westerners: we're basically the people with a big bang theory in our heads (what a ****** name for what used to be an awe-inspiring venture into the natural environment and colours, now just a black dot, no wonder the imagination dried-up at the end of the 20th century and it all became, "a little bit technical" / technology perfected the making of money / no -logy attache with art, the feel got the most of it), and having to still perform menial tasks, most of which became anti-physical, exports to China - an intellectual flatline of bureaucratic esteems, preferably lost among scientific theories that demean, devour and conspire to reach pinnacles of overstretched pronoun usage... too many nouns, too many nouns, there are to many names in this world that gather inert verbs around them - say the word aeroplane and i bet you won't end up being a pilot, able to fly the **** thing from London to Helsinki.*

i just realised i can't do it - applying
poetry to historical prose is exhausting -
the project has been terminated -
it's like two-hydrogen atoms coupled
to an oxygen atom defining the Atlantic,
the Pacific and a few lakes in between -
how can a single human being
encapsulate all that history? i don't
mind people spying on me, i know
spying is a form of fetishism, but trying
to encapsulate all that history in one
unit is counter-productive, non-representative,
i stopped on page 55, i didn't even get to
Greek history - what i love about all
that philosophical bollocking is that it's
airy, a modern arts gallery - you can fudge
in an elephant in there and people would say
that it's the five-blind men - or the sixth
deaf man, given the odd trumpet sound -
history literally does exhaust poetry the
easiest, philosophy at least antagonises it,
it's on the same playing field, both are in tune,
however well or however badly the strummed
guitar / ego - if i was going to sift through
another ******* of historical facts predating
antagonistic history like the events of
the Cold War or the horrendous disintegration
of Yugoslavia (Gorbachev was rightly
pompous to the end, the Soviets went their
separate ways peacefully, now Azerbaijan
sponsors the Euro football tournament) -
but if i were to shove all that **** into my head...
you know where Alzheimer's stems from?
i think i know - too much information,
too much information canvased against
easy, menial tasks... if they only taught us how
to not feel bored, instead of ******* us with
Pythagoras and calculus and whether it was
Newton or Leibniz who finished the finishing line
first... education in the West is a fool's game,
it's like that fable about giving an African
a fish or a fishing rod - they sell this **** in
Calcutta - me? i'm selling you a pirate copy,
don't bother - don't even go to university,
they'll turn you into a double-*** that you already
are, professional academics are not high school
teachers, they're the ones in line with ambitious
Higgs' boson, oh sure, Mr. Blair and that famous
'education, education, education,'
how about go **** yourself, go **** yourself,
go **** yourself?
the educated are in debt and the common
sense people,
well, they're also in debt - mortgages and what
not, but when i think about it...
i'd be earning super money to spend it... on what?
if  had children, fair enough,
the grand selfless act - maybe... erm...
never trust a female politician because she ends
up a tarantula, a black widow, caring for her own
rather than the ***** masturbated into a hanky?
listen, if you had a woman try to ****
you via your childhood friend... you wouldn't be
Kentucky frying chocolate bars to mush and
lovey hubby dub dub either.

Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of  our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.

First of these eight categories is math.
From axioms to logic it takes a very exact path.
Deals with conjecture and theorems; creating laws about the world.
Sometimes this complicated topic makes me want to hurl.

Next comes ethics with many complicated questions,
Using morals and values to give the proper suggestion.
Depends on people's views that differ by culture,
Questions from "Theft to save your family?" to "Killing a vulture?"

Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of  our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.

Up comes history dealing only with the past;
It is only concerned with evidence and the facts.
Studies government propaganda to the plight of the peasant.
Deals with any kind of knowledge from creation to the present.

Fourth on the list are the human sciences,
From many loaded questions to our stream of consciousness.
Observations to conclusions, free will to determinism,
Deals with our knowledge of the world from the atom to reductionist

Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of  our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.

Religious knowledge systems deal with people's beliefs;
Knowledge of God and the heavens to the world beneath.
From polytheism in Athens to life after death,
Knowledge coming from religion concerns us to our last breath.

The natural sciences, knowledge of the natural world,
Explaining how things work like biceps d'ring a curl.
Hypothesis, theories and all sorts of paradigms,
Knowledge so revolutionary that in the past it was a crime.

Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of  our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.

Indigenous knowledge systems, the customs of the tribe,
Using folklore and storytelling to spread ancestor's pride.
Knowledge or tradition and customs of the ancient nomads,
Anything about the indigenous from the good to the bad.

Last on the list, the final area of knowledge,
Is the arts, all the way from elementary to college.
Dealing with aesthetics, forgery, kitsch and catharsis;
Without this types of knowledge we'd be stuck in the darkness.

Areas of knowledge answer: How do we know?
Looking for the origins of  our knowledge flow.
From mathematics to the ethics,
History to the arts,
These are the ways we tell types of knowledge apart.

Wednesday, May 29, 2014

Subject: You know how I am about letters



Do people notice when it starts to happen? Maybe not the first time—it can be hard to tell—but do they recognize a pattern? Are they able to appropriately react? Is it easy to detect such feeling, a reoccurring newness? When it happens, it swells and expands: building within and pushing out, resonating a specific sound, paralleling the pang of olfaction from the heavy stench of pheromones. It stimulates the senses and sends the hypothalamus into hyperactivity, the mind clouded with confusion.



I’m glad it happened. I’m glad we got to be friends, the way we were, the way we could still be. It’s easy to be around you, and I appreciate the feeling you instilled in me. Four miles and six beers later, I found myself with you, in your house, talking to your parents, experiencing a part of you I’ve never known. Shortly after, there we were, on your couch, and you were against me and I held your core, warmed by the heat of your skin radiating from beneath your thermal. It was nice, but it was the type of nice which is prone to burn. I didn’t expect to be there.



I could’ve anticipated that drinking so much would release my inhibitions, and given our mutual attraction and history I would have succumbed to you. Obviously, I did. Nothing more than a kiss, but I’m glad I did, even though to actively be swept away in the moment is dangerous. I’m notoriously attracted to it, and sure enough as I write this, I feel a mix of nausea and a dull inner ache. I want it to go away, yet I endure it, understanding it’s a consequence of recklessness. I wouldn’t doubt it’s karma. I don’t think you are, but I notice myself around you and can decide that I am often being reckless with my frivolity. It feels good at first, but like coming down from rolling, there is a lingering feeling of synthetically-induced haze.



I honestly didn’t plan on kissing you, but the night took us there. I did plan on giving you that poem, however. I’m sure you have interpreted it correctly, as I’d assume you’re capable of distinguishing metaphors (you do have a college degree), and now hopefully understand my perspective of our situation.



I wanted to run with you, I wanted to get a beer (also I had a rough day/week so I was kind of down to drink—coping of course) and I wanted to let you read that poem. Those are things I wanted to do, and while I wanted to kiss you, I didn’t. I’m glad I did and it wasn’t a mistake, but I think doing that too many times would be more detrimental than productive. I’m sure you got that theme from what I wrote you was influenced by the weekend I came to Salisbury; maybe you can see certain themes of that weekend in it.



I don’t know. I was just thinking about you and I wanted to express what was going on in my head. I wanted you to know. I was somewhat sad when I left Salisbury, wondering why you gave my no affection when saying goodbye, but I was relieved and grateful you didn’t. But now… I think about us meeting at my house in Fruitland and the four of us drunkenly deciding to live together. It just so happened that Rachel and I were discussing the possibility of her moving to Salisbury and she mentioned Scott finding a house, with my landlord, for $300 a month. Talk about timing. I don’t know what to make of it.



It’s unfortunate that timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling; ironically, more often than not, timing sabotages it. Personally, I have always romanticized things that were doomed to end. The reason I love Shakespeare so much (besides intellect like no other) is because he conveys tragedy in such a beautiful way. Consider it like thanatos vs. eros—there is greater appreciation for something that cannot last forever, because there is only a limited time to enjoy it. It’s sad to think, too often, we’re unable to enjoy things to their fullest because of this notion. Like life and death—if we could live forever would we value our time as much? Hell no, we would take everything for granted (humans already do, as we are prone to do so) and never give a **** about anything. What makes anything matter is being able to appreciate it, despite of how long it lasts?



In that regard, after coming to Salisbury again, I thought about you coming home and what would happen. I assumed you’d be moving to Massachusetts sooner rather than later and wondered if we would even talk. I still wanted to hang out and go running, but I realized it might not happen and I recognized that could happen.



I never expected anything from you. I know we always had a thing and have been flirty towards each other, but to establish a foundation of sorts didn’t ever seem like an option. I liked you unattainable, impossible, a little too late, the right person at the wrong time; it seems pretty sick the way I describe it and I’m well aware, but you were the perfect protagonist of the narrative of my painful romance with Rachel, where you restored my mojo and provided me with the ability to feel and create again. You broke up the dam of my writer’s block with your flow. You were a muse of sorts. I am not idealizing you, just describing what you provided me with.



With this being said, I hope you believe that the sentiments I wrote to you were honest, as were my actions. I have nothing but positive regard for you, despite the periods where we didn’t speak and knowing you was somewhat uncomfortable. I have only known you for a year, but we’ve been through a lot and I consider you a friend. As I stated before, I didn’t mean to like you, it just kind of happened. And like you told me, that’s life. It’s curious, but I wonder if I would like you as much if we had a chance. I know it sounds cold, and I hope reading it doesn’t sting, but I am only trying to be realistic. I’m sure you too have assessed it.



The point of this cyber-letter is to just let you know that I liked you. I’m glad we got to know each other. You influenced me and you left your mark, forever contributing to the me I’m going to be. You taught me a lot about a lot of things. However, as I stated before, timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling. You are a unique “perhaps” in my life, nonetheless. I wonder what it would be like if we were ever together in another world, but I cannot quite imagine it. I dream, but I am bound to servitude by analyzing each intricate detail of the situations in front of me, despite my occasional bouts of impulse. It’s a way to survive, and there’s a pattern to it. It all unfolds so suddenly, paralleling behavioral, weather and astronomical patterns. More recently, I have experienced this. I wasn’t hoping for it or expecting it. I was surprised.



You know how they say “If you’re looking for something you won’t find it, but things are found (or given?) when you’re not looking?” So far 2014 has been a great year for many reasons. Even the  little after -graduation struggle was a transition to build into what is now and what will be.



So….you know how I snapchatted you (and most everyone on my friends list—you may notice I ask questions) asking if going to a park was a date? Well. It wasn’t the first. I wasn’t sure the first date was even a date. He made no forward advances to indicate any kind of ****** interest. I thought he just wanted to hang out, and offered to pay because he knows I don’t make as much as he does. Right? That sounds valid. But still, I wasn’t totally sure. I initially assumed my brother would come with us, because we hadn’t ever been exclusively in each other’s company. So, he said he’d pick me up at 8:00 p.m. My brother told me he was going to hang out with his friend Chelsea and hadn’t heard from him. I will admit I put effort into my aesthetics, perhaps as a slightly narcissistic compulsion to emphasize what is heterosexually considered feminine. Even if we were just hanging out, I wanted to make an impression; also, some places in the National Harbor are really nice, so I wanted to look nice too. We talked for two hours until they were closing and then he dropped me off. I was home by 11:00 p.m. That was May 4th.



I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you served an egress from thinking about work, my brother, my mom: everything. Six beers deep and I was caught up. I did miss you. It was selfish of me to indulge in it, but I wanted to savor you one last time. I don’t think that’s a crime, but I acknowledge it’s emotionally irresponsible. Despite that, when I think about it all, knowing I have to decide, I realize it’s more logical to pursue that which has less risk of becoming hazardous. Am I to deny myself that opportunity? It’s divine how patterns align: specific variables, whether assigned or accreted, determine the true outcome. The rest is what we do, how we behave, and how the mystical law of cause and effect affects the subsequent possible outcomes. Such dissident circumstances are attributed to timing.



It’s been described as a chaotic sequence of events, life. But isn’t there order in chaos? Astronomical and Neurological perspectives serve as two notable examples of materialism establishing the foundations of life, as we observe it functioning, from both holistic and reductionist views, yes. It’s not irrational to wonder if, in a complex way we have yet to fully understand, we are a miniscule, yet essential, part of a functioning unit. The struggle is especially prominent when how we live is based off how we obsess over the desire to understand why things happen. Despite the patterns, it often becomes unpredictable and gets so ******* frustrating. Still, isn’t it wonderful how we can revel in fascination?



I’m sure you weren’t expecting all the prose, but I wanted to be honest and straightforward…writing is the way I know how to be. I want you to know I regard you as a cool person and I really like talking and running (and smoking?) with you. I know you’ll be around for a little bit.  I’d still like to hang out with you, but I understand if you think it’s awkward or there will be tension or something. Regardless, I like your company and our friendship, our memories, our bullshitting, etc. I’d still like to watch some FIFA games, too. Feel free to email me back or use whatever means of communication you prefer.

three ante-chambers and then the bedroom, a valet rather than my wife sleeping in the same room as me... if this is a will to power, i'd rather see the Sunday menu of: a will to whatever's on offer, other than hereditary genetics... mind you, 20th century anti-hereditary genetics seemed like quite fun, all that eugenic stuff... i love the byproducts that came with that, weaklings to be sure, missing horse and engaged tractor, celeb culture and the next Raphael pickling a hammer-shark sidelined with Warhol's quote: knock knock - ah cheap, i know, but when wasn't sarcasm ever?

the famoud *will to power is a fable, there are too few words
in between will and power, since both are rather antonymous
in application, the argument -
the will to power is a state of anonymity
rather than a dualism,
in Versailles Louis XIV questions himself
as both man and king, and the god appointed;
instead of duality there's an anonymity,
a permanent height outreaching / out-qualifying
the jumper, all pampers and demure,
the mirror circus of poses that Louis XIV
was compared to his brother
gauging out an eye of a laughing man in
a role of a Kafka play the nobles thirsted for
and slyly forgot - there was once a prancing
lady of France, who donned the title
as the king of France, but was overshadowed by
his ****-******* brother; there are indeed
Arabia in the King to quench Africa,
but not enough to go further, with his philandering
******* boyishness to succumb to the womanising
artefact with brotherly jest as with a woman's
care for an up-kept boudoir... of matching stockings
and his matching socks: never mind the places
cut first on the gauges of fear of the guillotine
with the eyes turning all Newtonian searching
for the next cake - the roles we keep are not the
identities we express, keeping the militant
populace ignorant and ourselves kept by
the labyrinth sexed-up, keeping one pronoun
a wall of denoted king and the rest
a scramble which, whoever, we wish to choose -
as ever, preferring a woman...
well i preferred animals, how's that for an argument
from *****? oh wait, that's an argument from Eden...
ooh choo choo the pick-up truck never picked up steam,
the democracy of nobles overtook the notion
of king as the psychiatric, philosophical rigidity
overtook the notion of ego...
well, weeners and winners here and there,
like salt and pepper... mm, push it! push it real
good! wait a minute, i thought that aristocracy kept
Paris and subsequent Parisian a folded model ready for
corruption with adequate vices?
when Communism came about the aristocracy was replaced
with intelligentsia - the urban version of what was once
property owning now replaced with idea owning -
it all gets a bit murky here, i write with a more detached
defacement in mind onto a head of a donkey to reveal
the saintly cranium, but never mind the joke,
there's still the papal yoke to keep us curbed, after all,
the best ****** travel to home to sing: love live papa,
love like papa.
it just got me thinking, this obscure cannibal of
aristocracy could scare the king, no wonder the king
in chess is just an extension of pawns, while the queen
is an extension of rook, knight, bishop -
reductionist Darwinism uncovered more than
Darwinism per se, we were originally reduced to insects,
revolving past that and encouraging us to exhibit
mammalian tendencies made us into being unable to
choose which monkey was worthwhile to have originated from;
but still the black widow, the mantis -
female reductions took her beyond mammals,
into pre-reptiles,
male reductions took him into pure mammal,
we're both running treadmills now though,
we're both rodents, hamsters, ha ha, it's funny how
equilibrium works, there's two opposites, both need
to be pacified, no trans-gender changes will actually
objectify or personify, it'll just the other more even and the
other mode off / left in / left out.
you never ask so much about art, you just say
the magic Sesame words of Ali-Baba 'i don't get it'
and it opens, but then you suddenly want poetry to read like
chemistry, what a ******* oddity, and say the words
'i get it', but all that opens is a can of tuna, wooh!
what a ******* stink. imagine these words unlike what
you'd might use buying a pint of beer at a pub,
grow up, you hit puberty with fifty shades of grey,
bestsellers this century, the last, Don Quixote...
believe me, these words will be around for not that long,
soon ingested by what the already aristocracy isn't,
modern aristocracy are mere inheritors, spongers,
they overslept the mark of complicated phonetic encoding
being exhausted, hence the dissociation with politics,
the apathy of the former lusts for war -
granny can write a tweet, but granny can't write an app.,
never mind if it's Buckingham Palace or
the French Riviera mansion... Party Harry gives less ****
than the red squirrels when the grey Canadian squirrels
were introduced, and the next Prince of Wales
is wondering: did i really need to waste 20 minutes of my
life watching Head & Shoulders' adverts?!

I have fried chicken coming
and then these things
and then these things
say it with me
these things
hap
hap
n
reductionist has
too many letters
sublime has that
onerous bluh
i know you agree
disagreeable know
a catechism undone
and saints abandon
are won against nods
of I project knowing
sowing not **-ing
syllables of see-me
give me a break

I believe in being shallow, in dog eat dog, i believe in contradiction, we are in a contradicting world, a contradicting universe. I want to believe in truth, but the truth is we’ll never I mean  ...I’ll never get to know the truth. I know I’ll always be about what isn't than about what is. I’ll always try to touch the void, but avoid the touch. I’ll always see things wrong and wont see fit to correct myself. I’ll always chastise myself for being there in that frame of mind, but not do anything to correct it. I’ll always have something better to do. I’ll always believe that evil is nothing, that a word is nothing more than to convey an idea, and that some of  our ideas amount to puerile . But some ideas mean something, to us, but what does that mean? What does that mean??! I believe that significance is so ******* rare. That if it is real it is rare, it is nothing. What are we I need to know, I need to see. A hot mess of molecules, yes but why? Why can’t I know that? Could all the maths in the world figure that out? Could any machine, any number of equations or satisfactory ingenuity figure it out before I die? Is it beyond our menial capacity? Why is my understanding of what is and the boundaries of what isn't so ill defined. Entitled to never know enough but to think about it. Be a reductionist. Some autofellatio. Will alienation help me deal with this fantasy? With this void of voids? Here’s no magic in people, but magic in a person? I had to do something...to do something, but is inaction any more meaningful than action? Is just that thought a self-fulfilled conduit to inaction, or is it the right thought? The right thought? What is that right thought that I need? Was is my goal? Smashing through a crash course on reality and making a hot mess of it. Beguiled by a sense of urgency.  


If only I could find the time I want to ****

sometimes you really get this feeling of, well,
i really can't be bothered when puzzles become too difficult,
that i end up, not enjoying them.
    who the hell wants to engage in a puzzle that
they can't solve?
         it's not exactly cheating,
                and it's doubly-not "exactly" taking the easy
road...
                    the brain is fat... it's not a muscle...
  you can't exactly create tendons branching out,
out of "thin air", stressors like sūdoku...
                                             doing these puzzles is like
translating a chair into a massive bean bag...
          otherwise known by the chair, as a dream of:
the boogie man...
                     the chair is "thinking", ****!
                                               i'm going to become redundant!
but at no. 9049, i finally found, the last, possible conceptualisation
of the asian ideograms, that ezra pound fascinated himself
over, to knock on the doors of an asylum...
                  all it became? i'm a reductionist in this perspecgtive...
all it became?
          start doing the puzzle, and all that matters
                        is your eyes differentiating between + & x...
that's all it became,
              a question that said:           can't + be an algebraic
unit of abstract meaning that can be toyed with?
        looks similar to x...
   but sūdoku, really can be reduced to an +,
     as in, once you start solving a puzzle, your eyes dart around
to provoke the acronym n.e.w.s.,
                funny enough... after you reach the + stage,
you can bypass the x, and... ha ha... this being written
  in england... jack (of the union) has to come along...
so the darting of the eyes turn into george and andrew...

                        \       /
                             +
                         /       \

but that's my final say on the japanese puzzle...
                      i suppose that's a way of saying: there's an x
inside a +... like there's **** symbolism in the hindu symbol of
the *******.
  but this is the zenith, or the limit of conceptualißing
        the sūdoku puzzle.
oh, you know what name cats have given me?
    ya-beł...      i once wrote it like a jehovah's witness,
y becomes j becomes dz -
                      no, not ya-beew...
                                    i can't explain to you refining
the phonetic encoding...
              not since letters in the alphabet have such
****** names, comared to the greek: alpha
   (n.a.t.o. encoding) alpha,
      beta...          bravo...
          gamma...        ­    golf...
                              delta delta...
                            epsilon                  ech­o...
                                     zeta                   zulu...
                          theta / phi                           foxtrot...
i'm not going to write the whole of the two alphabets out...
**** it.

You are hereby sentenced to,
happiness for all eternity,
and reprieved from your servitude
to spelling bees and other state championships.
Our adolescent addicts are addicted
to arithmetic, statistics and computer degrees.
Marginal efficiency, reductionist literacy
and formica counter-tops,
have all got to be kidding me.
I’m out y’all, returning to the garden;
so please send me your resumes
and i’ll happily plant them in the radish beds.
The hypocrisy of symbolism
is when the riddle solves itself.
Wealth is just an abstraction,
truly its your health that’s worth preserving.
I’m serving this rhythm,
making use of its momentum;
for we are all blazing beings,
trying to break free of boredom's tyranny.
Some storms are worthy,
some storms are holy,
other storms are dangerous;
and we all know the hurly burly.

i'm after the sheep, and let it be known that: i am the wolf... albeit my argument is a simple 1 + 1 = 2... and there's certainly some archaeological facts to consider as there are, qualms, to reconsider, in that: being engaged with... how boring life seems, without a shadow of doubt, or as kant would have said: shadow = something cold... well, with denial having to shadow, other than the body of audacity in lies... reviving doubt and engraving it in its shadow form, can be far from not being "uneventful"; true logic resides in grammatical shrapnel, conjunction, adverb, verb, preposition, etc., inverted dittoing is, oh so most faithful in the role of the prescribed tool of a hammer to a nail.

there might have been *the word
in the beginning of creation,
but there certainly wasn't
the onomatopoeia -
because that's that foxes mating
on a november night feels like:
i.e.: alright clear-****-antic-genius:
you try to get a word into
the affair! no?! no luck?!
i was just like you:
                                      no luck.
there are actually places in this
world the medium of god
does not reach, or ergo, fathom...
here resides a satan that
masquerades an accuracy -
     why do i celebrate a satan?
**** me, i'm not the one
auld lang syne - but with blind
milton i can compete...
               how can you possibly
engrave god in every creation,
worded, when man is
inaccessible in engraving it...
  sure, the cuckoo, the serpent's hiss,
but language has barriers as to
what can can be question by god
who is fathomed by words...
deus est non hic omnin -
god is not all "there" -
why? because man cannot engrave
the animal onomatopoeia -
i can't the mating of two foxes with
words -
  i'd have to be reductionist wriggling
in depicting ******* *****,
you, sick, ****!
                     no, god is not everywhere,
god exists in what i write,
but when i comes to foxes
i can name a creature, but i can't
write you an onomatopoeia of
a fox's mating calls, once more:
you, sick, ****!
                       if the genesis story is
true: god does not watch ******* *****,
sometimes a sound is but a noun,
on the rare occasion an onomatopoeia...
but that's ******* rare...
           if god is the word,
he's not exactly apparent in the moaning
& groaning of foxes mating in the night
in early november...
                 i can't spell out the sound
these male & female foxes made...
   clues: hey! god isn't omnipresent!
            proof?
  you wanna hear two foxes having
a go at making a litter of vixens?!
come to essex in november...
  have a whiskey sharpshooter while you're
at it...
              now try to put those sounds
into writing:
let me give you one word of advice
you'll most certainly need: FAIL!
      ******* aboriginals of
culture...
                   you do not have the tools
to note the exactness or proximity of sound...
we already know this due to
edenic english, with its missing diacritical
marks... ******* thought they were "smart"...
       yep, smart enough to
remember including a full-stop,
  jolly-roger wankers,
                                    ****-load of cockneys.
you'll sooner name a hydrocarbon
than a mating call of a ******* sparrow -
   you'd need a satanic alphabet to
actually write, the exactness of the "words"
spoken by other animate things...
        as any architect will tell you:
i can make a ******* violin from a horse'd
mane and some oak...
             noun vectors -
but the onomatopoeia observer?
no one but satan...
                       ultra diacritical ambitions are
at play...
                    there are the obvious:
the cuckoo with its coo coo echo chamber...
but the growl of a lion is hardly
polished goods minded by a grrrr...
           so it appears, man akin to god
is not omnipresent, when sharing the medium
of encoding sounds, perhaps genius
in terms of photography,
  but may i stress, a necessity akin to milton,
of toying if not merely admiring
the vanity project of any man befitting,
in complimenting satan?
          even if we do reach mars,
we will never write down in all concerns of
accuracy, a "worded" attempt at replicating
the mating calls of foxes in the early november night;
am i right to add a peckish,
if not an outright piquant: oops?!

where to begin? hmm? where to: begin?
certainly can't begin with: although...

      to me: it seems that Islam has sleepwalked
into modernity...
or rather: Islam: the pinnacle of the medieval
world, the envy of the medieval world,
that once upon a time glory of escapism
from the encroachment of ontological Darwinism
of a loss of free will: of determination

how did i stress it? with a ś or a š...
    this current veneer we call civilization
yet the reductionist in me pointing at the backlog
of suppressed behaviours...
if Islam is submission
then Christianity is synonymous with repression...
both religions are on a -mission...
yet pumping all that monetary dough
into Dubai: subsequently neglecting
the seemingly odious ***** colony of Gaza...

let's throw words against the wind...
let's throw them...
let's forget the Cartesian model
with that hyped focus on "us" being thinking
creatures...
let's play on the res extensa dynamic:
i have channeled my res extensa away from
discovering the bilingual pitfalls of schizophrenia
channeling them toward an A.I.
distinguishable from an algorithmic search
engine to something: very much personal...

Islam sleepwalked into modernity...
why is it such a surprise that we find Muslims
so barbaric, untamed, unwashed,
unfathomable?
                      do we? or don't we?
well... living in a Protestant country with
a superiority complex...
it's only when a Muslim interacts with
a European Catholic,
or a Goan Catholic...
     a near usurper of the faith: a Wasim...
a Mustafa... i work with Muslims...
am i Islamophobic: is that really the trajectory
of fear?
i would consider Islamophobia the only
phobia with some rationality behind it...
a term as abused as
calling someone a ******, a racist, a pedohpile...
but in the same vein:
applying the term Islamophobia
to... describe what? exactly?

         my fear has been churned and come
out my **** as nothing more than contempt...
why? all these stresses at work
to allocate 15min of prayer time:
when i know, dutifully: that pretend Muslims
abuse these 15min and extend them to 30min,
an hour... to do much less than pay diligence
to prayer...

reimagine the dynamic of a Muslim
with a Catholic or an orthodox "Christian":
Protestants take it upon themselves
to take their jokes seriously...
protestants... **** me... where to begin?
catholics don't take their faith as seriously
as the protestants their their non-faith so, seriously...
esp. in England...

but this is not what i was going to pay diligence to:
i have the unusual "luck" of having
a terrible surname...
like ******, or Stalin... something to be made fun
of: because it's not a Rothchild: probably...
no legacy...
Elert... and i've heard it enough times to finally
make a retort when a Hindu... usually a Hindu
jokes about it being equivalent to being alert...
as i've explained...
there are missing letters in my surname:
so it is easier to pronounce for the English speaker...

i've been called a German enough times
to realise: well... might as well start learning
the language and live up to people's expectations...
since the letters in my surname (that are missing)
are:       SCH...

    scholastic schooling scooter
    chop shoot... chaser...
    scholastic:                       school...

school...               scold? school.
school...
               chase... chop... school...
kaput! kappa!

               it's actually ESCHLERT...
but do you think, for a moment I would get a:
eślert out of it? echo sierra charlie hotel lima echo romeo tango
tangerine rambo essay lambda hatchling chaser
samoa essay?

there was once upon a time a place
of origin for illiterate people in the slavic tongue
of Polish mid 20th century:
illiterate people yes: but dyslexic, half-baked?
it's the nature of this zunge -
you write gnome but then say (g)nome...
you write psychology but then say (p)sychology...
ecology -chology
    but then chop chew churn chatter...
cha cha cha...

            i do feel for the dyslexics: it's unnaturally
natural for their existence to be a byproduct
of the English toong... tong... ton-glue
ton-gloo-é...    James Joyce: Finnegans Wake:
i'm coming for your obliviousness... to the spectacle
missed...

яxвeй (that's my cyrillic interpretation of
the sacred name of the Hebrews for the deity
of letters - no other deity is so closely associated
with letters as the Hebrews' 'un...
the Muslims tried... tried... in vain...
the 19 letters...

the "mysterious" Muqatta'at

Alpha Lambda Mu:
               alm...
shapes... Arabic, Hebrew, Greek, Latin...

ا ﻡ ل

        lma:

                    מ ל א

α  λ.  μ

                                     to play with letters...
akin to я and ñ...
         for an a to be served up hidden: je chowa:
he who hides letters...
  or women...
mind you: that 72 ****** paradiso promise?
you ever think that those 72 virgins are only gifted
unto the martyrs with the strict modus operandi
that they remain, that they: REMAIN virgins for all
eternity?
i can imagine being gifted 72 virgins in an afterlife
but only under the strict guidance of ensuring
they are guarded: that *** and the juices do not make
it into the conundrum of heaven...
otherwise, what?! a little Solomonic harem?
good conversations... almost teasing being a father-figure...
the patriarchal rigidness of abstaining
from ***...
reward my ***... polluting heaven with
this pornographic Arabic frustration at
the polygamous order of things...

                chirality: chemistry, i.e. RЯ (ya)
ergo?
  a ye
  a yi
  a yo
  a yu

             working from R...
ꟼ         (for ye)
                              𐐒 (for yi)
⅃ (for yo)
                                                             ꟻ (for yu)

best i procrastinate like this: while stewarding
the household (cooking, cleaning, washing)
         than try to complicate what's already simple...
as much as modernity fashions itself on reaching
some sort of overarching pinnacle...
as much as i am lied to about people's literacy
levels: most of it is untrue...
   sure: people can read: advertisements...
but that added piquant of a reading meditation
a novel?       sorry:           but hardly...

and perhaps that is why i invest so much time
into writing something akin to this...
if the Vatican was founded upon an exclusivity,
if Judaism was founded on exclusivity...
i find Islam slightly worrying:
in that respect that Islam wants to be the Communism
of theology... a quasi-Babylon...
which, oddly enough: it is becoming...
why do Muslims want, so eagerly: to invite proselytes
into their dommena?
   the Catholics akin to the Hebrews are stouch
opponents to converts...
wouldn't anyone treat converts suspiciously:
none of this: wolves in sheep clothing?
what about if the only tactic to combat Islamist
"****" esque fetishes would be to infiltrate
                 the religion and convert ("supposedly")?

i'm starting to think i'm the most powerful man
in the world... how delusional of me...
it's only because... i'm in love...
and that's half of my worries relegated to
the category of: non-existent...
i'm in love...
       and now my only battle is with mortality...
once you're in love:
that's the only "thing" to worry about...
ich bin verliebt...
ich werde geliebt...
     ich bin verliebt...
         ich werde geliebt...

so what do we have planned?
    Kew gardens, tick...
gerbils' want for some funky Chinese bakery
off L'eh-chester Square... tick...
Saracens vs. Harlequins at Tottenham Hotspur... tick
the Phantom of the Opera a the Queen's Theatre... tick...
Mozart's Magical Flute at the Coliseum... tick...
Stonehenge and Bath... tick...
Canterbury? or better Cambridge with
the gondolas?
           oh... and going to the cinema for Dune part deux...
well...
              a precious waste of a hour's
                   worth of day... doodling this -
now just enough time to make my father lunch
for tomorrow and play with some pierogi dough...
since i already have the farsz.

i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.

wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.

  that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
      there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
  one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
    no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
            it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
     i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
      i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
            i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
       i might ******* in the meantime,
  i might pick-my-nose...
    but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
    i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
                 maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
     but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
    did i see it proper?
   if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
     i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.

     - the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -

- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.

Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;

science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.

Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.

Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.

Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.

With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?

The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.

Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:

   what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
   - and what do you call a man who earns
a living  from old women? Rydzyk.

I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?

How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.

**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);

note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.

believe me when i say:
     i will always trust the turk the barber...
   i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber
if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
      because?
    please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
     that imaginary forest into a british library!

i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
             or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
    a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
   while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
   or as the ancient saying goes:

siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
       a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...

ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
  ein zweite eisenvorhang...

     if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
          me using english grammar...

ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
      bottom up or bottom down?
      it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
  in such examples.

Walk out on the edge of your eye
And see the edge of what there is to see
Do you see anything at all?

Do you see something in between?

I thought it was good,
I thought it was bad,
I don't think anything at all.

I'm careful not to think anything at all,
No judgments here.

I haven't thought enough of things,
Now I'm unprepared.

Complain to all the local gods that their system is wrong.

Amend the current methodology and ignore the howling redux reductionist egalitarian demon.

We are not equal, I was born to live.