the entirety of the english tongue's
"finalities" are nothing but,
banalities...
                  and yes, chris isaack,
could have been the new elvis...
  try or no try, there was no
train from st. petersburg to moscow,
and however women love party...
men are always in love with
a wrinkle...
  what of thinning hair,
         men age into lizard people,
women age into the graeae...
      the last one laughing stands...
   i'm thinking of conjuring pasta with
a poached egg akin to heston...
but it is as it is...
that gateway into the affair,
heidegger,
     VI, LVI,
   we really do live in an unquestioning
age...
     i love that phrase:
spiritually determinate...
no one is actually asking a question,
everything is "seemingly" intact,
readied for some glorifying plateau...
but we live in times when there is no
question, worth answering to,
in that there are too many answers,
and hardly a question to craft a usurp action
(usurp-tion)...
                    the tragedy being that:
we don't live in a questioning age,
we live in a paraphrase age,
             in an age worth reclaiming
an "original"...
                        you can fry lard all
you want, but after a while the game is up
having tasted the butter...
       chris isaak was the new elvis,
but he wasn't, because he got the J.F.K.
treatment;
retrogative in an age of completely unquestioning,
an age where the only question is
questioning perpetuated?
there's a possessiveness of "being there"?!
apart from journalism?
can dasein ever reach a dasein's dynamic?
thank **** not a lot of pdf. existentialists ever
read kant...
            i'd be worried had they ever done so...
sartre's novels are fun, his thinking though?
about at dry as an overcooked doughnut...
but we really do live in the age of a lost question...
          aetate quaestio amissa;
and for an age filled with answers, as ours is...
i find it obnoxious, too certain,
       too "truthful",
but also too fricative in what scientific
     fictionalisation provides...
    summa ut...
          age of a question omitted,
                  summed up to perpetuum sors:
id refero qua quaestio
    ut quaestio qua refero,
                 *** finis ping pong logica.
            and it is true:
why are we left so completely unquestioning?
as heidegger noted with my own
reinterpretation,
why is history simply a delayed end,
                   as it is: a falsified beginning?
falsified by the count of:
   the unglorified estimates of poetics
being allowed the burden of the images
cleaving to a claustrophobia of space...
we can't live for the next 100 years
by being satiated by the already "certain"
answers...
we never managed to call the planet
mars inhabitable, when we already stated:
earth was once uninhabitable...
   the once upon a time schematic needs
revising...
      i never bother a latin friction of
a "dictionary": i write pig,
i snorkel in piggish, and then i snort
a hog's affair of "compensating" grammar
in english grammar schooling (private)...
we live in an unquestioning age,
    an age riddled, rather than filled with:
all the answers...
      if i were my own, in the contemporary sense,
of being sharing a tempo history,
i'd begin to sound the bells of suspicion...
  i never warmed to this age,
it's neither road nor highway,
but a cul de sac...
                 and i will never warm to this
age, i will always be nefarious towards it...
because it has been oh so blatant in treating
a case of awe, as a worthy take on the carousel.

I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996

Ab Imo Pectore

Ab imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
Est modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.


From The Bottom Of The Heart

From the bottom of the heart,  the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.

Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart

Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,  
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.  
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida  mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.


r10.1

/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.

Why must I dream?

Is it not enough to die within reality?
Must I perish within a multiverse of concealed consciousness as well?

Why must I rage?

Caustic temper burns arteries and chokes out my life
Must I remain resigned to this illimitable torture?

Why must I question?*

The world pours its heart out to a dissatisfied partner
Must I continue down this path, this road of intellectual discontent?

i'll be as smart-drunk as i can be, you just find the "drunk" idiots; clue: they have a hard-on for being bilinguals, but they speak as much arabic as much as i speak turkish in a kebab takeaway.

it only hits be, dead-hard smack in the middle
of the chest, it almost feels like a cardiac arrest,
but is in fact that case of the famous turtle
travelling zeno's affair between
oliver reed & keith moon -
sorry ol' chaps: can't be much of a company,
i'm a lone-wolf drinker,
i hate talking and excesses of comic antics...
but it hits me:
william burroughs said that writing was
50 years behind painting,
painting became sloppy, too sloppy to object
to geometry,
      painting became a freak-show worthy
of a frankenstein monster than never appears...
point being: i hate being lied to,
i hate being faked for "companionship",
if you think that a drunk can't keep a secret
you think a drunk can't sniff out a rat?
and i thought i was being trusting...
   you know how many times i could have
punched out the guy who apparently
"enjoyed" drinking with me? every time
he brought his cyprus ***** of a
bro-bunny with him? he always had the argument:
you couldn't have had it worse than mine...
wanna bet?
      i just remember talking to this random guy
in a pub, when i came out of the toilet,
and he was looking at the guy, squeezing his
nose with his fingers, implying:
ready for that punch luv'ed up sam?!
    **** me, i was boxed with enough
knee jerks to let the case roll...
come on... if i punch someone i might as well
ask for a coffin...
                 and some jail time:
as my father always said: don't
touch ****, **** stinks.
            i should have merely said:
take it out on your old man,
and your ****** sister,
                punch him first, before i give
you a proper missing-tooth-grin...
       outer east-london,
last time i remember being in a fight
was in school...
punched that pikie in the knickers (kidneys)
so he'd sooner **** his pants,
or cry me a ******* timberlake sonata...
  thankfully the teacher liked my taking
the **** from the o'keef...
                 so i sometimes punch myself
in the face, betting with myself:
knock 'im out! knock 'im out!
i try, god i try...
      bit there's only so much you can punch
with emphatic passions for a night's worth...
i've had almost 32 hours under my belt
and i still don't feel sleepy...
   but then i make the right brown bear
canadian cocktail, and i do a mini-series
of hibernation, 10 hours...
been awake 32h+, what does that matter?
but this article wakes me up, once more,
she on her holiday, and she's keeping count
of her instagram likes, her bikinis, her *****,
her whatever it is that she does...
who the **** invited you?
seems akin: sisyphus and tunnel vision -
namely: you had no guardian: to make you
perform that infantile task of repeat,
you could have been akin to prometheus,
dragging the godly stone unto
the mortals... idiot! there was no cerberus
looking after you!
so you have your three brothers...
sisyphus who ought to have taken the
rock to man, and informed them:
romans! countrymen! lend me your ears!
i have just invented the "wheel"!
wheel?! the countrymen replied!
yes! a wheel! sisyphus could have replied.
then prometheus came before the altar
of eagle celebrating empires,
  liver eater by an eagle whether in rome,
or in **** germany, or in american balds...
but of course idiot polyphemus replied,
as he was always prone to reply:
the big stanley is iran,
  the little stan is idaho...
                       no one nowhere,
   nobody, nothing to do with the acronym brigade...
cyclop antics: tunnel visions,
better on horses with shutters...
        i say: sisyphus has rolled enough stones
toward a "futility" that actually meant something...
i'm sort, polyphemus was in a war,
the surgeons had to extricate one of his eyes
and make him into a helpless cannibalistic
half-***...
             one-eyed...
  but don't pity the ******, just mind the magician's
trick he always seems to compose under
his sleeve, with you being unaware...
                      sure, i might use "degrading"
terminology, but i know the magic of a ****** when
in see it, and it's so much more,
than certain people's attempts at clarifying gravity.
no one forced sisyphus into the menial task,
as no one believed that narcissus
looking upon his reflection in a lake,
would realise his mother to be medusa,
and be frozen into stone...
for narcissus was the son of zeus and of medusa...
christianity has already erased by slavic past,
it's only right that i reclaim a hellenic
dignity, away from this byzantine parade of farce!
there are more decried route unto death
than by crucifixion, most notably:
    a crucifixion in private, rather than upon
the public justification of a golgotha,
for at least, the public would plead the guilt
to a mercy and allow an end; but in public?
god knows, and thus god will never end,
knowing, our darkest plights,
which some of us, would rather decant into
a void, rather than the: un-circumscribed;
some of us prefer the minor injuries of
seeing urbane graffiti, tagging, as opposed to
these fetishes of abhorring words,
adding to the fetish of the less abhorred
meat cleaving;
     i'll die choking that these fetishistist desires are
a standardised explorations leading toward
the foundations of power...
  "power"...
           they sure are a fetishism,
and they are sure desire,
           but are the standardised "explorations"?
and do they lead unto power?
      as ever: ad infinitum nuance in quaestio:
id est: qua est vis? (what is power?)...
               ergo est vis *** non vis...
         i like my latin, even if it's piglet,
for some reason, it allows me to handle an enlarged
bladder, once it's been taken off the streets
and put to good, however *lingua mort
it seems to "appear".

Knowing it hurts but staying close to the flame
My eyes continue to bleed
Little red teardrops
Hurting myself the same way
I put on disguises
Just to watch myself suffer
The mirror is just the devil
And I don't know where I am right now
I never change myself
Maybe I'm the problem.

i don't write, i don't write rhyme, i am a lumberjack with words, and for those reasons: i have imbued some masculine dignity into the art form: i don't do well-wishes, hopes, utopian forms of the sudden burst of emotion; every time i'm trolled i turn into an orc, ravenous with an adrenaline thrill: and pristine english sarcasm comes to the fore: i first nibble on the genitals, the ego hardly mentioned, i mean, who does attack a person's taste in music with such adamant enforcement... but? what pissess me off the most? how puny the argument matter is: freedom of speech should, never, ever! bypass the rule of at least a few dialectical exchanges... blah blah all you want: but what's the point of a freedom, if there is no guiding "aesthetic" surrounding it? ******* caviar on toast, just as absurd as an avocado on toast: point for point: a load of *******.

it always makes sense to listen
       to some scandinavian
music, with interludes of rain,
in the night, after a few ***** sharpshooters -
peaches & cream moment...
can't argue with it -
esp. if it's *corvus corax's song
                 a i mbealtaine, **** just sticks to
the wall, and in every appropriate way:
feels a tune of the heart -
i once had a dialectical mini with a biology
teacher of mine:
i said that lyrics mattered, and that you
needed to understand them -
she said: only the melody matters -
in cooking that's comparable to the presentation
versus the flavour -
     i'm sure she had the hots for me,
a few days passed, and she put on a hijab...
god, but raven dark folds of her pakistani hair
really could be compared to the thickness
of custard...
   shame she put on a hijab soon after -
i didn't even mind her post-acne peppered
face: i thought it gave her character -
and those **** chubby cheeks just fused
perfectly with the thickness of her hair...
hair... every woman's plot of jealousy begins
with another woman's hair...
     at least men are compensated with
a beard... me?
      ugh... too much: on my chest, on my stomach,
on my head: i have to wet it to keep it
from turning into a rampant amazon in
post-apocalyptic new york...
       and yes, i do like the ***** on my face -
i became bored with shaving,
            plus i look more monarchical -
regent - loser regent - nonetheless regent:
donning a beard is exhuming some minor
authority - long hair? you get two food-stamps
ye ******* 'ippy! say hello to the cockney
meister schtick: herr H.
  oh no, not ******, i'm bored of citing that:
if they only let him into the arts academy
and allowed him to paint his mediocre
paintings -
        he wouldn't be that much different
from picasso...
    sure **** he became an "artist" -
       only an "artist" could have conjured
auschwitz; gentlemen! applause for the vienna
school of art!
it was always about not writing cute,
not writing ******* overladen with rigid
technique, most terrible: avoid rhyme:
at all, and i mean all costs;
     leave that for the nursery brigadiers
of bombing blank pages with word bombs...
i can't stomach this notion of "cute" -
   this pedantic pseudo-haikus in women's
poetry: by comparison,
      sylvia plath produces a raw steak
tartar - you know, originating from the people
that made the steak from horse-meat,
and downed a litre of horse-blood,
once upon a time in the days of the golden horde;
sylvia just rhymes unintentionally -
   she tickles rhyme, but as soon as she
has a couplet, she hides it,
  this game of hide & seek &
                  seek rhyme & hide rhyme,
is, in all honestly? genius!
     i find that sometimes just one couplet
work to perfection like glue...
tell you what - i'll let you in on a little secret,
you want to write poetry?
  start by watching australia's masterchef -
i know, weird - it dawned on me that it's worthwhile
watching cooking shows...
  given (a) you just entered a post-pavlov experiment,
and (b) they talk about food these days
are works of art...
         guess what, every time i watched
obelix eat his way through one of the herculean
tasks of asterix in the 12 (1976 a.d.)
   i always felt obliged to eat something...
if i were you, i'd start watching some cookery
shows: after all... the eyes eat prior to
the mouth... you'll find that much of writing is
culinary;
      the "placebo" pointers are already in place:
people have arrived at the multifacet meaning
of binging.
    
and yes, when i said that modern day talk,
even the puny internet "not-real-life"
   (funny how most of us shop and bank online,
not real what?) types of conversation -
really?
           beside the point -
   it's not rude to engage in dialectics
(as nietzsche infamously noted) -
            i don't understand staging two opposite
arguments and expect civility to ensue -
ars dialectica est quaestio ad infininitum,
   "post scriptum" ad nauseam -
to simply have rigid, aphoristic opinions,
without having them question,
well... that's the downfall of appreciating
nietzsche by the modern crowd...
         what we're talking is "safe spaces" -
nietzsche, of all people: instigated this notion!
imagine the paradox;
dialectics instigate rude societies?
      no! dialectics instigate eternal societies!

i sometimes consider sudoku puzzles optical
illusions,
     there's sometimes absolutely no "logic"
involved - well, there is: a tree line a tongue
of a serpent, Y - oh you know -
that invisible γΥy in the sky...
   but once you start solving each puzzle
you realise: ****, there's a blindspot in these?!
and it always feels like there is,
given the matrix to the power of O (revolvi)

( s / se   | e |  | n | n / nw
  s / sw  |w | | s  | n / ne     )º
                  
a tongue that turns into an eclair.

conclusively?
oh, just something minor, a minor detail -
if you ever chance to step on the continent of europe,
do you know how much darwinism you'll hear?
NONE!
       europeans have become bored of this very
english genesis of affairs...
       yes, bored is the appropriate word -
it can be years on the continent where darwinism
is cited, or the fetish over david attenborough
exemplified...
          to most continental europeans the natural
world is nothing more than a blip -
ask the krupp von essen family: steel! steel! steel!
darwinism is only a respected choice
of argumentative positioning in the anglosphere,
outside of it? a tumbleweed;
and i'm of the continental inclination -
   i source my history not in a platonism -
which darwinism is: **** similis - as man be
clearly identifiable as an evolved ape -
i place my history in something much more
compatible within the framework of today -
monkeys used sticks & stones,
man? man uses letters & numbers...
      i see my place in history from a purely
etymological perspective -
  pre-etymology is just boring as it is,
i.e. how the romans plagiarised some of the greek
phonetic encoding -
    then again: it's a mystery how of all
ancient texts - the greeks invented the omicron...
oh, sorry, the wheel...
   sanskrit? any wheels there? arabic, any wheels
there? noope.
  so i wonder as i give my summa summarum...
oh yeah: roman is the masculine (w)
and greek is the feminine (ω) -

which would be easier to solve

(a) 0  0  0  0  0  0  0  0  0
      0  8  0  6  0  5  0  7  0
      9­  3  0  2  0  7  0  5  8
      0  5  9  0  0  0  6  3  0
      7 ­ 0  0  9  0  3  0  0  1
      0  0  8  0  0  0  5  0  0
      0  ­9  0  3  0  4  0  8  0
      8  1  0  0  0  0  0  9  4
      0  7­  5  0  0  0  3  6  0

or

(b) χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ
      χ  θ  χ  ζ  χ  ε  χ  η  χ
      ι  γ  χ  β  χ  η  χ  ε­  θ
      χ  ε  ι  χ  χ  χ  ζ  γ  χ
      η  χ  χ  ι  χ  γ  χ  χ ­ α
      χ  χ  θ  χ  χ  χ  ε  χ  χ
      χ  ι  χ  γ  χ  δ  χ  θ  ­χ
      θ  α  χ  χ  χ  χ  χ  ι  δ
      χ  η  ε  χ  χ  χ  γ  ζ  χ­

                       ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?  ?

i suggest you try this, before learning oriental
languages -
it's all cross-eyed spaghetti monsters
from here on in.

i'm still trying to trace back a sudoku mistake...
how could i have made it...
it's not exactly the samurai / killer sudoku stratum...
i might not know,
exactly the order of the alphabet...
but at the same time i want to breathe...
so i'll write a little "impromptu"...
which this isn't... it has been festering like a wound
engaged in: giving a banquet to the whole
entourage of gangrene! of course: the ghost limb /
shank! don't be silly... gangrene associated
with the head is either a guillotined bottle-neck...
or... the lesser cousing: amiss...
of what would otherwise resemble:
the jaw that chatters, the hacksaw that bites...
but i made a mistake...
because i had "too much on my mind":
which is pretty much nothing...
i'm starting to question whether: primo...
i am to be qualified as a thinking thing...
and whether or not i'm not, quiet simply...
something empty: a vacuum with a: hello!
my name: if robert - call me bob sticker...
it's not so much a joke as... nothing more, either...
peacocking intelligence is...
the hiearchy structure is still "game"...
the poker is still: R-category...
but i guess i folded...
which is why i wondered as to why a sense
of *****... became a frivolous goosebump
of a sensation where they should be...
instead i found myself with a bulging
monsoon *****...
and this is not even a case of: when transgender
psychology tightens the grip on:
the common good - grammar...
gender neutral pronouns... what about the royal
we and one? we: the entourage...
one as all pronouns present...
i ****** up...
i blame it on the choice of notation...
the narrative should have read
Aa8 Bc9 Cc1 Cc7 Ac5 Aa5 Ca5 Ca7 Ca3 Ca3
on the usual gymnastics of...
but it wasn't working from this...

          A                  B                  C
   x     x     x     8     x     x     x     9     1
a x     x     x     x     x     7     x     x     x
   x     x     1     2     x     x     8     7     3
   6     x     9     x     7     x     x     x     x
b x     x     x     5     3     x     x     x     x
   x     3     x     x     x     x     5     1     2
   x     x     3     x     x     6     x     8     7
c 8     x     7     x     x     1     9     4     x
   1     x     6     x     x     8     3     x     x

why did i go for the Aa1 notation rather than
a A1(1) notation?
after all B8... b6... Bb86... P9 etc.

it's not like i'm bewildering myself
to solve the corona virus... either...
perhaps i'm just, "investigating"...
a small step for man...
one giant leap for mankind... but then that
is not true...

if you still read newspapers...
this is what a pedantic corner of a newpaper looks
like... journalism pumping public
opinion is one thing in the tabloid press...
quiet another, elsewhere...

for better or for worse:
this is the until: we part on... death can have its
mythology and personification with
scythes and a harem of shadows
that would replace the lava lamp for...
one of those atmospheric evenings smoking
marijuana... and telling each other...
how that's supposed to... exemplify *******...
which came prior to one of us trying
out a full-body b.d.s.m. gimp suit...
with a zipper for the genitals to: plucker out...
or some other ingenius monstrosity
of the bedroom...
but none of the prior...
it's not like these were ever... "fetishes" or...
were, even "somehow" driftwood in the unconscious...
seeing how others have explored these
avenues...

i'm not too sure where i went wrong...
call it a distraction call it a weather warning....
call it... just coming out from a stanley kubrick
omnibus - back to back oeuvre binge...
or some whacky said: some other...
friend of a friend...

the other narrative read as follows
Cb7 Ab7 Bc7 Bc3 Cc1 Cc2 Cc6 Cc5 Ab5 Ac5 Bc5 Bc2
Cb9 Cb8 Ca4 Cb4 Cb3 Cb6 Aa7 Ab1 Ab8
Ab2 Ab4 Bb4 Bb8 Bb1 Bb2 Bb6 Bb9 Ba3 Ba5 (Ac6) Ba1
Ca5 Ac2 Aa8 Aa6 Aa3 Aa9 Aa4 Ba4 Bc4 Bc9 Ac9 Ac4

i call this the parallel adventure of the the synonym:
me solving a sudoku puzzle is a bit like...
a bureucrat / civil servant sharpening a pencil...

a frenchman would have, a german would have...
written some existential narrative...
i wrote: why i solved one sudoku puzzle...
but didn't solve another...
because... thinking go in the way...
thinking about nothing -
origins reflexive... and nothing as expansive
as would be allowed via: origins reflective...

habitual preoccupations if not stressors...
one could allow oneself to watch paint dry...
but then one should allow onself to watch ice melt...
otherwise figure out a seat next to Heraclitus next
to a river... or a neat next to Narcissus beside a lake...
or a puddle...
or... a seat next to a stone that isn't a stone
that is a mountain with Sisyphus...
each one will do...

as one is expected to write such *******...
when one's shadow abandons one...
perhaps to even the scores of a diagnosis...
bi-lingual: ******-            evidence!
what force of wanting to keep the would-be
integrated blossom... who... rebelled and said:
i will retain my mother,
my tongue... and my skull...
hence this mongrel: i, i...
or what's the lesser mirror: the water, the glass...
the need for night, for shadow...
for timid time...
and the shared common threshold:
to bounce back from an omni-: in the litany of:
flu-like symptoms -
giving cursor for sponge-like...
lava roasted - poached squid brain burdened
episodes of the hominids... **** similis:
apes clapping and laughing playing backgammon
and confusing it with checkers... and checkers
with chequers...

queries: none applicable: queues? all...
primo cue? qua in quaestio: quo vadis?
a self-proclaimed deconstruction cascade of
the alphabet... none speculated...
trying to be overtly "smart" most anticipated...
a burden in-and-of-itself: stipulated...
a congestion of rhyme...
no couplets yes of everything, else: presented...

de profundis clamere ad te domine;
this is a razor's edge a drowning man would
grip onto... upon the sea...
this lingua mare...
and given this is not some lucky driftwood...
it's enough: to equal both the discomfort
from having written it...
as not having written it.