I dreamt of Freud yesterday
With his imposing air of superiority
Suffocating my need
To have a little autonomy

Libido and Thanatos
Runs past my mind in fast succession
Oedipus and Electra
Pauses the screen in motion

I dreamt of Jung today
Diving into the collective unconscious
Floating on the symbols
That is universally serendipitous

Archetypes and motifs
Flatter the culture of humanity
Anima and the persona
Sheds self unto the lights in harmony

I’ll dream of the future tomorrow
When everything’s all said and gone
The old will always be with the new
As written of past in stone

Though conflicts harbour trouble
And dreams reproduce it’s latency
Anxiousness is part of life’s bundle
So conquer it we must, positively

we're just as superstitious as our ancestors, we create fiction from superstition, we get the hots for haunted houses, the black dot on the bible like pirates... it's just these day, a person finding a £20 banknote would get superstitious about buying 20 lottery tickets with it, rather than a bottle of whiskey... and yes, our story-telling skills have diminished, it's more like dietary regimes these days... we pushed subjectivity so far down the drain that we're not telling stories anymore, we're simply regurgitating objectivity, facts after facts... less talk about surviving a tornado twirl and expressing the excitement from surviving such an event, and more: next! pocket that story, box it with the bar-code: adrenaline ******... we're not story-tellers anymore, we're on the verge of losing all plots... being exposed to polished narrations of Hollywood (hardly the case of being worried about doppelgangers, that was obvious in the 20th century) - as said: we like being bombarded with facts, we've stopped claiming narration for a commuting drive... we are the encyclopedia ~generation... well, we're way past being defined as a generational phenomenon... hence the quiz shows...  we started to hate the excitement of the subjective perspective, the parts were "we will never know", jealousy on this scale really killed it off... we weren't there, therefore it's untrue... coupled with this objectivity of: none of us were there, therefore it must be true... plate up ladies and gents! we're once more reduced to regurgitating facts, we're actually forced to regurgitate facts, we have no chance to score with emotions or personal thoughts... people only want to hear objective realities of our lives... we want uniform coherence like under Uncle Stalin... no deviation... none! i wonder what story will come from all this objectification... the usual, current affairs story, i blame feminism partly for this... the objectification of women lessened, and in came the objectification of everything else, as feminism has done, shoving its nose into everything from philosophy to history simply on the basis of numbers, and as to why there aren't enough women here, and not enough women there... my mother is a housewife... my father comes home with a satisfaction that at least one member of the family will not be stressed... add a second partner with stress and career ambitions and fairy-tales, and that's a house on sand-dunes... personally i wouldn't want to marry in any case... plus, feminism doesn't encourage the house-husband idea that Sweden has adopted... well... you'd think that the idea of househusbands would take off once feminism took off... apparently it didn't.

Darwinism is at odds with pop culture, i see these people
striving for fame like they might be buying penny sweets
in their hundreds, and what i find surprising
is that so much fame is being dished out,
me, jealous? yesterday i found
a twenty quid banknote on the street,
today i bought four beers and a bottle of Grant's
whiskey and i felt that: i owned the world -
yes indeed, a circus act - that's usurping
style of the khaki stormtrooper uniform...
a colon is also emphasis, without the italics...
it's not about grocery lists...
so many writers out there who put
the labouring over punctuation to others...
so many dyslexic still passing through...
mate... if you and me were *****... you'd
be tissue paper material, no, not even a ******
blockage waiting for the plumber...
or the ******* that sold condoms puncturing them
with needles for excess success rates of impregnation...
see, i peel the skin off, imitating Abraham's
madness at the excess, and cockerel
the **** like sunrise... all *sheered;
then i put the skin back on... so much for improvements
that desired God's approval... might as well
cut off all the cartilage: nose, ears, nails
(i swear they share the same category... oh wait...
nails and hair... well, n'eh bother, cut the rest off
until you enter the realm of plastic surgery).
so yeah, Darwinism is really the guillotine at
the moment, see them, watch the shepherds herding
them, they created something a Marxist would
never ever understand... the fame class system...
not some rebellion of strong idiots
working the plough field fighting noblemen bored
in their salons with ****-*** their only
exercise and solution to the boredom of a busy world,
mind being in such a world...
or do as i do... half of scotch through...
second jazz record playing in the background...
jazz doesn't translate into headphones,
you need the space...
what worries me is its trans-generational absence...
jazz is the classical music thanks to slavery,
it would never have been born in Africa,
forget it... but it bothers me it wasn't manicured,
kept pristine like some Renaissance painting...
it quickly morphed into Eminem and Vanilla Ice
and all that rap that wrapped it up...
fair enough, i can give credit to joshua redman
and his back east... but that's about it...
so as i sit sipping my Mississippi scotch of whiskey
and cola, having listened to
sonny rollins' ballads, i'm onto kenny burrel's
midnight blue... it's the sort of high culture
that's easy to cultivate... but i'm not the man you
want to revisit the Beat Movement chemistry,
i care very little to talk over the jazz with my poetry...
no wonder talking over classical music ever worked,
hence i contend to parallel myself with Bukowski
in that respect.. i shut up and write,
imagine myself on the Faroe Islands, very far
from what makes me uncomfortable,
the nearest thing to Eden, some remote place,
a village of 20 people where everyone knows
how long they take to a **** and at what hours
(given there's only one toilet) - and yes, the brackets
are also useful to make an emphasis, so example, : and ( )
all combine pretty well.
but they really are losing a one-sided battle,
given historical Darwinism, excluding our modern
perks to get into the raw caveman antics
it can be sometimes very demeaning to consider
both attitudes, simultaneously or correspond or even
excusing our modernity with intrinsic sushi (the rawness
that breeds no home comforts) -
and given the whole popularity culture...
you expect people to remember anything in
the next 100 years? the opening of a century is never
going to be enough to allow for that century's momentum...
i might be living in the 21st century, but all
my influences are bound to the 20th...
and that's where i'll remain, a beggar with a rich man's
vault of compact disks... clutter and a library...
unable to reread the books i've read (unless in snippets)...
like that tale of Neoplatonism and Plotinus
and that relationship with Christianity, but the job
that Nietzsche put in to criticise it came short of
what the actual religion did to itself, the archaeology proof
destined at Egypt, finding works there and not
in Israel along with the Dead Sea Scrolls...
fascinating how they cut Isaiah in half and the historian
Josephus placing the innovator of the Sermon
during Nero's reign, and how Nero is the first reference
to the 666... well, you know, once you zero out the preceding
years, and start again... telling the time will hardly
matter whether b.c. or a.d. - what with Darwinism
and the big bang, the Copernican west... well the Copernican
"west" - what a crazy carousel - get me off!
and indeed, with certain words...
we have encoded approximations to what each words
denotes... the brightest gem in the vault is
Hades... you don't say it as Ha A.D.H.D. -
you say hay and then you say dees, like bees -
yes, whether the d is a below the equator
and is summer in december, or whether b is above
the equator and is summer in july...
so you encode Hades but actually say: hay-d-and-many-e's -
still can't figure out how to denote a plurality of
letters with the punctuation marks given by English...
at present i'm using the inadequate possessive article
route - Peter's, Mark's, the mountain's...
the article goes off radar when there's plurality
in the thing ascribed possession: mountains' heights...
hay-d-and-many-eeeeeeeeeeeee? get the picture?
or hay-d-and-ease - baffling language,
i feel like some aboriginal looking at it from Ayers Rock
going: kangaroo the **** and didgeridoo?
no wonder the tetragrammaton is the tool to decipher
this phonetic encoding... there are too many chiral
symmetries in this tongue.
so again... i don't know why poets don't bother
to repeat themselves, on what they first concentrated on,
like the many water lilies by Monet,
or the self-portraits from varying angles...
or how modern fame, in concept, condemned itself
to c.c.t.v. and a brick wall as to how history is
experienced with mainstream Darwinism...
how quickly the guillotine chops the head off,
the finicky base for democratic applause...
and how in 100 years people might wonder:
well, Plato ain't going to be usurped, Plato will be
treated with the same faithful bias
as a blank blackboard, the established norm...
(that's all e.g. to say, it's not necessarily the
acceptance of such a norm) -
we'll still be ushered to normality by starting
from either the bleak big bang, led to an even bleaker
and bigger bonk... or we'll be cavemen admiring viral
infections - and fame and aspiration to attain
it will truly become bleak... for in these days
fame isn't competing for being remembered...
it's competing for being seen, again the c.c.t.v. model...
and given our overexposure to datums (the Oxford
authority is a bit slow to recognise that... well,
unless of course the same meaning can be achieved
with the word data... unnecessarily datii?),
advertisement being only one such source...
and would i consider the self to be an illusion?
i'd consider it on equal footing with π = 3.14159...
a piece of information, not to the fullest extent
a delusion... meaning i wouldn't discredit it completely,
given that so many people fall for it's existence
when plagiarism tempts us to swing with it...
and that there's the private, the public, the showcased
use of it... but it's still so ****** annoying
to have the lazy crew use the northern barbaric
reference to that pronoun and discredit it by treating
it as merely a useful prefix for compounding words
together to express automaton behaviours, and to have
to lie back on the psychoanalytical sofa and have to
deal with the atom of: ego, superego and id...
                                     (neutron, proton           and
the many that that that      / its its its -
the id is actually a scalpel in psychiatry - the cursor or
vector or quiet simply as stated already, scalpel,
incision maker -
                               the superego? also known as moralising
Nietzsche's übermensch - nein! klein Adolf
kann nicht spielen mit du heute);
well... might as well enjoy being trapped in
the stone ages from now on... because in between the cavemen
and ourselves, our contemporaries just called them
idiots (most notably the journalists) -
yep... only idiots separating us from caveman...
i must be double the idiot of wishing to be back
in the Dumas' France, or at the height of the Polish-Lithuanian
Commonwealth, when the Poles, second only to
the Mongols held Moscow.

sure, the romance, they are the new gods,
     Paris, Rome, Barcelona (don't ask me about Madrid,
                                                       too royal),
a Venetian mask i would don, and become the quixote fighting treadmills rather than windmills -
although to Rome i have not walked
                for my footsteps to encounter the pave,
but in the Venetian pirate lair, plunderers of Byzantium
i have set foot on, at the same time to have learned
of the number 613 near a synagogue and heard the shofar.
Paris (not the Trojan) is the cliche synonym of Eros -
elsewhere Gemini: St. Petersburg as the Amsterdam
   of the north, and Edinburgh as the Athens of the north.

well, such a verse does indeed desire
                                                 more translation of Horace,
as in nimis ex vos, sed non satis ex "ego",
  yes, "ego" the abstract component of you that's
free from the three tier psychoanalytical *******,
what superego, what id? forget it! there's only you
and only "you" - work with me:
               too much out of you, but not enough
               from your alter (synonym of "ego" -
               Jungian shadow porridge);
but as promised, yet more Horace

               deus inmortalis haberi dum cupit Empedocles
               ardentem frigidus Aetnam insiluit.
               sit ius liceatque perire poetis:
               invitum qui servat, idem facit occidenti.
               nec semel hoc fecit nec, si retractus erit,
               iam fiet **** et ponet famosae mortis
               amorem. nec satis adparet, cur versus factitet,
               utrum minxerit in patrios cineres an triste
               bidental moverit incestus: certe furit ac velut
               ursus, obiectos caveae valuit si frangere clatros,
               indoctum doctumque fugat recitator
               acerbus; quem vero arripuit, tenet occiditque
               legendo, non misura cutem nisi plena
               cruoris hirudo.

but of course i'll translate, but prior in dogmatic proposals...
keep the book of revelation of the Ιωαννης,
discard the rest... the four primers are a parody of
the tetragrammaton - so gentle in his own land
yet such a vicious serpent in Egypt? which one's the fraud?
messiah of just hanging, standing still,
40 years in the desert or 40 hours on the cross?
and all that iconoclasm and modern too via narcissism?
"bring out the selfie shtick! oh wait... my hands are
nailed to a ******* crux!" and this persistent 2000 year old
negation - and being spared, the Romans, or
rather the alphabetum, Roma est mort but you
can still ask the italians of a cappuccino - Chino and
Khaki elsewhere with the Lombardy League ponce
rubbing shoulders with Saxons... Chino Versace
whistle at a Bella... you can still see c b g long after
and the coliseum in ruins... it wasn't swallowed up!
i too though the second H in the tetragrammaton was
intended as a déjà vu - it would sit perfectly with
anti-, the concept, but not the man as such,
and indeed the Y would make a perfect tree of Golgotha
in that tweaked geometric, then W and seas
and continuance - Roma alphabetum, sole constructor
of computer robot? maybe... but you see, the H
is a slippery *****, it's silent, like in Khaki... or
as is the usual case in Hindu - Dhal... it's not so much
déjà vu but silence - a necessary surd to make spelling
pretty... dyslexics think spelling is a bit like arithmetic...
it's actually an aesthetic, but they do find it as hard as
arithmetic, and that's why they're genius at numbers...
but the aesthetics is missing, so they cling to numbers
and the aesthetic is missing, and everything associated
with money... well, it's a bit ugly, isn't it?

... (postponed translation)... yes, London is Hades...
    doom and gloom.

but indeed the Gemini in the tetragrammaton,
but first the principle of three-dimensional space (Y) -
just look into one of the corners of a cube (yes
the room you're sitting in),
and lastly the principle of waves, whichever,
sine or cosine as you will, looks better that way
than mediating the ad infinitum of 1, 2, 3 etc.,
sea and constant fluxes (fluctuations),
pin-point the opposite, the principle of one-dimensional
space (a definite coordinate, rather than three-dimensional
space and that ****** indefinite coordinate) and
subsequent ripples, which aren't necessarily waves:
my tools? a-       and -the            and every other ism
that might act as an auxiliary attaché - time (W).
but indeed the anti- implementation that serves as
direct Gemini chiral-ism: the latter serves no close
resemblance to be guided to Golgotha,
hence guided toward Megiddo, and a crucifix also there?

**** such religiosity twice over with its vortex,
as promised the Horace translation

       Empedocles, desirous of godliness in being so,
       having icily strutted toward old age and by
       old age near frozen, was prophesied to jump
       into flaming Etna. as they want, let the poets
       have a right to a death (of their choosing).
       who whomever against his will saves,
       twice-over rattles the suicide's intentions.
       it hasn't been the first time, it's not that easy
       to say it: i am human. he wants to immortalise
       himself, fame posthumously. he writes poems.
       why? maybe he urinated on his father's grave,
       maybe in a place basked by throngs he took
       from it the vices and in solitude became
       desolate with inherited uncleanliness of urbanity?
       like a bear with scars, prison bars he breaks open,
       scares off the wise and the foolish, such
       the adamant nature of compulsive poetic labour,
       whoever he grasps with recitations he
       finishes off, the leech attached to his skin will
       not fall off, until satiated with enough blood.

**dicam Siculique poetae narrabo interitum.

deutsche-schveeden, deutsche-schveeden, deutsche-schveeden.

            followed up my laughter
in the afternoon...
  could be worse, could be me drinking
with *ernest hemingway:
a shot of absinthe in a champagne flute...
****! that was a suicide mission...
  ****** knew how to cocktail a knock-out.
        but i can't stop laughing...
in europe we don't have this: up-and-current
patriotism... in europe they call
        it nationalism: a very... very: evil word...
north americans can be patriotic...
but we europeans? ugly nationalists...
             but at this particular moment in history
i'm going to rub myself in lard and
           get a sun-tan...
                               can you blame me, given
my ethno-centric view on things?
       ever heard of the swedish deluge of poland?
no? you probably have heard of world war two...
     i swear to god, i have to bask in glee
at current affairs... because when will i have
the same amount of fun? in a graveyard?!
          what makes it ever so more poignant
is the western narrative: ooh ooh p'ooh.... boo h'oo...
     it's a real tear-jerker...
              i'm about to wet a handkerchief with
                    a waterfall equivalent of niagara falls...
if you know your history, based on
                accommodating an ethno-centric bias...
you'll know: ****! i better exploit this!
             so we had the sveedish invade the land
because there was a puppet king of the vasa family
on the throne... who ****** off to paris
        like kaiser wilhelm iv did to belgium...
                                see... i'm not buying into
this western narrative of bleaching people till all
their descriptive powers are reduced to pronouns
and verbs... and have a noun-anorexia...
                              because look who comes from
the other side! grammar-nazis... donning women's
underwear!
                             wanna be on that side of
the fence humpty-dumpty is perched on?
            what's that? scrambled, boiled, poached or fried?
       it really feels like a 2nd golden age of polish
history...             now we've sided with the
czechs, the slovaks and the huns...
                                   the huns were like:
                 those austrians? there're just weird...
                     the amstetten affair... you get the picture.
it's what the brexit movement doesn't really get:
other alliances have already been made,
                          the insurance policy has been established...
the west is freaking out, but head east and
you can already see: you little ***** want to play
the sensationalism gimmick with your media?
       look here... look what happens.
                                   hence the deutsche-schveeden
joke... variants include
     doyche-shveeden i'm no vegan...
                                      and some others i can't
be bothered to list...
                 but why is western society so *******
adamant to integrate it all as white?
                        for me the stories that are coming from
sweden and germany are, sadistically true:
        a bit... pleasing?
                                    well... if you know your history
you're not going to dub your nose in a handkerchief
and cry about it...
                        gentlemen! the *****! have dropped!
not from a historical perspective you won't...
                i miss being a child...
                        i miss having a fight with my peers
and otherwise...
             growing up, and all the fighting i used to
have has turned into psychoanalytical "violence";
        but sure as hell, if you're into history, and have
a higher tier list of self-identification politics that branches
outside of the simpleton guise of grammar in
the form of "correct" pronoun utilißation...
                            you'll know that there is no sympathy
for either sweden of germany at this moment in time...
                 they're so scared(?) to mention this place
they deem to be a "buffer" zone betweem "them"
  and russia, that they don't even care / dare to mention
it's existence.
                              the western narrative is really
        horrid...
       it just reeks the onomatopoeia: mmm... huh?! m'eh.
         the germanic women-folk, frauvolk...
can i add an -en to that italic word, so it sounds better?
              **** yeah!     frauvolken...
                 and the source of power:
           60 dollars / 30 quid... heidegger's ponderings...
aphorism 102... ponderings iii.
                                   that about wraps it up...
            a bit like: karma, the zeitgeist and history walk
into a bar...
                              that's karma on a national level,
that's karma stolen from the individual and individuated
choices and a personal life... this is karma morphed
into a collectivised dasein - a vector of monstrous
proportions: nationhood... tribalism...
                                      this is karma with a memory
imbedded in people of ethno-centric identification...
      so... karma, the zeitgeist and history walk into a bar...
      all of them order a brawl and a beer.

because why would you want to write something, that might make people do things? why bother writing coherent instruction manuals for televisions? why not write "incoherent" Kandinsky moments? why not go along to the Cabaret Voltaire? why not say that the only twists in the plot of philosophy books is based upon contradictory statements of the narrator? why even bother requiring that Apollonian sensibility of making things ultra-geometric rather than hyper-geometric? if there's an opposite argument, i would recommend reinventing the ******* wheel.

the difference between a pretentious ***, and a pretentious ***
that has any venture into a self-reliant awareness
of the thespian act,
  can summarise it by using the pronoun
scalpel -
        i wouldn't go on youtube and talk...
luckily i know how the pendulum of
power wrecks havoc -
never feed them regurgitated passive crap,
get them flexing the mental straits -
get them to the gym!
       for the love of doodling -
              and all the reliefs from thought
being dubbed *agony, and subsequently
institutionalised and given the jacket
in which you can't scratch your head, or nose.
just like today: i know that i don't
have a novel in me... schizophrenics on
the other hand are walking examples of a novel...
     just look at them like an atomist might
and you'll see the electron smog
         making them finicky between engaging
in pro and neutro.
                    they have decoded language to
the point of language being rejected as sacrosanct,
iconoclastic, muscular verbiage...
i like them... they're my culinary patriots of
the same (dis) negation of ease...
         and was it not said that to classify poetry
you have to rhyme, as it was later termed:
to classify philosophy you need to ask a question?
why?
        can i just call philosophy a need to encode
something? i'm making parallels with modern sprechen,
   i'm liberating myself while in the background
people are writing code and deforesting the Amazon
patch of land.
             and i never bothered to write in the pixel
market-place: ta' 'un fo' un' banana!
i never left a single comment in the comment section
on any website...
   websites... funny concept...
   they're like a library with only blank books in them....
  you enter and scribble on as many books as
you can... you never really have the audacity to
hear someone else talk...
you're always gagging to write something on
a blank page... like a graffiti artist...
   or a giraffe... but the bricks are approx.
   the segments of Beelzebub's eyes in pixel...
but i could have used the article scalpel -
which is a proto-Socratic variation of the debate
concerning particulars (the) and universals (a)...
   or... i'm pointing as something clearly defined,
or i'm a magician conjuring up something
that hasn't been clearly defined...
   and the 20th century summit of philosophy,
the pronoun scalpel said i (self) and you (other) -
subjectivity objectivity tumbleweed and a whistling in
the background...
     man and his extracted canvas...
hardware and software...
                        the barons of software cannot
understand the importance of hardware,
hardware is always the lesser thing of interest...
butchers and surgeons...
     while the software brokers known as
psychologists tell you to paint a pretty picture...
let it be known that Freud created the psychoanalytical
scalpel, he coined is as the id -
vector, pointer, incisor, that... later morphed into
verb-neuter: it.
             is my writing perplexing?
  isn't the world perplexing? we get exposed to so much
variation of what function we are supposed to
   perform, that we aren't being taught the grit & grime
approach of telling people: money has absolved us
from thinking of any nation, of any tribe,
of any ethnicity, money can't rekindle tribalism
of "primitive" societies... why then fool people
into having these intense convictions of "belonging"
and "solidarity", when the world still stands
on a cliff of (a) takes out the garbage, (b) sells you
underwear, (c) fixes your car, (d) speaks for
you before a judge with some authority... etc.
  and i'll write ******... why?
i thought you might be more offended by
a dyslexic variation of certain words...
but then i have this book - the ****** factory
by gil scott-heron... the revolution will not
be televised, that guy... mjumbe is Swahili
for messenger... i feel itchy...  i feel this
orthographic urge pinching me... primarily because
english as a language anywhere and everywhere
doesn't even convene over the concept
of orthography, because it doesn't have a concept
of utilising diacritical syllabification of words -
   when i look at english i'm watching ***** amsterdam
hoes doing the hokey-pokey, ***** ******* me
       to replace my eyes with a pair of *******...
    m̄-júm̄-bé... there, now that looks like a proper
cane, cravat and bowler hat gent, walking
   into a 20pence per use toilet at Liverpool St. station...
    because it was never about writing
an instruction manual for a "do it yourself" selling
price of an Ikea table...
                    that's why i said m̄-ài or (ma'ai) -
mmá ài          - well, there was no point in elevating
the competence of literature by forging a forgetfulness
   when reapplying a second level of configurative
complexity with the little additions,
otherwise known as trying to imitate the semitic practices
of words and women, hidden.
                 it was never going to work...
    but that's what we're left with...
     a gigantic mess...              every single one of
us to our idiosyncrasy - or collectively bound by idiom,
   which is the opposite side of a piglet-skinned european.
       it's still bewildering how chinese ideography
survived... maybe because it was always abstract
    skeletal, and not hieroglyphic definitive owl,
snake, or pyramid...
                  all dues to them: invest in complication
prior, move away from sing-along a-to-z simplicity
and save money on the health service when
people get erosion of the brain while watching too
many voids, encapsulated by q, r, o, p, a, d, b...
        we have as many ailments as there are
easily accessible routes into speaking this ****** language...
and the reason behind why so many accents
exist of it being spoken: because there are no
diacritical regulations to talk chav or cockney in
the first place... or why people would
make this eloquence of abstracting sound with
            modern acronyms akin to c u l8er.
the fact that i'm writing this partially intoxicated
makes it all the more pleasurable, relaxing even,
        would i write something sober sometime?
once in a blue moon, when i'm feeling constipated
and get a headache... it's sign language from
here on in, like this mobile phone advert:
   phones (index + thumb extend, other fingers folded
to imitate a telephone)
    for (4, folded thumb, four protruding fingers:
  index, middle, ring and the pinky) -
you (u, the bullish horns of rock and roll,
   headbanging and a few dead brain cells, \m/,
i.e. protruding index and pinky, thumb folding
a clenched marriage of middle and ring fingers)...
  as it goes... when i read a message by other people
i usually bypass the emotional content,
   and sent them packing to Alcatraz with a bunch
of chinese chess masters.

.i don't know are you here to listen to classical music for the same reasons as i? i never bothered with any i.q. testimony or how: i'll abstract "better"... i'm here because... quiet frankly... the drums are doin' my 'ed in... thump thump thump... knocking on doors and the sound of hooves on cobblestone clanking along would probably be a sometimes of a: more appealing hope... and quite frankly the lack of vocals... otherwise modern music and the drums would require one to scream rather than sing - to pass a soul a breath through the custard scrutiny of a wall... why wouldn't drumming translate into gore-screaming sensations; - i'm here to escape the drums and the vocals... some would claim that: Vladimir Lugovskoy has the most serene wikipedia entry of a life: that's better lived - if not best lived... no chance of drowning further than one should: with an epitaph... i have walked many graveyards... i'm yet to find a grave with an epitaph... to me that's like... finding a unicorn!

for as long as i remember... i thought that prokofiev
couldn't better his oeuvre...
outside of his lieutenant kijé (suite), op. 60...
notably the romance piece...

there's a saying about a classical music station...
say, a classic.fm - that what is played is only a fraction
of what was ever produced...
how is a pop music radio station any different
to a classical music station?

it's not really... and there's that other saying:
that most of what is played...
is by a fraction of composers...
the "lesser" composers are only known
for a single piece...

edging toward 34 years...  and... no...
i haven't heard this piece before...
for me it's like a compensation for
liking wojciech kilar's: the beginning
from the film dracula...
oddly enough...
how these two pieces seem to
                "borrow" from each other...

but no amount of time listening to a classical radio
station would have brought me here...
the youtube algorithm spat out an: anomaly...

        otherwise during the day... there's that program...
from 1pm to 5pm... when people phone in...
and... they rarely ask for something specific...
the names of classical music
            pieces are already complicated...
they instead ask for... something akin to the mood
they're in...
well: who would bother remembering
the names - muzak express!
high-brow my ***... music...
that... after all... is... the antithesis of
modernity in that: can i hear any drums?
i wouldn't bet on the drums being included...
whereas most of what's modern:
if the drums are not involved...
does that imply: there's no rigor and standard
bearing to time the matter?

i thought i better call in sometime ago...
and ask for... christopher young's - something
to think about - from the hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack...

well...
sergei eisenstein's 1938 film alexander nevsky -
and what prokofiev gave for it...
notably: the battle on ice: 5 April 1242...
but this is new to me...

it's not like discovering: the moody blues'
spin on pop music with:
nights in white satin and... days of future past...
i have listened to the radio many a times...
but prokofiev's alexander nevsky suite
never made it... to be aired...
a relic - russia under the mongolian yoke,
song about alexander nevsky,
the crusaders in pskov, arise ye russian people,
the battle on the ice,
the field of the dead, alexander's entry into pskov...
there really can be worse ways
to spend circa 40 minutes of your time...

was there a composer that might have
celebrated another date...
15 July 1410 - my history - this sort of history -
perhaps even "god":
apology - i know it's rather... infantile of me
not donning the proper togas and
contentious smiles... of it's a wish for salting
the open wound matter...
of course: always: the "other" the "forgotten"
crusades...
bride of the crown: lithuania -
the pagans that lived into the 15th century!
again: circa.

next on the list: prokofiev's ivan the terrible
suite... but i'm guessing that's going
to very ambitious of me...
but i have allowed myself to stomach
miles davis' ******* brew and coltraine's:
a love supreme...
  prokofiev's ivan: i don't predict anything
less epic... the ultimate nerve-ending shatter...
but... probably not as...
philip glass toying with penderecki...
mahler... even in classical music there are limits...
when a bout of existential apathy seeps in...
and you have grown out of cutting your arms...
or chicken-scratching them...
you might own a female cat...
and forget to cut her nails...
and you pick her up wanting to find
a babushka doll insides -
find the ultimate bonsai tiger to the already
bonsai tiger she already is...
and she digs her nails into your arms...
all this while imagining putting a needle
into your ear while listening to some mahler...
or penderecki...
that's: well... the ultimate sacrifice for anyone
self-harming...
a combination of the two...

otherwise, in history... why did the northern
crusades takes place?
well... the calamity of the 4th crusade...
the largest army... the german army...
pickled barbarossa and... the drowning in the puddle...
and the loss of moral...
a crusade was going to happen...
anyway... if it didn't happen in the holy land...
it could happen in the east:
perhaps a mongol or two could be converted
too...

but: mein gott - i have to check if i have
any tattoos on my skin...
why? perhaps my "soul": no god no soul...
ergo summa summarum (grand Σ)
that other explanation for what "motivates"
me and what: doesn't make me think
about my heart: unless i'm having a heart-attack...
this membrane that shields my thought
from acquiring thoughts concerning
these thoughtless items -
when i walk: i don't think about walking
or moving my feet...

come the exclusive res cogitans...
coupled with the inclusive res vanus:
the thinking thing vs. the empty thing...
no god: no soul...
but there's still a summa summarum!
thinking is not the spider
and my body is not the spiderweb!
****: i thought you might suggest: ego, spider...
that we still have "ego theory"
and the counter: the germanic root:
prefix automated equivalent: self-...

and that no serious history would ever
take place... outside of the ethnic minority
reactions from the 20th century...
then i am... infantile... or imbecilic...
for looking toward the old forest...
with... not all crusades happened in the holy land
and against the muslims which ignited
Saladin...
some happened in north-eastern europe...
where the last pagans sat dormant...
at least into the early 15th century...

they have a name: krzyżak...
and the breath of the world: the wind...
blew these ******* in our direction...
because... barbarossa was pickled...
and he drowned in a puddle...
and what better way to invigorate a loss
of morale... and... be "left out"
from the 4th crusade party with richard I
and philip II augustus of france than...
turn one's attention elsewhere...
but by... historiological standards...

i be infant... having this tattoo of history...
i need to be told:
the only serious part of 20th century
history is: the m.l.k. oration!
some other... social justice cwusade!
wow! you brought the welsh with you?
i figured: what's the point of tattoing my body
with something akin to...
a Lale Sokolov's 19860515...
i'm still "there": as much as heidegger's
dasein allows me to be:
an inflated tattoo... it's missing 10 million
at least... to reach this number...

all serious history ever happend after 1950...
in terms of social change...
the closures of psychiatric asylums
and those... clown "fakeries" from:
bulletin lobotomy...
we all have that added spice in... all soz'
we wuz' knots not yuz...
yizzy? hasiddy yizzy gerschwitz
mild rash: what's that?
we can change the "jew" to a ***... no problem...
but i am tired...
what? "jew" becames a ***?
em... yiddish? lazy ol' sloth in acquired
english slang: ***- as prefixed...
omitted a punctuation mark: susan me!

             the following history that prokofiev's music
was invested in... "idiosyncratic"...
or... a juvenile delinquent case of:
keeping remains of a memory that...
oh: mein gott! doesn't include...
a... multicultural mandate!

from my perspective: this borrowed tongue...
i wouldn't be looking for
remains of the crusader armies...
but then again: barbarossa did drown in
a puddle and was pickled...
and the germans feeling they were being left out...
marched home and found...
their second jerusalem in Wilno...
i guess the mongolian itch was also the "real"
reason why... why loiter?

i have my own... what? history?
oh right... the past is me either being "romancing the stone"...
or the celebrated fate of the mamluks
and the janissaries? slaves or slavs...
etymology... i wonder how that excess
of an added E... looks...
alongside... what's to be eaten...
from: GERMANS... ah... the A and N...
said the "germs" to the "slaves"...

word: swovo...
                                            yabudyed!

it's infantile history though:
the only history that would ever concern
me as having come from the 20th century
and the furthest past...
no... not necessary...
the social juice and oratory speeches...
character before afro...
in english: i remember moving to england
aged 8... and... well...
being born into a monochromatic all white...
society: brave Zulu warriors...
under the patron saint of joking paul II
braved the berlin wall and the satellite
yoke of the communist empire...
and made it! into Poland!

this story... is a tree: that needs to be... ****** on!
liberally!
otherwise? no **** no ancient oak
stamp... savvy?

it's still prokofiev! it's still the alexander nevsky suite!
it's me starving... 30 years without litening
to it... it's... making sure...
that wojciech kilar... doesn't "borrow" from the suite...
otherwise: russophobia...
a quiet literal fear of the evil genius from the Muscovites...
while, simultanoeusly...
appreciating their sing-along and literature...
further alienation on the trench line of
islamophobia: apart from Rumi...
and le trio joubran? what's new in arabia?
law-rence?!

i know i know... having a body free from tattoos...
but a brain tattooed all over with these insignificant
dates... my bad... my, travesty!
i should best remember the civil rights movement...
in a country...
how many times have i visited Ypres?
enough to play sunflower: he loves me, he loves me not
using poppies...
i'm still waiting for my first ****** overdose
from the trips...

schematic: western europe remembers the 1st world war...
eastern europe: remembers the 2nd world war...
but that's still me being: infantile...
why have i been dealt this ****** hand of cards...
in terms of: what history is worth being
remembered... and what isn't...

whatever is happening to the palestianians...
under the israelis...
nothing quiet akin to what happened
to the ottoman muslims under the serbs...
and... what if the soviet union...
took the route of yuogoslavia...
when it collapsed?
what if the soviet union... happened like
yugoslavia happened?
upon disintegrating?

can you imagine?! there's only one praise
for the soviet union... the way it folded...
after all... the soviet union didn't do a ******* ms. sarajevo
as yugoslavia did...
pierdolone jugole... abused prefix term further
up north...
what's that? proto- / any pan- ethnicity umbrella
movement? oh... i thought the germanic plan
was working so well...
who failed? the british: these little brother
saxons... or the p.i.g.s.? portugese, italians,
greeks, spaniards?
i once upon a time figured...
so it wasn't about eastern europeans joining?
well... who was bringing the bulgarian
prostitutes into england? the turks were...

i am gnashing my teeth and peeling a suntan
to later burn over a fire and call it...
once properly stretched: the sort of leather
required for a pair of shoes!
or a belt!

am i still being infantile...
given i know historical figures akin to:
philip II augustus... alexander nevsky...
conrad I of masovia...
       ulrich von jungingen....
no... wait long enough: these people will
become myths... phantoms... ghosts...
no sooner than with the onslaught of time
in the ***** of journalism!
why is there a myth of Oedipus:
it's safe! it's safe to reap psychoanalytical
archetypes serfs of ego from
the couch-sitting bollocking-*******-herders!
it's safe... until the day...
when the crucifix will emerge as nothing more...
than a *****!

east? anything east of the Oder river
is called a... cyrillic! maestro!
a... швaб... a szwab... a "swabian"... a helmut...
hell-muttering of some ****...
he's not a ßaß... that proud term for a people
that came along after the romans
left these isles: which i am speak from...
little africa in northern europe: deutchland...
the pomeranians, the bavarians:
the швaбы...

as the old proverb states, my grandmother:
the only woman in the world that
always wants to fiddle with my beard...
i have never met a woman that wanted to play
with my beard... apart from my grandmother...
well... she says:

if you go among the crows: you better croak their croak...
that's too over-worded...
kiedy wchodzisz miedzy wrony:
musisz krakac jak i onny...
(no diacritical markers...
i feel lazy a'today)...
how's my assimilation coming along?
unique, due, unique "dude":

if you go among the crows: you better croak like
a crow...
so... given the russian is a bear...
moi... the french slav... ******...
well... i'm either the totem stork... or...
the bison... the european wunderkind!
from what i've heard? the letter: Ł?
well... it's as much kashubian and sorbian...
as it is... navajo... inupiaq...

when jung asked: modern man in search of soul...
i asked the materialistic question:
better or for worse: this has to be reworded...
if the breath became the soul...
and the soul became the spaghetti of daydreams
and other leftover rewards of thought from
having abstracted outside or inside
the triangle and the letter delta...
there must be a categorical impetus:
i.e. nothing is true... but i'll continue a...
roulette of will... subsequently...
i'll call it the corona-sigma: the summa summarum...
the crown-total...
wow... there's even a chemical name for it:
18-Crown-6  (1,4,7,10,13,16-hexaoxacyclooctadecane):
yes... the remains of alt-vater-deutsche:
words: notapprovedtobewithouthyphens...
still make it via chemistry...
everything else? oxford hyphen standards...
must be kept!

an imperative is not an impetus...
an imperative has the faculty of a sense of sight...
an impetus? blind man sentenced for ****...
how the hell he ever managed to find
the key let alone the keyhole that led
to the shameful expression of O of the door being
opened... and... guilt!
the pleasures bound to...
the least obvious investigations...
and by now... any drunkard's roulette
when the words come less as a precursor...
but more as: dear... still clinging to a "moral"
afterthought? non sic?

we were talking about prokofiev... weren't we?
lieutenant kijé suite - romance -
my epitome of: "sad and lonely": but god!
my most happy!
and... the newly found: prkofiev:
alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
and: how, somehow, wolciech kilar...
borrowed or played ping-pong with this music
to... originate with a dracula soundtrack:
the beginning...

me and my tattooless body...
what is this history? does it have to belong
within the confines of the 20th century exodus?
aren't people always speaking in the 21st century like:
but it's the 21st century!
if they say such things then the exodus must have
happened in the 20th century...
circa 50 years later...
and we're expected to behave like...
at least two centuries have passed since...
1968...
the inverted circus: hear the bang of a firework
first... then... the actual firework explode!

it's not something you'd want to experience
when walking down the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg...
that i did pull off...
i managed to find a russian girl to fall in love with me...
she only wanted a spring and summer...
an autumn for a break-up...
thank god for that...
who is going to see russia from the people
i went to school with?
india's a bore... thailand is a bore...
the U, S of A... a bore...
we do have the cultural export frontline exposure...
what's new?
hell: if i want... i'd make it to israel...
but a month in russia?

oh it was worth the slap in the face...
even she knows it...
we were young, we were cruel...
we only had obligations for the heart to weave
a pseudo-mind and a quasi-skeleton we
would later call: the siamese crux...
and just before i met her...
i remember Edinburgh being haunted
by a ****** eclipse of the moon -
some would even claim it was the first time
they saw a marsian moon...
tinged crimean... borrowed from cardinal red...
and crimson...

some life... 13 or 14 years ago...
like i said, once already...
memory: cameo cinema that i love to revive
almost every night, when drinking...
because: it is not the most spectacular
a life that's worth... a backlog of autobiographic
entries readied: end of life sequence:
better scribbled than forgotten...
but an ongoing parrot's chatter... impromptu...
this the most unfortunate of love stories...
one where... we didn't allow ourselves
to have to mutually share: adult responsibilities
as to have to squander good conversation...
when the bills came a'rolling in at the end
of each moth...
i guess we allowed ourselves
the last idealism of love either of us
would be able to experience...

for a relationship where she proposed...
she chose the engagement ring...
and she herself decided to break it with me...
she would later... "i think i'm pregnant":
descartes: "i think i doubt" therefore "i am"?
the supposed contraceptive measures we took...
how many partners did she have
after we broke up? cuckoo or what?!
oh i remember the ones i had...
the ones i payed for...

               what's not cling to: loved-up and
still not having the sort of...
love with obligations:
love as... the most pristine failure...
that... children in love...
without the existential focus points to...
achieve the invitation of time... inclusively
of boy becomes man becomes father becomes
grandfather...
and not exclusively as: you and me...
i.e. me and her...
etc.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                       Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida

As the first stars came out above the leaves
Of Merry Sherwood, the lads in peaceful repose
Put away their after-supper mending of gear
And idled over their ale of October brewing

Then Robin Hood spoke to Allan-a-Dale:

Don’t sing to us of Neo-Post-Colonial White Supremacist Patriarchal People-of-Color Matriarchal LGBTQTY Non-Binary Feminist Chomskian Existentialist (existentialist – how quaint) Hegelian Post-Structuralist Logocentric Sausurian Psychoanalytical Post-Modern Marxist Jungian New Critical Cognitive Scientific Neo-Anarchic Canon-Repudiationist Neo-Informalist Catarrhic De-Constructionism.

Sing to us
                                                       a story.

well, sure, i'm a loser,
i was once strapped to a park
bench, approached
by an elder pakistani,
and he was bewildered
as to why i was alone...

   could answer him,
he started squinting,
so i moved my big 'ed
to block the sun,
that didn't do much,
as i once stated:

the feeling of conversation,
soon... turned into
a feeling of conversion...
he brought out his
digital qu'ran
as if expecting
me to numb-**** the way
out of the scenario
with intense feelings
of needs to: search for
the Hajj...

so i pointed to the qu'run
(ever watch an arab
buckle...
  tell him to insert
an apostrophe...
****** will buckle...
  the B: so ******* glottal...
buckle timothy (tim) i call 'im,
never got around to slacking
off on the cockney slur)
what does this mean:

alif, lam, meem

the old pakistani elder simply
replied: only god knows...
i said: jack-****,
thinking to myself...
you know those are...
the nouns to replicate
graphemes,
     but are actually letters?
A, L, M?
later: please, someone,
just get the rabbis onto this...
release the hounds...
i'm done at being
converted...
a simple beer in the park,
being approached by
some pakistani elder...
me wishing him "good riddle"
and then using my body,
that translated into a shadow,
to block out the fun
glaring at his face wasn't enough...
o.k. "god knows"...

the latin phonetic encoding
is ****...
   oh it's ****...
it gets ***** via the O,
the P, the R, the Q, the D, B...
there's no "hole" to be
filled...
semitic writing, whether hebrew
or arab?
    no "concept" of
an... encricling... of omicron...
just: horde mentality,
moving forward...
to a never-neverland...

so yeah, i am a loser...
   or a loß-er...
          and sometimes...
the latin phonetic encoding script...
if you forget the freedom
of speech *******...
can reveal...
       puncture wounds,
which you, subsequently fill,
having noticed them...

         timing:
                 what's the difference
between a hyphen & an apostrophe?
     ah...
        pedantry pedantry,
the sort of pedantry that would
a rich man to employ a butler...

a knees'-up...
  
              just because
circumcision takes avenue in
a hidden, place...
        doesn't imply that
it will not affect the Σ....
which is the new norm...
to shatter what became
19th century psychoanalytical
"garbage",
  or the late 20th century's
focus on "ego"...
   to me: Σ...
   you don't think that
a man's ontological framework
doesn't become...
dissonant... when he has
become circumcised?

  (Σ, total, it's an elevated
variant of the grapheme concept...
since... well...
we're living down to
topple every single letter
with ah: A: alpha-male
       b'eh: B: beta-male...)

but this experience, just, felt...
(here's the american beauty
comparison, sample)

         spec-tac-ular
which is different,
to whatever academic alien
alphabet this: /spɛkˈtakjʊlə/
refers to...

   talk to a bilingual...
we'll talk short-cuts to...
like i said: whatever alien
******* that is...
  
  ******* neo-copernican...
  ʊ       ə
upside-down greek...
                  and latin...

or you could send a drunk in
with a modest education
belt...
    learned chemistry:
forgot aikido:
  after the sensei was away,
one of his students:
kicked me in the *******
and left me in a foetal
position, counting:
oh i'm pretty sure it was
more than just a Welsh
"thing" and prancing sheep...

compensation?
back then... what was it...
2000, 2001...
that wasn't an over-used
term...
  esp. not in an applied sense...

you know,
you can really revise
that american beauty quote,
of a single word...
you can hyper-"inflate"
the timing...

sp'ec-tac-úlar (exhibit a)
   (****, no S with tilde...
   so no agitated serpent
imagery)
   s'pec-tac-u'l'ār (exhibit b)

or the "******" version:
   sssssssssspec
                     taaaac
     uuuuuuuuular...

but hey, who's keeping rhythm,
or count,
  or spelling, intact...

point being: i made a mistake
within the confines of
exhibit a...
                yeah...
the apostrophe
   should have come at the crux
of the s'
                     and not include
the p to make the invalid
syllable scalpel cut of     sp',
but u'l'ār
        is, "true"...
            
   well...
               if only i painted...
you could look at a painting,
passively,
and walk away,
saying to your date:
  eh... some variant of ronin
geometry...
  but with writing...
it's like:
   someone made a conscious
effort...
  ****...
this better make sense...

point being...
how do you introduce
the concept of orthography,
to a language,
that... simply...
rejects it?

   it was quasi attempted
when the english found out that
the best chemists were
german...
   and an english speaker
knows how... complex a german
word can be...
   hence?
            the hyphen (-)
   e.g. hydroxychloroquine...
   yeah... syllables...
cascade...
             hydroxy-chloroquine...
strain on the english eyes...

   but that's a big word...
little words, nuances...
you could replace the hyphen
with an apostrophe...

           hi'yah...
not: kiai ***. for stance prior
attack...
     try lodging
an apostrophe
   into           hello...
    h'             el'           'low...

it's almost like i'm...
filling in for some sort of short-comings...
well...
chinese phonetic encoding
is pretty decent,
that part of me that admires
Ezra Pound...

            but then...
decoding from how chinese
is encoded,
   and hearing it?
    all that effort...
translated into a latin script
and it comes out as

   水: water: shoo'e.
               (shuǐ)

   un-spec-tac-cu-lar.

.i really didn't mind which side was going to win... it was pretty obvious in the snap general election, in england, this year, i would have been sold the Blairite mantra any day of the week... that old flavour panache... you won, yes... blah blah... that's the one thing i don't understand about such events... it's not enough to win something... you have to succumb to that brazen: gloating... if only there was a sports' like stoicism behind winning... a sense of decorum... perhaps that's why i didn't vote... i didn't want to succumb to the subsequent brazen gloating... the odd chance that i experience ego-tripping is enough: when i encounter some abstract cul de sac of vocab that will be written... but never entertain everyday formal conversations... but... this gloating... some people can never make it into a... richard federer moment... why would they... after all... politics... voting... imagine if all the cheers and chants in a football match were actually indicative of who was going to win the match... perhaps... they are... "in hindsight"... i.e. when there are only 10 seconds on the clock in stoppage time before the game ends... in politics that's how having won: gloating emerges... it's not enough to have won... one has to bask in it... just like those away fans... with the majority of the home fans having left with Elvis having seen the most erecticle-dysfunction thrashing.

today i learned that some very intelligent people
managed to construct an a.i. system
that would be able to finish beethoven's
symphony no. 10 - or, as a matter of fact:
that the computers did it!

i would applause this achievement...
but... i'm hardly going to...
i wouldn't even applaud had "my own"
flesh and blood - an organic exponent achieved this
feat! unless - he were a deaf man -
even then - relativism of some sort...

as i'm writing this i wonder:
what if these intelligent people managed
to construct an a.i. system that would be able
to finish off... Kafka's the castle?
should "we" celebrate such an accomplished:
should it ever come to pass?

a much harder undertaking...
and for all its worth, classical music...
rarely does it translate into something you
can whistle it...
rarely... and when you can: you barely can...
beside the interludes...
basically Bach's polyphony destroyed
the simplicity of classical music -
classical music? no wonder modern music
has to borrow the technicality of the event...

- could this be a Kierkegaardian style of meditation
or... dare i say it... Knausgårdian?
i frankly don't mind...
how much of my biography i will include
in this is beside the point -
like? do i think that for all their worth,
their grand narratives,
some people can still come off as slight?
i do not want to immerse myself
in how so many petty things
bind people together when being
stripped to find themselves beneath
celestial bodies and some disposable awe...
yawn at the stars and enjoy some
soap opera... get into the jungle petty
crimes... yawn at the stars...

this surely must have been written
from an underbelly...
by a turtle starving when being flipped
onto its shell... otherwise...

classical music and its complexity...
i tried to figure it out...
but i will rarely come to finding it
necessary to enjoy certain things...
classical music i will rarely enjoy -
especially if i have to think about it...

oh the glorious days when i thought
that thought was a pleasure in-itself...
now? this spaghetti monster with recycled
pieces of self and the christo-freudian
trinity layer-cake of ego, superego, id
of modernity...
i'm always somewhere, nowhere:
playing the cameo role...
i imagine a psychologist talking to me
armed with all these surgical "equipment" items
for my metaphysical surgery...
and i have no knowledge / consciousness
regarding each vector or enzyme or...
how i'm still, basically...
primordial in explaining myself via:
a pronoun, a verb, a noun, a conjunction,
and obviously a definite/indefinite article...

have i missed the point?
verb pronoun verb definite article noun?
tell me: what is psychoanalytical theory
staging, before the stage of grammar?
grammar is the father of all learning -
given that the mother is mathematics...
deviation from formal grammar must be excused
if this is at all to be even, remotely,
resonated in the ars poetica...

beethoven!
i can whistle about two or three extracts
from classical music...
the one, that i know of?
that resonates akin to la marseillaise...
and say... the british grenadiers' fife and drum...
and... that bit of beethoven's symphony no. 9...
ode an die freude...

no, i somehow want to stumble into
this egregious cliché -
try whistling to some chopin...
after all... chopin was in a contest with
liszt over who... would break a finger
while playing his centipede technicality...
what sort of woman would faint
what sort of matthew arnold would
go home and ******* in the dark
crying when seeing liszt perform live...

if you're taking a **** and then having a shower?
a few lazy moves of the fore! skin doesn't
even elevate the event to any "immediacy"...
as i once had it: *** pistons *** pistons...
it's fair game... but... after a while
and you haven't paid for it and *** is the glue
that weaves itself into your narrative
and there's talking after and...
god... looks like i was lucky...
my 20s? em... i don't know...
i "think" i was preoccupied with my psychosis
of meeting god... to which i'd reply...
you don't want to be looking for him...
nothing was said -
there was an angelic choir and a great
wind that dispersed it... while i was
running around in a church trying to figure
out 'a how' with regards to still being
the owner of an iPod and...
fasting... high of some variant of marijuana
they only serve in London...

plan? what plan? i'd say: don't go looking
for god: unless you're absolutely sure...
you'll only come back with clichés...

is it really music in those heads of theirs?
i mean the composers?
i hardly think they "think" in terms of melody...
it's not like you could write a polyphony
based externally on whistling...
perhaps a main theme...
like in ode an die freude...
there's a premise... but then?
pandemonium rapes the head of a ludwig...
and... they just keep adding and adding...
but none of it could be compressed
to a song...

thanks be to bukowski for pointing this
out... ludwig didn't frequent the parlours of god
(words) that often... rarely...
he only wrote one: Fidelio -
and it was only as a joint-venture with...
Arturo Toscanini...
because you can't exactly sing along
to classical music...
and if you don't enjoy classical music...
you suppose: the heart has to "think"
in order for any "thinking" by the brain
to be disengaged from: the sound of rain
falling on a tin roof and a piano crescendo
synonym...

is blurring out "thinking" from the brain
being stimulated by the minor fractions
of seeing and feeling in the grand sigma ****
of hearing - minor details -
you still need to feel and hear...
closing your eyes: perhaps...
but at least there's that abstract focus of:
"somewhere in the distance" with:
eyes wide open too...

very much akin to my current drinking patterns...
i don't remember the last time i drank
for the pleasure of being drunk...
christmas is here and i have some minor
responsibilities to take care of...
25mg amitriptyline and a biting event
with the naproxen... the whiskey is measured
like a prison tally... if i exceed:
IIII/ IIII/ by more than II...
i have a problem...
anything to curate this insomnia...

only when words are given access...
but i can't see why words would be necessary...
whether it's a stand-off of show-off
Faustian technicality between Chopin
or Liszt... or whether it's the completely
French stand-off between:
the only way to learn to play the piano these
days... is to find an allure of calm,
of stopping time... a delicate fusion
of... arranging a boquet of roses
while wearing sand-paper gloves...
Debussy "contra" Satie...

but this track of Beethoven's?
is it really such a terrible cliché?
top 3 tracks that have left a most definite
imprint in my head -
a cognitive tattoo... thank god for not
wishing for that sort of other branding
akin to a no. 1990869 from that infamous
of places... or... a ditto on my forehead...

- ode an die freude
- la marseillaise
- fife and drum

is this a clinical approach?
i'm almost certain there's no real thinking
in terms of sound when it comes
to composing...
i once had the rare opportunity
to spot a young composer in a cafe in London...
scribbling his...

ut queant laxis
resonare fibris... to be honest, i was jealous
as ever - but not in a way that:
i could be better...
and as i'm pretty god-**** sure...
he wasn't whistling or humming
alongside what he was writting...

braille is where i stashed this jealousy:
UT
⠥⠞
RE
⠗⠑

because trying to figure out the "thinking"
behind musical composition -
on a polyphony scale...
it's hardly a folk song mentality of:
the "easily remembered"...
but... again this can be achieved...
when a complexity unravels itself into
folk "sensibility" -
do i have to car-crash this sentence
into something simpler?

chemistry almost uses this "syllables"
of meaning... He: helium... Li: lithium...

and my what an honest hour!
i can finish a day well spent!
i did this that and the other...
i watched some alpine ski jumping
from engelberg... a polish athelete won:
kamil stoch... i still can't sing
the anthem: mazurek dąbrowski...
so i... felt... 0.001% of a shared cause...
it's a grey foggy distance in the back
of the mind... that can't compete with
someone's patriotism-in-exile
akin to a Czesław Miłosz...
more importantly... Liverpool won
the Fifa World Cup of Clubs playing
against a very tactical Brazilian side...
and you should have seen
the match-up between Flamenco vs. ...
in the copa libertadores...
who was it... besides the point: what a comeback!

needless to say... who are these "people"
who have started to become reckless
in their attempts to sell love?
this delusion of love -
this most abstract person: personna precusor?
for the love of: what's outside...
beside me - what i see and what i can
offer in it being shared...
never this magician's Pharisee act
of: what love is "sleeping" in me...
how my love is but a yawn should it have
to exist... like a tapeworm without
a wall of a small intestine of the host...
what is this love? this "hurting" -
can it ever please escape the orient
and its parasitical feeding via a haiku?

as no claim: "genius"...
that's the problem... the horde had an element
in it... hedwig... some constant that
could never change and remained
in part solipsistic - well...
a paradoxical solipsism...
multiple-personality disorder and...
the placebo effect of solipsism...
but all the other personalities knew of
each other... it's not like each personality
was oblivious to the other...
which undermines the concept of:
there is no conscious effort...
between switching...
which must be a harrowing experience
to pseudo- the whole experience...
narrowing it down to a thespian consciousness
that's only visible to a thespian audience...

how is it in writing? there is no voice involved...
have i reach a polyphony?
evidently there's a common theme running
through this piece...
but... is there a dialectical play in it -
how there's a grand coming "sigma"...
toward the concordant zenith?
if i were to say these words outloud
and have this little monstrosity -
this little demon whisper as the backdrop
in my thought:
i could not achieve a concordant zenith
as such...

i have already faced the unbelievable lie...
that somehow a bilingualism can be treated
as a schizophrenia...
isn't bilingualism, entrenched bilingualism
somehow not... the stated diagnosis?
why can't i solve crosswords
but find sudoku puzzles to be somehow
predictable?
i already have a crossword puzzle in my head!
and it's not based on a network
of the monolingual architecture that
solves crosswords with a thesaurus:
synonyms and antonyms and "insinuations"...

- mind you... did you mention that quote
from that polish neurologist?
'any one who claims you're mad...
are mad themselves'?
after all... isn't it a neurologist's word
over a psychiatrist's?
according to the latter:
my brain is still a chemical spaghetti soup...
my lexicon is a... salad...
might i ask for the meat... then?

- it can drive a man wild... knowing how
blind some people are...
but after a while... you just:
inhale... and release an onomatopoeia
of the most reclusive relief...
a sigh that's not a sigh... AAAAH...
to be able to walk down a street...
and enjoy the weather,
enjoy the passing-conversations...
the passing traffic...
the stench of a major city...
all of this... would be impossible...
if each man was to bump into
a replica of a Galileo (COPERNICUS!)...

what a dull place it would most surely be...
on a whim: entertaining petty grievances...
on the other: the hunger-strike martyrs for
justice... the philanderers, the sycophants
and their post-moralism bribe donors of
exclaimation marks!
or people like me... who chance upon...
an internalised rhetorical seanse vacation
after the day is done...
since... clearly: i do not have enough
time or money for a cork-lined room to
drum out all external noise...
or a listener with a rubber-ear akin to...
that same sort of fellow...

breadcrumbs from the altar...
where that meal is a ceremony of:
fed by the words...
the details inverted...
perhaps once it was charity...
better the charity to lie these days!

until it comes out by itself...
truth? what truth?!
trivia?! regurgitating scientific facts?!
that's it! or making blatant falsifications?!
i'd call it:
if there is a truth - i'll find it tomorrow...
and by truth and tomorrow:
if there's a truth - it's (a) tomorrow...
otherwise i'll face... death...
or perhaps i'll be cheated of it...
should i come across death in my sleep...
i can't imagine the sometimes
referenced obituary:
he died peacefully in his sleep...
that's as about as peaceful as...
when you sometimes wake up from sleep
because you've just had a nightmare...

this life is a nightmare...
let death be my sleep.

the vacancy of a bonsai body of felines,
dogs couldn't even think twice
to pre- a pro- for a body,
while these lion-dwarfs,
domesticaton i can understand,
but caging, the study of zoology?
Rilke and the catatonic?
                  caged bonsais know
enough of their surroundings
to mute their killer instinct...
    let it lie dormant...
        but these upper bodies,
these tiers of "demoniac"?
           domesticated felines
acknowledge a shadow,
  the dormancy of their former stature...
exhale a volatility of defence
in the guise of a PYRH
        onto a cat...
    and then watch the cat
becomes disorientated by the mimic...
not the analogue,
  but the mimic...
             of your voice taking
form of a godhead speaking...
   bonsai felines are such obedient
creatures, unless you give them
the a priori archetype,
within the a posteriori confines of
the first: domesticator....
             a shyness creeps into ensuring
an awareness of their surrounding...
rough-up-a-cat-far-enough
until it cannot believe in a female human
and you've gained more than
just a whip over it...
you're regained spectating itself,
its obscure ontology,
           in a momentum of a genocide
of vermin,
  with or without it help of allowing
the concrete domestication of man being
deserving of its existence...
    of course this doesn't translate
when it comes to bonsai felines that do not
belong to you...
but the male bonsais that you owe...
notably the hack of observation via
  the igregious sound of attack:
            verily akin to a cobra's
                               dehydration "slurp":
at this point, a word is best sought
other than the cheapness of an onomatopoeia...
odd... no oddity in apprehending
the defence impetus for the female
from the male,
  given both are: sterile...
    this... sterilisation being the second
modus operandi of domestication
for man to explain...
            the female welcomed me
in uncoiling a bit of wood from her furr...
exposing her soft pouches beneath
which entrails hid...
                a dog might be:
a darling for man's metaphor
in experiencing solipsism...
but dogs are probably too dumb to even
mind owning a shadow...
cats, on the other hands?
semi-catatonic probably mind being
in possession of a pair of eyes,
which they cannot make a pair of
shadows with...
              hence the concern for:
Shadow... the overlord of
  Death and Sleep... the siamese twist
to bearing healthy twins
            akins to romulus & remus...
Shadow... also has another name...
        swiss psychoanalytical revisionism
nonetheless, for the biography of
Shay... ha-shay...
                             akin to Ha-Shem...
ha-shem: pig
            became the Ha-Shay of: bacon,
pork chops etc.
    if the Ha-Shem is YHWH...
then Ha-Shay is what is derived from it...
namely all of kabbalah.
           Matthew only asked to
reiterate:
                         i bring you, gifts...
akin to the fourth wise-man
before the static anomaly of the star
of Bethlehem...
         roaming stars are rare,
aren't they?!

psychoanalytical observations of the thoughts that remain unsaid 
the twitch of the eye
the scratch of the knuckle

subconsciously done
but observed and duly noted


you came from your mums inside
exited through a thicket

untamed wilderness and ******* that were suckled for many moons

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

(camera cuts to montage of...)

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

the extra chromosome


a missing digit
the warehouse where they faked the moon landings
the barn at the edge of town and the scalped cowboy on the plains
the ghosts of the civil dead

.as ever, some memorable lines bumping like atoms in my head, and instead of a pen and paper handy, or a keyboard, all i have is a mouth full of toothpaste, shampoo in my hair, a Popeye's squirm, one hand washing my genitals and the other holding the shower (handle), replying aloud to "the third person": what?!

... and after that? a whole array of punctuation
marks: drying yourself,
remembering the last conversation
from yesterday,
                 '****, this would be a waste
of a **** fine bottle of amber-glug...'
                            (not that it matters)...
'this might as well be a dial-up modem!'
  again: punctuation marks...
    putting your pinky finger into
the pinky end of a glove to dry out your
ears before putting in the headphones and
plugging in...
   what will it be today...
   jazzy cosmopolitan feel....
or airy, haunting, indie cosmopolitan
nostalgia -esque -esque of a missing
   prefix?
              ah...
   (i still find horror movie soundtracks
the most ideal lullabies...
   forget about Strauss dying
                              with a lack of
     contentment at not being able to write
a serious piece of work...
  well... if you're going to be a waltz-poodle
for the Habsburgs...
   you're going to be a waltz-poodle
till your fingerprints are no more...
   and you die a death by macaroons...
in a room filled with: white lilies...
as a joke: Strauss, waking upon
the deathbed:
    any of you ******* put those
chrysanthemums near me! i swear!
    better throw some fallen autumn leaves
from the park! i've never encountered
the scent of a rotting fern...
but these flowers just about do it!)
      ha!
this would have been a waste of a good
bottle of whiskey...
why didn't i encounter this prior...
   toiling in what ended up being something
of a cough medicine in terms
       of: well... something or other.
- unless i remember what it was...
    however many pockets in a day...
Nietzsche and pockets...
         or rather the film starring jim carrey,
dark crimes...
         and... yeah... that filter layer...
that something like this happens...
   but then turned into a movie...
     well... that doesn't exactly hide what
is made into an elaborate fiction:
working from a very base beginning...
like metallurgy...
      reality is the base ore... crude...
  un-rehersed...
  until it is subjected to... refinement...
  but that isn't the point:
       what is Heidegger's
    dasein in relation to journalism
in relation to post-journalism as in:
the film industry?
       which deviates from a mere "existence"
(out of every instance...
  my variety of ex-instance [E, A...
O... what's the difference?]
     there's an insistence) -
   and becomes... presence...
            or rather...       concern...
otherwise known as: the murky wood...
synonymous a variety of
other psychoanalytical metaphors...
yet in a film like 4.5/10 IMDb starring
jim carrey (well **** me!
    6.5 IMDb nicholas "8mm" cage!)
       that... dasein aura that journalism
cannot capture:
   as if we're supposed to be repeatedly
shocked by what "doesn't" happen:
when it clearly happens...
        en masse journalism:
frankly? i prefer the anaesthetic prior
to my tooth being drilled...
                     alternatively:
the film industry has made me
dasein ******...
                                      like gaining
access to a third eye that's in
the back of my head:
   and a ego-"personna"
           that capitulates to the role
of puppeteer:
   whereby the cognitive essence of
"thought" is: third person...
                   or... akin to the movie
get out:
                  always that one shutter-close
prior to: no other eventuality.
- besides that!
   already criticism:
nagging nagging, pampering
to... der geliebt leßer...
                     my ***: to some
coffee-mug "whining rhyming" poetics...
- but sure as ****...
you can make a fine, fine cauliflower
soup... as long as you add fried
   chouriço sausage to it...
  (χoυριςo) - which has clearly
entombed an orthographic error:
            correction - χoυρισo -
yes... every roman in italics:
is just as well (in appearence) greek -
but guess what!
   ever see a Greek write Greek?
i mean: handwriting...
                    even i inquired...
crux?

                Υ                        Ν

- is that an N?
- no... that's a U...
- "huh?!"

mind you: they do look pretty similar,
and i am more used to Vv(5)...
                                      ν / υ

and that was a real life scenario...
back on the 23rd of November 2018...
Warsaw...
     and giving directions
to get from Modlin (aiport)
               to Warsaw (central)...

still... a whole jar of coffee...
  and thankfully there's double cream in
the house... at 30% fat...
what coffee isn't a Hollywood coffee?

- and then there's that...
thought from the shower...

           honest to god...
give me the 1950s / 1950s-esque
   technicolor movies...
   eastmancolor - or whatever you want
to name them...
that very specific tinge...
acrylic...
   and you can hide all the CGI
and all the phosphorescent neon
             80s optic-**** festivities...
and those panoramic one shot
scenes... where a man on horseback
travels from one end of the panorama
to the other: and there is no cutting
             involved: no sub-movie editing...

mind you:
i'm still trying to find the sort of person
that could epitomize
   being more inclined to read
comic books... than watch a movie...

  coffee and cream... coffee and cream...
and a wintry afternoon.

.sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave
of care,
       the death of each day's life,
   sore labour's bath.
                      balm of hurt minds,
great nature's second course,
  chief nourisher of life's feast.

                                    Macbeth.

awe in omiscron,
and sigh to fire-up a catch
in H...

    profound words,
lesser tunes,
               out from a broken
lyre: a consumate of -
a life lived is but one
concern:
a life remembered is:
but all of
man's concerns...

       in acknowledged
patience:
  i, pertinent -
remove myself from:
what feeds the throng
& the scabs &
      a thrice of
           st. Peter's cockerel...

i: bored of death,
linger with a thought of:
life hardly teasing
a: consumate actor...
hardly second:
             a worthy reciter...

there are islands worth
of heart: in
staging an answer:
said heart, the entombed
stone mind replied:

a bruise no baron
a depth no plum...
a plucked scatter
of colour -
          a plushed
squint of: the forbidden
word.

what a life:
with no sudden endeavour
to fare...
           come aligned
nonetheless...
  and come:
             to the myriad of
a man's inhibited
                 scout:
with a via, no versus:
   with only himself
                           in tow...

it's hardly a surprise...
Leibniz contra
Newton
  and the discovery
of the infinitesimal calculus...
Leibniz?
   became a librarian...
Newton?
   was buried in Westminster
cathedral...
            
   for the content
of heart:
                 one's heart
is not the fruition
of one's mind's ambition...

for the heart:
i come as i please,

for the mind:
          i am forever settled
in conjuring
a disgruntled
      attachment to it:
which i am yet
to dislodge myself
from:
               the acrobatics
of ego:
     and
no psychoanalytical
p.s.
                  
              what world
& precursor stand,
   to heave a worth of self
into:
   by the same
intricacies of demand -
not halved & not feasted upon -
yet consecrate
          by the barbarian
        bitten:
   a chisel & tooth:
to march forth
            a marble stature for:
               the alignment of limbs...

all of this...
for the nought of
a blink's worth of tomorrow...
and a tomorrow:
as beige as what isn't
the number: associated
               with grey...

i have tired -
   extracting superficial
standards for a comparison:
whereby i, am of
the consecration for
the acknowledgement of...
"worth"...

                       this labyrinth
of thought:
         has no i's worth
of a minotaur
       to burden itself with,
& for...

             i am but
a scatter of the freely available
worth of a grasped
                      bundle of
autumn's leaves...
      in that:
the certainty of death...
   precursors a life -
if: not lived toward
attiring itself with a fulfilling
summary...

         leaves me...
in want of:
acribing it...
a denial of the petty
wants of
the people who:
wish upon it a variant
of a shift
in the closed-off
bureaucracy of hierarchies...

enough in the numbers:
to hide
    a failed enterprise
of scratched in text...

           for the concerns of:
when all that once
agitated...
   becomes...
                  exhausting
         to even begin to mind.

Why did the cat, sit on the mat?
What was its purpose
We don't know if it was a queen or a tom cat
Was the mat indoors, or out?
Was it waiting for a door to open?
To be (or not) let in or out?
Was it stopping to go into a deep  
psychoanalytical thought, or philosophy?
Or perhaps traverse parallel universes?
Or imagining what it would be like to be human?
Or a dog, or another cat?
Or maybe another 'owner' to visit
For extra food, or hugs?
Then to my surprise
The cat stood up
Looked me straight in the eye
Then spoke!
"For goodness sake! Can't a cat, simply sit on a mat?"
"For no other reason, than to sit?"
"All i did, was see this mat and thought, i'll sit on that!"
(Read my next excerpt, on my musings on cats:
'The Amazing Tales Of A Talking Philosophical Cat
That Sat On A Mat, titled "I Purr, Therefurr, I Siam!"