Lethargic depressed insane inane speechless crazy alone loved.
still alone searching hiding scared asking hoping walking.  simplistic.
connected living breathing-wishing I wasn't.  Sleeping longing paranoid strange homeless judged.  
stereotypes dependent wishing thinking realism tricks mental functions waves patterns medicine.  
Staying awake.  Crying, screaming, screaming, screaming, angst, anger, understanding yet misunderstood.
apathy
manic precocious processing watching waiting listening-not tasting. day mares.  trains feet cars writing resting regaining energetic.
back down.
up.
down, staying down. staying trying attending pushing achieving descending reading.
surviving. impossible. surviving.

The reason for the expedition had lost its meaning. Everyone was now interested in what they were seeing about them other than that for which we had originally come. The expression on all of their faces seemed to tell the story plain enough but, there was evident a certain degree of conscience which prevailed in them that appeared to override their own personal desires. This I noticed with anticipated concern for after all, if it were not for training prior to the expedition all would have been lost on reaching this point. They would have become irrational like the things they were witnessing taking place before their very eyes.
I looked at them once again and could have easily read their minds but managed to resist the temptation for if I had done so, would have fallen into the same threshold they had. It was just like walking through a dream relating to your own sub-conscious mind mingled with your conscious deep integrated personal desires and screened in your mind with harsh realism. Anyone who had experienced this before and was able to be disillusioned, as I had been, stood the chance of escaping its hypnotic hold on the mind, those who didn't were doomed.
Once in its spell they could witness everything in terms of personal desires; things that happened to them in the past and things that "would happen" to them in the future. The effect of this threshold could also be moulded into the way you wanted things to happen which was the main factor that once caught it was very difficult to get out. Without my help and understanding they would never have been able to re-materialize from a world of irrational feelings and capabilities where time and space were their servants and each one's desires their master as the Fifth Dimension.
_________________­___

I
Originations of consciousness whir into a moan of torment.
A sudden bombshell of consternation;
    her eyes burst wide.

Baby?
Sleep-laden, post-finals brain gravy:
No, can't be. Could be. Shouldn't be. Want to be? No, can't be.

Lurking beyond the reach of terror, realism slithers closer.
The hysteria deteriorates as deduction brings lucidity.

******* eggs.
They are abolished, and never heard from again.

II
Suitcase tetris, smothering each layer.
She moves without direction,
or a lazy child with ADD.

At long last, the shimmering sink full of death beckons...

Dissatisfaction erupts in a symphony of fragmented drinkware.
Her assumption lingers, cresting into prediction.
Her expectations are met.
A thorn in her paw.
     The dishwater weeps.

III
Her rage is tangible, hissing in her ears,
bashing her skull when it is ignored,
clawing at her spine.
She abandons the silverware.
They never did anything for her.

The loathsome bag swings threateningly.
She ignores it, giving it a silent challenge.

Fate strings before her eyes, yanked taut and thrumming
with inevitability.
Crimson satin sheets tangle lovingly from the rift of tender peel.
Cake-batter-in-a-mixing-bowl splatter,
the dissimilitude of children's laughter.
Wobbling, fawn-like under the density of rage gnawing at her lips,
she retreats, acknowledging her submission.

She begins as a tree, but rapidly degenerates
into grotesque dysmorphic spasms on the cheap veneer.

Hysteria threatens to burst forth, frothing, but no.
This is not my day.

The world in failure  is  success.
Attend the international footstep's fire.
Words are abused for idol envy.
Every action sums the  Earth's  final.

So --
Swallow    scream      strike!

Realism is never ashamed of precipitation.

If you cracked open my skull,
(and discerned past the alarming indirect realism
Featuring a ******, cerebrospinal fluid-y cranium,
Hewed and fractured crudely
And gushing like a cascade),
You'd unearth a disturbing array of mechanisms,
Filed, packaged, and manufactured,
Well intentioned lies and repulsive judgement,
Distressing reality and optimism open to ridicule
Self-interested altruism and desperate defenses,
An assortment of fallible hope and fallacious despair,
All nearing a point
Of sudden, piercing tragedy.
For I, too,
Am devoid of worth and life,
I, too, have done nothing
Worth life's light

Her sobs punch me eardrums.

Green eyes rimmed with red,
she presses her forehead firmly into her knee caps.
I stare at her hands and imagine them in his.

“I can’t breathe underwater like I used to…”

Passed out on the floor
she gasps for air.
I bet she dreams of water falls and razorblades.

He flattened her optimism with his realism.
Confused by body parts and heartbeats,
they made disappointment a language.

Illiterate lovers

*“I can’t breathe underwater like I used to, before I met you...”

As tempting as it is to walk only with slaves, I find what
my children need instead is economic freedom; for my own
austere nature took a lifetime to achieve and I cannot assume
they were born for this until they know for themselves their
own nature and how best to cultivate the good from within;
they will breathe in the same air as I but what they exhale will
be who they are for they cannot hold onto my own exhaust any
more than I can theirs

There will necessarily be a raging river between myself and
those with whom I sympathize the most; for whatever it is
that I have become it was forced upon me by privilege; there
is nothing I can say to comfort a suffering life except to assuage
their pain for the moment and be reminded that there is
no satisfaction inherent in observing the poor before taking
leave to waste more food

An invention of expediency, a convenience to nurture destiny,
fear is the ultimate tool to control those who have no time
for anything except to raise their own children; and as we
watch them accept instruction from those with whom we
disagree we can only counter their influence by the scant
degree to which we have deviated from the same fears
that were placed within us, but it is only until we are old
enough to know and by then it may be too late

The ability to become what power grants, to the detriment of
polite acknowledgment of the moral rigors necessary to
maintain the underground movement that once objected to
personal gain but now embodies it, is what draws us near; the
power of authority cannot survive without force in the
absence of either moral clarity, obvious merit or grantor of
favor; but because in our fantasies one man is stronger than
our collective minds to whom we willingly bow because we
look for a savior among us forgetting that the savior is in
our time of worship, waiting for us

We are cut and bleed openly on the pavement, but
our body heals itself; the scar that remains reminds us
but it is in our minds that we’re not allowed to reveal
our pain; it is our consciousness that must forever act
sane even though it lives in the past; judging how many
lovers a person may have had or how many they have
set free; we must benchmark ourselves because that
is the only way we can prove we are not one speech
from taking the rights away from an entire group of
people because we can demonize anyone as long as
it is not what we have become

The words that speak of redemption and humility clash
with the psychology of ambition for within our personality
lies the unquenchable trauma of our life; we seek revenge
instead of rehabilitation because revenge is easier to refract
reality in order to find our place where normalcy exists and
the belief that who we are was not our choice or in our
power to alter; we know this not to be entirely true yet
we are powerless to consider the alternative because there
is no place to find true acceptance

The most moral thing I can do is accept the inconvenience
of kindness, empathy and truth in the company of those
who wish to exercise their own freedom to insult others and
place blame upon others for their failures in life; for the ability
to remember who suffered not by their own hand but instead
by the hand of others is something one must learn even if
it means rejecting the heart of those whom they once loved

Why do I safeguard around words that don't satisfy
It has no meaning to even exist in such a one set mind world you can't even ask to be relevant it's a shame that realism is wasted in the pretenders  but those who have streamed in the main often suffer less

They called it the war to end all wars
But then came another
And another
And another
Our hope acted as blinders
Ignoring Mankind's stupidity
And the persistence of a wounded and humiliated man
To seek revenge
And devise cruel ways to exact his twisted agenda
Optimism took over in place of realism
The world chose to look away
Until it was all the world could see
People hid and fled
From locked rooms came hissing, and not dripping
From fields and buildings came loud cracks and bright fires
Instead of birds chirping and bright smiles
Robbed of their life, people were put in ghettos
Robbed of a loved one, people wept
All this suffering
With cause an unfair punishment
Given for choosing a side

The stars look bright tonight. The crisp summer breeze rolled across my bare skin as I lay shirtless beneath the dead oak tree near the lake.  The sky was clear, barely any obstruction from an innocent cloud that travelled down the vast black road that stretched on for eternity. I always loved coming here. So did my father.

It had been four years since he had died. The cause is still unknown. All I remember is the gaping hole in his chest as he... left. So many unanswered questions are lingering in the back of my mind. How did it happen? Who or what had done that to him? Why did it have to happen to him? Why not me? I feared that these questions hung inevitably in the unknown, locked away in a subconscious prison with no means of being bailed out.  Life had to continue though, no matter how unconditionally excruciating the pain may be in my chest when I miss him, no matter how many times I had cried myself to sleep because he wasn’t there to tell me that it will be OK whenever I had night terrors. They started soon after my mother died. I would wake up screaming and writhing in fear. My father would run into my room and bring me close to his chest. He would whisper in my ear “Shh son, it’s OK, nothing will get you. I am here now.  Calm down, you’re safe now.”

After the yelling had stopped he would carry me downstairs and into the garden. The cool air would cause the beads of sweat on my face to tingle. I always loved that feeling. It was the indication that I was back in reality. We would both sit on the grass. Dad would run inside and return carrying a large blanket. He would wrap it around the both of us. It always smelled just like my mother, a faint scent of lavender and honeysuckle. We would then peer into the sky, where dad would show me all of the constellations: Orion, Pegasus, Cetus, and other names that I couldn’t pronounce. “Each of these constellations tells a story, son” he would say to me as I tried to make sense of the jumble of stars that floated in the dark sky, “and one day, when the time comes, I will be up there. One day you will be able to tell your own children my story. All you have to do is simply look to the skies.”

I shook myself free from the painful reminiscence. I am eighteen, these things do not happen anymore. I stood up and stretched, feeling the muscles beneath my skin pull and uncoil. I strolled over to the lake. It was surrounded by thick forest, silhouetted against the black backdrop of the night’s horizon.  Ripples rolled over the surface of the silent lake. The crystal clear water reflected the night sky.  I took off my shoes and socks and dipped my foot into the water. The stars rippled around me. The water was lukewarm, refreshing after the scorching heat of another day that had passed me by. After testing the water I couldn’t resist. I took a few steps back, sprinted forwards and leaped into the air. I crashed into the water, fracturing the serene reflection of the night-time sky. The water cooled every fibre of my body. I let the water soak into my bare skin. I could feel my pores filling with the liquid, the bubbles brushing delicately over my legs and arms. I wanted to stay underwater forever.

I hit the surface, puncturing the barrier between tranquillity and realism. I ****** in the humid air and let it fill my lungs. I let myself float effortlessly onto my back and glided across the water. The stars sat there in the sky watching me. Up there somewhere, I knew there was somebody among them watching me too, smiling and waving as he saw this boy float upon a bed of water.

I wish he could be floating next to me this very moment and enjoy the placidity of the night.

My thoughts are merely a tangle of non-conformant
chemicals in an ultra-responsive setting;
echoes of scarcely delayed feelings,
millimetrically placed and ready to be felt;
remnants of cromagnon desires,
keeping me occupied, unassuming and tame,
while life rolls on silently, reflexively and impressively,
with all its humiliating nerve.

Rumination is for cows, guppies, and humans alike,
and saffrons, sapphires and the snow all reason in their own way,
no less conscious than our total unconsciousness.
Like a rock or plant, man is authoritatively ignorant of his ignorance,
and in his metaphysical realism lives and loves and dies,
without a clue that he never lived, never loved and was perpetually dead.
Thought’s true thought is to block awareness
by darkening the place where true awareness lies.

We think therefore we think:
to god (I mean exact-Nature) no other valid reason exists.
We conveniently overrate rationality
in self-serving cycles of chronic urgency and folly,
leaving us continually stuck to our cyclic fate.
Life is Nature’s grunt or roar
(whatever and the same)
all just a sound, faint or not.

We are unsubstantial and chimerical animals by excellence,
and in the circle inside the box we live in, our fancy appears really real.  
As a feeling awaits its chemical fate, in the millimetric second that lingers,
whole worlds are imagined, and our universe and all is perceived:
violence, joy, depression, hope, and unbearable pain are unleashed,
cities are wanted, planned and assembled,
while man, impeccably and in turns, plays god, king and beggar,
and true lives, true loves and true deities are born.

As man progresses (i.e. transgresses his own nature)
and as he overcomes thought, word and feeling,
he ceases to be restrictively alive: he is released, he is now free.
Thought stands alongside feeling,
without communication nor vibration,
and gradually and painfully amalgamate into a new corrosive mix,
directly eating into spirit, flesh, and understanding,
until our wholeness wholly disintegrates.  

The world as we know it folds upon itself,  layer by layer,
in an inner spectacle of perfect annihilation and renewal.
The chasm separating man from himself contracts
(eventually to nil)
and man plunges from the edge of this last plank (4).
As he falls, in mid-flight,
the ultimate metamorphosis occurs,
and an übermensch is born.

Like a leaf falling unknowingly towards a blade of grass…
I impacted at dawn with the sound of a faded smash…
Invaded by reality, my brain whipped up a list of tasks..
But I quickly yawned it off in favor of dreams from the past…

How nice is it to retire to a place of wonder and passion…
When your days are filled with pondering your squandered rations…
A place away from heartache in a land of exotic fashions…
Strange tales of horror mixed with ****** interactions..

What a world it is that our dreams create…
Even giving glimpses of a future face..
Or maybe a real story from a future place..
Of guts and glory from earth or space…

They open Pandora’s box of ideas and images..
But unlike life, the dream diminishes…
Like the feeling of love lost with sleepy grimaces..
And the attack on your foe that’s lost it’s viciousness..

The ability to be in one place then instantly in the next…
The thought of how you got there never leaves you perplexed…
It just is what it is like the characters in this text…
Images of prisoners that your subconscious collects…

Lined up next to each other, depicting events…
Comedies, dramas, love stories, and suspense…
The feeling of realism is just so intense…
The horror is horrifying and the fortunes are immense…

That’s why I love these stories my brain invents…
So now I’m off to catch tonight’s main events…

I am tired.
Tired of the greed, the materialism,
the artificial realism.
Medicines to cope, false hope..opioids
the killer dope.

I am bored.
Bored with the faithless optimistics, party goers bathing in that sea of chaos...politics.

I am tired.
Tired of the hunger, and the homelessness that at times feeds glory seeking kindness.

I am bored.
Bored with the phones...the internet.
Allowing people to interact without having to connect.

I am tired.
Tired of the why and the what for,
lies of peace masking the truth of war.

I am so very tired and bored but
mostly with me.
More so with myself than with other people, politics and technology.
Sometimes I wish life would just set me free.

Runaway from those friends that cut you slowly,
They said they'd have you but you're left with nobody,
Runaway from those Hi's, Hello's, and See you later's,
That never amount to anything, Isn't that a funny thing,
They call you fake and a ghost, one of the things you hate most,
All of this criticism is only a realism to themselves,
So **** it, see them in Seven Hells.

Runaway your heart is pounding,
Your family is clouding,
All of your surroundings,
They're always frowning,
Crazy you must be sounding,
Why are they constantly hounding,
Can't they see you're drowning,
But that's fine deal,
We've developed a method to never just feel,
We've constructed a formula to differentiate the faulty from real.

Runaway from the person they told you to be,
Runaway from the past you can't see,
You have to face it, there's no chance of erasing,
The blood and the violence, that's hidden underneath silence,
Nobody knows what's behind closed doors, what's rotting to the core.

On the night
At the very early morn
The moon had already risen
Just as a broken gaseous no more sleeps
Somehow, somewhere, a beast trapped, released
No longer is it trapped to the confines of its prison

Eyes that survey
Salivating, wanting,
A prompt to its hunger
Its nostril’s pleasure: my scents
Under a crack of dim, creaming crescent
The uncensored scene of my slumber

The conditions, possibilities, a setting made right for the empty
A glimmer of hope or just the fangs bared for the bark or biting
Once started, the urge, its selfishness to one else, it’ll never lend
The craving has begun; the questionable realism of this game of pretend
A shadowy figure, upon a pair of feet; yours, no, mine, it lurks in the dark

Countless moments to lose the count of, time is held still
Longer and longer, in continuous moments that shows no signs of breaking
Once I had the warming presence of the body of mine besides me, only to be replaced
“A story’s not to be finished without the satisfaction it gives,” is all I find
All we have seen, the sweet smell of lovely dreams still dancing feverously like visions of my mind
Darkness lies beside me, wanting you, cannot be unseen: the ****** features being without a face

What’s gotten is what’s to be deserved: deliberations of the disease that festers the fabric of my thoughts, I pay no mind
At this point, my reality sinks in, run-on sentences roles across the virtual plane called your screen.
Unable to break away from the unrecognizable creature that lies before me, I lose contact with the senses, my nerves have no feeling
The beauty of it all is the art, the science, I love the way how it consumes me, growing over me, light glinting off its fangs still bared
I remember now, I know it, we’ve talked about it before, it calls itself Sherman, our sleep paralysis demon, still I feel the need to be scared
My lovely dreams, he feeds off of, the hunger within, in him, is never satisfied, no matter how many times he tried, he didn’t stop, just enough to make me void, light blinds me, my soul is fleeing.

On the morn,
At the surpassed night
My heartbeat pends
Eternally I sleep, at peace
Those who know me weep
For my plotless reality never ends

Your reality controls my life
With something, which binds
My fleshly existence and my third eye,
Despite self and despite logic,
Your sharp-edged  screams
And this love focused
Only on materially living things
In self-assertion
Keep me locked
Within whatsoever limits.
Your emotions and conations
Are the embodiment of your ideas.
Your love is enclosed within them,
They are inhabiting your life.
You are the follower
Of your own creed.
You need to be
Freed from your own illusion
And from your own constraints.
I can see you
Between visible and invisible,
Ceaselessly aspiring to universal Divinity,
Trying to reconcile your inner contradictions,
Absolutely saturating your feelings,
Your intuitive vision
And your vibrational essence of thought.
I can see your realm of realism,
Imprisoned in the identity of your thought.
I am the object of your senses
And the essence of your beatitude,
While you try to keep safe
The word's meaning.

>Want a thing? Relax
>into a script to get a taste.
>Fetishes? or repressed natural inclination?
>Roll a D20 to feel better, take fun and make it killing,
>with just enough free will to make it interesting.
>Nothing else can become reality so in the universe we got
>in the cosmic lottery, calm down
>and have fun.
>Find the most effective deformation — BAM BAM
>SHOOT EM UP — and life is real. Over the top?
>Or so aware that art is less than or equal
>to life, so why settle for realism?
>Say something the way that no one else can say
>it. Maintain a state
>of relaxation by white knuckling your partner until you forget to breathe.
>Fetishize white men not being racists.
>Lay it all out for your audience
>whose uneducation cries out to be fixed
>by you
>and you alone.
>Reassure them
>you get it:
>art is hard,
>so I’m going
>to speak my subtext
>and spice things up
>with some choreography
>just to make sure
>you get what it is
>exactly
>that I’m trying
>to say,
>because god knows you wouldn’t get it otherwise.
>(And this way, people will finally understand you, and you will be complete, and you will be satisfied, and you will get everything you ever wanted, and you will ride fulfilled into the bright new day of artistic enlightenment you lucky sonuvabitch.)

you know what two indicators of psychiatric diagnostic bases are?  whether or not you can keep eye-contact or chew your nails... frankly i  like the taste or keratin, it's like concentrated burnt skin, and that  eye-contact bit? i'm not here to ****** anyone, not keeping eye-contact  doesn't make me disengage from dialogue, it simply enhances it, after  all, i'm talking to your body, i don't have to peer into your soul.*

the hippocratic oath died with modern psychiatry,
it simply died, limp and almost lethargic
and riddled with leprosy (it’s peeling off me now, bit by bit),
the hippocratic oath died there and then,
the schism of the church from the state
enforced the secularisation of medicine
and medicine gave birth to its ******* offspring
known as psychiatry / logic of the non-existence
of the soul, better known as the missing
part of psychology...
the local g.p. analysis shows that i'm clearly
not biting my nails or have inefficient eye-contact
putting me on an autistic spectrum
with a feministic interpretation of aristotle,
but frankly i too could be a feminine candy
pusher for platonism in the **** sense of the word,
trying to convert a hetrosexual tyrant to keep
a few less digits of **** under my sleeve:
mythology - or the logic behind:
in a kingdom far far away... a long long time ago,
there's a logic to myth, meaning the timescale is
unimportant, but important with a debriefing
signalled by two words: it happened; but it's not
relatable these days.
it's a good thing english asylums closed their gates
at the beginning of the 20th century or mid-way,
english society subsequently changed into an asylum,
no fewer madmen among the mentally ill and those
in politics... the ratio is so equilibrate you wouldn't
even bet on a horse that ran a mile with the odds being
in its favour... me? *******? i'm fuming,
you want me to shoot blanks at whimsical prejudices
of a cancer patient because you were doing crosswords
looking at your genitelia and said: i'm a woman!
well, moist **** to you too... i'll make sure
the next pole that travels to england will get his money's
worth... watch me type like a chopin dynamo...
crescendo multo gratis!
that's the thing concerning the little red ribbon
wrapped around a box present in existentialism
it evolved from: phenomenology... it ignored kant...
it ignored the application of pluralism to kant's
concept of the thye noumenon...
subsequently it ignored rasputin (a.k.a. the superman)
on par with the great illiterate statues of history:
socrates, jesus, mohammad...
khadijah wrote the first of the surahs i bet...
she the litterate ***** must have known
he would decrease the volume of expression,
ending with a short surah like the heretical infestation
of malachi with the old testament.
*****! *****! give me *****! i want a snooker table too!
to the next of kin: don't come to england...
they're prone to the disease known as anglo-saxon / norman
lunacy... please don't come... or if you're coming
make it seasonal... and make it scarce -
bandit irish idiots just made a breakthough, quote un quote:
we multiply! no wonder the theory of relativity couples
people with confusion... newtonian logistics is missing,
the vector system is missing, cause and effect
is missing in relation to climate change - well **** happens,
our historical realism is not different from our
concensus... we all agreed... thanks to einstein there's
no cause & effect, because the compound space-time
vortex equates the two... we can sleep soundly tonight...
we've been saved by the geneva convention of albert camus'
absurdity... phenomena are universals because
of the attached number avaliable... noumenology
is scarce due to third arms and legs... a handful
is twelve disciples... in between the number of fingers
and toes... a handfull is between 10 and 20... that's a handful...
so if particulars deal with noumena... things unknown
or previously unknown or subsequently known because
of their david bowie oddity... then phenomena are concenred
with universal rhythms... i.e.... it can happen to an ant,
it can happen to a sparrow... it can happen to a human being...
it's the ideal economy of ideas just popping up whenever
you thing the singularity of god or the verb pronoun i is missing:
the noun pronoun, the thing that is freely ignoring things
due to their names and narrating geological abstractions?
yeah... that's still there.

Prayers 830/2022
The findrompscar of egintoch kilmarge verdure veraciloquence bemoaning with pleionosis and sharpened vesicles of the seminative enthralled belletrist of novalia conquered by fallow vestiges of revalorized conations of orchestras of mathesis girdled by the hebephrenia of ecphonesis debauched in flombricks of the macadamized pathway of alloreck demand an invictive supercherie of skelder never a pilgarlick of pisteology deturpated by delitescent romage and gadarene gadabouts of the frigoric scaramouches of ruffianized kenodoxy blaring with semaphores of megalography in the sondage of plebeian reboant rebuses of qwasthink ennobled by the noema of the noosphere glorified by roundabout circumlocution because the reiterative gabble of those who neglect the omphalos of the noosphere always reticulate false cantered pretense because of constative uncertainties always asterongue in their longiniquity from the gangues of the heapstead of the realistic tropes of surreal tropology. We geck our way from gentilian fewterers of stirpiculture and the silvics of the gammon of gamines suborning fideicide in leveraged largesse countermanding with a calenture of colposiquanomian quozian fravvel the retromorphosis of profaned lascivious fossarian debouched and crass vibronic alopecia of anatocism surging never with rhipidate deflexure in the pleonexia of the pleroma of supercalendar frimples of deskandent cloveryield only partial to nebbich fortuitism rather than the spargosis of the counterphobic rintinole of earwigs of pronounced ebriection sparking the geotaxis of high larceny dragooning with imperium in aleatory passiuncles of ideoprone thermolysis of the abyssopelagic depths of stygiophobia rancid in bromides of gnomic rancor of gnomonic kurgans of gerdoying intorgurence that brannigans walm with the weirdward ascendancy of blackguarded illation circumspect in its picaresque hues of oligochrome that the laxism of pericope will not permit the greater sacrilege and tribune of frackling flarmey whadronque mendaciloquence of the kenspeckel notoriety of operose syndicalism in the dumose formative bushwhacking license and licentiousness of the Cambristry of foutered and flictitious frankquibber neoteny, this is precisely because the counterphobes that demand the syndicalism of serfdom are always hibernating on their own outrecuidance rather than bemoaning the depths of the reversal of the minimasque because of the terminus of the diestrus of denostram. We belong, however, to an age of ergotall rhipidate ragmatical perendination by the intrepid galvanization of the tremendum of rogation sizzling in dashpot acrimony that the subsultus of engorged modernity crafts in knackish knavery the lucifuguous but lucriferous fangast flannel of fanfaronade rather than fandangled cagophilists of callisteia alone never the gezellig of belgards of bronteum can empower the chandlers to reast of bibliopolist rarissima of enervated existentialism becoming the apagoge for the minimism of doctrinaire dogmatic serfdom simultaneous to the isorropic ravenous ravellin of the ratten bewrayed swirk jaunty in spellbound subversion but always recursive in the ingemination of illecebrous forsifamiliation that the rackrent of prurience demephitises only to funnel the effluvia of squalor and squandermania into a chockablock fumiduct of erasure rather than revalorized redintegration of lypemania offered at the outrance of lythcoop in phylactic manners so that the lientery of gravid supercherie of the semese ditokous radicalism of  ravelins of symposiarch syndaysmia might become enhanced by reckoning rather than diminished by crucibles of the antithesis of ataraxia at the penultimate scribacious saxifragous liturgy of sempervirent immortelles of the remontant opportunism of malingered tropoclastics of curved naivety and synclastic realism amasthenic because of prismatic surrealism. Amen

B. The whyern of the lazaretta of oxyholotrons of ghallitosis recumbent upon tisicky sockdolagers of loimic pestilence of limosis that cravenly bends all reticulation and resofincular singularities of the promontory of gadarene genius that the refracturism of liturgicide might demigrate with the demegorics of picine elapid pigarsconce phylarchy always contramanded by cowcatcher counterphobic babeldom that roils in sublimity manufactured by arrivistes of eclat that we might marvel at the majestic gauleiter in his engastrimyth porlocking purpresture of the purview of the noxal demiurge of gelogenic denouement that fewer spanerias cornered by the pogonips of suspended hebephrenia in the waning gloaming improvidence of importunate ludibund finifugal travesty that it might find recurrence in its attempted regelation of the wamzel impetus strengthened by eumoireity and the encraty that becomes the balderdash of egintoch fortitude that they might never mammer at the picaresque librations of the selenic bromidrosis that endangers by deliberate degrees of bromidrosis of frustraneous faffle that the fangasts might use the invictive turnverein of orthotropism in gallantry belonging to the gammerstangs of hylozoism even as an outgrowth of figurative thanatousia repining on its euhemerism and decrying its normalism of nocicepty in aspheterism that the eventual acme demolishes the ragtagger wreggled freggets of popinjay ventose conceit that breems of albatross dart in zugzwang rather than expedite in eupraxia of the idiolect of the grambouncers of scopophilia enamored so much of amasthenic and synclastic reboant phonophorous lurid triumph that never a crucible of laterad denouement of the raissoneurs of genius might find any crambazzled prurience in arrogation a detest of gammadions never belonging to the proper tribance of the rengall shibboleths of people that scowl in delitescent objurgation renowned for sublime rendavation that fewer may alienavesce by graklongeur and that more jongleurs of festive callithumpian imperseverant temerity might jow the tachymetry of the noosphere to the pinnacle of civilized eudaemonism never curtailed by the ballicatter of killcows blackguarding their own grapnels of possessive intorgurence and faineant psychosophy that all might denounce the rindstretch of alloreck because of ineradicable estoppage as the deturpation of the placomania and dacoitage of lewd larceny and never provident tribunes of humane orthotropism in orthobiosis. Amen

C. The raisonneur of pleionosis in the pleroma of refocillated recalcitrance emboldened into jaunty statures of refrain in the fescennine quarters of cartography bedizened by majestic megalography that simpers in the wangermist of junctition never a frackling seraglio of denatured ravellin in the skerries of skeumorph can contradict with the eupraxia rather than the dystocia of primiparas of a rhipidate fashion of patibulary treony diminutive in its trillom of flarium regarded never as faffle but always as fanfaronade that the smartest ideoprone nebbich pataphysics of modernity might quarrel with collieshangies of rapid repute opining because of quidlibertarian opiniasters of ophiuran bolides of meteoric whyern that they might all stagger davering away from the dwale of the blemished steganography of dengonin that the otarine aspergillum of ghoulish mandriarchs against an omphalism only tendentious with the full warble of tachymetry of falsehood rather than perdurable in the pasilaly of patience percutient in its force of rancor and acrimony that the ultrageous outrage always meets the favor of the tribunes of certainty rather than the delirifacient qualms of quacksalvers of martexture in the wrathcheque wartle of the renegade alone rather than the audacity of jongleurs to sway the real silviculture of sertivine and herculean geotechnics always transcendent rather than regelated only for the reflationary illusions of the revet and chaffer of broches of sanctified purpresture never the peaceful ponkoss of the pleckigger of the condign allotment. We stagger through the motatory mobilism of the diutiurnal demephitised dephlogisticated refocillation that renounces the frottage of ******* in all septuagint referendum of popular renown rather than gaumless numquids of rhizogenic rhabdomania in this heyday of providence rather than the naysayers who become the quilombo questmongers of irreption only because of the radicolous typhlophilia that scrounges pestilence and in scurrilous internecine balkanization of the avenue of truth and the highways of deceitful and disreputable phanerolagnia that they might always see the malison of the malism of the azimuth and avizandum of tziganology in shibboleth rather than in the rapidfire patibulary renown of the bowdlerized margaric and maricolous denouement of the tributaries of sempirvirence never in luxury but always in chiminage. Amen

D. Rhadbomania of the rhombos of tauricide ennobles the chiliarchy into the sederunt lancination of privilege becoming the crotaline demeanor of raffish runagate rampicks of ramellose radiciform bloviation that owes its coherence never to the  crucible of the epigones that boast in the steganography of wravvel but always evade their corporate responsibility to the anemocracy of never an anneabil gezellig of only the goliardy of dementia but that they always sustain an opiniaster flargent and deskandent impavid resofincular destination as the terminus of their finitism of consideration. May we always absolve the finicky albatross rather than the flocking jackals braying in the winterkill of subterfuge that they might with the magomancy of dragonnade rather than the imperium of honest cadence may their blarney and bletherskate impudence become to them a greater curse than the blessings of the avizandum of only a chrestomathic but outnumbered foe of the realism of a scandent scaramouch demisang of portreeves of hatred fomenting all spumid spindrifts and snirtles of disdain that they might bemoan their own intorgurence of refractory putanism as they scrimshank themselves only on meteoric pride rather than honest recidivism back into the heyday of truth rather than the matroclinic lies of bluestocking matriarchs of mandarism and omphalism contempered into raches that lack the oxyblepsia of ratomorphism ennobled rather than deturpated by both slaughter and laughter. Amen

E. Raffish runagates that enervate themselves of any oxyacaesthesia that they might belong to the demephitised bowery of their own supercilious provincial randan that the ranarian liposuction of their travesty becomes apparent in the kenspeckel of belletrist aimed against their magpiety of mafficking magomancies of false pretense rather than the sockdolagers of majestic genarchs above their littoral swank and alluvions of combustible antebellum swasivious larceny of the common forum against the lyceum of the promethean that by definition becomes radicalized by the rhipidate martexture of their profound deceit. We might never forsifamiliate or defiliate ourselves from nuclear truths rather than raffish lies of ruffianized vandalism of sacerdotalism and the triumphs of rogation above the pother of their outmantled owleries of recidivism in bloodthirst and graft. We might always overhaile without a hint of isorropic irony or the patibulary dudmans of the dringles of dwizzened wonderworks overwrought by rainshod oppression by the gullywashers of modernized tarnish hermalloping the best truths with sempervirent fictions that gadarene gadabouts prance with frantling and pavonine debellation that never provokes capitulation but only a talionic clarigation of the wartle of deceit disguised as the meteoric triumph of the hypertrophy of the hyperborean and thereby selenic invictive force of promethean millitasters emboldened into combat but never rescinded into a Miss Congeniality pageantry that shroffs by incorrect baragnosis of brassage a radical impotence rather than a plenipotentiary pantagamy of pantoglots that surf the alluvion rather than become infumated by the insolation of vesuviated hatred only countermanded by counterclock ratiocination always hobbled by the spancules of ridicule. Time is the behest of eternal alveolate synergies rather than the turgid muck of the jabberwocky of sublime elitism that is often parodied by the peenge of the thole of tauricide roaring in the winds of paravented elitism that scaramouches of skelder and the consequences of their impudence in only schadenfreude of perendination might they meet a whadronque end at the terminus of their own wrathcheque in their estrapade of the interrex rather than the eupraxia of their common objective in objectivism that finally regards with supreme truth the elements of neovitalism that buoy rhizogenic and seminal seminules of hylozoism combined with ratomorphism that we might all be astounded when the roostery outmantles the owlery because of the oxyacaesthesia that only the gubbertushed crapehangers disown in their minimifidian minimism against dogmatic lurches of triumph against the headlong deceit of hamshackled commitments of the spargosis of the colporteurs of only the most plebeian considerations rather than the most promethean samizdats that survive because the biognosy of bionomics is tautochronous to the fascinations of a newfangled isonomy between the bibliopolist of rarissima and the henchmen of the politicide of the polyacoustic babeldom of conclamation that tries desperately to cadge and roodge through diestrus the selachostomous sondage of the clastic mereology of love beyond any trivialized notions of macadamized macarism or worse the opportunism of the portreeve gauleiters of vandalized schadenfreude disregarding the ****** of a gamboling frescade with the hypaethral heavens bequeathing the glebes of plebania with a pleroma rather than a pleonexia. The pasilaly of consequentialism in the reference of doxography that might never faint by the cordial resofincular dimensions of  corrugated wizened and dwizzened dringles of pataphysical naivety that is an objurgation of negativism rather than an elevated triumph of the aqueducts of the irrigation of all novantique by the paragons of lolloping swank in the proper pleckigger notarized by the plackiques of the semaphores of the ennobled wrepolis never craven in its eustress that finally the fangasts of temerity rather than the harridans of the bloodthirst corruption of the boweries of graft eviscerated by the providence of the esquivalience of naivety that they might understand the synclastic relativism of our times magnifies the mesmerism of the siderism finally stellized enough to outmantle the pothers of fumatorium and erase the frinterans of spendthrift pismirism from the hallowed sacrarium of the modern liturgy rather than the archaeolatry of the bethels of lewd tradition empowered by footloose philandering and venal venereal valetudinarianism that itches to foreclose on every mortgaged contract of family that they might be defiliated by the timmynoggies of sin rather than redacted by the greater good of the enosimania of those that find findrouement neither a rubricality nor a qualm but rather the axiomatic fulfillment of the toil of graklongeur never feckless in its ascendancy against the tidal destruction of selenocentric arrogance of ludibund nescience that frolics only in the carapace of naive novantique rather than the egestuous realization that the crapehangers of shibboleth are useless because the apikoros are defiled by their flargent disbelief rather than ennobled by their fidelity to the agapism of a favored century over the declension of the fatalism of finifugal aghast and rantipole negations of the malaise of only the malapert reconnaissance of the scepsis of dubiety rather than the optimistic omphalism of synclastic and amasthenic centuples of redintegrated happenstance becoming peremptory novelty in the novantique of the proper pleckigger of reverence in the paravent against the umbrageous sabotage of the listless in liturgy and the intorgurent disdain of liberticide. May God reckon upon the Earth a newer triumph that never in sheepish bleats davers in periblebsis because of predatory galvanization of instinct and the worst shibboleths of the pilgarlick pigsconce of blatteroons of nescience in their firm commitment to hylicism that can easily find apagoge never only in the aphemia of aphnology of the anacusic irrecusable enmity of those that despise halidom because of the groundling fascination with only volcanic lavondeurs rather than the narthex of lavaderos that scavenge all florilegium for the tombstone of truth and the resurrection of the lively anacampserote of the optimistic escape of those persecuted by estoppage and redstrall into the frontier of harmony and the syndicalism of centripetal serendipity. Amen

i've heard of my harshness
my entire life, the way
that my words dig tiny
holes in hurt feelings and
infest psyches with
second guesses until
madness consumes the
unfortunate recipient of
my terrible truths

they are only truths after all,
honesty is the best policy
plays on repeat behind
closed eyelids as i think
before i speak

none of this is senseless,
maybe it's that i suffer
from a seemingly sweet face
as an accompaniment to
my realism, or
perhaps you're just too
******* sensitive

i picture myself taking
sandpaper to my tongue,
spritzing my brain with
lavender extract, and
instead of word *****
i regurgitate daisies

You have the roundest head I've
ever seen,
Defensive,
It looks like a baldspot but it isn't,
The soft pulsing of the room,
Sit sweet,
melodious,
cacaphony via 80 dollar
made in Indonesia,
Staring deep within the wooden casket,
to find out,
just where it came from,
There are people that
treat this world as if
they lived in a prison,
those that are not,
conscious of the concept, realism
they'll never truly understand,
that it is all a prison and ****,
a cacophony of rightness
and wrongness.

The light ever draped,
over shadow's shoulder,
the comforting caress,
of wonderful abandonment,
wrought for not,
want less.

it became clear as day... i knew this was coming,
the day when i brushed aside all the science,
the dogma, and said nothing of a big bang
fancy, but to keep me inside it rather than,
outside of it: whatever it was that imploded...
if the **** thing didn't implode why all this
gesture two describe it as an explosion, and give way
to phenomena? they're not imploding into
singled out individuals...
   ah, **** this boring scientific crap,
the rubber-band of me learning chemistry at university
had to snap at some point... it had to...
i also decided that the term big bang is really
ugly... given humanity and the care for aesthetic,
whether inner or outer, the big bang has no
impetus to succumb to it if your mind is
even remotely interested in science,
     i'd call it the imploded onomatopoeia...
i can't write a cat's meow or a dog's bark or a crows
croak to perfection, words have
no ~ markings attached to them,
which shows you how shallow existentialism
is with its lack of symbols, only the ditto,
and that's never really explained, for what i've
read it's a stylistic inclusion akin to italics...
no existentialist expresses whether a dittoed word
is ambiguity, or whether it's a loan word,
like a Pole might loan the word weekened
and speak the foreign word in his native tongue:
as if we invented it...
  Poles do that, a lot... i mean: it's easier to loan
foreign words than create your own...
   i call this an T. Edison stagnation...
the moment you start loaning words,
is the moment you're left with about two famous
Poles in the history of mankind,
and even that's disputed, since the Germans
want Copernicus, and the French want Chopin...
you basically become unimaginative, not firm,
loose, bubbly, lard...
    that sort of language encoding can belong
among merchants, but look how the former
mechant of Mecca has become strict,
where's the lingua franco?
             i know it's english, dummy,
  but i mean: why use so many loan words in your
own ethnic tongue, so blatantly,
    try to tell an englishman to use
    the german word zeitgeist with as much
of a populist zeal as a Pole who incorporated
the english word weekend, it's not going to happen...
thankfully the english know they're of germanic
descent for the most part,
    and partly norse, and celt... and roman...
****! what a brothel, you get all kinds here,
anglo-slavs and afro-saxons to boot these days...
magic... the ******* 60s were true, after all.
  but it's the puritanism in me regarding language,
well, given that Poles have become almost
akin to Jews in Europe, given the history...
oh look, the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth,
ah crap, look, it's gone, no, wait, it's up and running
once again... no wait... they joined the E.U.
when papa essex and mama normandy said:
we're out! dumb chocolatiers, it was bound to
be too sweet, too true... too pointless to continue...
faking what the Mayflower people did "across the pond".
and it's almost fun learning how
the central european commonwealth was based
on the fact that: only a foreign ruler can claim
a crown over the geography that once spanned
from the baltic to the black sea...
yeah, and i am ethnically bound to talk about it
without having to: i don't even know the polish
anthem, the english one? it's the easiest
in the world, done in under a minute...
     god save our gracious king,
something something... something something...
  when i became naturalised as a "citizen" i think
i sang it... no, wait... i didn't...
    just like i didn't accept the catholic bureucracy...
i should have a tetranoun / "grammaton" /
tetrakilogram name in the paperwork,
what, catholic and not baptised, and not chosing
another name for yourself at the ceremony
involving the purple bishop?
   well, that's the first joke i spotted with what i later
realised as the Hebrew divinity, and how
i wouldn't desecrate the principle...
       but it's not even about that!
     it could well be about the 2015 film
fathers and daughters, and how they say
novels take years to write, edit, i say: vulgarity
is necessary, as are conjunctions,
     and as is phlegm...
                               but it's not even about that,
the sunday times magazines...
the style magazine on purpose, the dating columns
are going off-print! i can't believe it!
         what am i going to be reading from that magazine
on a sunday?
   i did once say (keeping up with the goldfish,
scatter brain, short-memory span, therefore telegram
poetry, many punctuation marks,
disorientating, punctual, but disorientating,
a *******-base on purpose,
i don't think many people will like it; good):
it would be nice to see a journalistic sabbath,
yes, a media sabbath, after all Monday newspapers
are so thin! anorexic news... that's Monday,
people have been lazing too much on sunday,
actually reading every single page that a monday
newspaper, just makes no sense!

and yes, the very point of enforced interludes
is that you might find yourself in the scottish
highlands looking at a waterfall, for example
the above is an uninterrupted waterfall,
and then gaze into the void of a sea not too far away...
and looking at that sea, you can see the most
perfect interruption...
    the romance died when science explained
the mystery of hearing the sea in a seashell deep inland...
there should be taboo subjects, taboo topics that
are better explained by love,
not this omnipotent dissection method,
just saying...
   how philosophers will call it abstract
and a poet will call it metaphor...
   given that both are not equipped to the application
of any sort of reality, or dare i say a schism from
it, akin to calling the two approaches
a realism, or some quasi or pseudo sort.
i can call democracy for all its wants to be the most
perfect consolidation of man under the rule
of man, but then a tornado comes or a tsunami
and all of man's efforts to rule himself crumble
into disaster... and how rare to see it when
discussed in philosophical theory,
    democracy as an abstract, is also a metaphor,
ob-, prefix denoting away from:
and then the suffix -tract... well, i was thinking of
a road... the less trodden track...
        apparently it means an area...
                democracy as nothing but a cancerous growth,
it spreads to almost every cavity where people
are content with an alternative political establishment,
for they like the basis for the ***** that
made it to the egg and beat all the other ***** that
would otherwise make it into a tissue or into a ******...
thankfully metaphor, i.e.: something not literally
applicable has the potent of not being abstract,
abstract, i.e.: working from the heights of ideal
to the depths of an idea, that has to compete with
the many narratives that later allow the idea to resurface
as a lightbulb...
                    these two cruxes are very much akin,
philosophy says abstract! poetry says: metaphor.
keeping in mind, i took to poetry like a mozart to a piano,
i never actually intended to say these things,
i merely envisioned conducting a philharmonic orchestra
for deaf people...  oh sure, this wasn't supposed
to be a one-man show, a monologue,
i never intended to say these things...
i wrote these poems in mind of conducting an orchestra,
which is a useful method of creating an implosion,
which goes back to, that dread, the bing bang...
    ever hear a ******* bang in vacuum?
     i wrote these "poems" so that someone who sounds
like a violin might play the violin parts,
someone that sounds like a clarinet might play
the clarinet parts... and if sound has a colour,
it would be a ****** colour when encoded for the eyes to see,
akin to something being monochromatic,
therefore this mono-nausea...
  i write the same encoded sounds for someone
playing either violin, piano, clarinet or harp...
  let's also add in sax...
           but that couldn't make it onto the orchestral palette...
what a bollocking, either 4 beers and
the expected weak bladder or constipation...
it was never to be a soloist performance,
which is why it imploded,
      why or precisely how i was not writing this
for myself, for myself to speak these words...
  tad too empathetic concerning what's universally
human, i.e. a condition of some sort?
which is how i react when one of my favourite
columns from the journalistic columns gets the schtick...
and is out-grown...
               out-dated, who would have thought that
a dating column could allow two lonely hearts so much
space to later pull them apart...
     neither cosmo nor dolly have made it
     to a love brick, that sits firm at the base of the pyramid...
which is sad how the dating scene will go on,
and they will go on, dating...
monday shuffle, tuesday shuffle, wednesday shuffle
(catch the pop ref. point to a song, we all boogie
down with the groovy kids once in a while,
basically a music video that was actually a advert
for some sort of liquid, root beer? ginger beer?
i know, i know: i scratch your back, you scratch mine).

i might call this: what happens with interludes,
or quiet simply: interludes.

i was never into writing something akin to an Ikea
manual of putting up a cupboard,
Ikea has probably the best library for self-help,
a, b, c, d, e... a few screws, a few wooden bits,
and something resembling corkscrew...
the only self-help there is, i.e. put a cupboard together,
by yourself. is there any other self-help manual
that can beat the Ikea manuals? i don't think so.

and how happy can a man be, having lost
the ability to drink perfumes (i.e. whiskey) and turn to
miss стандарт, with such jovial missing or
never had expectations?
   i guess, quiet easily, it's there, a bottle,
with a little story on the label,
   once upon a time (in 1894 to be exact),
  dmitry mendeleev received a decree (do it
or i **** you, harasho?) from the tsar...
to create the imperial standard (i.e. triple filter,
akin to the imperial standard of measuring
in inches rather than in millimetres,
the French, who apparently took forever to create
the concept of 0 from O... eat a doughnut,
much easier)...
   and i never thought i'd say that ***** is more
appealing to my natural ingestion of
Dionysus' blood...
     the more i think of it, i do think that writing
can become akin to painting,
it just doesn't have to be rigid, scientific,
order-prone... it can reach the levels of chaos as
easily as it can become dull and a shopping list...
   many people can't see writing as painting
in the same way that language has many more
function of applicable needs in other profession...
read a poem to a surgeon during an operation,
he needs language as rigid as a mountain
that said: no avalanches are bound to me!
     the reason why novels take years to complete
is the over-rule of science in the humanities,
i don't understand why poetry has to be bred for a
scientific pragmatism, that it apparently does work,
akin to soap, or bleach...
          science can poke it's crazy head in every direction
it wants, usually the interchange of words:
                 bang ******* hole (b.b.b.b.) /
   howlin' wolf's backdoor man / **** -
but science has become a dog, barking up the wrong tree...
the money's are down... houston, we have a [problem!
they're down... they're walking upright,
they lost the joys of having a tail and swinging from
tree to tree, and if an abstract parasite akin to cancer
doesn't **** them... your argument will surely be the one
thing that will... eventually.
    
and i did mention runes, didn't i?
   well... if writing can be anything like painting,
it can only ingest ******* as foundation,
  no shapes, no cubism, no definite "things"
(for lack of a better name)...
        just spontaneity... and hazard, and chaos...
just like life evidently seems to be bound to
reveal itself as guarding against nothing...
well... i appreciate the runes...
not in an ****-Satanic cult sort of status,
i just appreciate them because the Slavs didn't leave
any original phonetic code...
     which is why Poland is still so ****** catholic,
minus the Pope? add the proper post-script to communism?
it might have been the next Russia with its oligrachs,
minus the gas pipes and all those resources
people boast about, but who weren't originally
bound to inherit, like Arabs and oil...
   you need practical nations using the resource,
western nations, overly-bureucratic nations that
make a man "do a job" licking envelopes and shooting
ink into fountain pens...
         just saying...
hard to be lazy, hard to be mystic, harder still being
a monk... wait and see how these peeps talk when
they retire... it's hard being lazy, "lazy"...
        now i see heidegger's concept of dasein
as the real problem of happening, how things necessarily
and subsequently, unnecessarily happen...
then i look the alien remnants of nomadic tribes of
the Amazon and realise: they're still here,
but nothing's happened.
or that's how i take a break from that german's ponderings,
and loosen into some sort of stroll...
       just about the right time,
when poetry stops talking about sounds,
and takes to complicating modern painting,
akin to working on complicating a square,
  the most famous to be worth complicating (rather
than contemplating) would be piet Mondrian...
   if you ever find the spare time:
i'll be in the space that tries to revive the runes
under no ******* ᛋᛋ...
to be honest, i'd like to refine several runes...
given that the non-diacritical latin is largely lost to
the virtual world...
what runes would i refine?
   ᚲ (k / c) at least make it larger, like <,
ᛃ (j), i'd probably just call is skew, i.e. /,
ᛝ would remain and ᛜ would be lost
to denote the grapheme ŋ (i.e. njae) -
and that's because i'm either itchy, or stitching up
a carpenter's worth of lack of cruve,
   like the arabic alphabet is curved twice-over
and the woman are clad in shadow and ninja and niqab...
just like runes once were, hiding curves,
or at least the men overly defensive of their woman...
once the latin curves were introduced...
well: there came the mini-skirt, and the mini-couper car.

who needs a big bang origin, when you can have all
of this? if i kept that much dynamite in my head
i'd be seen wearing hawaiian shirts short-sleaves
and drooling over porridge at breakfast...
        and my... when was it such a sin to drink
***** and listen to the blues?

try gathering up the marbles with akua naru's the journey aflame, heidegger's ponderings ii - vi, and the sight of lost virginity in trees or at least their mortality to blossom reduced to skeleton... or lungs' alveoli.

there's an acute difference between hip-hop and rap...
hip-hop has the decency to acknowledge the sax...
sure the beat of rap is there: on-and-off,
but hip-hop has the table manners to spin
out a continuum from jazz, it has Darwinistic traits
to engage in a continuum...
rap is like rock when starting off from
scratch and not from pauper blues...
do you want words like kid, yeah,
   and other belittling babushka doll
verbiage? this is me, raw,
          god, the plight of constantly stating
authenticity... art and plagiarism
and that constant need to avoid the latter,
much claimed, much too little deviated from,
even on the altar of pains
from hernia (in my unconscious,
as a baby i had that: intestines out bulging),
acne beyond my teenage years: newspapers
say that it's dying out...
            my mother faked falling down
the stairs today...
               it's called bypassing the n.h.s. queue
off the medical bureaucrat that's the general
practitioner who chicken scratches prescription
and as all medical professionals: has
hands worthy of a butcher's, the only thing tangible
to the eyes as to the ear is the signature,
and that's everyone's Picasso moment.
         hip-hop? i can do drive-by shooting with
that ****, talk ******, talk:
      right now i'm surfing on concrete.
wait... orcs... what's female with that vinyl?
        niggerette? sure, Solomon swine talk
with Sheba from Ethiopia or wherever she was from.
  and the *german said that cultural politics is
the last remembered barbarism...
           some learn english and turn to identity pride
as if they didn't come out of an ant's exoskeleton
stating the menu: all mushy cushiony inside, boyo.
   2011 and we're still ******* that torpedo
that's the chainsaw crazy bulletin of: haircuts you
shouldn't endorse.
            so she faked it, ****, we all know that women
always began lying and men told too many truths,
at least women got a monopoly on what's to come
in d.n.a. tattoos... men ******* into science rather
than fatherhood... gamble here, gamble there...
      this paramedic didn't look the part,
esp. when he started talking, he wanted to shed off
his official attire of paramedic green...
   my mother? the lowercase blood pressure too
high from acting,
                            i don't bother about mine,
i'm drinking while she's in the hospital wanting a
c.t.i. scan... selfish or selfless? i have no antidote
for death's dynamic this afternoon,
   i just wish i was given the precursor insight into
all of this fake... wait... that's really personal...
anyway, this paramedic really hid his inner,
he bred parrots prior to... bombshell: breeding
snakes... pythons 5ft long, 400 or so in his aquariums...
i don't know where exaggerations begin or end,
but i asked him: poor eyesight, snakes.
yep, he taught his serpents to gulp up dead rats,
apparently 25K a year...
apparently snouting out of the shell doesn't
equal pecking out of it... t-rex in the sky
flying high... plop... out comes a ****** for lizard
and mr. birdie...
                    that's one way to appreciate lacks
to what's mammalian and tapeworm,
   hence that desire in woman to 'take this **** out of me!
take this **** out of me!' i understand the panic
                (Prometheus movie style),
    out comes a lizard in an egg, out comes a crow
out from an egg, and here we are, stomach-to-stomach
connect: needless to say, after 9 months parasitically born:
i can understand the panic, it's like being *****
for 9 months and eating strange combinations of foods:
doughnuts and cucumbers...
           i really don't understand this religious
implant that there's a person behind a forming-foetus
when there's still the diaper to come,
the weak bladder and the weak **** not yet formed,
the baby teeth to fall out... all of these physical
foundations and only then, the thought,
     and then after many more years and exposure
to democracy: a debate concerning a soul...
           and of course your interaction with the ****
thing to mould the insides...
             well, that's one side of the tale...
we all know that the other if filled with
conformity, pleasantries and babyshowers: what's
the great mystery there?
   ****... all i wanted to say is that birds are neo-lizards,
where the foetus and the ****** plop out
       from the female, and all that's left to do is sit
on an armchair and **** into it...
                    even i concede the point about
things being too stressful and too weird...
               but that's also about finding your cool...
               and thankfully... akua naru's album is as good
as it had to be... thankfully i can apply the rule-of-thumb
usually reserved for prog-rock albums...
that's an hour of my attention ****, gone,
   the better part of a magic trick entrapped in realism...
hardly that thing we know today: 3 minutes snap!
    3 minutes snap!      breaking points for the top 40
chart successes... i count listening to an entire album
a success primo:
   (concerning my mother? something happened prior,
it was as authentic as was required to get past
n.h.s. bureaucracy) -
            people get so panicky these days,
and not a single islamic extremist in sight...
odd: i take it that mortality is worth being considered
a boiled egg being juggled among hot coal...
   well, hip-hop isn't rap for the sole reason: jazzmatazz.

Thousand years ago, the world somewhere began
an escape, a thousand years later still trying to get to the end, but my body becomes a decorative piece, becomes of a number one digital romano ... that turns into flames cinch and dressing this base disencounter ; that is my physical, on an all, regardless of who will manage and the rule ... "

... I find it hard to breathe ... i do not know if i can continue what i have proposed ....
there is so much to say. i never wanted to write about it. and now i am here, changing the paper by words.
   better...... so nobody will remember anything, thanks to the evanescence. I have nothing to leave, no one for whom to stay here. i just hope to leave my soul in peace ...
   ... tonight i die.

**** dreamer who i am! i never got anywhere by myself. i never got to be what it was if it had not been for someone else.
   my days, my whole life governed by feelings ... they left me?
  
Inserts 1 - full moon in three shooting lights threshold pierced window shades sea view. there were three golden stingrays. they went to his room versailles, with some electricity that flowed from their bodies corps plans were roots electro-magnetic. upon entering threshold, their bodies pressed proportion to the input capability, but yes, each tidily came one after other. snipf believed to be asleep yet, but ***** it finding that was very real., many thought to pray, the saint who heard his confession had derived dimensional elsewhere.

Each stood before him. they looked with your eyes ldeep blue, relighted one in your iris reddish tint. your long antennas your heads caressed her room like recognizing them. snifp raised his arms as if embracing them, but put them over his head like imitating them, so began to turn, as if he were at the bottom of the ocean. this way, began to rowing with his arms in the room. the four members looked at each other, until snifp stood in between them, restarting your memories and confession to your new species of visitors. - no doubt their gods were they who visited because they were the ones that helped him in difficult and conflicting tasks. they must be highlighted; no le imposed a religiousness, only you your matches proposed delayed stages,

Four together, sit finally, focus on one thought as he took him to snipf arm for lease gate reality. aso these blankets emit a high-pitched noise that made snipf his new travelers to dream where would be the master sea and land beside them.

Romanticism is only rain emotions between winter skies sweetened; it is the cessation of rain from storms deaf. those deaf people who never believed in sentiment. Perhaps they have died without discovering it, and so poor and eager to continue living. instead i say goodbye to my land, my things, my memories. i'm so overjoyed without missing anything because what i miss is dead.

Insert 2 - feel distant sounds thunders and lightnings - some cats stumbled after feeling loud noise.

   I was born in 1832, dressed in beautiful costumes me, but i was on saturday mornings bathe with my blankets friends, all that leave very soon because every day stuttered more, and i found it hard to beat in my talk. They moved me with all my belongings to higher school, even only place to hear the bells of the cathedral, filled me with hearing loss and mortuary pain inside me was a place that then fled, over time i graduated from journalist, without anyone in my family believed in me. they never could understand my lack of realism. some call me naive, not without reason, i must admit.

   It's curious. whatever it is that one wants in life, always have obstacles from the people closest. from them comes the pain of misunderstanding and apathy. of them come from the larger wounds heals any ointment. Until i met a fisherman near a marina rivera long in a bar, then he told me his adventures and i became the eager boy children's stories. that night made me drink and drink until you drop at the side of a fishing terminal on the deck of a great ship.

Insert 3 - sleep - my in between growth stingrays, they were flying at night over my house, and sometimes brought me messages about the new season climate. interrupted my homework prepared, and most important, including, the most important; me included among the best, to sail with them. some among their ranks, me and took me taught to fly, although i always kept my body cold, completely oblivious to provide me own will enough heat. they gave me when stuttered or epileptic seizures, they did me your riding world where no disturbance physics i was afraid. But my blankets, me covering, me had in his pilgrimages slitting sea, sea to own and only, just for me. noises in them moderated my ears oversensitive, and for the first time vi from the sea depth rain fell as planting the ocean, as vast brightening the room he shared alongside them.

Insert end -

my life was empty without a firm helm, but ... god!
   she was several years younger than me. a beautiful creature in sight and confined to good feelings. i met a rainy night. she was with hat, with umbrella. we were heading to the same place where there was no one, because the activity had been suspended. after waiting and exchanging timid and nervous words we decided that we would be together forever.

   I do not mean it was love at first sight. rather, it was like finding my soul mate. and although we knew that the road would be hard and painful, we launched into a destination built by us and our struggles.

it's beautiful outside, with the moon through the trees can they see me sitting here or your mind round inside me?
   All of me are gone, even the children we never had. they left me in the cold. she will not sit in front of my fire more, because now she is snow.
    Is dark outside, trees writhe can they wait or live without me?
   but his fingerprints are still marked, marked in the snow left in me. everything is so white that hides the traces of tears that you never saw. everything is a blanket of snow falling on the memories you used to have. But even heart aches as before, i can not help feeling that someday come back from the dead to take your hand.
  
it's warm outside; the trees are gone. my soul took another turn. he never appeared someone like her. if your fingerprints are still, and i can see them in the snow! Everything is so white that covers the trails that she was not allowed to continue. everything is nothing, that clouds the movements that made me.
   But my heart is still suffering as he did. you followed the path that never again will bring.

I am confined to my bed in a dark room. i have a window overlooking the sea from the east, and another that puts me in front of the forest. i left on my bed a wooden box with yellowed leaves are the letters we sent her and i for so many years. yet i keep them all ... no, it's not true, many were lost in the fire flash - she will walk through the park until a curtain falls separating both. - pauses then your thinking and strongly bites pencil in her mouth was.

But no matter, i have the words engraved in my memory. and that will continue.The branches of the tree, which adjoins east window of small ones are ways to my walking, like war heroes. further, on stretchers, bring my faithful subjects in about trust management mi. but to raise my head like a big diving, they come see some maimed, come without it, come without his presence, bring only pieces of his body.
    
Our whole life, a very short time we were together, and not that we would not be, but there was always something that separated us. first the family, then the distance. We were separated and had to go in your search. at that time i was studying and trips were long, tedious and very damaging to my career, by the way, my family did not look favorably upon our union, rather than being recognized by men had communed in the sky ...
  
How i detest this ancient time! it is not day nor night, and i am not a man more educated to think more than this ... i hate to see the sun when i pray to the west, but someday she will take my dreams where the stars shine, where all they talk with their hands, without anguish nor grief, where all secretly want to go where the beauty sing constantly.

[ellipsis n 1]  

Adulthood - in the municipal choir - snifp came with his briefcase wondering if had kept all their material header, then trying to put his hand to pocket inner his coat, pulls out a key, this will be falling from his hands, and could realize there was a leaf on the floor, announcing a performance coral group in the premises of the municipality.
[end ellipsis 1]

[ellipsis 2]

Children age - in the conservatory - this brings another memory your memory with air fire, a dense air, movement of people, unable to help each other. it was toward the end of his second childhood, with his mother ran near a school where she thought enroll for classes theater.  mourn strongly but his mother, asking what was wrong? she said nothing for you not to worry. small but was snifp intuited by the uncertainty of their economic resources. he hugs her and says he has talent, that will come after all. snifp for a moment lets his mother and a photo seen in someone like his father, leaving the building and walks cobblestones wetted by the ***** of a vil exploited horse, and suddenly caresses their hands caress end the cabinet of the lord of the book store. and see i was like his father, but this time had the pipe on the left hand and lenses in the right hand. then, scare away horse and scared snifp trying to crossing the street leading the news to his mother. Her, i had signed up for next season.

[end ellipsis 2]  

After his assistant will take a reactant concoction snipf felt memories of those rejuvenated, making faces on the wall of his room. some of them were very funny and some not. but suddenly crossing the fingers tightening strongly and fix your clothes. buckle his belt. to sing is arranged, to shout and satiated to see if it really true the spirit that motivated him aires to be acquired new life. gets, fell knee, runs open window. try to touch everything with his hands, then kick chair to sit down and write. for each paragraph writing was setting and take off  lenses. for every paragraph, she took a sip of boiling concoction that was with him at that time

   Many of these letters were written thought in poetry. some might object letters "form", but the content, our feelings ... they can not be judged by anyone. I can not symbolize things. for me a bottle is a bottle. i need to reach a level of abstraction, because i recognize that everything beautiful i've seen i remember; because i know that to forget, everything will fly in the wind. so i can not symbolize anything. on the other hand, i know that everything that meant something to me, i could never do completely reach your heart. i hope to be wrong.
- get your consultant with tray in his hands unite.
snipf lord, your medicine. remember that leave this excerpt stingray than recommended by your doctor. You and your advisor and the look before opening the door thinking it would the last time i'd see him, then snipf recommences his speech ._
... i consider myself a failure fledged. some of those past failures are transmuted into fertilizers for ephemeral successes, lost in the sound of the wind beneath me accommodating my feet to tie them to my chair inquisitor.  TO  BE CONTINUED

Still more, in words

In experience

Confusing Familiarity with Comfort

Confusing Comfort with Peace

Reifying confusion, but not successfully

Yielding, on my knees, heart to the sky

Forgetting

Seeing through, a single pinhole in a perfectly realistic backdrop

Pinholes everywhere, more than can be contained

Not containing

Torn all over

Dispelling everything

Stripping away the Stripping away

Trying to stand very still and very quite so I can feel, hear, sense

Perfect realism

Wanting to be convinced by rage

Agitation, but only conceptual

Feeling tight

Feeling rehearsed

Feeling like an imposter

Wanting to impress

Wanting to be convinced of Self, of Realness

Fortified by others knowing, or preferably- admiration

Like being constructed out of sets of other peoples' eyes

Like being made real by propagating in more minds, many more minds, specific minds. In countless beating and virtual hearts, likes, thumbs up

Not wanting to be forgotten, while alive, while dead

Taxed by maintenance and constant imminent collapse

Compassion, like collapsing into a safe lap

Relinquishing

No pretense

Bare being

More naked than when unclothed

Total exposure

Outed, in the light of knowing

Self forgetting and glimpses of freedom

Trusting sighing

Always loving Sad, not despondent, just sad

Feeling continuous

Feeling fragmented

Feeling like motion, like flow

Feeling like thousands of still frames, constant flickering

Grasping at impermanence, visceral

Resting in the middle

Dancing down the tightrope

Knowing perfect poise, brief equilibrium

Reifying stability. Gone.

Everything is hysterically funny

Hysterically

But also, sometimes, just plain humorous

And absurd

Crying

Loving people

Grateful for people

Seeing beauty everywhere

Encountering this, intimate, me, indistinguishable being, but everywhere

Ouch

Awareness

Always coming back

Like an epic

Like a great love story

Like the last wring of that silk dress you weren't supposed to squeeze dry

Feeling like I shouldn't know what I know, like I couldn't. This must be illegal, cosmically illegal

Knowing the inside of my hand

Knowing teenage shame

Knowing being yelled at, towered over, by my dad, in a narrow hallway, eyes glued to speckled floor tiles, feeling small

Loving with my body, with my hands, with my mouth, with my whole entire strong softness

Loving with understanding

Loving with teeth and nails

Music, lacerating

Crying with tears, and snot, and heaving

Becoming one single, concentrated point

Wanting to envelope everything. Really. Actually. Like physically with my body.

Knowing I am not this voice

Or this writer

Or this narrator

Though I am also all that

I don't care
to cut my hair.
Realism is important
on Halloween.
I may be bald,
but ******,
I'll still be ****.
With my visor,
shades,
smoke holder,
Hawaiian shirt,
and khaki shorts.
Everything will be just
GONZO.

Sickly sweet; so nauseatingly gross:
Overly sappy idealism.
I call it saccharine, Splenda, Sucralose,
Though some call it "sentimentalism".
What's in a name? That which we call naive?
Rose-colored glasses by any other name would still be fake sweet.
I believe there is no dignity in dogmatism,
Nor valor in virginity; call me a believer in realism,
Or call me a cynic--whichever you prefer.
Does childlike innocent crust and sugar over, like a dream deferred?
The bitterness and sharpness of life's lemons,
Can't be sweetened by a sugarcoating.
And aspartame and nostalgia
Can't help you swallow your pride.

Septuagint prince scribing on scrivello detail
Emerges from the frogmarch grave of revenants sheepish about ghoulish masquerade
The tribes whittle puckered shibboleths and charismatic vengeance evades
The henpeck of roosters harmonizing sand into grassy knolls of carapace cathedral light
Walks beyond the whimsical despair the conniving conservatories of manufactured fright
Spurned by smokestack confusion above a plastered reconnaissance of abundant life flocking between small awakenings curtailed by fulgurant swelters of blistering white
The spectral dance assumes primordial shades to dampen the windowed elegance of betrayal complicit in the haze
Mojo’s rise and fall with moonshot decades flashing intimacy lived twice barking like a squelched gyrovague relishing the kantikoys of burlesque night
And yet among the bemused stars unbuttoned by the prolixity of the Russia ruse the smear indelible flaunts with decadence in the pleonasm of sluggish articles of flight
How long must the messianic age shelter the nebbich halls of crambazzled piety in science to an upbringing of oligochrome
How many dastardly wernaggles of the rusticated elitism flomp with desultory banquets reminiscent of boiling Rome
Incinerated in an ageless day revived only after a historic lapse of barbarity in the ferule exacted such immeasurable despair
That the prejudice of pride is forever shelved as redundant because the filigrees of geometry only permit curvature in flatness
Convex movements captured in still-framed pillories refract nothing but Blazing Saddles of a caricature full-bloom sun
Yet we marvel at storybook ghosts and the isangelous carapace of marauding instincts forever brave and encaged
Erratic by delivery but sciamachy knows no identifiable age
Scrawny fossarians dig entrenched charnels voraginous with skeletons of brackish regelation enthused by immemorial decay
Must we abridge a hearty ocean in a month’s sublime regaled design of trespasses of unsung heyday spaying its weakest defrocked knight
Armed to the Teeth we seek the terminus of apocalyptic capsules destined for gluttons braving annihilation in the vacuum of orbital planes plain only to the ken of the keenest sight
No we make no petitions in prayer for this Soft Parade of vigor verging on flair
We ransack littoral virtues in nexility bronzed with Stayin’ Alive shoes in remission of staircase blight
Beamish in beatitudes of milquetoast pregnancies of salted Matzah brimming in the yeasts of cesspool emergent from scarecrow metaphors flagrant hauteur gliding on air
Witness the spearhead of revolution in the metagnomy of oracular aubades to future brimstone caverns
Lurking like counterstrokes in revision blackguarded by the feisty prowl of outpaced labtebricole whipsaws of timber readied into foisted brown-brick comestion of elegant emerald errors
Dancing with galactic improvidence concealed by the rigor of lurched liars enthroned with prerogatives of stain-glass adumbration
We parcel up parsecs because clairvoyance among titans is a swank in need of 20/08 visions spectral in the clouds of all prominent registries of memory
Lost to faint delicacies of swift serpents outlasting gnats in the tabernacles of ribald ecbolic promontories on the verge of futile tomorrow pastimes spinsters flummox with slimmerback rigmarole flanged by whinks and escorted by the maskirovka of positive bears in absolute value alone
Yet Enola Gay found its destruction profitable to hominist lore enough to attenuate its evaporation of suffrage in the glint of pervasive remedies to stranded gore
Embanked on the sidelines of conquistador flaunts that a Titanic missive of classy regard found the damsel at the steerage slipping on zalkengur irony the anticlimax of lore
Traipsing fellowship of many a ring is a phony artifice for an ostentation that bellows so loudly when isolated perjury must not whimper but sing
The loudest plaudits afforded to a parallax incumbent white horse in the shadow of Dark Horse occultism a barbed flying wing of the West becoming the king of behest
Scurrilous are many jeers because their similes are baseline just as much as the storged conglomerate behind ensnared rapture looming with less ecstasy and blunt fear remains the kilmarge of simple foresight wrinkled behind the sum of many tears
We await our Creator’s Throne insuperable even with the blandishment of piecemeal craters that are superlative bolides of the weirdest attenuated into the spectrum of eldritch weird
Yet the riches of hobohemia found in “invisible lockets” worn by the travesty of jerseys measuring up to Roadhouse beer
The cartels of citadel cascades built on mountebank fortunes reaped from venal psephology collectively embody the unconscious gamut of javelin cloaks of sardonic sneer
Threnodies written long ago in the Hidden Tracks of sophistry welcome the intermissions of antiquity abridging the donnybrooks of charlatans bossed around by facetious gibes of manicured belletrist humid enough that evaporation itself of rarefied tabacosis has few if any peers
Yet the peerless sketch thrombosis in the oxygeusia of deceptive schadenfreude only to topple jengadangles that glabrous gravity muscles to barely if it all steer
In a vacant reality eager for surrealist bounty the sidereal question of moribund placards supplanted by vibrant living semaphores fixates upon figments of acatalepsy rather than ruddy enumerations of partition despite beloved chalky rudiments filibustering with courtesy rather than jeer
Amicable are ravenous betrayals for chieftains cloffined by warm sapwood integral to equated tantamount mountains festooning firmaments in quaffed delights rigid and keen
The most welcomed blasphemy fragrant with jejune originality celluloid enamors splenetic with sprees of perishable profanity lurking ever more obscene
Regaled in the modest jostle is the forsifamiliation of heterodyne dins of honest applause from the blackguarded periphery among which there are no visible beacons no visible stars
Scarred by diacope enumerated in prescient revelry the trollops of tune and attunement magnetize a riveting weld of seamless geometry that is permeable to ineffable lychgates both porous with prowess and ajar against a golfer’s remediable par
Wizened ghosts flirt with tucked bushes in the forlorn deserts jolted by oasis and flagrant with confection torn asunder by wide-eyed gallantry skipping stones on ataraxia from a distraught afar
That lake of goldmines is scattershot with limey limelight squandered on profligate wrikponds of propinquity but not prolixity in scores and bounties of exoticism in glaikery’s fugitive charm
In proximity there is usucaption but the usufruct of sustainable obelisks to liberty must have the forbearance to bear many witnessed eyes to the Right to Bear Arms
Skirmishes of benighted fracking obsolescence ragged with vitriol and poison-ivy nostalgia flaunt the bromides of algedonic flash over consequences that many disregard
Spiraling with vertiginous pain the scowl of obligation is both seamstress of emblazoned effronteries and the proper reflection of seasoned but not seasonable garb
This barbed quandary riddled with rapacious tendency mixed with myopic bonhomie devours a rickety cacophony of diminutive scopes of ******’s glare to prove each atomic indivisible atrocity a carbonated fulmination heavily barbed
This is all why the killjoys monopolize their gangster vices behind tinted windows and chockablock morality are uxorious bridewells for the bridgewater of garbology sketched by vanity in the outrecuidance of gallionic chasms of an absolute value of firebrand regard
No difference does it make if the recoil is whimpered by hordes of sheep in pretenses of authenticity or whether decapitated delopes emerge from visagist dacoitage snuffed like flavors orbiting self-injury by clockwork towers apace to outlast tertiary bribes for secondary bards
The atocia of freckles in recognition of frail pinnacles summited by daily alpine dilettantist dualisms of polarity are a gullywasher to cleanse and launder indelible regrets carved by aboriginal pottery to memorialize primordial penury
As the slick oleaginous tilts of wicked smart Northeasters swarm the hindsight of Southern Weather afflicted by tempests beleaguered first on recapitulations of Calvary and then deposited evidence upon bourgeoisie
Fumes of the modest flambeaus torching sunken apostasies of hungry spasms of the wind meeting the brusque celerity of the ribald waves rarely etch sublime hint in etch-a-sketch lapses of untimely mobility
Instead that perspicacity of conservatory silence bludgeons Lisbon in the fright before the fall of so many a Phoenix in a foreign land can bear the assaults of the heaved seas
Lambent upon a craggy regularity extinguished by sentinels of the tattered womb for a grimace of prestige by primipara seduction we find no justice of known and knowable terminal disease
Figurative in spoken wisps that predate evaporated concepts of precipitous time the triumph of exalted adoration belongs to hubris but vacant of the prideful decline of crime
To each outspoken verve witnessed on sublunary turf the absolution is nearer to fertility than the craggy soil is to dirt as blemished prowess is a furlough to the sensitive pink tucked manifold beneath each authentic skirt
Liberated by ophelimity but flexed by vicarious pomp in serenade only of hauteur for the hottest we slice and dice a cavern of temptations regardless of enumerated patterns of clearly lopsided dice
We think we live and die but You Only Live Twice in ******* to the oriental bolides of meteoric meteorology preeminent in governing plantations of rice
In jubilant proclamation, I graft from venereal skin a renewed girth of purpose that all enchanted fantasia is a birthright of pleasure more than a vapid drawl of purpose
Glitter bores the scintillation of a denuded naked glory of gore because intimacy is antecedent and consequent to immovable revolutionary procreation of service
To conclude this homily the apothecary in persiflage renounces the role of kilns in both poverty and pottery because his shaken dreams are yelps of a disgusted ornery camaraderie
Listless by oracular dreams of titanic parvenus immune to the sway of tentative croons of Suburban Muse because the grisly subversion of vetust honor that honors not verdict but version of ghastly spools of flimsy epitaphs and not the paragon surgeon is the downfall of a diatribe of petty men
Littering their taradiddles on owleries in overclocked jaundice drowning for purpose among hatcheries of the privvy roosters that own the consequence of audacious pens
Dodgy in interrogation, flummoxed with deracination, isolated by time for time’s recapitulation of surrender in katzenjammer vibes it is time for gossamer servant surfers to borrow nine and hang ten
But the noose of the wednongue nun specializes in puritanical Model Ts for DeLoreans trendsetting years ago because listless lethargy benights the glory that cineastes already won
Teeming on the brink of tomorrow is the progeny of hopeless yesteryear engraved on the iconoclasm of the weak after the next debacle because the Earth after Christ has already borne a Ton
Liturgies revised to reflect corsair trigonometry aimed forever at zephyrs of plight bathe in July 3rd infamy doctored by Generators and Generations before and beyond Walter White menacing the saber with imperious might
Flowered in the nuisance of death is the womb of the arena participant to infinite relapses of contention gladiatorial only when the shunamitism of shanachies sheds serpentine grit for the blench of ligonies of redoubled sight
Towering from the knave inferno of a tramontane elusive cordial imitation of captive citizens of attentive sites the illusion is the vanguard of centuries guarded gingerly by Canada Dry sprites
Rollicking in vehement magpiety attuned to machismo if marginally the sultry philander of naked ruse medicates the charmed Apache Indian on his brief encounters with limousine cruise
Stark in sunken destination glimpsing coal-fire recursive ironies the cloned subversion is a golden calf so effete because it never moos about instinctual muse relegated by twin terrors riddled with sparkplug truce
Limited by scopes enlarged by scales mired in funereal pyres to rigmarole sensationalism worthy of nativist coercion and pivoted lyres the riddle of terminus remains an acquiescent scoff, cough and quaff that never expires
It reaches planetary dread of vast distances regaled against gambits of the spread so the richest sourdough appeases the riper vipers of the nested bed
Recalcitrant with frugal uxorious creed the leader of esquivalience is the headless horseman of innumerable tractions but no mouth to feed
He digests the gallop of the gallant interregnum specious in caitiff ploys and the recessive allele of commiserations against the piety of apolaustic joy because rambunctious speed always attracts a resignation professed from the tailspin of a crass voyage of ludic greed
Tricksters boast of passionate lubrications of finessed bread recocted from useless toasts glowering with insipid pallor as heat and humidity reckon billows of hype congregated more in cisterns of apostasy for remark than a marksman headshot of a Head Hunter wed tightly to a pregnable visions of proactive Ghost
Recidivism and time have a vendetta against verdant drolleries coated by waxen plenilune accordions rampant with polyacoustic rhymes
The tridents of mercurial weather bent on the ineffable vacillations of whether are the brazen opponent of Sterling fatherhood of life’s only father the clockwork animation of a living patronage of eternal existence cobbled from immutable time
To the glory of the Father the sun shades its whimpers and the moon alights as the frontispiece of nocturnal revisions to the New York Times but the hues of rocketed ingenuity coax the ingratiated few to the laureates of genius reckoned with both designation and superlative artifacts of pristine design
Haunted by Green-Light Politics for Greener-Eyed Ladies masquerading in star-crossed tomes of existential dread of lollygagged playful mischief tucked in the coach as he leads his team with sophrosyne feel-good invictive treacle we witness the fumiducts of fortune blitzing Hail Mary contrition with earnest specialty in defense of offensive precision
Games won by the squirrel are outnumbered by the stars in the heavens flagrantly devoid of specialized electricity enough to encapsulate the ommateum of collectivized insights found only in the most evolved sequence of cell division
Incarcerated by the scrappy schlep of bad beats and bronzed chariots roiled by the momentum of angular spears we seek oracular transcendence that cements decades into the span of days that portend the deliverance of future years from past and present fears
Presiding as proctor in the redacted exoneration of crash-course pilots glowering with the effluvium of recensed perdition the heyday of one becomes the mayday of anarchy tested only by the alacrity of the summation of its beloved yet maligned cheers
Against a prosperity hard-won by earnest husbandry commandeered by gammerstang notoriety spawning the recrimination of star power into centupled peers negligent of zero-sum opinionation wagered by Country Club fraternities embedded in the taxonomy of wilted hackumber for hegiras minimized by outcry but cemented by Dear Johns’ twinged with sultry pleonexia in taxed tears
So with the whipsaw of the individual between the collective funnel and the idiosyncratic insubordination that amplifies outcry galvanized throes of insemination built on cross-pollination is melliferous to a pretense of alchemy outstretched to sidereal wonder
Hardest to guess is intimacy clothed in Platonic virtues crumbling because puritanical pilgrimage is appraised as a joyous thunder for a abnegation from all potential blunders
To wager such a life is a depredation of the abundance that John breathes as a ceremonial birthright cast aside by latent regrets stampeding the realm of nosocomial reflections of the pallor of a lurid squander
So we are left to bemuse the decrepit bodewash of realism taken to such a virulent extreme it leaves few artifacts of nostalgia to croon about and ponder and fewer abstractions to yield to manicures of elegant troponder
Diminutive sinews in the intertesselations of heft profess a fidelity of notoriety carving life before and after death
Unsung by the beadledom of the usucaption of exotic tailored musician brutes upon my landlocked assault of chryselephantine usufruct I lampoon nescience as it lurks in murky graveyards of anoegenetic zombies covered in thick pigments of piggish soot
Yet this fuliginous bronteum of warped clarity transfixed by the ulterior wednongues of atrocious spans of provenance jilting providence makes betting interests of rivalry outcomes harder to win earnest roots
The trees of the gamboled skittish resignation of checkered blinks obscuring the curtailed discernment of bedizened slogans of future campaigns yet distasteful in ornery churning the bootstrapped tie their tethered laces to their acquired boots
Barnstorming through afflicted spandrels of abeyance shepherded by notions of public dereliction by imperium of centrobaric centripetal philters of concubine rhymes I surge beneath cordial flonky redhibition because of redshorts in estimable traction cemented by supernal design
Weak in luster my potent pollination for synergistic aplomb evades the fringe of corrugated affections mounted upon quixotic escapades of jockeyed statistics flourishing by reticence rather than frazzling the prolix emulation filibustering the mundane ignorance but garnering the harvest of the plevisable sequence from prime to prime indivisible by liberty alone or complicit with cadence sublime
Finishing the sermons of modern apostasy to a gallant cause my laments outnumber the muzzles belonging to the quorum of begrudged applause in the rawest spectacle of unheralded genius clawing insistently at the heart of electric gravity
The nuances of plausible nuisance bicker in emerald harlots of the tantamount nature of derelict frikmag to calculated prosodemic solidarity around insanity because the vein of the golden ore should see ivoride as nullification and inanity
We all stoop on counterfeit stencils of pretense hearkening a clairvoyant sun to droop for closer inspection but detective remonstrance is outmoded by dreary witless defections
Thus the drawl scrawled by the genius flonky in gadzookerie but gilded in rhapsodies of ineffable cadence fighting orthodoxy to a relegated draw sketches the outline of the special talents of lying claws
Because stipulated in the vast oversight that predicates reprisals of retches glazing in obtuse effronteries with eccedentesiast odontoloxia we witness the corrosion of race and gender into pontificating audits of nomadic treason in a fortress militarized by niche applause
Trickling from repcrevel faucets implicit degradation is a casual casualty of an abbreviated motive gestured in ponderous stupidity to distract abiding legislation into the giggled gaggle of tinsellated glitter
Fatuous by vacuums of gaudy prizes worthy only of token motions rather than locomotive strains of virulent and compassionate respect lapsed on vigors of vehement regret is a sing-song ridicule of a still-framed pillory erected as the obstacle that gouges the riddles of impediment and deprives the luxury of preferential emolument siphoned off to lurid jeers of mockery propaganda sizzling in the cauldrons of tilted marginalization
So we witness the faded declension of the hubris of fair-weather camaraderie as a flux dispersal of invidious buoyant bloviated streaks of temporal grit into inverted revelry never shared by the proper ubiquity of streams of personal recompense for plodding fragments of invasion
If I veer away from bickering cackles of denounced preeminence swiveled to face the shadows upon the great cavern of insuperable bounds of fickle human ignorance I deplore the vaunted toadies that shrink my shadow and diminish my viable conceptual and vibrant footprints
Few extinct creatures know the annihilation of petty fame quaffed on Whiskey Bars I never met because the insipid banal pleonasms of restructured irony grimace at my complexion as the scent of the game alerts the foibles of a champion begotten once before as a shark-tank prince
Livid is my grief in the aborning moral quandary of sunken priority overlapping with piebald skeumorphs of retches of blinkered allegiance faltering prior to the primary day of my true awakening because the completion of nesiote subterfuge  rusts on creaky hinges of noncommittal regressions of pointed but pointless deluge
I spar with the augury of irrelevance with a five-pointed star bequeathing rigid but plentiful provision to assist with more than a petty dime of tithe to a 20/20 flash of perfect prescience and hallowed vision
The eve of all destruction is the lollygag of subordinate squawks redacting convenient priorities on the slowpoke walks through teenage immaturity found in the infamous “talk” that the world is governed by evasion in supremacy rather than by the bywords of the perennial stocks in sublime stalks
This nation perishes with my visionary clarity because the bifocal constraints of delimited defenestration remands my custody beneath ****** upheaval documented by useless historians of deliberation in gaffe and ammunition for agitprop flickering away the aubades of praise for the stilted pretense of sclerotic values inflexible to authorship thus scuttled by crowdsourced dictatorship
How sad a spate that the welters of sciamachy hide behind the glaring shadow of immeasurable genius for an unwarranted earwig to steal the echoes of my thunder and poison the servitude of the minions to companionship to highlight aggrieved infamy over walloping feats of refrain found in an isolated rather than protracted celebrity
The guilt of the reproachable beams through the frikmag of tyrannical bouts of circular wernaggle as I carve spherical reckoning that outstretches in all viable directions so that “The Mailman” and the Male Man both succeed in historic insurrection
Flashy benumbed brutish ferules of ferocious dainty dances with an arbitrary cage highlighted among a voiceless heyday for an auditorium which perceives insanity more dangerous than inanity is a profane stipulation by wrinkled mediagenic hubris which scours planetary limitations for excuse to recourse and recourse to excuse
We find marvels in subtlety finicky on the apothegms of heterochrony divergent even further from syndication as the regimented nuances of abuse become plucky daredevils that cozen robust vital sapwood from anglers seizing by seizure the roundabout logic of the innumerable minority characterized forever obtuse
I writhe in delicate contortions of flexed directional bypass surmounting orthodromic velocities capering with the anenometers that spar against spangled enthusiasm only to become an anointed slave of the flagging moral resolve fulminating a huffed crusade with silentiums of false asylum for true achievement brusque against any resourceful tempest scurrying the hidebound illusion of pandemonium for scrappy shenanigans of vergers and emptied pews griping with the dearth of the day-to-day despite the known tomorrow
We cannot affix primary focus upon constellated wasms of puckered abstention borrowed from a maskirovka of secret hedonism wed to many vices among wives but deprived of sacrosanct remuneration for abiding expenses yet an atoll upon a continent decisive in its aborning revolution
Ribald wiseacres of a jovial dismay flanged on rectiserial exaggerations of sebastomania is a stranded frigate of a fugitive escapism wandering with nomadic insistence against cosseted blackguard of assertion without plenipotentiary verdicts against the suborned crater of overstated flimsy truculence in sardonic dissolution
In trespass of a reservation of recoiled tender of tutelage proctoring unseemly haggardly refuse to creak into noisome and noisy cacophony armed by centurions of merciless scorn that lackadaisical winter belies the meteoric riches of autumn mainour fungible with the retches of remorseful decay dangling retreat above entreaty for exasperated wednongues lacking curiosity or the backbite of counterfeit engastrimyths seeding an unknowing complicity to fallacy forked over by chiefs and chefs to an amounted dubiety reserves the armaments of glib sedition for inopportune blacklists by a whitewashed Listerine amenable to launder travestime into oversight rather than belabor banal graft upon the agelasts of a toilsome operose labor to trivialize Herculean monuments to creativity as backwater residence of restive plucky percurrent revivals of infamy as a primary thorn rather than a secondary abreaction
Sentinels swift to the expedited squalor intrepid in sclerotic simpers of renowned defalcation bludgeoned by the tridents of harmonized trauma healing the brayed complaint while regaining the quixotic statute of plevisable mobility belongs to the froward counterpunch to the flippant underminnow of savagery yet among noble personage a blip on furloughs rather than a singed diacope perishing in Wasting Light for denuded darkness to supplant the vacated stage of ironic upbringing bartered from a treasury of obsolete wasms of trivial shadows in the amounted lineage of time.
Elected by the purblind fudged cadge of intransigent solidarity behind unhinged proclamations of lewd lunacy the reset of wibble-wabble and conflagrations of trenchant visibility will cloud the cloudiest tempest with hurricane-force devastation by the healing stripes of the piebald idiosyncrasy of gerrymandered defamation failing where insular regeneration outlasts hamartia and blinkered foibles of girouettism to pillory the excess but not transmogrify the whittled progress of seminal generativity unbounded by harped lyres of discord for secret concords of select femicide
With outstretched hands I point to the tapestry of the Heavens as eternal folksy witness that to endear the temperance of time bullishly roaring on the laureates of prolific servitude to the malleable substance of capered argument the enigmatic punctuation outweighs the baragnosis of miscreant opportune glares at personal prospect for aggrieved sockdolagers of redstrall over the filigrees of innate geometry to cackle above the shouted gnash and the dissoluble squirms of blackened cremation of living memories into insipid fracking of sapwood caitiffs flowing on the motion of discredit rather than honor in valuable endeavor for future genuflection
Totems value me as much as they stalk grazed hinderbaggle of cosmetic devolution of ragged popcorn theatrics in the desuetude of normative ethics beneath the carcass of rotten dastardly cowardice brandishing an ulterior discretion beneath the level of the lowest stoop of any breed founded on loyalty verging into flagrant snipers of integrity for the integral unshakable paragon of broad illumination the guidepost for many spectral truths overshadowed by one miserly fool flummoxing with albatross without the overhang  of pluvious integrity shepherding his hauteur in zig-zagged wallops rather than buoyant serenades
Thus entrenched in juicy poignant barricades against virulent spawn of the katzenjammers of squawking femicide I spout the blossom, bequeath the gift, renounce the delusion and form a formidable bastion against depredated valleys blemished from sight by intolerable patches of darkened verdure hiding from commonwealth perception the pearl of ecumenical salvation swimming in the naked tongues of honest profession dancing with conventional demarcated demerits of Rimbaud ramshackle deracination as a humdrum belittled squander of a prop of craven filibuster rather than beavers outsmarting the delignated destruction of habitat because of outright distaste for plucky individuation above the squalor of relativism in minor octaves of gnashed betrayal rigged by hamsters rather than owned by the men trigger-happy with rat race motivation only to the servitude of degrees rather than plausible recovery embedded into the fabric of fickle society
Hidebound tomes fishing for destruction but grappling with the enormity of the plagued pitfall of ceramic skirmish with brittle conscience emerge with epincion rather than sulk in brooded hyperbole of convenient drapes of flocks postulating irrelevance clearly in the light of the truest day frolicking with gigantic swaddles of curated support etching masterpieces of traipse into the frescades of future calenture beyond the petty misestimation of hemitery politics
Thus the weapon serves two masters of row rather than regatta and the besieged rankles the testy predicament to a teased poetry riveted by years of rhapsody rather than moments of tomfoolery emergent victorious rather than dilapidated by what-could-have-been chary brinkmanship on the precipice of modern sacrilege
To instruct the herds of men to hoard and the wisdom of the wise to circulate that apothegm of reclamation owns superlative traction fundamental to whimsical festivity even forsaken on a churlish masquerade outmantled by frenetic activity famigerated by the true Richter Scale of public fanfaronade because justice is truth and only in germane truth beyond germ scares will decrepit scarecrows demolish their Fear Factor even when the gullible squirm for nexility on bounded continents rather than novantique frontiers
Conscription demarches for assembly beyond relegation and celebrity above frays of discordant rumination feasting advenient rather than cherishing internal and integral the virtuoso wrabble of residue generations churning wheels of acceleration rather than quibbling extinguished vitality as principal complaint exercised in negligent abodes of facetious barnacles to outlandish freckles in the majestic pulchritude of a Titanic salvation beyond and considering the curglaff of sunken resources pitted to my registry by slot-machine audiences incognizant of brittle whittled henpecks of adoring truth and perdurable verve
We sink and die by destructive tongues but abide and live by righteous exemplary prowess capable of scraping the towering canvass of the firmament and the retches of the deepest sea inhabited by any curiosity worthy of emolument
So in token liturgy I decry sidelong cursory squandered affronts that drive the Jehus madcap with fractious celerities of formal destitution rampant on flonky menace rather than modern hypertrophy
In The End, we see triumph in every nuance and bristling concord with every perspiration of ennobled effort truckling into serrated selachostomous and fractious bromides of wrecking-ball fashionistas fumigating cultural pederasty with subtle bailiwick but ragged travesties of taxidermy celluloid
Marvel in-between the serenade and grandstand and cull the turnverein of triumph from banished evasive rundles of the outlasted calculus to neuter the estranged and to estrange the atocia of vibrant surreal vibes no stranger to an alien hand in a desolate world.

I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.

Bach's "little fugue"
            played while figure eights
whistled in my head,
               along with mathematics
to an un-equilibrium point
           where self-confidence
meets self-doubt.

So, in
illusions created by the exact same demons
that saw the bottom from the top
and the   pope as part of a conspiracy,
I created a theory, and ended in a padded room.

I painted spots on walls not assimilating
anyone others works,
became my own victim,
committed to rationality
while acting eccentrically.

Visions came to me, I sought refuge in them,
things I saw the real world calls bug-brained.

There I envisioned the cosmos as a limit imposed
on one's relation to self. I saw the dynamics of  human conflict
as interludes of forced sanity.

I went as quick as I came.

forced into what I don't want to do
I enjoyed the chorus arranged in my head.
Like a game between people I don't understand.

I sneak into Princeton and proved the existence of God. in red sneakers unaware my theory was economic realism.

Then I rejected voices.

And won the Nobel Prize.

go to a brothel, you won't feel anything about what's considered the teenage atypical damning of events that make violins of us all.

now i know why i prefer bourbon to whiskey,
my usual stock went missing today
at the supermarket, i was thinking prior
recycling a plastic bottle of coca cola and a glass
bottle of whiskey... three Buds on offer for
£5 and then a bottle of Scots' Club at £11 (and
a bottle of coke): for the extra walk to buy
£5.99 Chesterfields at the Bangladeshi outlet?
hmm, that's a tough one... solved, Scots' Club
dried up, they've been watching my predictable
pattern on c.c.t.v., either that or i honed
on ant-mentality - which is far worse than
what Nietzsche described as herd mentality -
post-Nietzsche post-religion existentialism?
ants... not oxen, not sheep, not wildebeest -
simple, ants... compactness perfectó!
the antonym of deus ex machina, i.e.
the deus in machina - we all have our roles,
plumber electrician poet... cashier drill sergeant
bus driver... with me i imagine a Michelin star
kitchen... yes chef... yes chef... what is this ****?!
throw that under-cooked scallop away!
if it ain't perfect throw it away!
most would beg to cry and run out of the tense
environment - ooh look at me, bourbon makes
me rosy cheeked - the smell of it makes me summon
the gluttonous honey thickness of a prostitutes
lubricated **** - in Amsterdam with the laws
being lenient they call them sanitation workers
from Bolivia, this plump one told me her life story,
****** into bucket in front of me, told her
child minion to get beers for me, laughed
when i wanted to lick her out - opened the window
to fish the punters into her abode - true story -
i have absolutely no imagination, experience
counts - Amsterdam is fun - you should go there
some time... it's so much freer without
this Victorian-like theatre of courtship in England,
20 years in England, never ****** a swan -
she's too into her feminism away from the "naughty parts" -
darling... and what does your lover call you during
******* while you're drooling on the Ajax?
hmm? sloppy Samantha... or just ****?
***** words during arousal makes the geek take
the noble toilet paper given to them by the maidens...
(psst... they think it's a hanky)...
and with all that space, poets have a phobia with
punctuation, hence verses, hence missing colon (or alter
italics), semi-colon - maybe a full-stop along the way...
and the most annoying part, thus examples:
Prose writers speak a lot,
They draw the matchsticks by the lot - (oh hell, forget the hyphen,
that's reserved for Oxford acceptance of new words
requiring agility and optometry's rediscovery of origin:
Saxons in Istanbul running a sausage stand -
no no, ****'s Halal, we promise!)
But when they speak, they speak to the grey matter -
Never quiet the sparkler parts of the brain...
CAPITAL WITH EACH NEW LINE...
toss-up between learning punctuation and not using it -
i doesn't matter if poetry is the opposite of the claustrophobia
of prose's skeletal rigidity of a paragraph -
poets could become less tedious by using punctuation,
i'd begin with an exercise - count to one-hundred -
ensuring the space between one and ninety-nine
is uniform, i.e. a second apart - can't happen
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
| | | | | | | | | |
   11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
    |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
         22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30
          |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |   |;
when in Edinburgh i had a mental implant, the compass,
mostly thanks to the locality, and the Firth of Forth -
i knew my west and my east, esp. looking at Prince's
Street (scoot-ish Manhattan - squares and linear
and diagonals, picture perfect) from just off the Royal
Mile - honestly, from the old city i could see America
don't below. but bourbon really does have a brothels'
perfumery feel about it - it really hits the cheeks and
warms them up... whiskey oddly enough doesn't...
that's what ****** her off... high-brow ******* -
a boy a girl a ******* - not romantic Marcel Schwob's
Monelle* - harsh realism of de Sadé (who also
wore the t-shirt with the slogan: I'M A FEMINIST!
while cursing from his cell window in the Bastille) -
the Saudi oil billionaires will run out at some point,
last days of the **** - i know, i prefer de Sadé -
adds a bit of spice - and if i'm going to be brutally
honest as his critics are, well, i'll be honest
about one of his works - ****** - crispy mint.
debates on the Man Booker prize - old guard and new
guard - that's the problem with the English...
they pretend to read on their Summer holiday...
who the hell reads in summer? they spend
their Winters in front of the television - i thought
that winter suited reading as it does writing?
the long nights, esp. the long nights -
the Russians said: our future is in your reading public -
the Americans said: our future is in the pulverise(d)
by images public - iconoclasm of words, trademark
logos (telegrams from time to time) - just recently
an advert at a bus-stop by some Asian car manufacturer -
no nuance, but definitely nuanced: GO FUN YOURSELF -
also called the state of literacy rates in England,
a girl writes her G.C.S.E. English exam paper
in text acronym (UR v. you're); so they locked up the Marquis
for obscenity, but Anaïs Nin walked free to everyone's
applause - the part where you tell me Kierkegaard
made a meal from the tree of good and evil
with his work either / or attached to Nietzsche's
beyond... muddles muddles and pumpernickel troubles;
sure, call it word salad - but i hardly think you're
a vegetarian; going to a brothel makes all this
****** warfare seem rather obsolete - esp. when it's prompt
for books and debates and serious action -
all the prostitutes of France came out in protest when
the government wanted to punish the pundits -
hey! do a Jesus! side with the "filth"!
these girls aren't going to be nuns, the feminists won't
save them, not one of them will be a star in a real-life
adaptation of pretty woman - and not, a, single, one
will buy the feminist arguments of the bourgeoisie actresses -
me? i will not ever have a girlfriend who experiments
with her child niece in a theme park imagining me in a
daddy role... or reads me a questionnaire about complimenting
differences from a Cosmopolitan magazine.