Soap.
Apologies.

Roll over and take pictures of me.

Roll over and feel a fork in my neck.

Oh so this is morning.

I'll eat you raw.

I love you too.

Basking within the sticks and stones.

Salon.

After the saline.
Now how does that sound?

I want you to follow.
Blindly.

Watch the moth's escape.
A twist of a doorknob.

But we watch.

I grit my teeth. Explain to you these are burns and wound marks.

One or the other and I discover.

Explain to you it needn't be thy way

Ate quickly and explained quicker.

Setting things on the ground is a tricky dive.

One sees the water. And the water sees it again.

So break it. And destroy your poise.

Waiting waiting and laying under the stars with two eyes.

My one and my other.

See now?

See I've grown.

Sleeping in safes. Becoming responsible to avoid the count of clicks and the flicks of wrists.

Speaking of...

Speaking out loud.

Speaking alone I guess.

I'll watch my cigarette disappear and hope a clone is born.

Now. Now now now.

Everyone's dead.

He said he watched the stars watch over you.

Stammering but now pointing.

Stars fall. And even that became an example of me doing wrong.

Is this silence?

Don't hold your breath baby. Use it because there is that chemical I'm lacking from you.

Is this silence?

No it is me just being alone.

We don't do this or that and when we do, it becomes that it wasn't this or that.

.last time i heard... the time difference between Bach and say... a Gershwin was... 187 years... what' the difference between a... say... Joshua Redman (1969) and a Cedric Brooks (1943) - a difference of... a grand total of? 26 years! short attention span or something? too much ***** too many drugs?! why did acid jazz take over?! tell me... i'm not black enough to understand the classical music equivalent in the black community, that is jazz... beat poets?! they cursed the whole affair, yes, no, maybe? just when i thought i might escape the opera, or the tux, or the orchestral hall filled with pensioners... when jazz made the living room everything other than a family communal space... just then... these ******* stopped making decent music, and turned to rap... ****... call me what you like, a racist... whatever... i'm an aesthete... which is not an athlete... ******* should have stuck to their guns... sure... you'll out-run us... but sure as **** you won't out-swim us.

white privilege?
                  seriously?
so...
    the ******
(sorry, emphasis)
   in the gospel choir
at church,
or the one on the dance
floor busting all
the: applying
gymnastics
   to a dance
moves...
  he... she... they weren't
born with a
black, "privilege"?
no? not any...
seems kinda unfair
to presuppose
i come from
a privileged household
of ethnicity;
****... if you want it...
you can have...
the box...
****... inherit my
successes in abstraction...
have your genesis
in ancient Greece...
have it!
           it's yours!
now show me something...
*******(!) spectacular!

i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.

two sudokus down, one pending, and the drinking is insatiable, peering into the stack of books, there's a copy of seven years in tibet and in start to wonder: what sort of interesting life should ever produce a book? the majority of me is asking: really? 7 years in 7 sittings of reading this?! who imagines writing a book, having "completed" an interesting life, does not imagine the majority of the readership, discarding the actual book, and being tibet bound... jealousy is such a cheap emotion, to be honest jealousy is the cheapest of all emotions, cheaper to pay a ******* for an hour's service, than take a fine girl to dinner; what, was someone expecting an "oops" with that?

i sometimes can't imagine the quality of pop,
it's not a pedantic "observation" -
it's just: well, could have done better,
but then again: you clearly couldn't have.
    i like rereading shakespeare and thinking
than minor additions would make the works
stand in greater clarification,
notably in shrapnel -
- 1st witch: why, how now, hecate?
you look angerly.
- hecate: have i not reason, beldams as you are,
saucy, and overbold? how did you dare to trade
and traffic with macbeth, in riddles,
and affairs of death,
  and i, then mistress of your charms,
   the close contriver of all harms,
  was never called to bear my part,
   or show the glory of our art?
such minor revisions, pedantic, of course...
i.e. - how did you dare to *trade and
make trivia with macbeth -
      better still: trade & trivialise -
         and
   - in riddles, and in the affairs of death;
suppose we don't live in times
of man's "omniscience" etc.?
                but we do, and categorising ourselves
as such, we can only seem to test
knowledge via answering trivia question -
the triviality of knowledge oozes out
of game shows: where enough to be
knowledgeable is enough to known the most
encyclopedic set of facts...
    having to encompass all of man's
endeavours seems rather mundane...
             heidegger's aphorism 91 ponderings VI...
and the arrogance of writings maxims /
aphorisms...
        you read them as if they are basically true,
but then again: they're written as
propositions, rather than as presuppositions...
there's not a single word in the works
of nietzsche or la rochefoucauld
that supposes an observation to be true:
        a bit like the legal system dichotomy of
the english vs. the european courts:
  a. innocent until proven guilty, vs.
b. guilty until proven innocent...
                it's the ****** bombast of writing
maxims as propositions,
   there's no room for "error":
said content is: necessarily true,
                         but unnecessarily observed;
most of the time maxim notation is
an erosion of common sense, and subsequently
the killer proteins of alzheimer eating
away at the fatty tissue of the brain...
          mental exercise?
      who the hell wants a schwarzenegger's worth
of brain, i.e. exercise what?
           i don't like nietzsche's style precisely
because i don't like aphorisms or maxims...
          they're bombastic in assuming they're
true,
   i.e. once observed: forever replicated
to the same summa summarum...
  i think it's unsavoury to presume that one's
observations are fit for purpose of replica
observations taking hold of the reader...
if, perhaps, these aphorisms were written with
an overtone of presupposition,
             and left in the la la land of: supposing so -
they would be guarded by an element
of surprise...
                      an encroachment moment,
with an element of surprise...
         if only the loss of propositional bombast,
and the mediation of supposing-so,
   with an undertone of prepositional discretion...
stating the obvious in that stating
the obvious is stating an: unchallenged truth,
an unchallenged observation shared between
to people, well, aren't we talking about
  simply observing the perpetuated plagiarism
of what is "observed", without ever
deviating back into the "unobservable"?
       i believe that aphorisms (as a medium)
are plagued by a certainty inversion -
             sure, they're true, but they are also
true without a guarantee of replica -
                 for the most part they are placebo
ridden...
                and the only aspect of philosophy
that is unscientific...
                for the most part the style of writing
that's aphoristic is placebo,
        and not res replica...
           unless offensively forced - stereotyped.
if only the writing of an aphorism was
plagued by presupposing rather than proposing
a conclusive play on a voyeuristic act -
             the presuppositional attention to detail
would be tactful - and part of the cartesian
continuum...
             but propositional observations,
akin to making stereotypes, have no element
of founding one's thought in the cartesian dynamism
of doubt... there either is, or there isn't -
existentialism akin to the genesis in nietzsche
was born with the cartesian roller-coaster
of fusing an emotional regard for feeling,
i.e. doubt... negation being the prime ingredient
in existentialism, is oh so boring...
         ego negare, ego quasi cogito - ergo..
      i deny, i sort of think -
                                             therefore;
pretty obvious, we had to change the song -
we know so much already, in the current times,
that doubting would be pointless -
    doubting used to have a thrill of purpose
never being finalised,
   existentialism replaced doubt with denial...
so few things can be doubted,
   and when so few things can be doubted,
  we purposively lie, deny, lie, deny, to somehow
muster an origination of awe in emotive
experiences, which only bring failure -
  awe does not coexist with denial -
           you can't be in awe via purposively lying
to yourself...
  you can only seek awe by being forced
  into an emotional system of doubt...
but since existentialism eradicated doubt and replaced
it with denial...
     as already mentioned:
we deny, therefore, we sort-of think -
      we deny, therefore, we "think";
as the zeitgeist suggests - robotics, and other
forms of automation are taking over.
the argument still stands:
  if only the medium of writing aphorisms,
or succinct "truths" could be universally tested,
or at least universally observed as being true...
     if only there was a lost propositional(!) bombast
behind these pieces of writing,
or rather: a presupposition(?),
     since both approaches still converge in the realm
of supposes;
   a position is taken and one is for it -
while a supposing is given and one predates
it with a spontaneous unearthing of unnecessarily
having an opinion about it -
to presuppose is to not suppose -
since presuppositions are more archaic in always
being unforced observations,
  whereas propositions are enforced results
of having forced oneself to think: about something
with the end result of: a maxim,
or the extended maxim, i.e. an aphorism.
          - so who would actually want to make
language, and easy, and accessible, to the majority
of man?
          did not the power reside among
the priesthood who spoke latin, while the general
populace didn't?
   so why would anyone not decide upon:
speaking an english, within english,
   that the common englishman could not understand?

The Fresh blood still warm on my hands
        My mind is swimming in a sweltering sea of sordid sensations
I find myself (or shall I say I search?)
        [I] search for this self [I] naively presuppose amidst quite a convoluted calamity
This assuefaction will not do!
        I must **** myself, and start anew!
I must violently press forward!
        I will hurl myself into the chaotic clasps of Erebus to avoid this cold, dead sediment
                                        This cold, dead past.
Your cold, dead eyes
                                      Your tantalizingly tepid tone
*****, you wish to take me from myself
           You would strip me of my subjectivity
                    You would **** me, but I'm not for you
                               I must **** myself and start anew

Build. 
And once destroyed, remember to learn nothing. 

Walk. 
And when arriving, forget to rest. 

Speak. 
Think of what to say, taste the silver tongue's bitter ring.  

In a fit of rage I exclaim-
I have nothing to say. 


Anywhere but here. 

Anyone but me. 


Until then, destroy a child's heart. 

Play under rusted girders. 

Photograph and frame. 

Box and and store far away. 

All memories, all truths. 

And lies. 


All moments of you. 


Remove those. 
Explain yourself. 


And rise. 

Higher toward the sun. 

Your wings draping over the sweet gaze. 

All heavenly light. 

Weep in silence. 

Curse all those before. 

And search for those to come. 


Anyone but me. 


Try again. 

With tongues from different skulls. 

One bleeds. 

And one waits. 


And now there is a no. 

And now there is no now. 


Only your hazy future. 


Or only a brilliant past. 


The first littered with gold. 

And the last rot and decay. 


So remember. 

Anyone but me. 


And your stare. 
Into me for what seems eternal. 


Waking to see you sleeping. 
Covering your sight. 


And walking far off. 
Into wilderness. 

Finding love buried. 
There's nothing after sleeping. 


A year. 

And there are now six. 

Sending off for answers. 


Love the automatic. 
I passed it off. 
Planned for the son. 


Choirs great in their grey woven spells. 
I am a shape in the wood. 


From the vocal thought, my age becomes my choice. 


To return strife. 
In cold silent gaze. 


Pressed into you. 


Ten feet from now I will forget. 

From you into some place obvious. 

A Corvette in a forest. 

With smoke in hand. 

Sewing the ends of this letter loose. 


Fall down new barriers. 

Fall to the sun and fade. 


Walk with moans and smile with rhythm. 

The Baptist arpeggio of a life forced meaningful. 

These cliffs speak of charm and integrity. 

I see him made. 
And I hear his end in the bottle. 

Synthesized in fermented preservation. 

My hands won't move and my face numbs again. 

Against the wind in name of life. 

Wake before ghosts. 
 
Racing home. 

And the horns cry so low. 

With your eyes I find shame. 

Replaced with some word soiled. 

Work found for the haste. 

So I am told to breathe and forgive. 


And I end. 
To begin something I could not finish. 


In leaving I presuppose I will return. 

In gold worth more. 

On wings of purity. 

Lifted to fall and stay humble. 


And the yes I gave should now be a no.

the earliest dylan works
in the outer-reaches of suburbia -
it works in a way
that you could almost plough
to a fold of summer -
it works -
but the troubling news comes
with the article
about how humanities students
don't finish books,
all the academics are forced to
feed short-cuts and footnote
wormholes for an A grade -
or something in the kinship akin.
where the cherished crumpled page
or a crease or a half begun
paper-aeroplane of the edge
acting as bookmark?
you know there's this alternative
hinduism in the library -
it doesn't make a cow a deity,
it's a book - to never fold edges of
pages to create a false bookmark,
easier to stamp the ants,
the snails, and *****-slap to death
the flies -
but this western hinduism is not
bound to animate beings of lesser
attempts at being crowned -
eastern hinduism is hierarchic
in terms of animate things -
western hinduism is hierarchic
akin to bargains, antiques and
respects -
                 so too the question
of moral relativism abhorred by the
last ancient greeks -
and so too aesthetic morality of
table manners concerned with
proper cutlery use at a banquet with
a king minding neither fork, spoon
or knife, but rather his crown
that can't be used as a soup-bowl -
yes, aesthetic moral- -ism -
impatience held sway once with many
stimuli, in our age so few are
worth stimulating us -
                        the sources -
even words are coerced whereby
the roman geometrics of the Y akin
to the splintering of trees -
but indeed debase your humanity to
something lesser than what you might
call a labourer or an accountant with
your princely function - what will you see?
ask the dog to not bark politely rather than
with scorn of a smack or kick -
bark with him in his annoyance in the night
being left outside as if to presuppose
him being born into a ritual of scorn -
for if hinduism is the only polytheism
worth inspecting, not necessarily revising,
but necessarily borrowing to craft a sense
of oneself -
tell me then, why would i care to concern
myself with the faulty monotheism,
the malachi heresy stating an adaptation
of heresy? is this a copernicus moment,
should a return of elijah be accounted
for in judaism, and a return of isa in islam,
then monotheism falters:
in fractions: a 2nd elijah could make
the monotheistic concept of oneness a half,
since there would be two elijahs to mind,
and too akin to a 2nd isa would make
monotheistic concept a half...
and a third: 3/1    would only craft a third...
and i dare say in writing such
encounters of repetition are to match-up to
the repetitions of summers, days and nights,
and should such repetitions be scolded
then it would be "wise" akin to Xerxes I
to make command of men to lash the sea
to sit still and become as a lake -
so please do not look into the modern man
for micrometre proofs of madness...
look elsewhere! look elsewhere!
stop itemising modern man with that
study of psychiatric endeavour looking
for micrometre proofs of earning!
look into the kilometres of madness
that our history is bound with!
take pick of the proper canvas to compare with!
i endear you, please! a micrometre is a millionth
comparison - don't induce the idea that
a nervous twitch is suddenly an epileptic attack!

we just provide the bang, you provide the number of bangs as necessary to craft an execution of poetic extinction via ideology of supposed "survival" with executing the myth of Dr. Faust, because too ridiculous, which begs the question: so Darwin and the Galapagos turtles isn't a good joke akin to some pervert inspecting butterflies who turned out to be a ******* - because of that cherry skin buttocks?*

all this LGBT thing going on
doesn't appeal to me to
reproduce, i just can't be bothered to get married,
i can't be bothered feeding
heterosexual labour
with the end product being higher prostitution
of surrogate mothers,
you have the power to grow ***** into
foetuses and designer babies, i'm not
necessary given this passive-peace;
i'm liberal up to a point,
after that something horrid takes over...
leave me alone, get the ***** bank to be completely activated
and surrogate mothers the new prostitutes accomplish
a new stratum of earning and spending:
heterosexuality is dead...
or if alive it's what enslaves...
i'm no longer the necessary the body to provide
choice, science over-powered man,
not unlike man over-powering nature
akin to china and india,
but over-powering nature unable
to out-number nature's example of ant of termite;
oh indeed the power, and family as pathological...
enslaving nature limits our growth,
liberating nature dis-inhibits a care to gain power over
when still the earthquake and tornado and hurricane...
science is merely millimetre and a gram!
why take faith in itemisation of such nature
when satiated with dinner you take the dog for a walk
and still look into the distance without clear
dissection - because you do not dissect a living thing,
and when science dissects, it presuppose the thing
to be dead, whether dead or alive, but in chemistry
and physics the thing is either too ridiculous to be alive '
or too grand to be alive -
yet the popularisation of a biological theory
is like the birds & the bees, and the hives, and the candlestick
wax made from pollen of what could have been honey...
biologists are the nazis among scientists,
because, i mean, they're not exactly surgeons,
or medical students, are they? they're about as useful
as psychologists when you have historians
and literature students to make the healthier point of *huh?

She closed her eyes to the diminished shimmer
That floats in the empty murkiness of an expanding
Emptiness, filled with so much yet deserted.

When she ascended her looks to the light it faded
O so slightly, another of her sisters now faded into
The evermore of oblivions fated grasp.

On the presuppose, then collided with obliteration
Of what was birthed by the heavens tears. As all fell
And ushered in her breath now silenced in nothingness.

She looked into herself and felt a yearning to be bright
To not fade. A beacon of life, but where life dwelled
So did the turmoil that rode upon its gifts.

Little things that I gave all too, let us be as one and
Not extinguish that plentiful existence. Yearn to be
Better as a single be joined and as one shine on.

contentious retraction of a failed
dualism,
      happy schizophrenia,
                      my money is "biased"
in metaphor:
           little people, little needs,
          the rest remains a gargantuan
enterprise...
               little fool, little fowl:
                                  and from a grain of
sand, a unit, to conceptualiße
       the breadth and depth of tme....
little people: you know:
         belittle differences,
market the gains...
                      trip and attempt to fall.

       oh, i took the noun confusion to be
an artefsact associated with your, profession
                         being taken seriously?    
my bad...
                   because aren't
lawyers the only, "true", readers,
of a thesaurus?
                    nibbling qusi-vermin,
you could almost squash
them with an ****** impetus at
spotting a cockroach...

                         thing with rats...
esp. of a certain ethnic disposition
that is hardly an allowance...
            anglo goorl with a ****-
beefie?
                    how's that 'elping
you?
         good? **** the rest and
confiscate the retired nearing death....

i'm bothered though...
  about jurisprudence without a thesaurus...
see...
i don't think it would be
applicable, let alone passable
to pass a blah,
     without a thesaurus....
let alone the rule of: thumb...

    i already presuppose the dictionary
definition,
  but i suppose you don't,
given that the thesaurus is
contaminated with a higher
status when compared to a dictionary....
   in most instances
                  the fabric of the kantian
gensis  0 = negation
           doesn't even qualify as (a) genesis...

in the fabric of: the "inconvenience"
             of stating law...
              we have to resort to
"demanding" metaphor...
                god forbid this childish prank
of permanently effectuating a posit of nuance;
given the leverage,
              that demands a portion of
                    the living: to speak for the dead.

yes, perfected "imperfect" english
can sometimes spot a chance to avoid
using articles, given that there are only two
to mind...
           but jurisprudence is as much
about excavating past the prime from
a thesaurus, as it is about reading a,
******* dictionary...
                  gnome language...
              the square: isn't a square type of
people...
            can't help but imagie a hellish
dentistry session...
    bleeding gums, healthy teeth being
pulled out without anaesthetic...
you know,
          the atypical sort of sadism, and dada.

i can almost abhor the term philosophy being
used, overused, playing hide & seek with it,
overusing it, overusing -
the i'm a "philosopher":
   and there are clear "reasons",
                     there is most mythical logic
outside of the confines of
mathematics in the form 1 + 1 = 2
   and the linguistic confines of grammar
akin to a + b + o + u + t = about...
   pretty much nothing...
                 given... there's a big difference
between a philosopher,
           and a thinker...
            that's what i woke up with today,
did my duties, made dinner -
and some other bits and bobs...
                   forgot about my original
schematic, let it sieve itself into a day
filled with pockets of time, drifting on
a sea of subconscious amnesia...
   three drinks later at 11pm...
boom!
              i managed to remember it...
what? the difference between what
a philosopher is, and what a thinker
is...
           a philosopher is someone who
can't escape the cognitive moral question...
the Θ apex -
                      given that...
    you don't actually put a key into
   a keyhole sideways...
       so the θ apex is a fallacy of sorts...
         the Φ apex (prefix) -
  ergo? the Θ apex (suffix) -
                     i never understood the modern
audacity to presuppose "being"
a "philosopher" before being a thinker...
a fiddler of sorts...
             the Θ apex is a genesis of
thought...
     the Φ apex is an exodus of thought...
spewing words in some sort of
Socratic dialectic -
      prodding - asking a variety of
dichotomy questions -
                           basically looking for
100 Zeno paradoxes in each supposition
that's a presupposition
whereby nothing leads to a proposition -
or at least: albeit blind faith...
   and what is the epitome of
jurisprudence?
                       the statue of justitia...
i'd prefer blind faith,
  than blind justice...
                but no...
          i could never claim to be a philosopher...
the so-called term is overused
by so-called "philosophers":
   there are two golden maxims -
don't do unto others what you wouldn't
wish to be done unto you...
   and?
    don't give any advice...
         modern "philosophers" seem to talk
too much and in talking too much
tend to give advice -
  sort of tickling at the idea of
a dialectic - but rarely accomplish it...
      i like to think,
   and the pleasure derived from
thinking is: to not give advice -
instead? provide an outlet of voyeurism -
i'm a thinker, not a "philosopher"...
         what a pompous term -
to reverse the Cartesian principium primo...
i think: not because i am -
              but because i think,
   therefore will think ad continuum...
      who needs to pivot on
the crutches of i am with the term
philosophy?
               i could never consider myself
a philosopher -
   no more, or less, than a priesthood status...
it's a bogus terminology -
apparently if you self-describe yourself
as a, "philosopher": you can don
Vatican style armor of impregnability -
i can't exactly consider myself
giving either good advice, or for that same
reason - scoffing off schadenfreude
by giving bad advice...
                     as a thinker: i stopped
asking the moral ()ought -
                 i put my ego into another door...
               put the key in,
turned it, and found behind the door -
less of an inquisition and self-laceration -
in swamp questions...
                       less a momentum built upon
a ?-impetus (of question -
  which no one would answer, directly,
in the contemporary sphere of all things
temporal - including me in it) -
    but an !-impetus -
              no questions -
        no advice to give -
                               no rigid questions
engulfed by schematics of scholastic
origins - systematical approaches -
     exhausted and boorish - boring even
the library's moths...
                          just the purity of,
narrative - the whole point of
    cutting out the Cartesian point of:
the most over-used word in philosophical
writing - thing -
     res (in Latin) -
    it's like philosophers abhor nouns -
or... more to the point...
                          truth can achieve its peddle stool
status of motivation and subsequent
ambition / impetus / whatever...
       oh the genre isn't dogma -
   and philosophy is just another
genre in the spectrum of literature -
           so pure narration is
the extensa for what a philosophy isn't,
   cogitans: thinking -
                   it would appear so...
    unless running at a brick-wall repeatedly,
re-digesting old unsolvable problems isn't...
well then...
      who can have the audacity to call
themselves a philosopher and not a thinker?
who is will to mitigate a public image -
and not allow a voyeuristic audience?
   probably someone...
   who also manages to gain an audience with
a mainstream newsroom ditto-head...
       it's like:
(a) but i'm a philosopher! i'm here to use logic, reason....
(b) but i'm a journalist! i'm here to...

both are neither.

another way to practice philosophy according to aristotelian conceptualisation is to not presuppose awe, it's more like this, write something down really quickly, an imitation of lightning, and then become struck by awe, rather than being in awe prior and doing the dusty practice of... taking your time... bewilder yourself to ask the dumbest question, answer so wisely that no one will take it as good advice but simply as a maxim no one bothers to encourage in undertaking... i too wish i could have that 'cool' disregard for philosophy, but after studying chemistry, philosophy is not a ponce word, but the word to unlearn hard science and learn a humanism, i too wish i could brush aside the word or practice, but unlike bukowski, i'm not really into gambling on horses.

as currently developed and largely ignored in terms
of the critique of notation i could encapsulate the word
doppelgänger* as the existentialists
would "doppelgänger", the sad sod in me
does actually think about it,
it would refer to either an ambiguity
of a misnomer,
i took the simpler route and just referred
to a misnomer rather than an ambiguity,
singled out words are not really ambiguous
if you burn the dictionary and forget it
ever existed,
i know doppelgänger is ~doppelgänger,
a quasi-misnomer when referring to a
particular instant, i.e.:
find me a clown with a similar background
to the joker - a drunken father who gave him
a Chelsea grin with a knife in a drunken rage...
but what about the joker who studied chemistry
and fell into a pit of chemicals that bleached
his face permanent white?
as socrates remained in motto of:
reconcile particulars with universals...
me? i'm wondering: reconcile particulars
with particulars and universals with universals...
the latter is easy, one pops up, another, three more,
and they are the cogs in the machinery of two
eyes and only 1 point of concentration:
an optical isolation of a tree, a forest, a constellation,
etc., universals are harmonies,
makes no difference to biology of the universal
23 pairs of chromosomes, or the mathematical π,
is the genome sequence the length of π?
anyway, i could have used the existential notation
of encapsulating the word with " ",
but i preferred the post-existentialism notation
of ~, just to avoid the misnomer qualification of
word usage, but leaving enough space for not
undertaken constantly-questioning ambiguity,
i know i can slide a cube through a square hole...
and i know that an actual doppelgänger of a clown
does not exist... find me the particular of particulars,
finding a universal of universals is easy,
you can just quote me on the 23 chromosome pairs
and π - the universal of universals is 1,
the particular of particulars is necessarily ∞,
non-explanatory orientation, just deviant use of a symbol /
encoding...
i know that the doppelgänger of the joker
acted is an ~doppelgänger, but is not a "doppelgänger",
because the word doppelgänger is not necessarily
a misnomer, i know there are no two identical clowns,
but then there are two universals
clown here                                                    clown there
                                            p
                                            a
                                            r
                                            t
                                            i
                                            c
                                            u
                                            l
                                            a
                                            r
                                            s
clown there                                                        clown here,
and indeed universals are governed by multiplication,
and indeed particulars are governed by addition,
i.e. you add to your individuality to be different,
dress different, speak different, speak different,
but then the universals come along and you're a factor
of multiplication, and essentially an analogue,
a deviating analogue, but then you congregate
and become the punk scene, e.g.
but as socrates said, 'i'd only be interested in someone
solving the problem, but not actually solving it.'
and like in all good mathematics, division and subtraction
are just remainders of an indivisible number,
they are indeed methods, scare tactics,
the former segregation and the latter death...
but after all, we're all human and stomp on this earth
with a unified purpose of having weetabix in the morning.

In defiance of deducting, presuppose
an assumption arising,
proving an inference of a theory
described in peacock terms, we
decided already is a popular conclusion.

What will be discovered? Of this theory,
of magical thinking justified by grouped phenomena
that proves, what?

people always presuppose things,
they attach themselves
to either poetry, or atheism (etc.),
but when it comes to the thought
behind each mr. mrs. ms. dr.:
that's supposed to be the foundation
for a clear definition of a title
such as poet, atheist (mr. mrs. ms. dr. etc.),
they rarely come with satisfactory goods:
more like chinese jeans than
original (made in the u.s.a.) american levis.

The particles perpetually persist where they are rejected or attracted, but from any atmosphere that is alien to pure physics, which is from his studies where everything exists and nobody knows what it is? Where Heles anticipated the macroscopic world. Vernarth was on his way to the sources written for the reversal of his military years, already in their wielded silhouettes from so much shaking them in his shadow that he was fading away. Granicus and Iso with Alexander the Great were one of them ..., this is how he exalts himself by having the ascending mission of saving the lineage of Mythological beings and not, under the expedition of his Anabasis or "Expedition for the rescue of Greek Mythological Beings who they are vilified for their own ethnography ”; it is the case of Heles. The brushstrokes were cloistered in the last events where the strong muscle follows, and the brain that escaped from a crypt of Tuthmosis, that perhaps would go for a new archaeologist to advance in the boots that Vernarth used in the Site of Arbela, being in Gaugamela reality, such as in Betania María de Betania in Magdala; being Mary Magdalene in Bethany. Here are the raids that were being carried out with the crews of Alexander the Great freeing themselves from their Larnax, to presuppose the actions that were being debated in the questions as he was always a military man who was on guard in front of his own larnax, but with the excursions to free himself of the same to witness the rebirth of Heles, daughter of Nepheles in the clouds, who consulted herself by the oracles that were already dimensioned in the game of beneficial actions, by double action of the body and mind of the Anabasis that Vernarth contracted by the possession of Alexander the Great in his own body. Much light was thrown when it was pointed out that the oracles would dress them in the greatest of all contests, where the same oracles mark the conspiracies of mythological beings by wanting to take conspiracies to take the world of Vernarth with the Submitology, which allowed life to beings that would no longer have any respite in any episode of interest, nor in a literary empire that ascribes the reality of a set that was mostly on the high seas, as far as the chariots of the navy of Thepis, or of Etréstles that took them to the memory that would speak much more than a faithfully conformed hybrid story, where every species born of a Titan, God or Demi-God would have the solicitous tragediography initialed by the ****** hands of Vernarth, by retaining the garrulous that were greater than the Aegean over the Ionian , where the brute and salty waves would fall abridged on the grievances of a mythological being that is torn by having to know that it can revive, and I saw vir eternally incarnated for centuries and centuries in the dating of those who were willing to revive Prometheus, Heles, Persephone, Orpheus, Stratonice and so many others in the ink that would become blood that writes the life of the beings that revive in the source of the Anabasis of Vernarth. But rather than the harsh air carry the marble dust of Heles over the high masses of warm air to the Valleys of the Kings where Tuthmosis IV, will bury the rest of the ashes that have not revealed their lineage as a sub mythological being, in the average of books and millennia that rested on the magnesium threads formed in the extreme wings of the Helenikká Necropolis, rather in the shady fifth, from where you will breathe the first zephyr cycle from Syracuse to the Kimonos itself, in the rested bay by Dekas.

Vernarth's Anabasis has as a corollary going back with all his entourage from Hellespont, to Patmos. The rhetorical offices would be golden bread and golden wine that tasted like heaven with incense, with orders that Darius or part of his immortal army could revive him to take the sourly baked Patmos. Alexander the Great appears before Vernarth warning him of this ultimatum, and that the armies should be enlisted before this decisive crusade, as compensation for the siege of Gaugamela, with the difference that a large part of the Greek mercenary soldiers would go to confirm the part from the flank or Keras of Vernarth. The banner on this occasion would carry Heles revived with his marble eyes on the two hydric colonnades, to represent the orders of Saint John the Apostle, before a supposed Hellenic rumor became an unexpected assault on the parapsychology of Diodorus of Sicily. , when he woke up in Sicily, as if he had been here witnessing to write the macro uprising of Heles, to revive Prometheus as well, and that they were already becoming illustrious heirs of an island that had great heirs in its lands, under the conduit of the Speleothemes, in which Wonthelimar had brought them.

so when someone like paul joseph watson
begins to comment on depression....
that's when i go, slightly unhinged...
for someone who's never had the experience
the psychiatric act of regression:
implanting false memories in
the governance of psychoanalysis...
        that... that bugs the **** out of me...
michel de montaigne was a known
melancholic...
   whether it was him, or it wasn't him...
the observation resounds:
melancholics are the barometer of humor...
the NPS meme? that's funny...
but going after the depressed?
               curtailing yourself around
an explanation of...
   a social-byproduct?
         a lethargy originating from
a non-rigorous exercise
                           mentality?
no hamster on the wheel sort of *******?
oh i've been investigated
by the psychiatric community,
they even tested one post-graduate
psychiatry student on me...
            the drugs?
i don't have a problem with them...
sedated in body, active in mind...
           but having regression tested on me?
that ****** me off...
                a false alliance with
a forward-"thinking"...
     a critique centralized around...
somehow... not knowing how to use a language...
like i've been writing bad Chinese all
this time... coming from a, "fwend"...
who i remember... trembled before his father...
because he didn't remember
the alphabet...
                when he was scorned:
for not remembering the alphabetical
sequence...
               i'm starting to think...
sure... i get the humor... but... there is
no carte blanche on the table...
   which is why i steer away from taking
either side...
           it's become ugly,
    both sides of the "equation"...
neither side believes in
dialectics... shame... really...
      i didn't see a compromise on the horizon
to begin with...
            the English have simply moved
the concept of humor outside
the realms of what would be equated
into French as an Albert Camus novel...
the starter of the absurd,
before the main-course of existentialism...
because i find it hard...
that people have no idea about
an elevated status of lethargy...
    it's not like these people have grandparents...
who confuse old age lethargy with
hypochondria...
          and the general old age melancholy
of... ****... being old people with
grandparents... and seeing how their
grandparents... are not having children...
lethargy is the nuance
   bubbling under the consciousness of
a melancholic person...
                but ******* out of people
like that...
   it's just...
             too crass to even attempt the funny...
the English sensibility of good
humor is... dead...
      it's just crass, over-simplifying what
is, and what isn't, funny...
        i equate funny with:
some odd social interaction...
  but not a medical condition...
         a genuine medical conditions...
with people, "thinking" the solution to
an obscure lethargy that becomes
a cognitive / anatomical lethargy requires...
an invested typo of, humor...
so... what next? cancer, ha ha!
like that general statement behind
the lethargy of schizophrenia...
and lethargy is a word i'd put behind each
psychiatric diagnosis...
    the lethargic schizophrenic?
      unless bilingual: which already implies
a split-mind...
  well... he figured...
the world has gone mad...
let me step away, slow down, and watch
the circus... after all...
a madhouse conjured from a society,
requires, energetic engagement...
protests, slogans, hive chants...
    i can't keep up...
no chance in hell do i have the energy
to keep up with this amount of *******...
sure... i will be deemed senile...
like... schizophrenia isn't some sort
of abnormal, trans-mortal disease of
the brain that attacks aged brains
with its killer proteins akin to Alzheimer...
with all the useful idiots,
i guess i have to be the uncomfortable
"idiot"...
         see... i side with the "real" crazies...
the diagnosed as mad...
    i side with them...
because after a while...
                 they're like the wise turtles
of this world...
     sometimes you can't just...
treat a cognitive lethargy by being
prescribed a session in the gym...
    the mind counters the body...
after all...
  what was once a mind-body duality...
has become a mind-body dichotomy...
once psychology & psychiatry
established themselves,
as being taken seriously in the medical
branch of study...
  after the perfected anesthetic was
completed for dentistry...
and what is, psychiatry?
   psychology: with an injection of
pharmacology... nothing more...
nothing less...
       but please, please, ha ha...
                   i'm sympathetic to these
people's cries of woe...
      don't, just don't give me the simple
solutions... they're pseudo-scientific...
you've never seen a 79 old with
a lethargic hypochondria presuppose
   he's 20 year old melancholic...
            or rather:
because he's at the end of his tenure,
and is having regrets...
              it's not that i'm even "upset"...
but when you experience
the sort of lethargy that is depressive?
when you can't explain
   the exposure to the pentagram senses...
and can't conjure up a transcended
compendium of thought in the hexagram?
when you can't motivate
that sort of hierarchy of animation?
  when the pentagram exposure of
the senses, doesn't translate into
a hexagram of thought that subsequently
becomes motive to be?
   what the **** will going to the gym
to lift some weights ever do for you?!

They appear,
They seem,
They presuppose
With their ink to emphasize
My dreams
With the task of following lines,
Connecting routes,
Filling in blanks.
I add sighs to words,
Words to screams
That come from someplace deep and quiet.
They seem,
They appear to assume
You will understand me.

For the sake of argument
Let's presuppose POTUS
Actually read the Bible.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the O.T.
POTUS:    That David guy; when he grabs Bathsheba's *****.

Reporter: What's your favourite story from the N.T.
POTUS:    Pilate, when he washes his hands.

once upon a time i would look into the mirror
with a... curiosity of water...
sometimes i'd turn on the tap...
sometimes i'd block the plughole...
sometimes i looked at the "drowning" man
as a lake... sometimes as a river...
sometimes i'd come back with
concepts of time...
sometimes i'd come back with
concepts of: what if music didn't exist...
i'd cite no music at all...
but the comparison of the sound
of falling rain on a tin roof...
or on an umbrella... or in a heavily
leafy forest against the... snares...
   all that for a monotone crescendo...
that... if listened closely...
could spit out an A♯ and all the other
black notes...
                    that is, indeed, too intricate
and overbearing with detail...
but then a paragraph by Dickens really...
all those Victorian excuses for
keeping the language as cordial as possible...
never mind the archaic and obsolete
terms like... nearing celeriac...
yes... indeed...
                 ce-le-ri-ty:
                       swiftness...
etymology: via French celerite -
evidently from Latin: celeritas / -tatis...
                            celer (also latin): swift...
back to the mirror...
but only today...
      occupied by a mirror in a supermarket lift...
and all that could become about
from a trial and run period of...
the Chinese were never to be the Mongols...
there was never a horde... coming...
not from behind that wall...
not from under their overtly complex
ideograms that would be chewed and spat
out as nothing more than Li Po:
syllables: because... who the hell could
have heard of the concept of letters
in this Mars upon this Earth?
            that they: SHua and SHea
and CHow a lot...
                           or... this is what Ezra Pound
could have forgotten...
     ยิ้ม (which is in thai... yummy yim...
because of beijing and ****)...
                     wei-xia(o) - better in cantonese...
mei-siu...
             :) when borrowing
egyptian hierogylphs to steal some owl,
sparrow... cenobite from the chinese...
it's almost staggering how they didn't conjure
up pyramids of architecture...
instead: just a plain ******* roof...
this is a dog: こう
                   yep... here's the dog: 구
and here's the barking: woof woof! ワン

you're telling me... that the chinese could...
become the sort of empire the mongols
carved out?
and how long... before they could...
start breeding their slaves and lackeys...
who could understand them...
or read what they would have to necessarily
write?
         looks pretty in that mandarin...
but back in latin: gou... jugou...
              it's not like they could... or would...
because infiltrating this labyrinth of:
and only coming back with the primitive
latin of lady gaga... all those strokes for a syllable
and no letter...
there much be a dictionary of strokes...
an Ab - Ba
             Ac - Ca - but not really...
                  just in case anyone might need
to be reminded: Xi Lo and Li Po and Xi Jinping...
there is gold in the yellow river...

anyways... i ramble on like any self-respecting
european does: the power of perception
and the subsequent fictions / narratives...
just as important as the facts... of geometric rigour...
anything outside their realm is
either fake news or equal to the Valentinian heresy...

you can't move this sort of a literary
backage and turn it into a body of water of men
and horses bows and arrows and steel...
not with those sort of phonetic encoding...
which is why... the Mongols are currently
resurfancing with their old alphabet...
i dare say i can't imagine what it could
possibly look like... not the sort of crude
Thai... when compared to the genius-head
of mandarin, by comparison?
                 but if you're trying to... "wage war"...
and all you have is...
the proverb: the chinese would merely
have to march to conquer us...
you wouldn't even have enoug bullets...

        well then... atomic bombs are crescendo
pieces... they don't really sell more guns...
just brooms, shovels, bricks and cement...
and a hunger for licking eternal shadows
of the eternal sun of boom...

a minor haitus from mammalian pride...
   this little gremlin has learned the oldest
trick in the book...
   it will mutate and probably not evolve
to gain a proper mouth with teeth
and a tongue... or a leverage of a limb...
but all that cosmopolitan pride: mammalian...
the graces of writing a letter...
the bestowed angelic choir when wining
and dining...
the virus... and the bottleneck pressure
of the hive...
   the glorious mammal... having to...
look more closely at the little gremlin...
i see no symptom: of lilac mushrooms growing
out from under armpits and between toes
filled with killer toxic ****...
     the ant, the former ape...
the hive...

                           you are most certainly
a mammal and ape and all that comes with
darwinistic ideology...
but... smell it? it's not fear... it's not panic...
it's: a precautionary lullaby...
i agree: it's not quiet a hive...
a hive is a concentration of gravity...
this is still but a herd... much difference
to be grasped: between a herd...
and a hive...

                a herd might as well roam...
a hive: nests...
sending out its most potent examples to ward
of intruders...

   or there are two languages: there's the formal
and the informal...
but there's also all that beauty in...
what's to be said: readied for rhetoric...
and one to be: thought about...
                      theta-omicron-upsilon-gamma"eta"tau...
clearly there's no borderline number
of a letter of spelling that's a H(atch) in
greek... less so when is comes to ψ
and the passive π  with an otherwise silverback
"alpha male" of... "sickly steve": σ...
old as a solipsistic **** (the grateful dead...
st. stephen)...

    or if i were chinese... i wouldn't really require...
the distinction...
since... i'd have to burden myself with
the tools akin to chopsticks... or if i was really...
really sadistic... and tiger mommy...
two toothpicks and a mountain of dry rice...
to... allign into a straight line...
take your pick!

but it must be the hong kong fashionista trend...
it must be... wearing surgical masks...
when... going "shopping" for some woodchips
and whiskey?
i'm giving my hands a baptism in the earth...
i'm gardening... spring cleaning of the house
has taken... extreme... transcendent meanings...
but at least i'm not doing what was
otherwise done: doughnuts and blockjobs
and netflix binging...

mind you: i must have been deserving to...
finally get around to reading some Dickens...
this is not a parody...
a parody would be...
            Mabel - don't call me up...
singing live at the Brit awards...
              and the most important vestige of
anything that matters happened today...
two crows were foraging the lawn for
an equivalent of carboot oddities...
the odd twing 'ere... the odd twing v'er...
ever wonder why...
you will never see crows...
fill the whole scene with a sense of ****?
all the time... the ***** pigeons...
was good sure... that those feathers shouldn't
come off and the niqab should be attired?

i too am waiting for a miracle...
a muslim woman wearing a niqab all in white...
then again... where's my imagination...
concerning ******* gloryholes and
b.d.s.m. thrills! michael jackson's: ye-he!
yes... no lasso with that plump iceberg of
juicy beef... but it's there for the taking...

and that i drink... of course... that 35cl shot is...
there's more need for spontaneity than rhyme...
all this is hardly my kind work of edit...
where is rhyme in either frank o'hara or charles
bukowski...
it's not even waiting for a hint of inspiration...
it's: chicken scratches... and scratches...
and then... wow!
magic... a rhyming couplet at worst!

allure of last night...
    i can clarify...
                   i'm less enchanted by a fear of the "evil"
man... at there's a purpose and foremestly: a resolve
involved...
   a chaotic purpose of will...
which... even if the evil deed is willed...
is suddenly dispersed into the realm of phenomena
and chance and gambling and...
"darwinism"...
       the truly man can be forgiven...
in tha consequences of what comes...
alongside the arbitrary...
         but this leeching middle-man...
              the "fox"...
                     the ***** hands that forget
to sense a mind for a worth of soap...
  the peculiar mundaneity of horror bound
to the everyday scrupules of:
keeping up expectations...
that worst form of acting: lying without gravitas...
and a stage... and a purposively alligned
audience for the part... always prescripted for
the awaiting encore galore!
                   3rd party associates of evil...
the evil that simply... "asleep" or... "associated with"...
that sort of *******...
just shreds... the hopes of Cain seeking redemption
as a nomad... hostile: outcast...
just like his father... Adam...
              
                 Adam was cast out...
Cain bit the second apple of Abel... blah blah...
simple arithmetic of images...
the ***** of Siberia: one might conjure up...
with the devil's dozen of wolves of Blagoveshchensky
district...

yes... and at this point in time:
rather than history... history will always provide
the allure of studying human affairs...
time: like... fire... like water...
like earth and its geology...
   is the... given that lightning is the...
allure of the Faraday's fire... blitz-krieg...
me this language and a happy family!
ha! ah ha ha!
me this language and... peacocking in
a nightclub... out-takes from a *****-flick...
one *****-stars playfully ****-gags another...
the one being gagged is responsive
to the joke that begins and ends with...
the punchline... an oasis of the vernacular:
BA-NA-NA...
           toast! here's to me trying my rupture
of an artery in the phallax formation
with an ingestion of some...
spandex ballet... a ****** and a bass woo
of a barry white...

       like: "oops" was supposed to presuppose
the grand event of... the big bang...
"bang" a concept so devoid of meaning
when being introduced to a vacuum of... time
has to be an element... akin to fire...
akin to water... air and earth...
and... Prometheus didn't exactly steal...
a lightnig bolt... did he?
he didn't exactly steal an atom heatwave from
Chernobyll... did he?

- but only now...
              time... mythology: too much time has
passed... and there's a geological layering
of furthering the will of man...
and the recycling of paper...
time... history: bookworms more or less:
"there"...
time... journalism...
                and the self-employed free agents
of time... "poo'ets"...
               at least...
what "standing out of" all time... and space?
time i can can understand...
but space?
here's me standing outside of all space:
a bullet-point...                                           ).(
   and (.)           ****... how about...
the exclamation marker                               !
or the question mark                 ?
sure as ****... these would require the "diacritical"
mark of distinction more than
i which is already an I so can be ı
j which is already a J so can be ȷ
but the ! and ?
                            well...

mirror mirror on the wall... poor sam...
      Dickens would have someone swap
their Vs for the Ws and vice versa...
             if it wasn't poor Sam... the shoe-shiner...
and some other vague shadow personage...
but let's assume i have an IQ of 100+ and
i can keep up with a victorian text...
for this poor some swapping his Vs for his Ws...
comes up with... a breakdance of...
latin via: amicus curiae and...
                ad captandum...
            standing outside of all time... and space...
looks like heidegger's hammer
had a precursor...
     a shoeshiner had all these...
maxim prefixed readily available rhetorical pivots...
to shut people up: if they were being
too... "inquisitive"...
well outside of time... hardly...
if there are pockets of space that are somehow
synonyms with each other...
and that before time is given a linear: "forwrd"
it has a period of: "jumping" to-and-fro...
of being glued and at the same time
wanting to be... glued in a diluted sense
of the word...

it must be a Hong Kong catwalk summary...
before long i was much younger...
20 (circa)... now that i'm 30 (circa)...
and there's this surgical mask hiding my face
but still exposing the beard and the puffy rinds
that do encrust the eyes to peep...
well...

it had to become apparent...
the old curiosity of water is... driftwood...
now i stand before the mirror and
puncture the skin for the long "lost" embryos
of Beelzebub's jist: jazz: jizzom...
cuckload of fly ***** of maggot on my face
in the form of acne...
           there was once the sort of inquiry
an antonym of my specimen could share with me...
and be attracted to...
now i use the mirror for only one purpose...
hardly me about to romance a vampire
and... "disappear"...
but the surgical mask helps...
i don't see a quasimodo...
i see a furnace of a Frankenstein's adam
with pupils of coal and an iris of fire
to peer at and with...

                            whatever a god might have
cursed me with... i'll add salt...
then i'll add the vinegar...
  then i'll sprinkle some sand on the "wounds"...
and later call it:
the crackle of cement before the moans
of mud...
            
***** pigeons... always with the ***** pigeons...
it ends with ***** pigeons...
and of all of them... the spectacle of being
rejected...
i'm guessing... the clarity of rook morality...
being akin to the morality / NOBILITY
of swans...
                 since you will not see them...
eagerly displace their courtship... in the plain sight
of day...
    the rook and the swan...
will you ever see the nightly troubles of keeping...
a... vested interest in surrogate motherhood...
in surrogate fatherhood...
in the widower swan?

                                        as fallen as i am...
there are most certainly more noble creatures
abiding in my exfoliating noun terminology of verbs:
like attaining the halo of a manicure...
rather than... random beating with a beak
a... clue to how wings do not translate as arms...
oh that perpetual hunchback of:
grace with flight... but bowing before every step
of a walk... that man admires the flight of birds...
but cannot see... all... well...
who cannot excuse the jitters of hopping sparrows...
the gift of flight... but being humbled when curious
about nails... gravity... and earth and... rotations...
of heliocentric grandeours!

language: otherwise known as the swedish banquet
table for peacocks... baboons and...
lipsynch.      parrots! joe wooden leg in tow!
joe wooden leg... bartanblondine was asking for a
"whittle talk" with a barbarossa...

just saying.

most people in the western world,
i presuppose, don't have this line
of argument,
and as mich as i'd love to argue for
either side of the propositions...
personally? i can't agree
to market either side's superiority...
say... i really prefer Indian
food to all the other cultures,
****, i have a kitchen with
a powerful array of Indian spices,
a pretty impressive arsenal...
and no... no one can fathom
the aesthetic of male
clinging toward a Turkish
barber...
   i don't care if a woman
cuts my hair and trims my beard...
the Turks are destined
perfectionist of, some would say,
a ******-riddle enterprise...
no matter...
i'll take a Turk to cut and trim my
beard over come English
**** fiddler...
         forget it,
a Turk comes prior to an English
******...
   the end.
    which brings me to the debate
concerning nationalism...
see... i'm stretched...
really, really stretched to mind both
sides of the debate...
i grew up in England,
in the multicultural La La Land...
i'm used to it,
but whenever i visit my grandparents
once or twice a year...
a nausea hits me...
   i wasn't born in either Warsaw
or Krakow...
   not many tourists visit my town...
a mix-raced child,
devil hell spawn of some Polish woman
and an African is like:
hell ping pong central
with the index finger...
     which brings to that "other" point...
you ever go back to
a monolithic...
****, wrong word...
   mono-.... mono-...
what's the correct word...
              ah! a homogenous society?
while the old outsiders
are a bunch of travelers at
the town's market on a Saturday,
speaking broken Polish?
     no, i guess the correct answer
is no...
     there's a nausea sensation,
you start feeling that every potential
romantic suitor is:
****** RED! ALERT!
   ******! like you're about
to **** your cousin or something...
i can't help but feed off this crap...
after all... the Polacks are
nomads no. 2, just shy of the Jews...
being nomads no. 1...
Boston to the Irish,
Chicago to the Polacks...
   but these people arguing
for nationalism,
an a homogenous population,
their monochromatic basis points
of argument...
they have been to places where
the collective minorities
are the majority?
  they have, right?
   all the small town rumor spreading,
the refocused attention
away from celebrity culture
and focusing on the friends,
and neighbors?
          i drink, my fault, my pleasure,
my vanity, my problem...
do you think the people
making their nationalistic
arguments, true, fair points...
could adapt to a homogenous society
so quickly and easily as
their arguments attaching
themselves to the vagueness
of the aether?
i'm neither pro nor con
either side of the argument...
   but having grown up in a society
with such a peacock rainbow of
Amazonian butterflies on show...
going back to a homogenous
society...
    it's gut-wrenching...
           it doesn't become
the revamped acquired norm within
a generation...
  impossible...
            like with interracial
marriages...
      the dominant genes disappear
in the third generation...
parents... no chance...
children... it's still there...
grandchildren... one side overpower the over...
great-grandchildren...
the freaks come out...
but i'm telling you...
if you've grown up in a hegemony
of cultures, races etc...
you'll find a homogenous
society...
     a bit dizzy...
a bit ****** riddled by superstition /
unhealthy bias on the basis
of the focus of an argument...

both sides are correct,
but both sides are also wrong,
personally,
going back,
and being a ****** among so many
other, Polacks?
    i start to imagine myself
as a faceless man,
a black hole event...
******* at a depth that's
without one.