Descartes' verb interaction is perhaps a shallow fact to grasp, but given the word therefore is an adverb, there must also be a counter to this, given some people are introverted, or extroverted as the original cartesian model suggests - so therefore can also become what the daydreamers get up to, for if thinking precipitates a sort of being, it can also precipitate a sort of non-being (the limit of such reasoning to suggest non-existence is a bit like reasoning the existence of god); i.e. therefore (ergo) apart from being an adverb (toward action) can also be an abverb (ab-, the prefix expanded in modern tongue as: absence - the commuters on the train... just sitting) - hence the after-mentioned mathematical stimulation of deciphering would be better suggested as not =, but as ⇌.

i've noticed this when reading philosophy books,
after engaging in one, you suddenly run out
of steam, you are creating a void, and by creating a void
through lack of hope for originality or demanding it,
and by creating a void you become stalled in what
you deem to be the adequate waterfall of lettering
arrange into word on paper, you create this vast
chasm that's an "antidote" to the cartesian res cogitans...
upon reading a philosophy book you turn into
a *res vanus, or should i say, an empty thing, a vacuum,
upon rejuvenation you do encounter thought,
but by turning yourself into a res vanus you
encounter thought as equatable with your ego,
as in: this is you, narrating in secret -
unlike the 26 unit equation of Hegel plagiarised
by Ginsberg in his poem the end:
i am i, old father fisheye that begot the ocean,
the worm at my own ear (new testament quote
about escaping hell, the worm at your own ear
gnashing its silica SiO2 teeth turned into glass,
glass teeth that then shatter) - the three words of
genesis are borrowed from Hegel's outlines
of the principle of rights, he too states the same,
the i am i, and furthers it by ascribing the word
am with the mathematical symbol =,
i wonder what word could be ascribed to other
words... perhaps in original terms ergo could be
Gemini as + and ÷... the latter case obviously
symbolical of schizophrenia, - (minus) typical of
depression, and x (multiplier) and ego trip,
that ultimate trip without intake of any Amazonian
substance or ingestion of a Swiss chemists' champagne
moment on a bicycle? i wonder. **** it, i digressed,
moment of rereading to find the river once more.
ah yes, this conception of a res vanus came to me
unlike Paul McCartney's yesterday, right in front of me,
first i read the day's newspaper, very depressing
material... then i picked up Kant again,
only briefly, i felt this sudden suggestion that upon
reading philosophy you are emptied, emptied in order
to become a blank canvas for someone to paint
something into your mind, the reason being is the
championing of thought in philosophical books,
to read them you seem to have to assume being empty,
rather than being brimful with thought,
i.e. jumping to too many conclusions and nodding
or shake-of-the-head assertions - there's no
parallelism with that notion of being a thinking thing
(a res cogitans), it can only come by a stance of
emptying or a pervasive adjective (quality) omni-
as regarded emptiness. i realised that the only way to
reattach myself to my own narrative was to engage
with a philosophical dynamic once again,
prior to yesterday i hadn't bothered to peer in once more
and wrote a detail of yesterday's events, not to my liking,
a lack of continuity rose up, a fizzing nugget of
phosphorus on water. if i left my eyes strained on
merely the newspaper i wouldn't have written this,
it had to be Kant, again.
but indeed upon turning into this res vanus of my
own invention, the principium is followed by
a definite articulation (mediating away from a definite
article) in Hegelian sense with mathematical grammar
via (+, -, x, ÷, etc.) to say: well if am is suggestive of =,
mediating expressive egoism and repressive egoism,
then res vanus, has to provide a similar product,
not a parallelism whereby one man thinks himself
extroverted in the medium of thought, but actually
introverted in the medium of being, but rather a
convergence (Oxford will take years to ascribe an -ism
on this matter)... since after disengaging from res vanus
upon reading a philosophy narrative,
it is a convergence of the pinnacle of decisive identity,
in that i = thought, of course Kołakowsi would
argue counter specifications of this grammatical construct,
he already did so when referring to dancing the tango
in his book culture & fetishes, i'm obviously disregarding
grammatical categorisation as a rigid Eiffel tower
monument to human endeavour,
i can state i = thought since both are personal associations,
Heidegger's famous contribution: we're still not thinking.
i don't care to suggest that thought is an Atlas with
the nouns world, helplessly balancing the many attributes
of what we call thought: the thought to steal, the thought
to care, the thought to obey, the thought to lie...
within such a list thinking is hardly definite, it's indefinite,
but what is definite in this respect is that we can identify
thought as ourselves, this is what stems from the res vanus
principium, a principle that allows for philosophy books
to be actually read, since reading them is permitted when
the contradiction of the cartesian res cogitans is lost.

Nota: his soil is man's intelligence.
That's better. That's worth crossing seas to find.
Crispin in one laconic phrase laid bare
His cloudy drift and planned a colony.
Exit the mental moonlight, exit lex,
Rex and principium, exit the whole
Shebang. Exeunt omnes. Here was prose
More exquisite than any tumbling verse:
A still new continent in which to dwell.
What was the purpose of his pilgrimage,
Whatever shape it took in Crispin's mind,
If not, when all is said, to drive away
The shadow of his fellows from the skies,
And, from their stale intelligence released,
To make a new intelligence prevail?
Hence the reverberations in the words
Of his first central hymns, the celebrants
Of rankest trivia, tests of the strength
Of his aesthetic, his philosophy,
The more invidious, the more desired.
The florist asking aid from cabbages,
The rich man going bare, the paladin
Afraid, the blind man as astronomer,
The appointed power unwielded from disdain.
His western voyage ended and began.
The torment of fastidious thought grew slack,
Another, still more bellicose, came on.
He, therefore, wrote his prolegomena,
And, being full of the caprice, inscribed
Commingled souvenirs and prophecies.
He made a singular collation. Thus:
The natives of the rain are rainy men.
Although they paint effulgent, azure lakes,
And April hillsides wooded white and pink,
Their azure has a cloudy edge, their white
And pink, the water bright that dogwood bears.
And in their music showering sounds intone.
On what strange froth does the gross Indian dote,
What Eden sapling gum, what honeyed gore,
What pulpy dram distilled of innocence,
That streaking gold should speak in him
Or bask within his images and words?
If these rude instances impeach themselves
By force of rudeness, let the principle
Be plain. For application Crispin strove,
Abhorring Turk as Esquimau, the lute
As the marimba, the magnolia as rose.

Upon these premises propounding, he
Projected a colony that should extend
To the dusk of a whistling south below the south.
A comprehensive island hemisphere.
The man in Georgia waking among pines
Should be pine-spokesman. The responsive man,
Planting his pristine cores in Florida,
Should ***** thereof, not on the psaltery,
But on the banjo's categorical gut,
Tuck tuck, while the flamingos flapped his bays.
Sepulchral senors, bibbing pale mescal,
Oblivious to the Aztec almanacs,
Should make the intricate Sierra scan.
And dark Brazilians in their cafes,
Musing immaculate, pampean dits,
Should scrawl a vigilant anthology,
To be their latest, lucent paramour.
These are the broadest instances. Crispin,
Progenitor of such extensive scope,
Was not indifferent to smart detail.
The melon should have apposite ritual,
Performed in verd apparel, and the peach,
When its black branches came to bud, belle day,
Should have an incantation. And again,
When piled on salvers its aroma steeped
The summer, it should have a sacrament
And celebration. Shrewd novitiates
Should be the clerks of our experience.

These bland excursions into time to come,
Related in romance to backward flights,
However prodigal, however proud,
Contained in their afflatus the reproach
That first drove Crispin to his wandering.
He could not be content with counterfeit,
With masquerade of thought, with hapless words
That must belie the racking masquerade,
With fictive flourishes that preordained
His passion's permit, hang of coat, degree
Of buttons, measure of his salt. Such trash
Might help the blind, not him, serenely sly.
It irked beyond his patience. Hence it was,
Preferring text to gloss, he humbly served
Grotesque apprenticeship to chance event,
A clown, perhaps, but an aspiring clown.
There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams
That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs
Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not
The oncoming fantasies of better birth.
The apprentice knew these dreamers. If he dreamed
Their dreams, he did it in a gingerly way.
All dreams are vexing. Let them be expunged.
But let the rabbit run, the **** declaim.

Trinket pasticcio, flaunting skyey sheets,
With Crispin as the tiptoe cozener?
No, no: veracious page on page, exact.

Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil,
The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates
Of snails, musician of pears, principium
And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig
Of things, this nincompated pedagogue,
Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea
Created, in his day, a touch of doubt.
An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes,
Berries of villages, a barber's eye,
An eye of land, of simple salad-beds,
Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung
On porpoises, instead of apricots,
And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts
Dibbled in waves that were mustachios,
Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world.

One eats one pate, even of salt, quotha.
It was not so much the lost terrestrial,
The snug hibernal from that sea and salt,
That century of wind in a single puff.
What counted was mythology of self,
Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin,
The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane,
The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak
Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw
Of hum, inquisitorial botanist,
And general lexicographer of mute
And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself,
A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass.
What word split up in clickering syllables
And storming under multitudinous tones
Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt?
Crispin was washed away by magnitude.
The whole of life that still remained in him
Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear,
Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh,
Polyphony beyond his baton's ******.

Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea,
The old age of a watery realist,
Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes
Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age
That whispered to the sun's compassion, made
A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars,
And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon
Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that
Which made him Triton, nothing left of him,
Except in faint, memorial gesturings,
That were like arms and shoulders in the waves,
Here, something in the rise and fall of wind
That seemed hallucinating horn, and here,
A sunken voice, both of remembering
And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain.
Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved.
The valet in the tempest was annulled.
Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next,
And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt.
Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates,
Dejected his manner to the turbulence.
The salt hung on his spirit like a frost,
The dead brine melted in him like a dew
Of winter, until nothing of himself
Remained, except some starker, barer self
In a starker, barer world, in which the sun
Was not the sun because it never shone
With bland complaisance on pale parasols,
Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets.
Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried
Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin
Became an introspective voyager.

Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last,
Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing,
But with a speech belched out of hoary darks
Noway resembling his, a visible thing,
And excepting negligible Triton, free
From the unavoidable shadow of himself
That lay elsewhere around him. Severance
Was clear. The last distortion of romance
Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea
Severs not only lands but also selves.
Here was no help before reality.
Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new.
The imagination, here, could not evade,
In poems of plums, the strict austerity
Of one vast, subjugating, final tone.
The drenching of stale lives no more fell down.
What was this gaudy, gusty panoply?
Out of what swift destruction did it spring?
It was caparison of mind and cloud
And something given to make whole among
The ruses that were shattered by the large.

I don't remember the part of my job application that said i'd be bored out of mind.

I don't remember being asked to be born in a town where things to do were so hard to find.

I don't remember telling anyone to make the fuel of my escape what can only be presumed to be unicorn blood.

I don't remember exactly when i stopped being a stud.

I don't remember when my bank account shrank.

I don't remember when i started to care about what was in the bank.

I don't remember what i wanted to forget.

I don't remember if I'm lying to keep from getting too upset.

I don't remember becoming this much of a cynic.

I don't remember turning into the crotchety folks i used to mimic.

I don't member what Dante said about Hell.

I don't remember quotes too well.

I don't remember getting this sad, mad.

I don't remember when being this angsty became so bad.

I don't remember so why then i can't stop?

well, it's still better than what populists ascribed to with omni-; which basically led two major "monotheisms" (Christianity and Islam) into pantheism: e.g. - touch a rock, mm, that's god... touch a banana, mm, that's god; stick a thumb up your ***, mm... now that's truly god.

what i was aiming to suggest was the concept
of *deo sapiens,
as an antidote to the overrated **** sapiens
categorisation, which can hardly be the limit
of our collective definition of man set apart
from nature, given his persistent submission
to the four elements of nature, which limit
man's assurance as above helpless animals he
decided to pet or industrialise in farming -
and apart from the elements the existence of
parasites and diseases (negations of ease) -
i only wanted to introduce the concept deo sapiens
to say F U to the Greek demoralising theological
poets, and enjoin the whole concept with
what was already inscribed prior: made in his image,
although image doesn't really go beyond
the demigod Narcissus in what's to be understood:
perhaps we are of the same mould in
the shallow realm of equal representation,
repraesentatio expilo (representative plagiarism),
but with the overruling body of nuance
hanging over us like a sack of **** or the sword
of Damocles, we can hardly continue as these unshaken
prefects of the firm categorisation of **** sapiens,
which is still rather an infant of conceptualisation,
we have no claim to **** sapiens, i cannot think
why man claimed such a firm atheistic belief with
his continual irrationality, perhaps certain discoveries
in science allowed him crossing the Nile of ideas,
thus in the same way as i disregard the categorisation
of **** sapiens i invite the concept of deo sapiens,
a rational god: it's just a massive grave and subsequent
plagiarism with pyramid schemes of dupes!
that thing ain't gonna fly! away from greek poets who
purposively created immoral gods to satiate their
human fancy: indeed an unfair world, but a world
where man can fully express his freedom, and what
freedom he chooses according to his will...
only a deo sapiens would allow such freedoms
(with that one ****** exception that's worth a thousand
stigmas in the shadow of the crux that gave us
so much narcissistic culture via iconography and dyslexia);
or in other words, yes, indeed only a **** insapiens
would dare craft the idea of a deo sapiens
(although in act of good faith / doubt), rather than
a **** sapiens crafting the idea of deo insapiens
(although in act of bad faith / denial) -
and yes, the paradoxical twins, who are actually
Siamese... it's now up to your choice of painting with
will what freedom you wish to see revealed on
the canvas... don't mind me, my hands are in the air,
i surrender... i'm not about to imitate an Islamic prayer
format of kneeling and mumbling something under
my breath five times a day; i'll do it in one smooth
guillotine stroke: hands in the air.

The fortress that which is your mind
May find not such turmoil as harsh
And instead might as well, rejoice
The shackles which at present bind
Or may be, but it shall doth budge
The resolve of its castles strong
And surely not, it shall not smudge
Ordeal undertook by genial souls
What may be, will have then begun
Fear not, have faith on the virtuous
Path; Think not, what if but of the
Good, that has_ and in time you will
Clearly see; mental tenacity will be
Yours, decreed; Have just clear head
Upon thy broadsword. Nothing else
Will have; or will ever matter more !

indeed shakespeare, the world's a stage, but give me
the stage and not the world, give me the actor's proper
compass to define himself in the stage without
the onslaught that bothered nietzsche: imagine speaking
for the entire humanity. i have one for one, where the
"actor" owns the stage, but cares little for the world
in which things are acted according to heidegger's da sein.

inside a room sits a man, reading aloud canto xxxviii,
taking in the funny parts... with ezra's specified decor
of the trilling r, the lip numbing vibrating of m and half m (n),
just to don the evening jacket pipe and waistcoat...
all the way from idaho... losing the accent of course...
like me from the backside of poland, although nearby
the signing of the treaty of *lublin (1569)...
so there he is, sitting like a crow with a crown,
or a crown that's a crow, hunched, nonetheless eager to enjoin
with the surrounding choirs...
in the room händel's tecum principium (psalm 110) -
if händel never bothered to expatriate to
england... we'd only be left with elgar and
vaughan williams as the sole exports... what shame...
here's to the fireworks! in the room this scene... but outside
a first movement of ηoλιδες by franck...
so indeed the voodoo ****** needed for the giggle
from canto xxxviii (contrary
to what was suggested, and the suggestion
was that i could enjoy music & poetry
as much as i am now with a woman,
to prevent the waterfall from mt. ****,
the boredom, the scaly crocodile the
erasing ink of octopi... all that with a hope
for censored ****... and children and the absence
of private thinking... to appreciate it once is
not enough... and with woman of choice
only one account holds sway... tear jerker at the opera
and furthering this withstanding joy at beauty...
perhaps knowledgeable with an operatic spouse,
but no step further... in that great foundation
of life and grey matter... a tier below the merchant...
the buyer... the exchange of rotten deeds for
glistening goods - with woman the scarcity of
fed inhibitions expressed in the pure inhibitions
of sentencing blissfully haloed loneliness
into the resounding exchange of thought & voice
(esp. of someone else, once written);
no, we dare not invite profanity of such
crescendos as woman is capable of to replace
the ecstasy of the violins harps and trombones...
for indeed with a woman i'd be chained to
hear the worsened sense of symphony...
and more angina or animosity for what i prize
are relevant coordinates of executed choice
that leave no wall of my vicinity cold and
ghostly as if a dialogue with someone
was necessary; but to the poignancy of the canto:
1. the cigar-makers automation requiring recitation
    to combat the capitalistic rat infestation,
    known as mechanisation / automation,
    according to dexter kimball,
2. because of a louse in berlin
    and a greasy basturd in austria
    by name francios guiseppe.
3. on account of bizschniz relations.
4. and schlossmann suggested that i stay in vienna
    as stool-pigeon against the anschluss
    because the austrians needed a buddha
5. der im baluba das gewitter gemacht hat...
6. kosouth (ku' shoot)

and i end with that... there's more but i cannot
spare not inviting this gentleman in smockings
who said:
i say... didn't the english forgo the use of
other europeans the necessary stressors of accent
to singular letters rather than words
or word compounding, all cockney ****-side-up?
i dare say those french bass tarts
put the ' over the e, and the papa turds on top
of the o... while our kin too to sharpening and shortening
things... taking 'em fo' d' fool...
so if there's direct correlation, my german compatriot
said... itz zys: diacritic of french with o and le v. la
is the english of would not with wouldn't.
now i think the modern fictional hannibal
has a mirror proper... without the mexican doctor (
cannibal etc.) but with this villager from idaho,
making it big in london and paris...
as all "little" villager folk do...
given there's less cosmopolitan conversation about
among the slapstick nobility humour scheming
and socialite consciousness with the odd dry martini -
given there's less of all that, where you can
go to sleep at 9pm, and wake with the roosters at 5am
(in summer), milk the cow, feed the hens, pluck an organic
tomato... and get excite about village traffic - tumble weeds
speeding, ol' mcdonald wrote a poem:
a tad bit cornish, nonetheless, the sort of nourishment
that redeems.

I contempate, is this my fate?
Nothing comes to mind.
I've lost the light, fallen down,
No hope here I'll find.
No strength remains, in my heart,
There's nothing I can do.
For in the dark, I have lost,
My will to sail this storm through.

They spit on me, with their apathy,
Why can't they understand?
I'm all alone, far from home,
Lonesome broken man.
Inside of me, only misery,
I'm done it's too late.
I'm letting go, breaking off,
Full of fear and hate.

So take your world, take it all,
It is lost to me.
In the cold, my soul unfolds,
This you'll never see.
Broken thoughs, haunt my mind,
There will be no rest,
Is this the end?, surely not,
Mors principium est.

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.

"Les femmes jouissent d'abord par l'oreille"
Dit Marguerite Duras
Toi, mon HYDRE-MUSE, tu jouis
Par l'oreille absolue et frivole
Magnifiée
Par la danse à contre-temps
De la poésie pénétrante
Du saxo et de la tumba
Du coupé décalé et de l'azonto
Entre violons et accordéons
Qui fait voltiger sur tes hanches
Toute la copelia complicada de ta libido.
Je rentre sans hâte dans la mue de la couleuvre
Et je te ceins la taille.
Réinventons les croisés en cinquième position
Du ballet classique de Noureev, Petipa et Balanchine
Et à quatre pattes virevoltons dans le Bolchoi.
Setenta y ocho :
Je te tatoue le bas des reins
D'un tatou boule qui exécute
Des renversés arrière multicolores
Dans les plus intimes sillons de ta peau.
Cero :
Verbum Sapientiae Principium Est !
De mon pinceau chatoyant je dessine Des pas de bourrée étourdissants
Aux confins de tes cambrures
Setenta y siete :
Tu miaules des entrechats charnels
Et tu tournoies comme un ventilateur
Et tu me dis : viens, mon prince,
Montre-moi tes ronds de jambes doubles
Ochenta y quatro :
je te prends par les orteils tout en te caressant l'oreille
Et je te dis vas-y
Cuarenta y cinco :
Dombolo baroque dès que tu bouges tes fesses pour m'inviter à tes
Messes de sabbat
Très y media :
Demi-pointe sur les tétons qui frémissent et qui clignent des yeux
La peau de ton aréole gauche  danse la biguine
Ton sein droit fait voltiger du jus de grenade
Sesenta :
Un deux trois cinq six sept
Un seul fouetté
Tu enchaînes les figures libres et académiques
Passe après passe
Tu plantes dans le taureau farceur tes aromates
Et je crie Banco et tu me mordilles la paume de la main.
Setenta complicada :
J'aime notre gourmandise choreographee clitoridienne, anale, phallique et vaginale
Cet appétit colossal de ballet épicé à la Merce Cunningham, Alvin Ailey et Martha Graham
Qui nous prend entre deux morts de tous nos lacs des cygnes primaux
Nous en sommes les danseurs étoiles les solistes les premiers danseurs les petits rats les chorégraphes et les maîtres de ballet
À nous deux nous formons une troupe
Réincarnée
Et nous signons de nos plumes de chair notre martingale lubrique :
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept
Un deux trois... Cinq six sept

and i sometimes why i have premonitions
of sorts,
one i found myself walking up arthur's seat
in edinburgh, converging on imagining
but not actually seeing fields of crosses -
which is the strange aspect of imagination:
you never actually see what you sometimes
imagines,
               and you never know
these these "visions" will precipitate to make
them real,
   i didn't know syria would become a playground
for crosses,
  the world has become too vast to prepare you
with a certainty of locality,
syria being one of these loci;
yet you still walk around three days prior
like a shadow,
morose, bewildered and rarely speaking,
only saying the odd hello,
   because, deep down: something is brewing,
and it will not be pretty,
you *****, take a **** about give time,
reaching a limit whereby you're left *******
a liquidated form of a body of a ****...
and still nothing feel right...
   and then being rudely woken at 3 a.m. in
the the night, left to scout the place and invite
the shadows into your abode...
    as i was once asked:
      let me die on the threshold of death -
fully conscious of the inevitable -
i'm starting to think that mort in somnia
(death in your sleep) is the worst way to go...
as i still can't believe that sophistry has evolved
to the extent that there are no dialecticians
at hand, simply because there is always
a mediating figure in the "discussion" -
i find that staggering -
   that the most eloquent speakers of our times
really do require mediators,
instigators of punctuation marks of a discussion...
just like i find it odd that the american term
pollack is deemed "offensive", actually,
it's quite complimentary,
   it's so near jackson and the randomness of
his paintings...
      between pole poll paul, i'd prefer the original
pronunciation of the term,
sure, the aesthetic of the spelling if
slightly odd, but at least people get
the pollack jokes - and no paul's lacking -
  polak is very much akin to the original spresch...
and i sometimes do imagines the idea of
anglo-swabians, rather than the anglo-saxons
settling among the druids, and calling boars:
wild hogs...
           it was never, and never will be
a degrading term, it will actually always be,
plus / minus the jokes
  akin to the picts inventing the copper wire
why fighting over a penny: stretching it...
a skint debate...
         at least we get be rid of the poles,
the polls, the norths & the souths,
                  and the (st.) pauls...
which brings me to a bilingual etymological
comparison...
   the germanic people see the ethnicity of
the slav as simply a people: shying away from
adding an E...
      let invite you on a little secret -
you that in slavic etymology
          slav ≠ slave, rather -
      słowianin = root word słowo,
meaning word - and that's just shy of
sława, i.e. fame?
what's that in irish? a short hand form of -
scrubbing radishes clean?
      it's just staggering that people require
a mediator to practice dialectics...
    people are so well-versed in rhetorical
techniques, that their supposedly well-versed
staging of elocution, perfected,
actually requires a mediator to calm people down;
i'd really love to see a take on dialectics
without: third party influencers,
mediators, barometers...
     the missing third limb...
     when at least one of the people in the discussion
could aid the cushioning effect,
  and always reply with:
      genesis primo - revertere ut primus -
momentum est in principium...
     all poetry reverts to a beginning -
     there has to be this reverting to a beginning
because only the beginning matters,
and like art, the beginning is an unfathomable
carbasus alba...
        or in scientific terms:
    carbasus nigrum, or the medium
          ex ditto - ad ditto - ad ditto in infinitum -
ad re - idem ditto - ex ditto:
which is very much the idea of a wheel,
worded -
         in more concrete terms, kantian:
a priori ad a posteriori sine ditto.
(without a prior toward an after without
                                     the prior said).

so little, allows, so much.

as is my white hand,
extended into the
night,
   with five maggot inklings
to fathom
   a human form:
of the otherwise demand
and demeaning be:
       what can, and cannot
be grasped,
         for in ultimatum,
   there is no choice...
          principium satanus,
there never was a choice
to begin with...
          it would always
have been an amalgamate
    excuse to construct a genesis,
i.e. to begin with,
        with anything at all;
hence the cross-eyed satan...
to glorify one crime
  in the e.g. that's thieving
        that's the myth of robin
   of sherwood...
    and then some other crime...
esp. that of ******...
      thus toward the magnetic
ethics of *and and and and...
           that crass relativism...
   and our inability to craft
a hierarchy of worthy disputes...
     better still, avoiding
a dialectic, by simply
fashioning a figure-head of
authority, with a crown...
            and sealing,
or rather licking the stamp
and the envelope's edge
        to be sent, along with teddy
the conversationalist
    boor, the forgiver,
                  the crucified one,
  the over-quoted prefect-qualm.

i mean: fair enough to the sober
commentators on youtube -
   hats off and skirts down to you
gents and gentile women...
   but...
         i ask you...
   can you even read the news
under the façade     (there's a greek
ς, sigma, invoked by that...
who would have known,
that the Kelt,
            would have applied
              a greek letter, so far away,
under the wings of rome
diffusing!) -
          under the  faςade of
                                        soberness?
never could trust someone who
didn't know how to drink...
     or allow himself coherency
when inebriated....
          *******: angel of the opiates
comes along,
    which makes harold shipman
     look like quiete the hippocratic oath
taker...
            ministers mull ban on
sale of energy drinks:
             apparently children drink
more coffee than adults
  (albeit the covert, synthetic kind,
which underlines the principle
of synthesis for the "worth"
  of science, per se)...
               private schools shun
tougher GCSEs...
                       because hard...
              is apparently "too" hard enough...
oh i've "cheated" in my history
exam...
                but wrote a brilliant
essay on the counter-reformation
                            in my, "spare" time...
since: how the hell can you "cheat"
when constructing language coherency?
                  caged rat mean anything
to you?
               well, "cheating" never got me
anywhere to a socio-political
position of prominence,
evidently there was only a per se
            impetus,
              all that is chaos, and all that it's not...
yo ** ** and a scottish sailor
saying: i'd really freak out
if you substituted the whiskey for the ***...
imagine that!
   a drunk... with a sober head!
            but can you read the news
                  and be sober, simultaneously?
i was ingenious in crafting
a rabbincal like mini-scroll equivalent
of a torah...
                      folded akin to two rams
barging, and "see-through" in that
there were two-matchsticks to posit
the subsequent movement...
           because why wouldn't you "cheat"
in terms of the regurgitation of
                        boyscout rules
    and: 'sit boy! sit boy! sit!' of crufts?!
most of my childhood friends ended up
in prison,
     which is what you get...
      with a good father and a tyrannical
mother...
     and origins in a post-scriptum of
a town once famed as a socio-industrial
complex at the heart of which was metallurgy...
like i said:
       i wrote the most berilliant
counter-reformation essay in my, "spare",
time...
            under examination circumstances?
you ******* a rottweiler in a rat-maze?
educational synonym / imitation
of the islamic call for prayer...
               it's not that i gained a social
status from all of it...
                      merely a principium ex "nihil"...
an honest cheat is worse
          to fathom than an ardent crook...
given there's no pathological truth-sayer...
         miraculously: a visage of an oasis!
but given that i'm drunk...
   and given that i'm reading the news...
why not drink-sprint into a narrative?
          it's not that i'm actually commenting
on some "good"...
               all i know is that i'm shy
        of 2 beers down my local co-op...
and i'll need to brush-my-teeth and
apply deodrant (no one says
do with this spelling:
       deodorant; esp. in england) to hide
                               my "inadequacies";
faaaack...
   americans can have their
                   ah'loom'noon...
                    we can have our
              deodrant...
         as we'll keep our: alumni-minimum...
    Al - finally! in pixel!
                              l or 1?
                                 might have to start
considering "breaking the habit"
                                 and introducing AL
like we might fathom Lm
           on a roofer's invoice to denote
                         a linometre: a linear metre,
                everything to do with being just short of:
                     up-the-wall.

i can tell you where the best place to listen to Bob Dylan is...
on a train... travelling from St. Petersburg to
Moscow... no other place like it... no other rendition
of Bob Dylan doing Bob(by) Dylan(d)...

just before starting my last shift there was
this girl that spotted me...
i had to go through about 3 security loopholes...
and there she stood...
bleached blonde? maybe... who cares...
although i'd love an auburn mingling with ginger
type...
my guess was: not from around here:
maybe just maybe: Bulgarian...

but she said those magical words: oh... i recognise
him... he can go through...
**** me... it almost felt like being back
in the schoolyard...
                she recognised me ergo:
she took a fancy to me prior this time and from
the first time she saw me...
back to basics... thank god i was only fished by
one social media company: when...
oh when... it felt sort of respectable...
being in university and what not... club(e) exclusive(h)...

of all the girls i ******... this one feels special...
she looks on par with my looks...
i'm not a "10" or an "7"...
more bruises from bicycle accidents: to "replace"
rather impose the aversion of having tattoos:
but still a full smile's worth of teeth:
ah... the dashing look...
         no no... this feels different...
she has this girlfriend appeal...
             men are pedantic sometimes...
some men are pedantic sometimes, some times...
she recognised me...
hell... she's not a stunner...
sure... **** her up a little and she's probably
an "8"... whatever the hell this entire scale
means...
  
       we weren't flirting... no...
but we're talking about working with several companies
and we're talking... circa... a workforce of
around 2000 people... plus... + that's big PLUS...
it varies...
oh... i recognise you...
   **** me... Hunt for the Red October...
i'm about to be sunk...
         i'm on the girl's radar...
                   with scars on face and arm i look
all the more dashing...

and she truly is... this pretty Jane...
this mundane yet i want to grow old with you
pretty Jane...
she's the sort of pretty that made me have
a flashback of making my first mix-tape
for my first girlfriend...
   when people used to make mix-tapes...
when people used to get influenced
by books like Nick Hornby's High Fidelity...

oh this girl is burning out my eyes out with
a memory of her face...
i've made a full ****** into listening
one of my favourite songs from youth...
Reef's: give me your love...
           i'm always going to be spontaneously
in love...
   not love: "love" i.e. via contracts and marriage
rituals... flimsy love... love straight out
of a brothel... funny sort of love...
the sort of love good girls scream and finger
themselves over when it comes
to music idols / icons akin to Elvis...
                        that sort of love...

               i love the idea of love...
i like the euphoria of the unknown forever unknown...
and i think of of those suppose Muslim
"martyrs": could these... colts...
command an authority of 72 virgins?
could they?
   i've had trouble with two prostitutes...
sure... when was ******* me off
while the other pretended i was a toddler
******* on her *******...

always in 3rd person... it's fun to watch...
but when you're engrossed in it...
do you really want one girl shoving her ******
into your face while the other is doing:
whatever it is she's going...
i need an exoskeleton for that to work...

i pride and prey on eyes... i need eye-contact...
i'm sort of Norman Bates-y... within the confines
of that regard...
i like snuggling... i like to scratch my fingertips
on bricks... on roughage prior to touching
flesh... licking oysters before gulping them
down, whole...
lemon juice or champagne?!
perhaps both...

                           might it even matter?!
i will but i won't text... what's her name
Khedra... are you... upset with me?!
no... i'll wait...
to hell with hallucinogenic drugs...
i just need more women...
let's do this menial work...
   let me earn money for prostitutes
to earn the money to spend...
i'm already sitting on money...
                i'm not bothered...
i don't need to play some investor's game...
i'll just toy with my beard like i'm
able to play the violin...
come come...

                    that's why i'm thinking about
the Muslim martyrs... could they...
really be... more than... dog-walkers anonymous?
it's pretty hard to feel a hard-on
when over-excited while being in the company
of two... esp. if one is overtly-talkative...
talk during *** is such a turn-off...
who needs "god" when you can
have the satan-onomatopoeia?

                            i really: don't: want: to: know!
talking during *** is like talking
when eating... eating with your mouth open...
it ruins the "plotline"...
it's a bad habit... it's something the pornographic
industry...
               "implanted"?...
   incorporated... all that who's your daddy /
      please don't make "mummy" cwy... is that:
even, Velsh?! eh?!

talk during *** is bothersome:
it's a turn-off!
      i need hungry eyes...
             i need... teddy-bears and innocence coupled
with a transcendence into adulthood
of a... repertoire of missing ******-angst...
when naked i do not require "god" as my witness...
esp. when my nakedness implies
there's another nakedness involved...

to tease at life and be unable to testify its fullness...
its completeness...
what a silly life to live... what a life
of jurisprudence... what an iron maiden
of the thesaurus...
   what a life of a lawyer...
what becomes true hurt comes from the core!
from (the) essence...
i too find language pliable...
  to my advantage: or no advantage... per se...

by now? there's no argument no counter-argument...
there's nothing beside the flow of time...
enough has happened...
and enough will happen still
for me to shrink into nothing
because the world has won...
the affairs of the world were always going
to overshadow my own prized assets
of "individuality"... like the hell that mattered...

moneta esse moneta:
     lapis esse lapis...
                        money is essentially money...
a stone is essentially a stone...
elephants and walnuts...
   n'est ce pas?!
    
   cura... facio ego?!
                do i care?!
                              let me think and blink...
cogitare et coniveo...
              
i'm so terrible at translating...
it's almost like i don't care what third party
is involved...
whether Russian, German, Greek or Ancient Latin...
because?! ha ha: i don't...
best mistakes: for others to pick up on...

vivo tractus... the tractat of life...
         principium vita et vita finis....
        
i own my "rights"...
          
apologies are excluded..
                     paenitemus.. sunt...

risprudence excusatus...
the difficulty of "managing" lingo...
             death, dearest,  mother...
i'll just wait..... i'll wait...
life is a pristine ****-show
to begin with...
i like waiting...
                    i very much...
like.. waiting... i'm a sadist at best...
i like... waiting... time = patience...
i like the comfort of pain being returned...
having waited... i like waiting...
no no.... you have no governance
over this...
i said i like waiting... this is an old...
disagreement...
        the kites are flying...
haven't you heard?!
         no?! better aim at giving into
investing into hearing aids!

i'll ******* scrutinise you to death!
i'll **** you like a ******* rampant hog!
**** with me... i'll... ha ha!
i'll explode! savvy??
     no... yoi still think i'm "faking"...

like watching pretty girls walking
on stilts rather than stilletos...
i like watching young girls walking with
Pakistani rapists...
because England... what England?!
matters?!
to hell with your racial safety net
****! *******!

i don't even care about these wonen!
i'm assured by the Russian "queens":
no... ****... you're not coming close!
i'll ******* eat your eat your head off!
you heard me, ****! i'll bite your head off!
or the Russians will!
either they will: or i will...
playground of Darwinism!

nice was nice...
until... now i'm siding with the Russians!
to hell with western sensibilities!
bite a ****'s head off!