All observation is from a particular point, but
acknowledged subjectivity's better than naught.
Thus follows some comments on their qualitative nature.
Use them as you deem. In this piece everything is as it seems.

Caffeine is unappreciated enough,
Give credit to that stimulant for the things it does.
Coffee has little time to play, for there are errands
to attend to before the light fades.

The amphetamine will spin you until you're spun,
The cathinone will also try you with its luck.
The stimulant is a trickster [touch within]
and a magician never reveals their secret,
Even when seeking it befalls endlessness.

Me and E(cstasy) used to dance all night,
Closer to all your dreams was as far
from the light, we soaked ourselves
in emotionality and I soared high:
Perfection in the dark
rekindled my heart; 'cause
on pills you love everyone.

******* is always hungry but will never feed you
for it is naught but the scent of pure ego;
because on coke everyone loves you.

There is nothing to learn from an opioid or benzodiazepine
beyond the hedonistic stupor in-between awake and sleeping.
Similarly, cigarettes never taught me anything about myself
much like quick, ***** ***, that's nicotine and painkillers, in essence.

Alcohol is reliable for those sociable
but can hurt the body and scorn the emotional.
Drink toyed with me, then she abandoned me;
Despite that messiness I still reminisce occasionally.

Gamma-HydroxyButyric acid [GHB] requires utmost caution,
One must observe the proper conduct when
wading through such subtle intoxication.

Don't use ket too much, don't use angel dust.
If you want a supreme arylcyclohexylamine
seek out methoxetamine, use it responsibly.
Dissociation, end of line; no[thing is o]ne.

Always be considerate before transcending reality,
Reverence for psychedelics keeps them self-regulatory.
Of all the compounds they would humble and reveal to you;
Existential, being when tripping; every[is]one.

Cannabis I dared to use recreationally
for it often reminded us when one should act sensibly.
That deep conversing with trusted friends
is better than any substance I have ever had the nerve to test.

Follicle Poem
December 6, 2013

A mental relapse occurs.
I see hands plowing through my head of hair
They continue to grasp at the roots,
as if attempting to expose a truth hidden underneath.
But what secrets could bequeath a hair follicle?
Well, one might tell a tale.

Scared of the dark, a 6 year old Wynn laid awake in bed.
He prolonged the inevitable destitution of a dream state.
No longer wanting to accept a reoccurring nightmare,
he took to a dreary exercise of staying awake in the dark.
One hair follicle today may tell of how,
on that night it did not rise in a panicked state.
Wynn had finally conquered his fear of the dark.

"Something felt different today," said Follicle #567.
A new shampoo.
But more than that, strange scissors.
"Who is this new person cutting Wynn's hair now?"
remarked one hair follicle,
"I wonder what happened to the usual lady?"
She had passed away.

An emerging chest hair observed the extended family has grown recently.
"Darker relatives who look different and live in other regions of the world.
Who are they and why do they get treated differently?
Nobody has heard of the ***** region in the southern hemisphere,
or armpit land where our hair family members supposedly smell weird."
The perspective of a follicle in puberty.

"The loud sound of electricity and gears grinding scares me.
There is a storm which ravishes our lands.
First, a foamy cloud surrounds us.
Next, comes a sharp stinging sensation,
not a pleasant feeling to be set free from your roots.
A tidal wave crashes, washing away my follicle friends and family forever.
Then, the lightning strikes - dooming us all."
A ****** follicle's worst fear.

"We are a persevering bunch.
We cling to our conventions and grow, grow, grow.
But recently Wynn has done something new.
We thought he was feeding us honey,
so treacherous.
Sticky goop and stiff paper will be the end of us all.
Nobody wants to admit follicles are second-class citizens to smooth skin."
Waxing prematurely takes the lives of several million follicles annually.

"A rebel group of follicles known as the 'In-Growns' are up to no good.
They scheme with the pimples, plotting when and where to strike next.
I worry about Wynn - wish he could know we aren't all so ill-intentioned."
Follicle culture is derived from parenting, not just biology or anatomical location.

"The last of my kind, I have been contaminated with chemicals.
My color changed to blue.
I've heard the ancient legends about follicles once turned blonde.
We need to appease the summer sun god.
The others have all shriveled up or been brutally betrayed by the locals.
In hiding, we worry the scissor insurgents will discover our locations.
All I wanted was the freedom to express myself,
to be seen for who I really am - not just some color."
Follicles experience discrimination for numerous reasons.

"Drugs.
I can feeeel them in my DNA.
Something about me has changed and I like it.
Living life on the wild side these days.
I don't shower and don't care if I am greasy.
Every other follicle’s fears are irrational.
I'm gonna spread the word and grow out a bit.
Because that's what they expect of me, isn't it?
I mean, what good could come out of a drugged up follicle,
other than more waste of scalp space?"
Follicles who use drugs recreationally receive negative labels and harsh stigma.

"The wavy goodness from a gel rub,
is the highlight of the week.
We are fine, fresh, and fierce, ready to set the standard for follicle fashion.
If you are one of those lower class follicles,
who can't afford gel.
No worries - some might trickle down...
Just kidding!
Spray supports our monopoly on hair care products."
Fashionable follicles are extra sassy and have socio-economic privilege.

The relapse ends.
My head suddenly feels heavy,
swarmed with the hair follicle chronicles.
And the hands running through my head of hair become inspired.
They begin to tell their tales of times passed in Wynn's life.

Perspective means everything.

You and I
You
And
I

- I
Could drown myself in melted polar ice caps, or illusions of Niagara Falls (or does it?)
Could join a nudist colony
Could dismember my body parts 'recreationally'
Could (or will) document my own downward spiral/lay eggs in vast and immeasurable labyrinths/where the paradox of my self-pity mingles with my bragging/swaggering teen angst and date!-mate!-procreate!- into a thousand descendants of my rotting fleshhhhhh

- You
Present yourself in -
Hallways rambling in front of me with asylums spilling into corridors of confusion
Rrrrrrriiipppp of either paper pulling from notebooks or flesh pulling from bone
Virtual college applications tabbed over with two different Buy Your Own Russian Wife! websites and ignored by your -loving parents-
An arrogant 18-year-old boy standing before the Committee of Elders (pleading insanity)
Twenty-four permanent markers with generic names
The pseudo-poetic lure of "Call _ For a GOOD TIME" graffitis on the bathroom wall of a Whole Foods you spend six weeks jacking off in

- Look, that's great and all, but
I think you are a (beanstalk), no time to (talk), less of a (walk) and more of a climb - to reach your face, and when I lean to kiss it (fee fi fo fum) I smell the blood of a human one

(I'm tired of stooping and I'm tired of looking at old people)

You
And
I
Could have Been Anyone!
But no,
Just more of the same.

Head to the body
Swallow hot toddy

A dash of narcissism

To make the throat burn
Make my insides churn

A dollop of ego

And I'm getting drunk
On your self-absorbed funk

All mixed in hot

I do it recreationally
Unconnected emotionally

We pretend we care for one another

I would not identify myself as religious, perhaps spiritual but if you were to ask me what of spirits I would reply: psychological projections, merely memory. So perhaps I am sentimental rather than spiritual.
I acknowledge all pantheons and can respect their traditions:
God, Allah, Brahma; their prophets, Gautama Buddha and so on;
But a god is a construct of the mind and the prophets were enlightened men of their time. I would call this belief Henotheistic Constructivism.

I do enjoy some drugs recreationally yet I also find spiritual elements to the use of some substances. Some people encounter these elements when they pray or meditate. I find it in the use of psychedelics. I see little difference in the method used to access this mode of consciousness, whatever you call it: divine, spiritual, mystical, religious, and so on. We are all looking for/towards the same state-of-being.

I do not discriminate between drug abuser and religious fanatic: both search for truth, propelled by belief, finding meaning in their seeking. Both drug use and religious belief should be conducted responsibly.

I said "You've never done this with someone like me"
She said "How do you know?"
Because there's no one like me
Most who **** me want to fight me
Most who fight me just say **** it
Because I'm so persistent they've just had enough of it
I read text books recreationally because I feel ignorant and unworthy
I go through self defeating tangents where I wake up at 2 pm and still fall asleep early
I've been called the most benevolent happy and loving person people have ever known
To other people I was a soulless destructive retch since I was barely grown
I tend to run into glass houses dual wielding stones
Money founds my philosophies so I spend most of my time alone

She looked disappointed, what was moans turned to groans
Then strapped up her bra and started the long journey home


Just being real lady.....

.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.

I ran out of cliches to use in my writing last year when you ran out of patience for my problems,
It was around the same time that we ran out of gas in the car because I got sidetracked again and instead of stopping I just kept driving because the song on the radio made me feel like I could breathe for once, and I planned our whole future when I went out to get milk but you were angry that I forgot the reason I left home, I came back empty handed and I still wonder now why you left me. It doesn’t feel right knowing that a year has passed and nothing that I have planted has grown or even budded, I starved some because I got distracted and others I smothered and they got overwhelmed and crumbled. I watched my lilacs collapse last Spring the same week you abandoned me and I’m sure I should have healed by now but it hit me only last week that I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’ve ever healed, or what it looks like outside of bandages and scars that I could watch turn white so I started reading about these homeopathic remedies for diseases I don’t have and I remember feeling like my body was going to give out every time I saw you in the summer and I blamed it on the heat but I spent most days inside in the AC. I wonder what the remedy is for that feeling because instead I tried to **** it and just felt weak. I would throw up and blame the alcohol and when my doctor asked me if I drank recreationally I told her no because there was nothing fun about blacking out to forget you and me. Last Valentine's day we had a bottle of wine and it only took me a cup to start crying and I remember you telling me you were disappointed when I didn't want to have *** which should have made me upset but I think what actually did was the fact that three months later I could drink an entire handle of ***** before throwing up and another half before I gave up on trying to kick this feeling that you might come back some day or the thought that I would take you back instantly when you never deserved me.  I know that and still wonder why I feel so empty when I see old pictures of us in our teens.

I just had this light go off
in every brain cell I got
that as a young amorous lad
all full of it with no
other thoughts 'cept
girls and baseball
I might have come across
lustfully
or recreationally
the two )baseball and her moans( did meet,
with Susie in the back seat , in '75,
when I felt I could not hold back
long enough for her
to also reach the top of
Mount Ecstasy,
that is another story
so, several decades have passed
since grand
was
more grandiose, now
more with wisdoms
passions,
than the fertile
fumbling in a Rambler did
back when,
i think of words, and passion
more phonetically
than tactily.
And write as if
the metaphors
might bring the feeling
back.

I need a little pain every once in a while
Recreationally I suppose
Just to remind me that the taste of life isn't always sweet
Refresh me on why I'm here
To help people through the same thing
To me it's like ******
I love the pain
Savor it
Crave it when it's not around
The withdrawals rock me
My next fix is always better than the last

She caught me smoking
My sticks of cancer
I dropped and stomped one out
To tell her I only smoke recreationally
Only to let smoke drip of my teeth
And seep through my skin

But at least she doesn't know about the THC
Making the breathing space so thin
Or the pills wearing down my hair
I act like I don't care
But its wearing down every fiber
Of my dying body

warrior's march (anonymous ottoman) -
jordi savall - montserrat figueras...

or perhaps... chevalier, mult estes guaritz
(1146)...

because there isn't enough hours
in a day
to listen to BBC radio 3...
perhaps there might be enough wine...
but...
there aren't enough hours
in a day to listen to BBC radio 3:
go figure... no adverts too...
but as ever...
i never warmed up to the idea of a d.j.:
i don't like being surprised by
a choice of music without
me choosing it...

i will not brag about liking
classical music...
i will not brag about jazz...
there's this surreal middle ground
a music that doesn't belong in
any real discussion
or ref. making...

it's a music that can exist without
the weight of a name
akin to: associated with herr mozart...
etc.
when no one owns it
after all it must be a drag
to have to own something
for an "almost" measure of:
if eternity is to be measured -
immortality is a word that
weighs one down... less...

i'd imagine my name to be of note:
100 years after i'm dead...
point being: i'm joking...
but at some point it could, possibly...
expire?
unless of course...
a Plato doesn't what doesn't
change is something incremental...
that **** is covered
by A'Tuin
          (ahtuin)
               Tubul... Jerakeen... Berilia...
T'Φon...
           strange how the surd / vowel
catcher of the rugby goal posts of H
are missing... no?

   if rugby or football was not discovered
by someone meditating on
the letter H...
  tennis? what's that?
a game of... 7 rectangles... no?
and in the "ol'" days...
two tennis players...
a football team's worth of umpires
and at least 4 ball boys...

no wonder tennis is not popular
recreationally...

i'm hopeful that this year will
be a good year for wine...
homemade of course...
it's that much more... revealing to make
something of your own like that...
although... hardly baking a cake...
if we were not bound to this:
insomnia... of information...
insomnia of... libido...
and having access to enough
wine whiskey:
mind you... even Plato is noted as making
the whimsical conclusion:
the man who invented (discovered)
beer - bless him... although
retaining his anonymity...

fame out of focus...
i could understand posthumous fame...
all the more in that something
was achieved in life
something was striven for in life
and it could obliterate all
distractions...
this once ludricous pursuit of:
argument...
  ludicrous - sauerkraut...
              gherkins in brine...
i guess i am of a people who cling
to Germans more than they ever might
cling to those... Rushkies... Sorbs...
Wends...

after checking the champions' league
scores
i had to have a little history lesson
in what was the Seljuk Empire...
well it's not Islam was knocking
at the gates of Europe... the Turks were...
looking at the Turks now...
i see something richly problematic...
too cosmopolitan and all-world influenced
trade: global traffic...
i can't imagine not having some
orthodox spices for a curry
in my kitchen...

   Polacks are afraid of spices...
at least prior generations...
salts that does pepper's work too...
to the wok with you to fry up
those bland... raw cashews!

- like... the Darwinian argument
or the Copernican argument...

i clearly can't listen to classical music either...
it's... too complicated... too many notes...
it's too strict Pavlov-esque almost...
it's great it's nice it might require
a Royal Albert Hall but most of the time
i'm just pretending to like it...
unless of course of really like it:
Prokofiev's Lt. Kije...
  or the Alexander Nevsky - Battle on the Ice...

- that there is so much talk
of this supposed "freedom" in the vest:
of way, when, why...
these lineages of congregating
oppressors...
calls out for: fascism but not
the tea of... english immigrants
are never, immigrants...
to no self: no known other...

         that the english have no denotation
concern for concept of diaspora..
no wonder everyone is everyone's
better kept: cold kettle
and expatriate...

such nuance in convo that it really
doesn't matter...
after all...
i'm spewing half-mind verbiage
and i'm not supposed to be content with it...
but i still live among
the foreign-natives
of these isles than
be among "my" brethren who
have reclaimed circa 6 years under
the Nazis... half a century (circa)
under Bolshevik incredulity...
and then this, somehow new, "now"...

but at least the stupid forks in the road
listened to my advice: although
i didn't give any: and kept their currency...
like i might own women
or own a history of "me" and "my" people...
i don't really regard that
a niche market for any thought
or strict reminding of: 'ought...
either...

it's one of those nights where i'm
the d.j. i'm gagging for some hard liquor
all that's available is some
homemade wine
and i have an appointment for
9am over the telephone... etc.

back to the quest for alphabet-icals...
beside the vowels...
Y - i petition is... a vowel and is not...
a consonant...
so: a, e, i, o u, y... there are... 6 vowels...
19 aeons and 19 consonants...
but i ask...

why would i, ply: perhaps this is
me bilingual "schizoid" making
a mock of the natives who never left
for: the great east aust-rare-land...
zoo a new land...
hay'tch no... ha ha... or... sigh: aah...
ygrek...
            not igrek...
             last time i checked russians
tried to sharpen that phonetic "detail":
with their bl bl bl diacritical "marks"...

beside the point of vowels...
ah: or "a"
eh: or "e"
  oh: or oh...
   "i" (aye, yes) or: i(s)ch...
uh: ugh: or "u" & yew / you...

yes... this must be me...
bilingual "schizoid"...
         my new found freedom...
but why did the greeks have nouns
for their letters...
alpha (a-lpha)
beta (b-eta)
but it also denotes an... übersinn?
         letters had noun status to later denote
them as scientific consonants...
yes... the ancient greeks were unique
in that they were decisively
the children of the ancient world...

****** / down-syndrome fiasco of our
modern we...
clearly...
so back to basics...
a suggestion of concern for only
the puritanical minded bollocking a riddle...
because there's no bull to ride...
if syllables are to go by...
katakana is problematic because
the syllables all begin with a consonant...
their ******* Fukushima figurines...
it's not like you can write...

   it like a periodic table for: sodium: Na...
  ナ
well.. ha ha... you can...
but the breaking point of my concern
comes...
NA: ナ
            seems a waste to conjure AN...
                               アン

and so forth:

               イン  INI     ニ                
               ウン  UNU ヌ
               エン  ENE  ネ
               オン  ONO ノ

no? try reciting the english alphabet...
while following the "proper" guidelines
of the angry prefix lady and letter as noun...
transcending whether
it be... i doubt Greeks have a concept
of vowel or consonant...

outside the realm of vowels...
prolonged or caught by H for either: short... sigh...
or elongated laughter via ha ha...

why is it: Be
  and not eBB?
why Cee (cedilla!)
and not eCk...
Dee
   and not eD...
tell me!
    but now it's eF
but not... Fee!
    or F'eh...
           Gee but not
eGG...
    music, people! music!
        eM but not Meeeeeee!
Kay but not aK...
          eL but not Lu...
        Jay Jay - lodge - touch  o'
      Raj -
          eN...
                          N'eh...
    end: no?
             *** & peeee
                          eee
                           ee
                             e
up...                op-
                                 apparently...
"p"...
          Q...
kew... gardens... quo? kwo?
        qua? kwa?
         awry K...
            that's "q"...
    aR...
                 but not... Re-garding...
        Re-vealing...
oh i believe you... the Fwench had
a tarantula at the battle of Hastings
and you lost your trill of it...
let alone the thrill of it... like:
a barrel run ol' sod...
never, never mind...

           but it's still: aR... and not Ro... no?
it's eS and not: Su(e) or Si or So...
or S'eh...
   or s(igma)... is, it?
it's Tea but not eTymology...

if you were to write ALPHA
or OMEGA like a "hebrew"...
  perhaps... Lamb-of-Delta...
        i.e. AΛΦ
  &           ΩMΓ      

   oomph: oh i mind...
                    pool to pull... to: tow...

                 at the altar of the alpha brood
i'm not 2nd... i'm last...
i'm the completed plethora of sensations...
i am not nibbling at the to
i am lasting incongruent...
imbecile in the feminine eyes
that discover all things via
simplicities of feline conjecturing...

by the gods of Ivanhoe, rubber
and Prometheus!

Tao... besides my "tea"...
via - ups a pumpernickle!
           v = w = ł = w = v
(fał) -
  well your people shouldn't
have started a war
in our defence... should they?

CH = X - IKS...
             ξζ pairig...
    κσε
                or... κση... ha ha : "q"...
    do you even know how spanish
a greek sounds when a greek
compliments you speaking english?
no... it's not my thirst: or first for: dough
a black sorrow: forward so...

the old phrasing...
   θought & φilosoφy
                 ΦΘΨ (key, hole... door...
open... sezzame)...

ZEDZEDZEDZEDZEDISTTOTZED
ZEDISTZEDISZEDTOTZEDISTTOT
­ZEDZEDZEDZEDZEDISTTOTZED
ZEDISTZEDISZEDTOTZEDISTTOT
ZEDZEDZEDZEDZ­EDISTTOTZED
ZEDISTZEDISZEDTOTZEDISTTOT
ZEDZEDZEDZEDZEDISTTOTZED
Z­EDISTZEDISZEDTOTZEDISTTOT

a niech še Mickiewicz
tę Litczonke pochówawszy...
poszle'ji prosto po Greka,
j'baniem po tsara Cyrola!
psi tryp!
gawari to samo so pies
o ogon koło bada!
morda zorem kulą,
morda zorem na szczyt
cerkfi kieła gryz szarpana.
       a tu mi grzyw,
a tu mi łokieć,
a tu po chłopsku
kiedy zdziw jako:
       PIN'jebanamać'gwint!
sto kurva razy tego fryz
litanii 'wina sie pytoł:
zachooooood, ci tyьбıe wschód?
no ta(h) zegnój ci to teraz
do świcki!
                         popierdolone rho
cyrku i romā(h)...
pomiatajrzy Mickiem po
cha cha cha lit... win... skim...
Co,  Pani nie pod pisze wyroku sądu
nad nad, tym wyrzszy, tzn. po-wia-to-wy?
Litwin udaje panicza,
   'krainiec stara: boze dopomuz
stać po pijaku... nad... świnią!
Litwa i mazowsze niech i tam,
co i tam... pochybel, sicz,
     cień, i zmartwychstań, wola...
niech no ciota skryje bliny...
jam człek... cytaty cy niet cytaty...
ale wbrew romansidła...
       krew sieje gniew...
a gniewaj nad lublu czy tesz
lulu...
             od dziwki smak rumieńca,
jako kosak wart wiatri i cienia...
niech ten panicz Mickiewicz spierdala
do Wilna, do licheń lacha
smarkatka...
          my to Ukroj i Wina...
       chleb z pod Kijowa...
      a krew z murów zwanym Vavel...
litfa to kiedys byla...
    smarkatka dworzan...
     ni tu, ni teruz...
masz ci my dyszli...
   zbroje 'glika: anną zwysz...
          ci dam znów: KUNDLA
ZOREM O TYCZ'KE I ZBIÓR!
              co boze sam ni d'oh...
człek tym warty o ******>    razy pierw to gnać, co boźy
rozum pierw szarpnie cienia...
honestly, the crown's romance
with Lithuania is long gone and stale...
I will die, not having seen L'viv...
and all the happier my lack
of dreams will be,
           as of now, unto death...
    Mickiewicz had his romance
with Lithuania,
   i, at least, can appreciate,
Ukrainian beer...
               no fun having staged
the European championship with
Poland... so no wonder the annexed
Crimea...
           thank god I never actually
managed to breed with English women,
even recreationally...
    given the current: and what if
Pontius Pilate ate vindaloo
for breakfast? search me,
  you either ask Jack or Sherlock.

They say, "it's always safer not to take drugs".
What of medicine, what of utility?
There's certainly need for antidotes,
and pain relief and even wakefulness.

They'd amend, "It's safer not to take drugs recreationally",
What of therapy and wholesomeness,
The spiritual aspect or communal element
of mind-expanding or pair- and group-bonding.

I ask, is there a healthy amount of recreational drug use?
Can we perform a hedonic calculus to determine
this amount, per person, per substance?
How do we treat with the ethics
of recreational drug use?
What do we owe
the virtues we have inherited,
How do we reckon with the vices identified?

Is substance exceptionalism ever warranted?
Do we deserve cognitive liberty?
Is such a thing coherent
given I may have become biased

in partaking or abstaining
from those drugs
I endeavor to study.
How do we determine what is pleasurable and right?

so much of the intellectual property debate is summarised in the cartesian res extensa concept, and so much of that translates back into a theory of schizophrenia... after all, i have taken it to heart to go back to the conceptualisation of the diagnosis prior to the muddles of existentialism, after all, the schizophrenic symptom is like a pish-poor version of prof. xavier, who was modelled on a schizophrenic, and all that tele- fruit wagon, -pathy, -kinesis, whatever you want to equate with the veg wagon of the god "almighty".

and it is just so, the upper tier of the cartesian model
invokes the *res extensa: or the spiderweb of
the actual spider, who isn't a spider,
but a thinking "spider"...
         auditory hallucinations have to be scarier
than visual ones, given that visual hallucinations
are sometimes conjured up recreationally...
safe to say: hard to fear something you can see,
much harder to keep a nerve hearing something:
but not seeing it!
         and once again, the deciphering of biblical
phrasing, that "supposed"
   peccatus archetypus / "original sin" -
the joke is that it was never: original -
   expilo ignarus esse
   (plagiarise being ignorant) -
               funny how a complex mental disorder
can feed the canvas of intellectual property
theft,
          which is why people even joke
about it, because it's not even considered a "theft",
but i really thought that in the "real" world
we moved away from the classroom antics of
getting the easy ride?
   the so-called "real" life is as real as
             a bridge, and a troll living under it...
oh, that aloo gobi curry went down as a treat,
better than the korma,
   it was the madras curry spice,
  and some kashmiri chili powder that did
miracles to the tatties and ol' albino brain
that's the cauliflower... served with chapatis...
nonetheless, there's a strange link with modern
talk of intellectual theft, and schizophrenia,
you have to admit, premature dementia is
probably more a staggering curiosity than
cancer in children...
                     primarily because it is less and less
(year upon year) a physical problem,
rather the antithesis of what some old people
say: i feel 16, in an 86 year olds body...
   in some cases sure: dumb as log of wood,
but in other instance: a hypersensitive acquisition
of language, and hyped awareness of
one's surrounding: the "paranoia" part of
a diagnostic compound: as william burroughs
already said:
    yep, because i knew the name of our
current president;
   but it all coincides (once again, to me being
diagnoses as such, when in fact i was only
bilingual...) - with the nexus being arrived upon
    the cartesian res extensa, i.e. the extended thing...
intellectual property sits along with
  schizophrenic symptoms as: coordinate extensions -
although for the former the extension
takes place in other people is regarded as
the most petty of forms of theft -
     if thieves think burglars are losers,
then burglars know that plagiarists are the ****
of the earth...
    the difference is that, in terms of symptomatology
of a schizophrenic... interruptions -
or as i like to call it: heckling...
why do i have such a niche interest?
     so this ex calls me up at work while
i'm on the 16th floor roofing...
  and she's panicking... she says she's hearing
voices...
  i later learn she ****** my former
school friend with whom i sat arm to arm in
english class, and she tells me: voices! voices!
i'm hearing voices!
                 after i left edinburgh she spiralled
from mere **** into m.d.m.a., acid...
     and she didn't tell me to use the rubbers again
after, on the whim, she read a cosmopolitan
article that probably read: how to trap a guy
by getting yourself pregnant secretely...
me? alimony? does alimony transcend borders?
so can a russian chic ask for alimony from
a former pole now, a brit?
    well, she calls me up, and then the cat in
me became curious, i was a ****** prior to this
medical condition, or should i say,
prior to the whole idea of mental health...
it was prior to then an ****** cousin stuck in
the attic of a surgeon's house,
  bound by the chains of what translated from
philosophical dualism of descartes,
  into the medical dichotomy of post-descartes
of clear distinction: between mind & body...
suddenly, all of a sudden... a convergence
project began, with more and more english kids
exposing the reality of the two, being, seemingly,
non-parallel.
   well... perhaps the curiosity killed the cat,
but i still have 8 lives left.

Essentially, being essential has left the act of *******
Recreationally, its disposition has changed
Innocence is torn away by arrogant, ignorant, deceitful lectures that **** ****** intent and understanding.
But the students are told to be grateful for this "education" and thank those who de-flower their young perception.
Have I missed out
They say stay young
But look who made us grow up so quick.

i can mimic the feelings
let out in the air.
i'll laugh at your jokes,
and grow somber through sorrow.

i'll act irrationally
when i should grow angry.

but deep within, i know
that i feel recreationally.

Sunday Morning silences—make an appointment
In Case of Emergency, break Glass. Recreationally
Not as neon brightly high rises since contagion invasion.

Caretakers all of us, together in the mess..
It’s a small world, dying after all, playing Ball.
Trust that our kindness is not weakness
Yes, God Bless, the House falls with many walls.