they rarely get it spot on,
the side effects of anti-psychotics makes you
**** your bed after going against
the prescription allowances of being sober,
and with regards to a cognitive illness: suddenly
thinking is an illness walking sensibly down
the street with a beer -
the whole inherited aspect of it? like it runs in the family?
well... my great-grandmother almost thought
she was losing it - but she was on the front line of
world war ii, giving my grandmother opiates
to hush her so the werhmacht wouldn’t find them in hiding,
she was from a large family, as was usual at the time,
and most of them didn’t make it -
but then my grandfather’s orientation in this realm
of “illness” probably started when he still remembers
asking two blackshirt ss-men for some sweets and getting them,
then becoming a communist and seeing communism “fail”
thanks to john paul ii.
my take on “thinking is an illness, all thinking is an illness
in the hands of psychiatrists?”
dating a tsarina, being poisoned to near death
by a best fwend - and probably dropping a baby into her lap -
now the question is... how well informed i am
given the condition: everyone’s permitted a personal life,
a private life, a life a third party knows nothing about -
patchwork jigsaw and crosswords all in one go -
which suits the fact that drinking as the time passes
makes all my director’s cut scenarios of the same corner of my life
seem more entertaining - well i could add that
the best chemistry experiment i ever did was at school:
two clear liquids, clearly not mixing like fruit juice concentrate and water,
so they’re sitting there, one on top of the other,
and then... magic! using forceps you pull at the event horizon,
and what you pull out are strands of polyester (polyethylene terephthalate).
so i’m not buying into this psychiatry school of thought
that attempts to cure the colonial white man of repressed anger
and lost self-esteem voyaging to kingston and shanghai
pulverising guilt with oxfam adverts just to employ charity workers
and not sending money to the needy,
but being interrogated by about 10 different sick doctors
you learn their thinking: almost all want you to talk
about your childhood, because there is an inherent need to use
the psychiatric scalpel (i.e. the id) to cut with and find your
ego, attired in diapers, talking about your parents (the superego),
but oddly enough not the supra-ego (i.e. your grandparents) -
considering the fact that the major part of my development is
due to joseph “stalin” and helen, and my great grandmother mary...
but enough about that... i relish on saying this word:
******-synthesis, because such is the primitive nature of psychoanalysis
originating in the upper tiers of the marxist pyramid:
they're synthesising is to be as soulless as
their analysis allows drilling as far in as the faculty of dreaming.
but i guess we all become “complicated” human beings
after european industry becomes exported to china,
drop the hammer and the steel, learn to write learn to
read, become sensibly sympathetic and curiously
sensitive and bam: you're a qualified patient!
and added to the fact that the existential parting with god
only precipitated a complication of the individual man, purposively:
god became infinitely simple (i.e. seized to exist)
and thus man entered the glorious existential domain
of scrutinising and itemising every misery, every pleasure,
every thought, every feeling,
then adding to the sheer outburst of the populations,
he soon too realised - well i don’t really exist either, unless i’m
constantly striving for some sort of recognition other than my own,
hence the solipsistic debasement in existentialism? or
the antidote: solipsistic dignity in the realm of post-existentialism?
i know the answer - how? i’m already using it and the two
questions are meaningless to me - as i already testified inventing
a god: solipsus - purposively; the liberated / pardoned sisyphus
from the toils of the stone, by the wise zeus.

the empathy test

or as they say in psychiatry the cul de sac of theories -
someone selfless, comes in and doesn't speak
about himself, says he went back to his
country of birth and cared for
his grandmother for a month,
immediate discharge, immediate discharge,
hey who's the kid looking the part
of *hey presto, hmm?
me... the empathy shoreline,
no psychiatrist is trained in spotting it,
the narcissism of closed door
psychoanalysis fears empathy more
than the standard Oedipus,
never mind the deity of solipsism,
psychiatry isn't as revolutionary as
you might think...
i gave psychoanalysis a joke, me,
i wanted a game...
i liked backgammon more than chess,
no crown too dear for a loss of,
so i played about five psychiatrists,
none of them got the game,
they even invited students
to inspect me - that didn't help either,
well-read as i was i ended
treatment with the word façade -
i had read Kierkegaard, she asked me
where i drank, in a pub she asked?
oh no, no no, in Bower wood,
at night, i drank with ninja tactic of not
being spotted - i drank in the woods
half naked...
immediate discharge - ha ha ha aha ha!
i liked playing games with psychologists
and psychiatrists, they're fun buddies
of maturing children...
but they're hardly intelligent enough to
compromise on facts, they're like
soldiers in the first world war
trapped in the trenches of Belgium,
i'd pity them had they
not the respectable income
to see opera or go to a theatre...
but i can't, in all honesty pity them, i think they
have a limited telescope of literacy,
they simply can't see past Mars to see Jupiter...
exact what i testify, five to my count fooled,
one in a foreign tongue and in a different
profession distressed with words: 'how did he?!'
i don't need psychoanalysis
or the study of what's oxygen with
carbon as the former (asthma) and the latter
dyslexia - for whatever part enters me
i release a part of me - gaseous vowels and
solid consonants - indeed should you try to humanise
a science you will dehumanise elsewhere,
no pardon of the existential novel with
the practice of "existentialism" in english known
as psychiatry - with no pills will the words resound
approvingly - but indeed, why the sudden
discharge with diagnostics pivoting on psychosis?
a non-violent psychopath - the psychopathy nurtured
as a negation of the existence of soul, himself a god,
dully the expression of will...
                 i was hardly the inheritor of a post-colonial
ethnicity and yet they subjected me to "cures"
as if i was a post-colonial subject a zombie to nod
to multicultural values experimented with...
i was multicultural from the start...
i'm not ethnic english...
you want to turn me into a neurotic anglomann
not accepting the social experiment?!
you irish or something?
FALL!

As I go to sleep
Dreams come knocking
My subconscious mind
In a rendezvous with me
Am I asleep?
The REM phase kicks in
What do I want to view?
I do not have a choice
I am just a spectator
For another movie
Do I know the cast or crew?
Is it a blockbuster or horror movie?
The conclusion is inconclusive
I may not be a protagonist
Maybe a figment of my imagination
Or, a vivid description of my days events
It requires psychoanalysis
My subconscious mind is in control
Why can’t I have control?
It’s not within my control
I am asleep and my mind is awake
Freud wrote extensively about it-
In the ‘Interpretation of Dreams’
But still, outside our realm of understanding
The symbols and motifs can give clue
Ancient cultures have recorded on clay tablets
But we may not be ever sure
Or maybe the soul is guided somewhere
Or it could be our inner desires
Maybe it’s an unknown world
Where we go out to venture
Let there be beautiful dreams
And dreams that inspire

For Christmas
I would like a terrarium
So that in a small space where there is little to breathe and most die slowly and in pain
I shall make something beautiful contained within itself
And it shall never need to meet the outside world.

Over and over again

the ongoing psychosis named reality

throws at us the vile complications of existence

like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll

when you are born among proletarians

and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist

like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights

men that walk the same sidewalk as you

the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions

trapped in the same staircase of materia

causing the universe to circle reason

and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence

like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film

as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern

battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses

while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues

like the sorrows of young Werther

in the blood of your martyred nightmares

All my life I'd been starving.
This world offered me feasts after
Feasts but it seemed that even if
I swallowed the whole Earth
I'd still hunger.

One day a witch approached me
Promised me a magic sack,
That with the right nourishment,
Wouldn't ever empty
'Till I die.

All she asked for in return
Were descriptions of dishes.
Their taste, shape, smell, in detail.
For she can only eat
This way.

And so I complied with it, gratefully.
She casted charms, ordered me to eat:
"Just open your mouth, it's there."
Feeling groggy, I reached.
I felt it.

So marvellous, juicy, so fresh.
I praised that new found piece of flesh.
She smiled. "Dig deeper", she prompted.
So I'd broken my jaw,
Ecstatically.

Then licked the blood off my chin,
It was sweet and sour, just served.
How much further must I dig
For this feast's main course?

My beating
Heart.

i'm seeing a psychoanalytic therapist
they want to analyze me
because my so called life has turned into the scariest
and somehow in a country of freedom i can't be free
they want to analyze me like a mathematician
analyzes the graph of an unknown function
psychiatric ward it says in the papers for my admission
i'm not crazy somebody please give me a definition
how do you think you can analyze a human
you can't look inside my mind
where all my thoughts are blooming
creating my emotions, feelings or something of an other kind
why do all my actions need a reason
how do you know i didn't write that poem
just to show them how i see the world
it doesn't necessarily mean i'm broken
just because you do not understand
doesn't mean I suffer from some unknown disease
why analyze a masterpiece
cause that's what every single human is

ever hear blood turning
black while sizzling
on the frying-pan of synapses?
i once had an airy / ethereal
substance i designated to
a couplet of thought and soul
(so, so at ease with it);
but as i asked, the question
states a new couplet: the elemental
change from airy / ethereal
into electric - which designates
the loss of thought, replaced by
animation and the soul still intact,
because what once was thought
became a nobler pain i treated
as a vox ex paradox - a stoic impression.

we are angels
with cathedrals,
prophets, and poems
to prove it  

other species  
are not endowed
with such gifts:

the ceiling
of the Sistine Chapel
the pyramids, loosing
the bounds of earth
to walk on a moon...
psychoanalysis
the atomic bomb
Anthrax, dioxin
and gunfire
gunfire  

we are maggots
on rotting fruit, sated now
looking for a place to hop off,
to escape before the fruit falls fast  
to the ground

before the oceans rise
and the skies fill with ash
surely we can fly away

but we are wingless
angels, killer angels  
killer angels

a.

227.9 million years away
                   (mars)                   heliocentric model
i.e. away from coordinates (0,0), i.e. the sun

b.

149.6 million years away
                      (earth)                         "               "
etc.

c.

    standard metric system, alternatively
                        this is the geocentric model emerging
i.e.        one day on earth is equivalent
           of a day and forty minutes on Mars...
  we don't have access
                     to a heliocentric model for this
primarily because of the coordinate of the sun
being (0,0), in Kantian symbolism 0 = denial,
therefore the sun cannot encompass day,
or night, hours or minutes...
                             you cannot apply
the relativity of days comparatively being different
on Mars or on Earth using the heliocentric model...
              
      and to think, all it took was for nautical directions
being blessed by the movement of constellations,
        and that phrase of mine: where's Copernican east?

            we're all shouting at the ****** project,
it's either who write the best concentrated plagiarism
of the masses for the visual effects,
          the glued together parts of iron and oxygen
tanks... or who can write the words behind the images
well enough to capture the imagination
        and shift it elsewhere...
oh believe me, i am living in a 48 hour week,
    i'm not writing science fiction,
                       i'm on earth, but this isn't earth,
it doesn't require a measure of distance,
   but still the figures stand... so i might as well
toy with them and get some bogus answer...

d.

what does life constitute on a "planet" that consists
of 48 hours?
                     today i put on something warm,
the cold finally got to me,
                          i'm the butterfly while a hurricane
rages on elsewhere,
                              quantum humanism some call it,
because the physics never really inclined itself
to treat human emotions well enough -
                    just today,
as i peered into the day's sky -
                     the moon and the sun shared the same
blue horizon -
                           in the summer the moon has the
tides - and keeps them at bay, calm,
         but when autumn and winter come,
and the earth tilts - the moon looses the grip on
the tides in the northern hemisphere -
hurricanes in the west, tsunamis in the east,
              storms at Greenwich meantime -
the time of day? when the moon engages in
profane acts with day, appearing and stunning
insomniacs into coherency, as if asking:
            so if i am being given a very quick
and less romantic sunrise, and esp. a less
romantic sunset, by seeing the moon closely aligned
to the sun during the day:
                 am i seeing the nightly delights of
the southern hemisphere, and if so,
            is that to the east, or is that to the west?
i am guessing it's to the east... for i am seeing
the night in the southern Pacific continent -
              i am seeing their night
                          for the moon has transgressed
its boundaries, and left the northern waters
ready to rebel under the polytheistic guise
complimenting the spacious orbs -
                       when order and monotheism of
the north during spring and summer...
         then Poseidon's upheavals with the watery
rebellious graves during autumn and winter:
or how Hades persuaded his two brothers to
pay due and meet with the Titans in Tartarus:
to thus form a pact against the monotheistic concept:
for the soul of the ancient Greeks said:
                shame be unto you, brats,
for shunning the religion of your forefathers!

e.

indeed the 48 hour day, two days and two nights,
or more precisely: three nights and one day -
sooner or later they'll push the clocks back,
a man will go to sleep in the dark,
   and catch but a glimmer of a day - then too
thrown into the darkness: a 48 hour day on a planet
involves three periods of darkness, and one
period of daylight - and if they said Alaska was
torture... here is a man engulfed alone in it.

f.

strange to think that 78.3 million years between
Mars and Earth only add 40 minutes more to a day...
           as ever, the non-uniform suggestion of gravity,
take but one step on that soil,
                           the curse of the astronauts on the moon:
and then invite the poets of the cult of the moon,
the emblem of the moon that's Islam...
                              an then wait for the consequences
and the ***** dreams of those people and their children...
               even the Atom Bomb seems to have
been forgiven by comparison -
                                but never the moon: or the death
of childhood - lunar crown shattered -
                              death of storytelling for children
some might say: 1001 minutes of advertisement
before Cyrus starts weaving a web of entrenched
consumerism - not even the Belgian fields
and their world war 1 trenches could have provided
such a status quo to continue...
            to continue...

g.

so do i multiply that figure by something?
78.3 million years disparity -
                        times the time difference?
i.e. 78.3 multiplied by 40 and added to
the distance from earth?
            λoγος - no!
                                 what's the distance from
starting coordinate (0,0) to the earth? 149.6 million...
      and mars?
227.9 million...
                                      which means 78.3 multiplied
by taking away the negation symbol due
to the double-negation coordinate that the sun is
(timeless and without space-affirming
                  timing to our necessary comprehension
of the day to day) - meaning the distance
of the planet with 48 hour days (three nights and one
day) is 313.2 million years away from the sun...
               Jupiter stands at being 778.5 million years...
and that's a kept in ****... a gaseous giant...
                 so the distance is plausible...
but like i said before: first comes logic,
which splits into rationality and irrationality -
                      but irrationality still uses logic -
      we all know that irrationality is not reasonable -
          but it is ably-reasoned-with
           or can succumb to some variation
                     of the illogical -
                                              namely illogical rationality:
as in passing Platonic theories down the ages,
or succumbing to the Freudian psychoanalysis -
fashion is simpler, cruder -
                                               it cuts off the missing
points, it desecrates the shrines of famous names
and does the grand thing of keeping everyone
hooked in, rather than out of it nostalgic -
       no one is really winning either side of this point.

h.

and this is really what two beers can do to you
to relax after living on plant H-48 -
                     no yoga teacher can tell you that ***
gets better when you pay alms to this world -
         the yoga fakes are making enough dosh laughing:
*** is good, where there's a billion of them,
not a scattering of what i call the real reason
why we evolved to be so numerous:
     cancerous libidos, or overblown libidos,
   and a knack at ******* each other off - which just
says: keep 'em coming!
                                    and they expect people to really
be awe-stricken when you have such nice names
in biology: chlorophyll and enzyme and hydro and
aqua... and for all life to begin with a big bang?
    i thought you couldn't hear astronauts scream
in space?        or maybe that big bang was just
       a big boo - because aren't we **** scared?

i.

American politics has cracked with this presidential
election, the real dynamic is out...
           it reminds me of
the trinity of ******, the brown-shirts
(Sturmabteilung) thugs leader Ernst Röhm
and the man that replaced him:
               Heinrich Himmler of the
less thuggish and more professional murderers'
brigade the (Reichsführer Schutzstaffel) -
you see, i actually have a better attention span
when i live on H-48... did you notice
that neither of the presidential candidates mentioned
the literature in their debates?
one said: tax evasion, the other said: emails!
but these two sly foxes are toying with the whole
process... they're citing the literature...
   tim kaine and mike pence are the geniuses behind
the scenes... you have to give credit to them...
                it's the ingrained discussion -
the gospels -           it subconsciously will even convince
black voters (of a certain age) to vote for Trump,
regardless of his blunders... which are like ******'s
blunders even though Eva Braun has Jewish heritage
(as seen in one documentary on channel 4) -
                    and you know they're running the show
because they only have one debate...
         that's how important they are...
                       did you ever care to watch a
Ingram Bergman film twice? or three times?
i don't think so. once... and then the butterfly is gone,
gone gone. i'm not here for the entertainment -
American protestant-ism isn't European,
                          it's ultra-Catholic -
                    oddly enough, not in terms of all
the iconic symbolism - that's scaled down -
       but the message is profoundly Catholic -
the two men cited the literature - they're
not thugs, they're not blundering rhetoricians like
the two puppets in their hands...
                        they're the power brokers
or what in England we call the kingmakers -
   i'm not into conspiracies, just the obvious things -
****** had a funny moustache,
          Trump has a funny haircut -
J F K was handsome L B J wasn't and was furious
when Marilyn sang the birthday blues...
                   Gerald Ford is the founder of the Mafia...
Nixon wanted in... oops... didn't happen...
                    ever since Ford it's been playtime after
playtime and no one doing the arithmetic on lives -
               well you know, a washing machine
breaks down, you get a new one...
                  but something came up at the turn
of the 21st century, no one expected it -
this is where i only ascribe one conspiracy:
                                         you can't miss it,
it's blatantly there on the geographical map,
S.A. and that beautiful ornament flag with a pretty
sword and Arabic calligraphy...
                             i'm not wetting my appetite with
these words... it's just common sense -
                money is something that provides the
trans-valuation of all things: it's what the alchemists
were always hoping to find, but it was found
so long ago that it didn't matter how childish they
thought they could be: thanks for paracetamol
though...
                                     what's actually the most
mystifying aspect of this is how there's an ingrained
desirability of a status quo:
      you can have a coin with Rex's head on it,
and no matter what the base metal is,
it will still devalue something more precious
                     and increase value of something more
precious...               it happens in the art world
with the artist being recognised posthumously
                                for the object of his work,
but nothing beyond that...
                                              and since it is painfully
obvious... the question is...
                     do you challenge the status quo
                                          or do you consider yourself
a unit of qua                 -
                                   and that's an open question,
if a question at all...
                                        it's because i have left the
exciting part of this poem,
                                    gravity pulled me down to
planet H-24 (otherwise known as earth), and i see
all this ****** misery...
                                       and i think...
even though my life on planet H-48 can sometimes
feel like torture - i know that i'm in control of
certain perks on it...           and all because i decided
to travel there, with one missing clue as to
why it took me 2 years to escape Heidegger's Alcatraz -
            and why i decided to go back in...
      after reading the previously mentioned book
i realised i was given the key into something else,
           kaleidoscopic even -
worded physics, worded chemistry, worded biology,
  not the physics of equations, or chemistry
of electron-migration diagrams in organic reactions,
or biology and its oops after oops and
a boxing match with theology -
                                           i even considered
buying the Alcatraz in English... but that would
make no sense...
                         given the already bilingual dynamic
being established...
                                     as Dante chose Virgil
to wade through hell... you too must also choose
the one companion, and reject all others...
               and if Heidegger chose Aristotle
i must choose Heidegger - and would i say that
my grandfather was a bad man for being a
communist party member? do you think
a small town boy gets sold the highest form of
Versailles intrigue that culminates in
the Siberian gulag? they got you spinning that old
housewives' tale like a dodo doing dodo
                                           rather than being dodo.

Saturday is back

for you and Jack

So hurry and pack

Nothing to lack

Or forget something on a rack

Or in a sack

Eat Big Mac

Get some nicknack

Sleep in a shack

When it is black


Sam





Today is Saturday, Oct. 4,the 276th day of 2014 with 89 to follow.

The moon is waning. Morning stars are Jupiter, Mars and Uranus. Evening starsare Mercury, Neptune, Saturn and Venus.



In 1922, Rebecca Felton, a Georgia Democrat, became thefirst woman to serve in the U.S. Senate.





A thought for the day:



It's hard to beat a person who never gives up. -- Babe Ruth



QUOTES FOR THE DAY:



Avarice is the vice of declining years.

------------------------

Beauty is but the sensible image of the Infinite. Like truth and justice it liveswithin us; like virtue and the moral law it is a companion of the soul.

------------------------

By common consent gray hairs are a crown of glory; the only object of respectthat can never excite envy.



George Bancroft





Fortunately,psychoanalysis is not the only way to resolve inner conflicts. Life itselfremains a very effective therapist.



Karen Horney



"If you always do what interestsyou, at least one person is pleased."



Katharine Hepburn



"Keep love in yourheart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.The consciousness of loving and being loved brings a warmth and richness tolife that nothing else can bring."



Oscar Wilde



POETRY



Last Night



Michael Broder





Idreamt of making sense,
parts of speech caught up in sheets
and blankets, long strips of fabric
wrapped loosely around shoulders,
goblets, urns, cups with unmatched saucers.

You were there, and the past seemed important,
what was said, what was done,
feelings felt but maybe not expressed,
signs randomly connected
yet vital to what comes next,
to a coming season,
next year's trip to Nauset Beach.

I woke up wanting to read a poem by that name,
and I found one with a lifeguard's chair,
a broken shell, gulls watching egrets,
home an ocean away.


About this poem


"I wanted the poem to enact the dream it purports to recount. If dreamsare wish fulfillment, then this dreamer yearns for some kind of cognitivecoherence. The s ense the dreamer seeks turns out to be nonsense, and yetpoetry finds a way of making it s ensible after all."
-Michael Broder

About Michael Broder


Michael Broder is the author of "This Life Now" (A Midsummer Night'sPress, 2014). He is a freelance writer and lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization,whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience.


(c) 2014 Michael Broder.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate





HEALTH and BEAUTY TIP



Applying Moisturizer

When applying moisturizer as part of your daily routine,make sure not to use it directly around your eyes -- this skin is more likelyto retain fluid, and moisturizer will make the under-eye area appear puffier.But do remember to use some on your neck and throat; skin can become dry there,too.



JOKES



Lawyer Joke



An American attorney had just finished a guest lecture at a lawschool in Italy when an Italian lawyer approached him and asked, "Is ittrue that a person can fall down on a sidewalk in your county and then sue thelandowners for lots of money?"

Told that it was true, the lawyer turned to his partner and started speakingrapidly in Italian. When they stopped, the American attorney asked if theywanted to go to America to practice law.

"No, no," one replied. "We want to go to America and fall downon sidewalks."



Pregnant



Seven months pregnant, my hand on my aching back, I stood inline at the post office for what seemed an eternity.

"Honey," said a woman behind me, "I had back pain during mypregnancy. I was bedridden for four months because my baby was sitting on anerve."

Then the man in front of me piped up....

"You'd better get used to it now. Once those kids get on your nerves, theycan stay there till they're 18."





Parole Board

The Bureau of prisons just announced the release of a serialbank robber who had looted over 30 banks before his capture.

The parole board says he is completely rehabilitated and has found employmentat his home in Prague.

Yes, that is correct...

They were able to right a bad czech.



Quick Funny or not so funny



I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but Icouldn't find any.



Bad Timing



A parish priest, Father O'Brien, was being honored at adinner on the 25th anniversary of his arrival in that parish.

A leading local politician, who was a member of the congregation, was chosen tomake the presentation and give a little speech at the dinner, but he wasdelayed in traffic.

Sooo.....Father O'Briend decides to say his own few words while they await thepolitician's arrival......

"You will understand," he said, "the seal of the confessional,can never be broken. What is confessed in there to me, is never repeated on theoutside. However, I got my first impressions of this parish from the firstconfession I ever heard here.

Realize, please, that I can only hint vaguely about this, but when I came here25 years ago, I thought I had been assigned to a terrible place.

The very first chap who entered my confessional told me how he had stolen atelevision set and, when stopped by the police, had almost murdered theofficer. Further, he told me he had embezzled money from his place of businessand had an affair with his boss's wife. I was appalled. But as the days went onI knew that my people at this congregation were not all like that, and I had,indeed come to, a fine parish full of understanding and loving people."

Just as the priest finished his talk, the politician arrived, apologized forhis tardiness and then started in on his speech.

"I want to thank you all for letting me say a few words this evening inhonor of Father O'Brien. 25 Years is a long time. In fact, when he arrivedhere, I had the honor of being the first confession he heard at thiscongregation."

Now that is bad timing.



Have a very niceSaturday!

knowing the simple implementation
of all this ****** frustration
into some kind of mechanization
into the institutionalization
of something you'd call psychoanalysis.
i've analyzed
i've criticized
i've materialized
i've realized
that we're all waiting for our final grade.

dear immoral,
              salt
seed of
    s
                              la
  ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
  the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
                  gives callously
  equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
  each persnickety biochemistry
is the
  longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
                    No content,
  j
                      us
            t web,
                                  you
    r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
                agile
                    computation
 ­         today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
                    trembling
    je
      we
                l­er
confidant loves increasingly
  languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor *******
perpetual on my
          quick
                              bible;
  my psychotherapy roves
into a
            bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
  tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
          psychoanalysis's
  preferably quick
      psych
    otherapy-
how
        ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
        punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
              stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
      he

                        unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
          overshadows
  his youth

  so
                                  that it is contemporary
grin
            quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
  into appreciated ca
                mar
          aderies
psychotherapies rove in
            my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
  grip
              of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
              on my quick bible;
  my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
            journey;
  my
            paralysis ambles
onto a
      crazy hotel.

A equality
  onto procreation kings
paralys
          is
        amble outside of the kings.

Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
  extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious

how often good Christians offer to hold us in prayer
friends of the ill, they intend well
I don't refuse, of course

Father catechized He was everywhere -
in flowers and butterflies, even all living things

so when He seemed never to notice the obvious

I'd squeeze my brow tight
as if the effort might shine invisible light
bright enough to be seen at universal distance...
my prayer

awaking mornings still cradled
safe in the branch of a tree
or folded in the back seat of our van,
alone

in the dark, no more a devil,
even I've heard the whispered words
of "Our Father..."

but we both know Jesus gave up his practice
of psychoanalysis long ago
so I wasn't surprised - just disappointed
when each resurrection of hope died

now I'd rather mop,
having collected an assortment
of surfactants and disinfectants suitable
for a wide variety of household surfaces

killing the unsuspecting bacterium,
allergen or virus

I set blossoms in a sterile vase at bedside
by her arrangement of amber pill bottles
they'll wilt; I'll empty
a prayer she doesn't notice

now if an apache shaman became a president of the "free world" i'd be glad, over the moon sort of speak, but a former kenyan export of a cotton picker? not so much, puppet for the pseudo-europeans to my sour distaste. if a native indian made it to the throne i would have applauded: someone who's native of this land, actually in charge of it... you don't say... but a former slave ethnicity? that just breaks the jaw chandelier: i'll be impressed when i die and see the big picture. it's a bit like in europe, the modern renaissance happened in england in the 1960s... then disappeared to birmingham... the other venus of the north (2nd only to st. petersburg)... and then the resurrection of rome became the job of eastern europe "barbarians / invader," who became the cotton pickers of europe, told they were not europeans but closely related to neanderthals... while chopin boomed replicas in japan... i feel discouraged from being european altogether... i think i'll translate myself as japanese... and shake off these western rats... i'll don a beard and a samurai haircut... yeah, i'll do that, they might get the idea that's behind the rolling stones of numbering 4, ageing to be about
2 galapagos turtles in terms of accumulated age... oh you
won that capitalistic child-plot to compete, i assure you.*

all these dating websites are in the shallow pool
of spectacles, a man logs into a dating website and
looks for what's clearly a cobra, or the end of him,
or a femme fatale... she needs to be attractive,
intelligent and funny... i thought men were supposed to
be that... look what copernican feminism did,
it turned inside-out rather than upside-down...
when i look at women i look for three traits akin...
she needs to be patient...
she needs to be resilient...
she needs to be understanding...

(good looks can wait for the middle-aged lynx,
she got the hang of body after puberty
and became arrogant with it - own one own all
motto - babe your time will come to avoid
plastic surgery;
i'm *******, of course i am,
but i rather show it than suffer in silence
and become ******* in thinking it out;
you understand one, you understand all,
not really, put a hammer in a set of a hundred
*****-drivers and you get the odd one out,
at least picture it, opaque if it makes sense better;
p.s. don't mention the power of older men,
socrates had to become poor to speak wisely,
he got away with it... poor men like jesus
have to suffer in silence because
poor youth, or youth without ambition
is not really a rallying crowd motif)...

there was something else - you immediately stare
a cold blank for a slate that's required a blink
for a square of cement...
sometimes this homosexual dynamics turns
originally thought heterosexual males to try the back door,
the bony ****** of five counts is no longer
adequate... neither is the puppet in the hand...
it requires the stage... a completion of the play
with female genitalia, the empty void...
oh don't worry... i'm sure disney will find your
perfect match in the realm of tech-colour psychoanalysis
perfection... in order to control your "father,"
just so you can salt & pepper a son into a lullaby...
but try a daughter... ooh... pooh tosh too?
how sorry i am... i bet it wasn't as infectious thinking
that one through... malignant cancerous pore of
relating something to something...
but as they say in science in a mongrel relation
of trans-breed mixology of a cosmopolitan...
among atoms we are *****,
among stars we are little men...
remember the microscope and the telescope
are a staff... there are two arguments either side
of the relation of conversing about them...
we can relate to atoms as *****,
we can relate to stars as satellites or telescopes...
in a polite society dialectics is excused...
only because we measure distances of known bodies
to foreign bodies... but this also provides a slack
on what is deemed offensive in casual conversation
because offensiveness is a forced mono-dialectic
where no counter opinion exists due to a third party:
democracy of western society is rife with this.

well, it's hardly a dostoyevsky novel: this western journalism; there's no elaborate plot, no complex characters, if western journalism deems itself fit for purpose, and by purpose i mean demeaning the poles as the eastern irish, plumbers do all, i dare say they ought to consider the balkan slavs for a natural selection cocktails of augmented purposiveness in demanded bourgeoisie opinion, in the safe abode of having a piano in the lounge; socialists in the framework of ably philanthropic, but penniless by nature.

that's the thing with the reincarnation of the roman empire,
the areas of europe not conquered
due to the romans' fear of icy goosebumps
is hilarious,
not to mention the trick western "philosophers"
(psychiatrists) have give us, us, children of the setting
sun - weight & measures, chevrolet sized wheels & bonnets
in ***** envy over our counterparts -
the conquered lands suddenly feel they have
a legacy to fulfil - if i was ****** the soviet would be neutral
and the belief in the luftwaffe would be minimal,
i would be the anti-thatcher, believing in the dwarf miners
of coal rather than diamond: to dig under the channel
and invade from beneath the breathable earth
rather from the sky on failure of the zeppelins...
i wouldn't follow napoleon from the pyramids of giza
into the realm of the oninion domes of russia...
what fate, what travesty! everything i say seems to
be far right albeit it isn't.
that's the thing with western "philosophers"
(psychiatrists), they think ireland (err land)
is on some strange continent known as eastern europe,
central of the ural mountains,
poland the ireland of the east? i dare say iceland.
amsterdam lost to st. petersburg over being the claimant
of the twin: venice of the north - too many ******,
too much of life worth living without fashion
and what someone else thought, edinburgh stood
still whole while the athenians just talked crap
although thee twinning was accurate:
never mind that, the zenith of travis' musical output
the 12 memories output is staggering,
like in that club in edinburgh i wondered
what the guy was playing, he was playing,
and years later knew it was neil young's old man...
managed to play it with scarce notes resounding...
but i tell you, western society is not the zenith...
syrians over their own... just to look into a loo
rather than a magic mirror on the wall...
loo loo on the tiles... who's **** stinks more than mine?
so before the sun set i had a drink,
i got out from bed on the promise of a drink,
not the goldfish wish fulfilment of passive sadism
watching my mother cry at what she and they did...
i got up for a will of life with a drink,
skimming the ice rink for some cubes in mathematics,
i got out of bed for the drink, and nothing else,
the else otherwise is revealed in people living
fully amused lives...
you know...
we're doubly animate, there's the animate bit of us
that residues animals as your counter-points,
but the doubling effect lies in our thinking,
we can be immobile: stephen hawing on alladin's
flying carpet sort of speak... it's not exactly
the expression via telepathy or telekinesis,
the former being a projection of pathology -
the spreading of mental illness via mere thinking
and the egg throw ogling into another man's happiness
of possessions priceless, like: wife, children, house.
begin with fakes... i'm not sure why it's called
artificial if not simply placebo intelligence to add
to the illusionary spectacle gratified...
artificial seems to only add to the confusion
between synthesis and psychoanalysis...
but of course we're not synthesising souls
(pashtun *sa, breath, a rendering, esp. if only in
afghanistan), we're synthesising replicas,
clone wars tore us apart, the en masse greys
of the daily walk on the land once in bloom
now in square paving, or by masonry spiders
cobweb.
yes, i left my soul in scotland, on the climb up
gleann comhann - with ben nevis the tallest
peak visible through the shroud of cloud seen through,
but i still, i still just, don't, get,
the fact that western society sees me like it
sees itself, with a colonial past that needs self-repression
(prefix self and hyphenate and you get automation),
i was without land for some time,
the four partitions of poland between austro-hungarians,
russians and prussians learned via scolding
taught me... what i learned i'm not quite sure, but
i did learn the lesson...
but psychiatric treatment can't teach me anything,
it can't turn a physical problem into materialising
a metaphysical condition,
but as i said, english existentialism has no human
affairs to be concerned with, english existentialism
is more concerned with monkeys and dinosaurs,
sweet & sour bits of life, coupled together
you only get *** tree fruit pastels: sweet & sours.
i can't imagine a worse off exile...
but i read of one in a book what took to foot
from england straight into afghanistan...
i heard it... literate or illiterate, nonetheless sung...
the pashtun women singing landays (syllable
restrictive songs of 9 or 13 syllables while
cooking or washing clothes in the river),
with the "little horrors", all that mature man
and me attired in wrinkles beneath the niqab,
the parchami (member of the afghan communist party),
unlike persian dari poetry, thus like:
fate brought me a spouse a child to raise
god, while he grows tall & strong, i age and i grow weak.
but the western nations will not be so assured
in fermenting their colonial past among their european
neighbours who weren't colonial... and that i vouch
with an ardency to simply prove them unable to
take a holiday in southend's pebble beaches
rather than silky white sand of the carribean.

The Whitlams sing that “There’s no aphrodisiac like loneliness, truth beauty and a picture of you”
Unfortunately the lyrics kinda go down hill from there, I am unsure what they were drinking or smoking as they wrote the rest of the lyrics, but they wasted a perfectly good start to a song by continuing to drink/smoke as they wrote, just my opinion, but  I digress.
Why are we as a whole world seemingly obsessed with things that we think are going to improve ours or someone else’s *** performance. Chinese herbal medical is full of such “remedies “as is some European countries. I might add Chinese medical is also full of treatments that actually work too. Ok so I know I’ve shown my hand a bit early as to where I am going with this but heres the thing.
I am no expert on ***; I have nothing to really prove or disprove that statement but heres my theory anyway.
If you think that taking a potion is going to give yours or some one else’s *** drive magical powers, well maybe I need to ask why do you want that in the first place. I understand people have physical and mental issues that affect ****** performance but, consuming ground rhino horn or Spanish Fly, which ironically isn’t from Spain or a fly, and the bug it is made from is REALLY nasty, I don’t think is the solution.
So here my solution to the whole problem whilst still using all of the top ten things people believe are aphrodisiac’s.
1/ Find a person whom you look at and go,” Well she/he’s a bit of alright” best said with a British accent, ask them out to dinner.
2/ Have an entrée of fresh oysters washed down with a glass of Chablis but don’t over do it on the alcohol.
3/ Ensure your main meal includes something low in fat and high in nutrition
4/ Order Chocolate anything as a desert.
5/Talk to the person during dinner and tell them if you are happy with your life or sad and the reasons why.
6/ When you are finished dinner go for a short walk talking about anything that pops into your head and allowing the other person to do the same, hence building up a level of respect between the two of you.
7/ If you end up going somewhere to have ***, before u do, go online and donate to the “save the Rhino fund” once again building up the respect that you have for each other for donating to a worthy cause and helping your own self esteem
8/Ensure u take some aspirin with u to take in the morning in case u had little too much Chablis.
And that pretty much covers it.
1. Ground Rhino horn
2. Spanish Fly
3. Alcohol
4. Chocolate
5. Oysters
6. Yohimbe, Tribulus, Maca i.e. [All traditional African herbs]
7. ******
8. Psychoanalysis
9. Getting in Shape
10. Respect
And no I didn’t miss anything, if restaurant is Spanish and outdoors, and Aspirin was found originally in Willow bark a naturally occurring herb and the rest, read between the lines
Well ok you got me on the ****** thing but all it does is increase blood flow and give you an ******* that wont go away, that would seem annoying not a turn on , so I left it out.
Good luck to us all.
In hind sight with all the time it took me to write this I could have just listened to track 1 and not track 3  and said, The Whitlams have a really cool song called “ Blow up the Pokies” I agree with everything they say in that song and it makes complete sense. That way you wouldn’t have had to read all the other stuff. Unlucky for you I guess
Besides talking about blowing up stuff these days can get you locked up in a detention centre for an indeterminate time. And that would be really no good for your *** life anyways unless you bat for the other team, which I don’t. So track three probably was wise choice after all.

marketing work stalls imagination,
the benefits of the internet are
that you can bypass all that marketing
and become fudge stuck cancerous
in a spider-web of your own choosing
debated as either giving or
marketing... but given this is a century
later, marketing stalls work...
i'd hate to be an allen ginsberg with
only one poem associated with my
creative output... how it's "necessary"
to congregate and carve out
a one-hit-wonder...
if plumbers and roofers and electricians
were treated like that...
we'd have one drainage pipe,
one roof, one light-bulb used by
a population the size of new york...
oh yeah, that would really work!
one toilet for a bully like napoleon
and about 10,000 soldiers ******* their pants;
indeed the modern concept of sharing
original work is like the old concept
of marketing... although in this new concept
no one earns anything of value
that can be readily exchanged -
time isn't readily exchanged, space is
inevitably exchanged, but time isn't -
an hour of psychoanalysis at £100, e.g.,
a free poem, no poet at a party drunk with recitation...
win win!
what's that game... a ping pong table
with cups filled with alcohol lined up like
bowling-alley pins, throwing ping-pong *****
into the opponent's bowling-pin arrangements...
jägermeister o'clock... chug chug chug!
well done; go puke in the toilet...
i'm going to walk home and have a sing-along alone.

walking the concrete pave
i started to feel a bulging softness in my liver,
just the sheer balloonness of it,
not attached to any bone,
it was too much for me,
i had to walk into the greenbelt darkness
to feel the soft pouches of earth
beneath the feet and banish
all livery sentiments of the silken doughy thought,
and in there i said:
with the abolishment of asylums
psychiatry has become evermore bothersome,
imagine if the churches were closed
and priests freely roamed,
not since henry the eight such travesty,
with it, ******-synthesis and very
little psychoanalysis:
because who the hell would diagnose a
child of two with some symptoms accumulative
as a.d.h.d.? where's the: climb a tree
break a leg then tango on with crutches?

socrates was executed in democracy, de facto argumentation in favour of democracy as utopian or workable utopian is flawed; it's like the equivalent of advertisement (2d) of dog food (3d).*

the most uniform definition of oursevles
based on the unitary currency,
when faced with what is a priori
to what’s relatable is crafted
by: machina ex non-ego,
i.e. the machinery we submit to,
even though we were not involved in constructing
the machinery... we have to identify ourselves...
nonetheless...
the kantian concept of a priori and a posteriori
is limited in the greek deus ex machina
and the hyphenated expression:
a- priori and a- posteriori (the a- of atheism, i.e. without).
but imagine it simpler:
machinery not from me... tax credit breaks...
the traffic code... morality of any sort...
the need for pyramids...
it’s not the socratic inquiry of knowing yourself...
it’s about finding yourself...
that’s where psychoanalysis becomes crucial...
if you want to define the ego ex machina
you’ll get the upright citizent...
you want the machina ex ego... you will not get
any stability, and freudian / jungian judas selling theorem
like typing in the digit that was designated a repetitive index...
you’ll just get an individuation of the individual will...
shortened to: ‘what’s your ******* problem,
care to wear my shoes and walk a mile in them?!’
all crimes are commited on the basis of ego ex machina...
all coformity is based on the machina ex non-ego
(the communism of marx lived by all the slavs
in the 20th century... all the capitalistic intervetion
from adam smith...
odd that democracy should be coupled to capitalism...
and that the chaos of democracy should
eat the only political counter known as republicanism
with the economic model of republicanism as
communism becoming extinct due to john paul ii);
america never wants to export
republicanism, the good politics of rome...
always the **** part of ancient greece...
imagine how the elders of afghanistan will
accept the politics of youth (democracy)
should ancient standards be replaced by experimentation...
exporting democracy and not accepting
the republicanism of specified geographic regions
will always lead to mini-wars all the ****** time...
try exporting american republicanism...
oh right... afghani republicanism thinks
it's superior... and democracy just becomes
the no-man's land in belgium
between the dug-up trenches of the brits and the germans.

your hands are cold
and they don't fit in mine
our fingers struggle to make the fit

your face jumps from sweet relaxation
to indignant self defense
and psychoanalysis

you always struggle to say the right thing
but usually
you are dumb

you're slowly opening up to me
letting me in because I'd never hurt you
unlike how you've treated me

let's hold mismatched hands
trade bits of our hearts with each other
relax and be free with me

Like a well oiled engine, my heart whirrs in pleasure at your sight
Found a biker boy and rode into the sunset

I'm a ship honey. Take me from my harbor
A sailor caught my helm and sailed into the horizon

Are you a black hole? Because you **** me in.
The physicist sat me on his lap and we got lost in space

Are you Messi ? Because I'm a Ballon d'or.
Shots were fired. Goals were scored. And they ruled the field together.

I have reached the top tier of Maslow's needs.
After extensive psychoanalysis, we found our counselors in each other.

If you're a rebuttal point, I'll always have you covered.
She and the debater found their grey patch amidst the black and white.

I'll make you a sandwich if you are male, white and a misogynist.
She found love with the racist and waited on him hand and foot.

I'll draw your heart with HB pencils and make an acrylic out of our relationship.
The artist found her bluetiful and incRedible.

I'm a South Indian who loves dosa, an uneducated Bihari, the patanjali promoting Hindu, the Muslim terrorist, the Christian converter, the Russian spy, the fake Chinese, the blond cheerleader, the ladyless female football player, the classy British, the poor illiterate, the fat American, the mannerless slum dweller, the conservative Indian woman, the dumb ****, the unromantic geek, the bald science teacher, the old librarian, the charisma less nerd......
Stereotype found it's soulmate and lived happily ever after.

I fall in love with words. Ink is my blood. Emotions and thoughts are my food.
The poet smirked and said," Haha! Nice try."

~Pacific Wolf

it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.

but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the *carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.

Why won't you let me **** you?

How much force does it take to squeeze the life out of you?
Why do you persist such agonies and endure your strife being beat down into the mud? A vortex of emotions running rampant, but in the blink of an eye, consumed and swallowed whole. Now there is an empty and sick acre. And though the leaves are green on the other side of the fence, i sit here bound to you.

Time has become a mind numbing drug that i hav egrown impervious to over the years. I no longer have the dirt left to bury you. The only  hope for me was to **** you but here you persist. Neither narcotics nor psychoanalysis got rid of you. I could not fit you in any container.

Unrelenting, savage, corrupted, mauling and swiping at me. Sleep was a temporary escape but you found a way into that world as well.

It seems i will forever carry you on my shoulders. My burden to bear, my medal of shame, a trophy of my failings, a banner proudly flying in the rainy nights.

So why can't i **** you?

Is it because you are a memory?

.that rare chance to be a spectator, of intra-cultural h'american difference(s), notacibly between REP-ZION and ONI-SION; wow (clearly)... i never thought it was, this bad, looking "forward" from the old continent, the schadenfreude mentality is, a bit, like, a paddy walks into a psychoanalysis clinic, slouches into the chair and repeats: where's the beer? h'america has become an unrecognizable culture-export powerhouse, the doubt plaguing these people is, rife... the fear? unfathomable, when it comes to expressing deviances of paranoia... once upon a time: great ******* music... now though? eh... not so much, esp. on scale of what's deemed acceptable... sorry... back on the "old continent", we're looking on, clueless... i've only just recently become exposed to this sort of content, these... hobbos of the internet... come to think of it, given these guys... failure is the only self-serving absolute to make deviation from up-staging the homeless, in reality, and these, leech test-dummies... current export of american culture? zero value... i'm still figuring out as to why america would require a cultural import "levy" on content creation: guess the teenage girls will not be enough as consumer digest "scrutiny", worth the base for an economic health analysis... the greatest country in the history of man, and they are unable, to perform with the sort of late 20th century hard-on... bothersome, i agree... but Europe is not exactly the place you'll be in want of finding inspiration... that's the last place you'd look.

there's nothing more **** than
witnessing                a spring blossom
in the ivory moonlight of
the night
       in my neighbour's garden,
which i'm feuding over,
which i "encouraged"
               to move house...
    sure... i wrote a poem once,
became so content with it
that i slipped out a wolf's imitation
howl,
  couldn't bark, i spoke...
and he reminded me of it,
asking me to: tell him,
when i was going to grill some
meat on the b.b.q.,
  i said: you're ******* mad,
he said: you're the madman
howling at night...
i replied: touché my friend...
last year?
  june / july?
    they have an autistic kid,
which is what you get when
you're circa 60,
and your maiden is circa 50...
apparently me minding my own
business,
  smoking a cigarette,
perched on a windowsill,
sitting on a folded leg,
             crushing my ankle,
smoking out into the night
was the problem...
but it wasn't the heat,
oh no no...
the same heat that left me
moaning and groaning
upon waking up,
the same sort of heat
that made me sleep through
dreams that literally threw me
out of my bed,
and pseudo-suffocating
on the cold wooden floor...
or running into the garden,
in nothing but underwear,
to find the cold grounnd
with a cranium riddled with grass,
and trying to sleep an extra
2 hours on the cooling earth,
in nothing but my underwear...
but yeah...
   70cl of whiskey...
no... i'm not feeling it...
        give me some more...
just make sure that the spring
blossom appears
before my eyes in the night...
i was being, resonable,
who is to dictate whether i can,
or can't, smoke a cigarette
perched on a windowsill of
my bedroom, smoking it out
of my window?
i told him,
and later her:
  your property: your rules...
my property: my freedoms...
****, i must have been speaking
mandarin,
  because that sort of "logic"
didn't translate...
well, 50cl of whiskey in,
pepsi and a lime,
and i hear the right song,
what happens?
   an electric surge,
a stimulus of pleasure,
orientates the number of
hairs on my head,
and move right down into
my groin and testicles,
and...
       starts to "thrill" me...
like i'm sort of self-automated
robot ****-bot,
goosebumps...
   chills...
     i never felt so good
about not ******* as i did,
listening to the right kind
of music,
   and looking at the right kind
of thing...
spring blossom, white,
in the night...
   i'm guessing it's a pear tree...
oh but i'm considered
mad...
   but i live next to a neighbour
that tells another neighbour
to clean up her dog ****
because the, fumes from the ****,
can somehow affect
their already autistic offspring...
i hear the little ******,
like any child:
cute gurgles of speech...
but the **** i hear,
when he's being told down,
**** me...
          i talk more ******* romance
to my cat than what i hear
from behind the wall...
and me, smoking out of my window,
is a problem, during the 2018 june /
july heatwave...
no no, the heat wasn't the problem...
talk about leaving a dog in
a parked car, next to some supermarket,
with the windows closed...
   i can only be just so much
reasonable, then i lose the plot,
and the plot becomes:
sane people pretend...
                                "sane"... people...
pretend...
              i was falling out of my bed
gasping for cold,
running into the garden
  to find shade and a grassy patch
of land,
   but it was me smoking
cigarettes outside of my bedroom
that was the problem...
flimsy... ******* flimsy...
        i had to bring this up,
it's the sort of petty information
that translates itself into a kept
momentum...
   i'll never read a book by
stephen king,
  not out of spite...
unless that could possibly be
the same sort of spite as to why
i will never read j. r. r. tolkien...
the movie did its bit,
by the standards of the hobbit...
you could have had 9 movies
in total...
   almost a star wars franchise...
it doesn't help that
i watched the fellowship of the ring
9 times at the cinema...
one time with a family friend
who was so obsessed with
enter the dragon...
that he watched it circa 30 times...
****,
i'm starting to feel
the loosening effect of the 60cl of whiskey...
guess that implies:
i'm ripe...
   for blah, blah blah...
at the end of the day,
i have limited imagination,
which eases my inability to lie...
truth, or mantra...
   and the state of h'america these days...
i remember times when
europe would be barraged by
the cultural export of h'america...
now?
     socio-political commentary
excerpts via... the usual channels...
how the **** didn't i make
a move to inact the more extreme
play-roles of *******?
oh, right...
the first and only
        canvas plot
of *******...
     Bronzino's
                    cupid, venus, folly & time...
i focused on the tender,
  oyster-like tongues...
and the entire spectrum
for the fetish of ******* a sister,
if i had one...
              *** outside of the mind
is so, so: ******* un-spectacular,
overtly competitive,
but if you have some sort of
a taboo cage,
   which you dare not break,
well: hello arousal.
    that basic translation
   of metaphor:
        phallus this,
enigma ***** that,
            Terra Mater of the phallus...
transgender...
          Neptune... the god of
the pearl ivory genitals
of a woman...
          depends...
if you know what a ****
feels like...
   most prostitutes have
the professional decency,
to oil up, even if they are not aroused...
an oyster in a desert scenario?
i might as well have been
circumcised within the interaction...
complaint?
        years later,
after she first courted me
with the words: you will not deny me...
**** me, first date is over,
and she still owns a DVD copy
of the machinist...

                good "thing" that i visited
a *******,
   now i know what male ****
feels like:
      dropping a sort of viagara
into the food,
   and then not oiling up
for the, ******,
cocoon ***, under the bed-sheets,
in the dark, feel, of, things...
at least with a *******
the lights were on,
we didn't do it under bedsheets...
i showed my chubby,
she showed her chubby,
and then i washed her
while we took a shower together
afterwards...

       two prime examples...
she was struck with a quasi-paralysis
when she came to an ******,
reality-breaker...
    my casual average little richard
could do that...
   and she couldn't fathom it...
  apparently i was only her second
in the trade...
      m'eh... **** happens...
forest gump ran across the h'american
continent...
          
            forgetting my genitals...
because i didn't trim my *****
hair for a sensible act
        of experiencing *******...
'good man' / 'nice'...
    the **** was up with
                                       jackie boy?
well yeah: i'd be a moralist
if i managed to put a strap-on
on mickey mouse's head,
whenever the lightbulb moment
came into drawing the *******
cartoon for: a bright idea.
      
hell, i love writing about ***...
given that it's not exactly graphic...
unless you come around
to what i have to say about,
Lucy, and south park,
      near Seven Kings...
in between Seven Kings
and Goodmayes...
                the "affair" of the
kit-kat...
         4.... 4/1,
                                  *******...      
but all of this is hardly spectacular,
it's nothing akin
to the "castration" of marquis de sade
strapped to the iron maiden
of the Bastile...
          his writings are worse
than his actual deeds...
   that origin story,
the one with the profanity
of the crucifix used as a ***** on
the ******* who reported him?
tame, his imagination was more wild
than his actual deeds...
come to think of it,
i don't even know how
the 16 year old me,
came about his most brilliant work,
the short ficto-essay ******,
but i did,
   i'd love to put a staff
into the Vistula, just in order
to change the current...
    but... clearly... this is,
   one of those instsances,
where a Moses metaphor,
                   will not do the required, trick;
   the sheer impossibility of
the act,
   transcending the physical
groundwork
of laws that give man,
a mind,
   and a stability of vision,
a future,
                  well...
that **** just went out of the "window".

Mediocre metaphors pervade my writing. Making it all the more obvious how scared I am. Too scared even to reach deep within for something original.  Too scared to push the limits of existence through literature. Perhaps this is it. Perhaps this rudimentary psychoanalysis is just an example of all that I have within. Others. And the love I have for them that forces me to take them inside and make parts of them exude from within me.  Is it their love for me or, mine for them that keeps me alive?

i never understood why so much theory
and talk and psychoanalysis
went into the oedipus complex,
while the synonymous antonym of
the complex bound to Electra was
simply reduced to the spectrum
of onomatopoeias of a woman having ***:
why did men require long hours
spent on a couch and women got away
with about an hour of *******
before either party reached the summit
of *******?
i guess in woman's egoism, i'm still
but a *****, and she, a god **** inviting me
to obstruct interpreting life by interpreting dreams.

I let the darkness
seep into my skin
as if it would stop
my bones from rattling.
Babbling sirens pierce my ears
forgetting what the morning brings,
I hear nothing but the psychoanalysis
of my own lips breathing out nonsense.
Expectations dangle from the ceiling
blocking out all the light from the moon
enlisting its own doom
into my growing pores.
They reach for sadness like sunlight
a direct way to feel again,
despite my echoing cries
they continue to try and be something.
My body aches of its own type of arthritis,
derived from the weight of surviving,
years of looking for a way out
wore on my joints like sandpaper.
So I erode,
tiny flecks of golden dust
fall to the floor as I walk,
glowing in the hue of dusk reclining
itself into my chest.
I am left with the dread of failure
and regrets I know best
waiting for the dawn to support me,
but the darkness lasts for days.
I wait
and I wait,
and eventually the sun will rise
and I will be okay.