiosyncrasies,
philosophising together talking about the world because
small talk is for small minds and together we're the universal expansion, we're infinite -
oh my God the things we could be.

Maybe we're not looking for anything except ourselves but
I think I found pieces of myself in the curve
of your neck and upon your eyelids so why not
reconsider;
The best things happen when we're not
looking out for them.

Have me as I am or not at all.
All I ask is you keep me in mind,
I'm worth waiting for.
You know this is for you
don't be shy.

it's a story of girl meets boy,
who's reading milan kundera's
the unbearable lightness of being,
girl falls in love,
boy laments this falling in love
with a wish to be dead,
girl ***** the boy's high-school friend
and asks the friend to ****
the boy in a cunning and sophisticated way,
the ****** fails,
boy lives on,
picks up a girl in a park drinking beer,
seduces her for a **** when she forgets
miles davis' kind of blue,
and listening to michael greilsammer's
הוריי שלי (https://goo.gl/DZlekQ)
gives sway, they ****,
celibacy of the boy
abolished, more fingers on
the hand than ***** for 8 years counting,
walking home in the cold
night the girl from the park
drowns in the boy's jacket, in terms
of fraction three fifths his size;
concerning title? i don't know where
to cut-in or cut-off from he (heh), shin (sheen),
or any other hebrew letter is,
for if in the case of vav (ו)
the breath is in ***** of the sound
where is the incision for a phonetic unit
of speech to begin or end, akin to greek alpha
and omega, so too with the hebrew examples
ש (shin, not s) and ל (lamed, el or la ahmed)?
i.e. you say omega, but only utter o,
you say alpha but only utter a,
beta but on b etc.
so when giving nouns to units of sounds,
expanding a into alpha aleph, d into delta daleth,
b into beta and beth... how then uncouple
the unit of sound from the noun and couple
it into a word that deviates from noun?
we can sit all day musing this...
the existential philosophers philosophising
with the syllables ego... and i with snoring snorkelling
(zzz)... if ever the serpent slept (sss sizing up
a psst) for man awake then the serpent endeavours
his chance to sleep, brought on by digestion.

You stole my last cigarette and coughed red all over the ashtray. Fountain like it overflowed with our combined wants. Your limbs seemed annexed from your mind and flew all over the place, like across my shoulders, and I had to wriggle out. You drew sticky lines in ash and spit, into a ***** table.

Your mindlessness serves you well, in times like these.

All I could do was collect the half smoked butts and construct them into something not new but at least poisonous. I keep it far from you, though you’re paying as much attention to this as the last bi-election.

Your mindlessness serves you well, in any time.

My smoke creates a protective screen between us, unhappily easily broken by a waving hand or a breath exhaled forcefully. But it’s all we have, so we sit quiet and in our own worlds. You’ve got bats and old songs in your head while I have ****** in mine. Every second of silence is a plot to **** you, every puff, a breath, a gift, a warning. I’d give you anything you want because soon you will be gone and I will take it back.

Everything. The gifts, lies, memories. So your mindlessness won’t serve you so well.

The only thing you get to keep will be a coffin and a lonely name. Keep philosophising into your glass. You want a tin foil hat? Is that your last request? Let me laugh as I dig the hole, I won’t trust anyone else with your death. It belongs to me and I’ll take you and what’s due with utter carelessness.

I close my eyes as you open your mouth and I dream up a better world. It is better because you are not in it. It is better because you are in a grave I had commissioned and then forgotten about and your name is spelt wrong and I had done that and the headstone had been kicked over and maybe I did that or maybe it was some other random marauder with more beer in their veins than blood and an arbitrary rage to exhale.

I woke up into a smoky haze when you touched my arm, asked me for a light. You'd bought a new pack of smokes and two pints. Maybe I can deal with you now. You touched my arm and I started and punched you in the temple.

You don’t mind.

In fact, you laugh and snuggle up to me, take a sip of my beer and steal my cigarette and when I say I can’t wait to **** you, you laugh as if there is no consequence.

We forget about each other as we drink ourselves senseless.

i don't understand why the English perception concerning philosophy is one supposing that of pomp, that somehow an interest in philosophy is not respected, even undermined by the necessary poke-joke that it's all about being pompous - perhaps i'm in such a social position that i only encounter people content with their own self-serving answers, and that somehow, someone else's insight is dangerous, or pointless, or perhaps even like a **** - before you even utter a word, your work is worth as much as a fly on ****, deemed merely "intellectual *******", well, **** me... did anyone ever consider the dangers of philosophising?

and what are the dangers? there are plenty to mind.
imagine yourself opening Kant's *critique from where
you left off - the critique of all theology pouring from
the speculative principles of reason -
already from the rubric i can tell you,
you have no arms and no legs -
we already know the Santa Claus God of those less
fortunate than us, let's leave their "supposed
extravagance and childishness to them", thank them
for even considering such a venture, making our's
easier but also more demanding -
by god i mean: there's always a subject waiting for us,
a plenitude of subjects, the necessary plural vagary -
evidently, because there's no "man in the sky" -
no object to speak of as one might consider a mountain;
every single time, i wake up and something's bugging me -
that time at Christmas when i was visiting my
grandparents, took 200ml of flavoured ***** through
the countryside, stumbled into Church for a mass
(out of the blue), heard the nuns praying for alcoholics,
and when the holy communion came round
i clocked my own blood from the benches -
**** the wine, i needed something more potent -
evidently some little kid got interested and asked her
poor mama what the man was doing -
my own sacrament darling, my own - there ain't a palm
tree from here for miles and miles, seven mountains and
seven rivers - did i tell you that the Spartans drank
diluted wine, and when a drunkard stumbled into
their macho midst they gave him pure wine and made him
do a walk of shame down the street? ha ha, hmm; or me
drinking 4 bottles and only feeling a pinch of salt
on the gusto. believe me, philosophy is dangerous,
it's far from pompous - once enthusiastic about it,
you get a different ear for political rhetoric,
but the bigger problem is that you deem so many human
concerns pointless - i was weeding the patio today
thinking - this is utter *******! these weeds are
as dangerous as dirt behind fingernails - not after
nonchalantly glancing at the future prospect of "time wasted",
i.e. talk of a primordial entity as either a microchip
implant in my mind from the basis of reason solely
(theologia rationalis) - or based upon revelation (revelata) -
popiół! a obecano mi *****!
    popiół! a obecano mi *****!
       popiół! a obecano mi *****! (ashes! but i was
                                                                    promised *****!) -
through to transcendental concepts:
          ens originarium, realissimum, ens entium.
truly, after engaging with philosophy enthusiastically
very little begins to matter, there's bound to be some poetry
in the matter - anti-metaphor of the brain in the pickle-jar,
that's you after at least one book of philosophy having been
digested - your legs and feet are suddenly cut off -
all the busy people call this "laziness", in some respect it
is, all you end up doing is the impractical solution to time,
you end up a void, much to the disagreement of others
that that space could be filled with a waiter,
a gardener, a car-boot salesman, a butcher - money
and the exponential rise in professions - no solution
to counter - look in the Amazon rain forest for the real
aliens not on Mars. that's how it is though -
philosophy is more dangerous than pompous, for those
that really get it - as thus in summary: systematisation
is a very cautious approach toward vocabulary -
reading a dense book like Kant's critique you will rarely
see words that would make the author uncomfortable
or look ridiculous - a density is required to systematise -
i get that feeling sometimes, certain words really do stick
out like a sore thumb - they're like a pair of jeans after
only having worn tracksuit bottoms for a month -
you end up thinking the jeans make you walk with coffin-rigidity
(of the corpse, not the coffin itself) -
ah, but still that memory of doing my own "holy" communion
in church with that bottle of ***** - fun while it lasted -
and in the wise of words of Herr Chinaski -
i make the best movies.

I started walking my normal road ,i put headphones on and 2 minutes later i take them off because i want to hear my surroundings i have this sense that they will all sound important and interesting to me. And they do. I grab bits and parts of people's greetings and exchange of words. They make sense and that satisfies me. I realize my vision perceives the sky even if it's not the only thing i see but, it's there and i know it. In fact the neurones that activate my eyeballs know it but I don't really. There is a big cloud in the horizon. I look up and i see it moving. Before with my limited comprehension that was obstructed by overstimulation i thought it was still. Like a painted ceiling. Like the picture of a cloud in a wall. I keep looking and i notice its slow movement, i observe its pace and it feels like we are moving with the same speed. We are in sync. I keep walking and i start laughing at myself for philosophising such a tini everyday thing and i carry on listening to the conversations of those passing by, like before. I hear an old lady talking to her neighbour from the opposite balcony. She says:" Him and his wife they came over and we ate ,not kiss hug or anything cause you know, it's dangerous. But still it was nice having them around. Next year we'll have to see what happens" And i keep walking and I still feel satisfied

i never thought that you could cook a curry without using either powdered cumin or coriander... it could be universally accepted that a curry base involves the use of cumin, coriander... onion, ginger... garlic... but not this Bengali Rezala... of course there's turmeric... chilli... five green cardamom pods... two black cardamom grenades... acacia tree bark which can replace cinnamon... a little grating of nutmeg... black peppercorns... 3 to 4 cloves... cashews & poppy seeds soaked in water: mushed... no tomatoes... i cannot stress the superiority of the Indian subcontinent cuisine... i don't remember the last time i craved for something European... what? a toad-in-a-hole? a shepherds' pie? a *******... schnitzel?! Europeans can do breakfast... but a dinner is so sad... simple: but grotesque food... all lineage has been cut... literally... "we" are "us" and... "they" are "them"... self... other... cultural exclusivity... contra cultural inclusivity... i find that... it's only adding and substituting the ancient Greek conundrum of consolidating the particular with the universal... subjectivity is paradoxical event: i want to be inclusive but at the same time i want to be exclusive... for the solo project... i sometimes want to feel what others feel: at sporting events... but then... those prized nuggets of: only me, me alone... i stopped liking philosophising a long time ago... what would the quadratic of objectivity look like? objective inclusivity is so rare... it's a... whisper... a whimper! it's pedestrian: strain... which is why objectivity is the exclusivity of things being: "not-being" things... a stone can't argue against being a stone... but... rarely... i can argue for the acacia bark to be synonymous with barks of cinnamon... turmeric can negate my claim that it's a cheaper: yet richer... variation of saffron... blah... i used to elevate language like this... but i've forgotten to do so with some searching purpose... of late... of seemingly never before: or after...

in third person: watch the schematics of man under
the scrutiny of being cut-up...
yet this body still intact...
what a petty little creature... perhaps not so petty:
perhaps just feral...
ego in the zoo of thought:
is it a peacock... a lion... a monkey?
i sometimes wonder...
when i sit down and write i can hush it...
i can escape it... when i sit down to write
and see: letters, letters that become words
and words that become sentences...
i can escape the idle musings of this
little feral creature... my totem: a fox...
         yet how to understand the old trinity
with the new trinity...
how is man to understand so many cogs and
how much of the ÷
              (obelus... return to the altar of ouroboros)
it can be enough to merely fear
so crippling that: once mere thinking was
potential... an adventure...
now i'm shattering...
   a breath of the cognitive faculty is like
a scratch at a mountain: a mountain i will never lift:
let alone climb...
yet all around me... mirages of people
who have been deployed with the certainty
of shadows bound to trees...
if the sea could cast a shadow...
          - last night i sat drinking and peered
into an eucalyptus tree in my garden...
of its three most protruding stems
there glistened a pantheon of ancient germanic
faces...
in an eucalyptus...
how ancient: bearded they appeared:
glistening in the rain covered leaves...
constantly changing their expressions...
i must have seen... a legion of them...
they morphed in an out: yet somehow returned
to their original composition...
by day... the magic was gone...
but i was only drinking:
i imagine what could have happened if
i taken some hallucinogenics...
maybe when on the cusp of dementia i'll find
some to revive a tired mind...
- it seems to me... that i don't have to believe
in "something" these days...
i merely need to be apprehensive of
being left suspect... subjected to:
being the object of a voyeurism that goes
beyond... mere ****** fetishes:
as if to say... the gods have erred...
the ancient ones have erred and are...
now... somehow...
looking back toward the cauldron of
inspiration from the mortal leftovers of men...
- i will not write a measured
geometric representation with poo'em...
i'm not cooking my ancestors would be
accustomed: what was once salt, pepper...
all-spice... the bay leaf...
horseradish... pepper powder...
              i can truly appreciate a good curry...
but to stage it as: primum exemplum...
          it's great... but it's not the only source
of sustenance...
    what about that one: the Imam fainted?
while eating a stuffed aubergines...
                              imam bayıldı...
fi...  Saturn bites off the head of
his son...
                       fi...
                                like a fiddle...
i have not left anything for my father to
be envious of...
i missed the whole unsatisfactory dating
process of my 20s and 30s...
for i... supposedly went mad...
in my 21st year... so... i left the planet
that's so preoccupied with sunrise...
sunset and gravity...

- but i couldn't serve up someone a full bodied stew
for breakfast...
let me tame them with some milder...
like well buttered bread...
some eggs... to begin the day...
i couldn't overpower the lack of ingenuity
of the subcontinent of India need: Ned:
a sauce out...
there must be some culmination pointers...
to begin with...
  akin to: it's better to drink when the sun sets...

ha ha! some bad take of off: on a hurried sexuality...
while as many women have explored theirs
i've been in the trenches picking / pecking
at the scrap-heap of... amateurs...
the glorified ****** revolution only
happened to one ***...
from the 1960s... it has only made
the women advantageous to their....
explorative... plight...

  cult of the statue born from salt...
bone & stone...
i'm starting to think it might have
been my mother...
then again... her mother implored her
mother to be dead... and the mother
had no recognition of the selfie...

            ex nihil: ut nihil...
dum tela orbis...
                            accidit...
                  mea ist...

                     do i look like some youthful Christian
pastor of old?
am i being... somehow... conscripted
into a... Mormons' effort?
it's a beer... it's one beer, two beers: think...
will someone buy me
airline tickets to fly into Iowa
to speak about: the antithesis of Jim?
   i'm scared: i'm scarred... the world is big...
i really don't need it to become any
bigger... i have a laughing maggot in
my *** that stages the ****-show:
you best be placed... right here...

Too much philosophising
ruins the joy of simple living

All things arise from emptiness,
Where does emptiness arise from?

Thus spoke an Ancient Buddha.
I do not understand it, much.

Simply the wheels turning outside -
The pigeons coo, and below the grasses sparkle.

The day turns,
The night as well-

Some something something that
Is not this nothing something.

Why indeed must there be anything,
When just as easy as it for to be nothing-

But philosophising
Is quite unnecessary -

I spent my whole journey
Dancing in front of a mirror:

This one, that is-
All life a reflection of yourself,

All concepts, concepts, concepts-
All the way down - concepts!

Alas- all things do arise from emptiness,
Yet for the life of me-

Pray-
Could I ever understand whereforth emptiness arises from?

Time is telling
but the heart
will not yield-
the clinging
to what went before
transcends reasoning

in intransigence
the loving and the hating
the coming-together
and the parting

memory plays tricks
in its condoning or rejecting
love vacillates in doubting
hate revels in exaggerating

how is a life measured?
what makes for good living?
futile is philosophising
what life does is eluding.

Not high philosophising
that inkling
might just be the right thing!