Anxiously awaiting atomic assimilation
Basing me on belligerent and boorish bastardization
Capsizing cargo with careful consideration as to
Deciding which day is decay's destination
Everyone embrace the elevated expiration
Forget my face and follow fabrication
Go to the gallows with grace and gravitation
He will hold you and hinder alienation

I, however, hold insignificance in interest
Justifiable jackhammers jacking fighter jets
Killing Californians who are kissing canvases
Lying without laughing and lighting cigarettes
My master makes me move my mundane mind
Never knowing next to nothing with nothing else inside
Overly offering operating override
Practicing patiently pulling peoples' pride

Quickly questioning quizzical quietness
Rationalizing raging reinventions ridiculous
Stapling this summer to my (still) sick subconscious
Traveling tunnelers trading tides for tiredness
Under the umbrella my undertow untangles
Violently vibrating like varying violin angles
Waiting with wandering whispers under the table
Xylophonist x-rays, excruciating fables

You yellow youngling, you who screams in my dreams
Zebras zoom by every single night, it seems
Let's chant my enchantments, the alliteration song!
And untie your tongue
So you don't take it wrong.

the way i see it, the internet doesn't really exist for poets
of the 21st century: instant gratification in other realms does,
the digital free-love movement,
mobile internet - and the atypical human
behaviour of sorts;
counterclockwise there's another movement
happening - not based on a dozen social
media accounts - digital selection,
it's there - the komtur movement -
you use a sieve and you add the filter, without
even considering the deep web -
you imagine yourself in a Tron exercise -
you're basically saying: what should i
include in the virtual reinterpretation of
the high street - i haven't bothered going to
the high street / junk street for ages -
Oxford Street is like Jurassic Park for me -
herds of edible oxen daydreaming while
walking - poets always have the acid tongue,
better treat a woman with truth than
shelter 10 concubines and lie -
tss! (venomous spit sound) - where the big
boy'oh and his ******* Ferrari now?
on the next ***** - like i planned out prior -
there was a leather settee sitting in someone's
driveway, i had a beer and a cigarette and
felt the need for a breather - but it's in someone's
driveway... it would look odd, no?
around the corner a John the Baptist moment,
another settee sitting on the pavement -
you know how surreal it feels to sit on something
that's intended for the indoors when sitting outside?
i usually take rigid monk attention to postured
retirement from walking, but a settee on the pave
was like... sitting on a cloud - i joined
the feline traffic wardens for a while, 1, 2, 3, 4 cars
passed, i snorkelled two cigarettes and finished the
bear - the night... mm... is this surreal?
well... imagine that Brazilian billionaire and
his Olympic Games bid parking his car
in his living room... i parked my sofa on the
pavement - he's a butterfly incubator, i'm a tornado.
in poetry you have metaphors, puns...
i treat all psychiatric terms as equivalent to what
poetry uses - split-mind is both imagery and metaphor -
i'm already wearing a wedding ring -
allocated to the mediation of money, so she's
a ******* in heaven - i call her my pain in the ***
because she is a scorching sound in my left
hemisphere, it's this constant nagging -
or be like a Kantian bachelor - test your strength alone -
you'll have cognitive arguments with yourself,
you might do the whole schizophrenic episode -
or like me... hold keen on the stern and recover
with meteoric ambition to count the number
of peas in a glass like some autistic genius -
shame that science never had any romantic dimension -
Kierkegaard explored Faust - it ended up with Faust
being more the mythology that was intended -
he simply overpowered the love interest -
a love too diabolical - and unto hell we go, less
romantic and even more diabolical - some poets
write 20 poems a year, applause applause it's all great
because it's like taking a selfie of the poet on the toilet
seat - but my throne the throne of thrones,
Napoleon sat on a throne and the warring fields
were filled with **** - i sit on the throne of thrones
and the fields don't matter, i just **** on the throne
of the French Emperor; oi! listen, i'm trying to draw
return to the narrative linear, it's not easy when
you end up constantly stimulated by digression, digression,
it's hard enough to stop the river, let alone build a
Hoover dam or a bridge - o.k., now that i'm
less excited by subconscious stimulants of talk talk talk
(subconscious? yeah, read a few articles
about Layla, Harrison, No *** Please, Modern
reinventions of Arranged marriage with psychiatrists etc.)
i figured, i must write a 21st century poem...
i'm not much of a gamer, fair enough like any teenager
i played the Playstation - didn't get to no. 2,
that old grey block of plastic -
Tenchu and Final Fantasy Seven (with a walkthrough,
i was busy doing homework), and the Sims -
the wormhole spectacular - get the Sim to sit at the
computer... BOOM! cross-dimensional wormhole,
started freaking out... but the tablets are around
and i got speeding on Raving Fever -
PLAYER43588 - number of wins 1602 - mostly on the 2nd car
in the gallery - and mostly won on a 2,000 / 4km bet -
how? the physics - the nitro on max, the braking the handling
the acceleration and the speed on max -
but it's the physics! the ****** physics! most players
i go against are like robots... they press the nitro button
and quickly accelerate - i just sit back and either wait
for them to crash against the traffic, or when they don't,
after i have gained from the acceleration per se,
and having reached the max speed, then i nitro the ******...
it's like a Zeno paradox, i'm the tortoise and they're
Achilles - it's irrational to counter a good acceleration
with nitro - a schematic and less verbiage:

car A
nitro                    (143kmph)
                                               z. (~184kmph)
                                                                                    nitro
                                                                                    car B

z. denotes the zenith of speed - if these androids figured it
out properly, they wasted their nitro boost to reach the
maximum speed, i only wasted the acceleration potential
and got slightly delayed - once hitting the maximum
speed of 143kmph - i then press on the nitro and my zenith
is at ~184kmph - they're stuck on a plateau of maximum,
while i'm decreasing to their zenith of mutual maximum -
that's why i win so often, the frustrating thing for them
is that i always beat them on the last 100 metres or so.
basically i'm slowing down, while they're stuck on
stead speed, and by slowing down i'm beating them.
i guess scientists aren't ****, but neither is raising children,
who best knows the adventure of the mind?
and how to make boredom worth your while?

the leaves of my mind die,
without rustle, without why,
an incessant new season of direction
of spring, of beauty, of need,
orthodox and counterclocks
of bathroom stalls and
desperation calls--
in the tile we prove our worthwhile
as the hounds and haunts of yesterday
test our haul,
and I'm a magician and a *******,
a lover and a shotty terrorist,
the mad house rings,
sing, sing, sing
of yesterday--of fever dreams,
make me levitate to heavens,
push me away for doorknobs
and summer screens,
those are temporary,
lionesses in heat,
to be appeased
for the watering hole
and mouths of summers sought to soon--
we can romanticize the afternoon,
we can romanticize the mundane gloom,
but in the end we are nomads,
bouncing off shoreline and magazine subscription,
confused of endings
and brave in the face
of annihilation.
Rewrite the histories of our forefathers,
rewrite the reinventions of the wheel,
until it's all progress and simmering,
until the *** is full and festering,
when the now is soon,
and yesterday is dead,
the magnificence of misery--
hits like a runaway diaper truck
to add injury to insult,
to add scorpion to sting,
and if your mother is a dancer,
be not ashamed,
but praised,
she filled a primal need,
more than can be said about
Hemingway or Artaud or Bonaparte or the spring,
I have mountains to climb
and ****** rhymes to satisfy--
if you feel love,
boast,
if not welcome to hell,
a perpetual ****** roast
of ego,
of soul,
of every lover you let go--
the luck lies at stoplight kisses,
the luck lies in ***** sheets
and clean sneakers,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
heaven is my fix,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
I'll buy two hells a week for
the rest of my endless years,
if you love me,
do it,
don't doubt,
don't simmer,
ignite,
burn  brighter than former,
than the mourner,
than the funeral singer,
and make dinner on the ground,
we'll howl as the gravestones depreciate,
we'll howl as the stock market
solidifies in ice,
we'll howl as we realize the trite,
and I'm wrong often
but mostly right,
ask the machine gun,
and the sparrow hauling the olive branch,
ask murderers and the stain on your pants,
time is a circus of the three-ring variety,
too much to focus,
too much to bore,
too much to whine,
but under the cover of freedom--
enough to die in contentedness
and lie in the pangs of eternity
with a sigh, a slip of the tongue
and a pair of rolling eyes--
let not your daughter drown,
let not the horns on your head weigh you down,
the tomorrow is soon,
the now is ancient,
the promises to be fulfilled
will leave you begging-
bring on the fantasy,
the daydreamed celibacy,
the marooned integrity,
I've got a moon,
fourteen clouds,
and a headrush from nicotine--
drink of my youth, it's light, easy, cheap--
enough to get you drunk,
but lacking the dexterity of luck--
the burden, the burden
of always giving a ****.

Words and images
Of hate and despair.
Concrete walls
And iron bars.
Divisions of the soul.
Loathing, ceaseless strife.
Happiness vanishing
Within the night.
Masses herded.
Shivering in lonely seasons.
Unprepared, pretentious
Mongers of greed.
A small plant
Bending towards sunlight
While trampled
Under foot.
Insane, mundane
Theoretical disadvantages.
The universe has no use
For the virus of
The Human Race.
******* dry and
Leaving empty.
Necessities unreplenished.
The moon
History of the last
Failed experiment.
Future doomed
Of history's repent.
Repetitious reinventions
Gone with the limbs of
The serpent.
Contagious, voracious
Blissful ignorance.
Blinded, blurred
Worth of self.
Dependently independent.
Unable to close the gap
Between tomorrow and
The now.
Following too closely
In the wake of
Destruction.
Abandoned,
Unable to change course.
Eternal frailty.
Impregnated with
Foreign thoughts
And foreign words.
Somewhere lost in
The granules of time.
Wrapped up in the eternity
Of my own mind.

There are few responses that fit when you fall away
from all the things you love most.
After so many reinventions, so many changes
I don't know who I am anymore.
I thought I knew what I was chasing, but
in the end, I was wrong.
I've changed directions and I can't get back, even
to where home is a distant memory.
I can't recognize my surroundings, the world I
built with my choices.
All doors are locked and windows closed,
walls are padded, eyes are dim.
I don't want to die trapped in my own foolish
insecurities and mistakes.
I don't want to become just a soldier, marching
this lonely road to the end.
I hate looking in the mirror and seeing my own
accusing eyes, reminding me.
Rip and tear, claw and bring to ruin this palatial
tower of misrepresentation.
Wear my fingers to the bone with insignificant
self-promises and fleeting hope.
I will be free one day.
Silence the voice of failure and my near silent
misgivings that cut the hamstrings of hope
and push me deeper into the prison of
despair and self loathing.
I will be free.

If I could live a life tomorrow, lost in a different world.
A splinter of a different place, in a time unfurled
Pieces of another life, where other thoughts are hurled
Swimming in tranquil pools, from a mind that's swirled
Through the haze of memories, distorted bent and curled
Decisions that have not been made, similar but twirled

An image of a different world, caught in a singularity
Thoughts fragmented in a void shredding my mentality
Segments of a fractured mind in an alternate reality
A small piece of a dream, A fragment of normality
many fractions of my life that questions my insanity
Feelings of a better place that curves my sensuality

Dimensions in a different time, inclines so obscure
Alternative parts of my life through a different door
Images of loved ones gone, to real to just ignore
Shadows of a former life, places from before
One step beyond the barrier, steps on another shore
Walking in an unknown land not knowing what's in store

Drifting between the twilight, lost in your own dimensions
Shades of different lifetimes, all of life's extensions
Floating in a time warp, with other world intentions
Memories of things not done, a mind of reinventions
Shredded dreams chipped away shattered in suspensions
Trapped fragments of a memory merged with your own pretensions

Living in a another world, no matter what my morrow's
Rifts in space on splintered dreams, a breach in time that follows
A fraction of a quantum field, a universe which borrows
Shards of a sun on broken stars in a mind that hollows
A chance to live a different life without any of life's sorrows
Waiting to be in a life of all those lost tomorrow's

August 2 2016. Just another day. Just another call. No warnings to slow or stop.
So from where did they come? Those terrifying demons. That lit my body from ‘toe to top’?
Surging waves of burning. They set the firestorm in my head...
For thirty-six hours those demons raged. Left me breathing but mentally wrecked.

Now thirty-six months of chemical intervention.
No medical breakthroughs. Just my self reinventions.
Mental confusion. Emotionally fragile. Sleep; Avoid the pain.
Adapt and manage. Rebuild my life. Learn how to ‘dance in the rain’.
The difficulty of being damaged on the inside? From the outside there’s no sign.
But the anxiety within. Brings panic and failure. Messing-up, time after time.

Question follows question. Tell me again. And again. What’s your problem with mental health?
Well sorry, not sorry, that I can’t explain to You, what I don’t understand myself.
Close friends. Family that matter. My wife (my strength), who still loves me the same.
They don’t push for answers. They’re there to support me. Over and over again...

The demons drew me down. But it was ‘Them’ who near erased me.
But dug too shallow a grave. To lay me out. Cover Their own inefficiency.
Twenty-eight years then. Counting for nothing. I’m a problem. Forget any history.
Legal assistance. My own fading strength. We fought Them all the way. A small yet decisive victory.

Down but not out. To go again. But with much less mental agility
A whole new experience. Out on my own. Looking for help through the instability.
“You’re gone, retired, no contact now”. A freedom in being cut loose.
But the ‘right to review’ is scribed in terms. Seems I still can’t slip the noose.

Twitter. A crutch. Succinct & concise. Has truly unearthed some gems.
Drawbridge up. Safe. In my own little bubble. Content with my ‘virtual friends’.
These props online. Or from the bottom of an ever-emptying glass.
Both support me fine, & help. Yet aren’t prescriptions, written to last.

To fall to This was never an option. Yet still I’m here ‘giving it time...’
Finding a way to cope again. Reconfiguring heart & mind.
So yes, still mentally challenged. Still emotionally fragile. Still sleeping; Avoiding the pain.
Still adapting. Still rebuilding my life. Still learning to ‘dance in the rain’.
But I’m clawing back. To ‘live’ again. Not just exist, seeing out ‘day-to-day’.
My mantra: “To live - and not to breathe - would be to die in tragedy”

Admire not always
Equating desire
I wanted to hear you
Appear to conspire
Against me
Preemptively tempting
Descent
Reinventions
Of tempestuousness
Lament
Unrelentingly
Holding me under,
Asunder,
Inside
In your presence
As placid as thunder
No wonder I stumbled
In humbling hubris
You needed no man,
Little boy,
And you knew this
Exuded it
True to your word
From the horse’s mouth
Thinnin’ the ranks
Of the herd
And that one’s for you
Out there
Without me
Succeeding
Exceedingly
Stick to your guns
Without bleeding
And that’s where the peace became
Nothing remains,
I would bathe
In a river of it
To reclaim
Your attentive
Retention
Of my complete
Sentience
And still even now
Can’t complete a whole sentence

i mean: how would you feel? living in a society... with these other people, being hell-bent on ensuring you are to be... made extinct? would you captilute for "western"... "secular"... "sensibilities"... what sort of ****-erosion of an argument is this... this Chamberlain's effort to wave a promise on a piece of: ******* toilet paper... wipe your *** with it... ****** implored... but no... no no... it has to be celebrated... this lost event in the periodicals of time... so imagine living among these ****** riddled half-breed Muzzies... imagine living among people that are parasitical in the economic sense and predatory in the actual sense of wanting to **** you... hagel dauer! it just takes one Norwegian-Nigerian to laugh in the night to think my writing is bogus... but there will come a time when this writing with be remnant of the times: and i... i? i'll be dead.

no, i wouldn't call it a bad reading habit:
the fact that i'm "currently" engaged in about 3 to 4 books
that i started and haven't finished,
not when i give a timeline outline of how far apart
i am in getting through each book or,
for that matter: when i started each...

for example Knausgaard's Min Kamp vol 6
i've been reading for almost 3 years...
maybe longer...
the entire collection was the last books my grandfather
gave me as a present:
he died by the time i reached vol 3... or 4...
i remember my first encounter with the work:
"impossible", or rather: dull to have read the works
in English: so i said to myself:
i'll give it another try in another zunge: namely ******
and how glad i was since Norwegian translated
better into ****** than English...
some historical travesty of the Polish state being
allied to the northmen via trade
and the amber road or something: or how English
was partially moulded by the nordzunge...
either way... i'm still to get to the juicy bits
of vol 6 where ****** is discussed and i too wanted
to buy a copy of ******'s mein kampf for
posterity but that's: ******* unavailable as a historical
artifact but i'm pretty sure that if Genghis Khan
wrote a book it would be freely available
and perhaps even venerated
because i, am... some ******* secular "prisoner"
while Muhammad's Quran is venerated:
although i suspect, with him being illiterate
which is twice-dyslexic removed from a first cousin
****** marriage... was written by his literate and
other acumen pronunced first older wife: Khadijah...
notably: he didn't have so many followers
petulent and shy and half the mad of Beelzebub's
(mucha: fly... in Polish)...            conquest of the desert...

why O whimsical sly whiskers and Why
would i care for slander
given the prancing pony parade of disgust after
the Magdeburg attack
like the media imposed this reading of 'terrorist attack'
somehow hailing the culprit
as a savior, in a weird, twisted way:
because he was a firebrand on some internet
forum hailing the death of Europe and calling it
to do more to emancipate Arabian women
from all that dough cash flow from the secret
pseudo harems of Ha Ha H'arabia
because all the European chicks like a bit of kink
when rich gluttons of the sand
ask them to perform inverted ****** on their
faces while taking a **** into their mouths:
or so the urban mythos goes:
no need for a trip to Thailand and the Kentucky
fried mouse...

                     so that's book one... i'm yet to finish...
another is Heidegger's ponderings VII - XI...
but that doesn't really count: no book of aphorisms
and nota bene "apostrophes": anecdotes blah blah counts
as something you might read unlike a newspaper:
skimming, tossing pages around like a wind...

    which also includes Masudi's the meadows of gold...
there is no real narrative to the work so i can "cheat"
on that reading...
        yet starting Jan Fosse's septology was a big mistake:
thinking: ooh: a Nobel Literary Prize laureate could:
but couldn't... the prize was awarded
a bit like how H'american elections go...
the popular vote of the people is worth zilch and nada
because there's the College vote and that matters more
so it's almost as if democracy is a fakery
of arithmetic: bad count... bad grounds for shadow
governance...         and this was worth a Nobel prize?
i think is dropped so many times
there is no punctuation
     it's like the advent of the printing press whereby
ink and paper were expensive and there could be no
poetic cascade
   just the myopic paragraph fudge and inorganic chemistry
of stones...
saving money and ink and paper condensing
paragraphs without spacing indicators
beside the 💊𓄿
                              (¶) - which borders on cyrillic in
the mirror with N and И
R and Я
                                     so someone once said
that most of the time, in the realm of poetic:
we write about what we're reading...
                       but not so much about the simple fact
of the per se: writing per se: reading per se...
it's a simple fraction...
    i always adored the equilibrium of:
            not writing more than i read
and always reading more than i write...

           if all should come to a fork in the road
i could condense my thoughts via letters encoding sounds
by isolating letters as if they were not sounds
syllables... ooh... syllables and languages that employ
the antithesis of the atomised tongue
like Japanese and it took me a while to imagine
having my tongue cut out and thus trying to say
certain letters as if i didn't have a tongue
and i could get away with using only my mouth
and lips but i couldn't get away with some of the letters
because they do, actually, require a tongue an the palette
of the upper mouth...
like T...                    counting all the vowels:
5 in English... 7 in Polish...
funny: Polish as a tongue: it has as many letters
as there are teeth in the gob...
unlike English with it's 26 although the 26 are debetable
since C K Q S and q: kw
                              
lips and mouth alone along the aeiou pentragram rubric...
B works fine withot the tongue
C just as well... although hoarse sounding...
D... doesn't... it morphs into G...
since D employes the tongue and the teeth...
so without tongue D morphs into G and the 5 vowels...
vowels don't use the tongue
just the mouth and throat and air...
F requires the tongue...
H doesn't require the tongue...
                 J requires the tongue for the succinct stresses...
K is the crown of the uvula being tested...
    L most certainly requires the tongue...
       K is tricky: but hark like a crow and the tongue
can be abandoned...
          M as: ma ma
  m'eh m'eh... moo...          as long: well put Am Om
and it's a breath closing the lips...
        N does require the tongue...
Q and coo... but since Q is a two vowel letter
it does require the tongue...
T, S, Z... all require the tongue...
   W doesn't...
                  R before the numbing the trill by some vague
"tarantula" bite... did... didn't... let's suppose
the French and the English still trill their Rs like the Spanish...
                 and any other letter i omitted: X?
evidently the tongue is stressor to otherwise
the breath and the lips doing fish Bob's service plunder...

but it feels healthy like that:
a newspaper handy: my my... so the savior of Europe
is some Saudi psychiatrist
Germany is on the poking stick of resurrected Weimar Rep
fuckery
        because now the story goes:
it's no longer a right wing mental health case doing
some scooping for info
like watching ****** speaches on South Korean t.v.
and how sane he almost sounds
when he's not in full glam demonic rhetoric mode...
and to think:
at the time of the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
we were a people known for religious tolerance...
we even managed to found the first Protestant nation:

the devout Catholic king Sigismund I the Old (1506–48)
accepted as his vassal in Ducal Prussia,
the Lutheran prince Albert I, Duke of Prussia,
thus creating the first Protestant country in the World...

oh and with the largest diaspora of the world's Jews...
but then we were taught lessons
for our tolerance...
first the partitions... then the onslaught of the Nazis
coupled with the Soviets...
we were taught a different toleration:
the toleration of: you will not live among us...

it took a month for Poland to be conquered
during world war two... no mention of Russian involvement...
but it took six weeks for Germany to conquer
France... France... a colonial superpower...
versus this newly emerged pauper state
that sent men on horseback to throck grenades against
******* tanks...            irony: history is so ironic...
it's not even on repeat: but how humans interact with time:

if Einstein conjured the space-time dynamic
then i had to delve into a humanism
of a science and call space: architecture...
that the ancient Romans once occupied
the capuccino lands of Plaza Pizza...
with their coliseums and football stadium reinventions...
and time being history: well hey presto!

Horace: quo me, Bacche, rapis tui plenum?
where are you scooping me up with force?

in times of crisis: it is best to leave follies aside
follies of literature / narrative... proper...
so i picked up a Polish translation of Aristotle...
Great Ethic and Poetics...
i never thought i'd come to Aristotle having begun my
journey with Plato...
but hey presto... miracles happen...
and what stood out: immediately...
a correlation between Heidegger and Aristotle...
question-worthiness becomes an answer of worthiness-per-se...

what begun as an arithmetic of counting
the camel's humps...
like they might be dunes of the Arabian desert
or the raised Alps...
i wonder...
date an older woman: with child...
send the child a parediloia riddle
then get accussed of sending a ******* picture...
and there i was... about to sacrifice
my earnings and tickle of a few more years
on walking on eggshells...
i can be accussed of ****** and of thievary...
but... i can't be accussed of ******* or of ****...
sorry... that's where my love grows numb...
i can no longer love
i am numb with logic and reason...
i will turn to Aristotle concerning the
man of worth and the egoist...
because the man of worth will only be egoistic
concerning moral beauty...
because morality is a beauty unlike anything
stressed by aesthetic...
morality is a trans- (translation) of the arts...
morality undermines art:
or so it should:
call me a murderer or a thief:
but don't call me a ****** charlatan of deviance!
don't jest with asexual reproductive tactics
then start calling it: intact egoism!
egoism is born from both sexes
given that the ego is sexless!
but insinuate that i am more a ******* than a murderer
and you will feed my: wrath...

samolub: egoist...
   man of worth...            who feeds off the privy of power
and wealth... philosophers as surrogate fathers and mothers
to their eldest children...
no... i don't need a psychiatrist to prescribe me
blue pills, black pills, red pills...
i just need a philosophy book and some time
alone and knowing that the time i spent
i was bothered about high brow literature like
a Nobel prize matters when it's not dynamite...

now comes the wrath in writing
because my heart has grown numb from the accusation:
it must be a H'american thing...
i asked AI the dynamic of getting a greed card visa:
sexed up...
works fine if you are an American gent
importing a Thai queen progress...
but reverse that...
i can't imagine sitting on my *** for half a year
until i might get a permit to work...

then again: let's be honest:
beside the fact that i told her:
there is no better brothel... there are no better prostitutes
than in the church of the Savior...
but to be accussed of sending a teenage girl
a picture of my *******?
come on...               there's paranoia and there's
absurdity...
   so philosophy books exist to cling to like
a drowning man might cling to a razor blade...
i don't need a psychiatrist to talk **** over
and to be presribed anti-metabolic pills to fatten
me up...
     plus all the red flags... all her previous boyfriends
were the problem: she wasn't...
if i get accussed of said X...
who is to say i won't be accussed of unsaid Y?

σπoυδαιoς (human of worth)
               is not an egoist (φιλαυτoς)....

                 spoudaios... philautos...

            that's settled: the "ego" in my stomach
overruled the "ego" in my mind and most
importantly the *******-ego of everywhere
that's alias to my body-extremity...

                    i needed the bait... i found the bait...
then i needed the opposite party to trip up
and take the bait...
which would absolve me from feeling guilty
of leaving my elderly parents to fend for themselves:
with only the promise of the greatest *** imaginable
i could hone in on a diet of
just pure wanking
and be content with that...
because the idea of slobbering on a ****
that would be only recreational rather than give privy
to my fatherhood...
well... should you find yourself in a similar situation
with an older woman:
how modern this all is...
fancy how far feminism has come
to ensure that age is only a number
so the medieval times are like the 1960s
in terms of attitutdes toward affairs of the heart
and there was never a period in time
when heretical mouths were not given the slither
of the stiches to shut them up...

i can be accussed of being a murderer...
a thief...
but a pedohpile or a ******?
         you don't get away with that sort of accussation:
i am numbed out of loving her
we invested so much time in discussing
paraidolia that it stunned me:
stunted me: i became a dwarf and a castrato at the same
time...
            
         i don't have time for that sort of ****...
if being alone is my fate:
at least i'll have philosophy books to mind
and none of that housewife *******
of floral arrangements and seeing young Reyla
being disgruntled at a nativity play for the school
not playing the lead role of Joseph that
cuck...

             i hate Christmas i hated Christ the moment
i heard the mantra of: turn the other cheeck...
when oculus per oculus (eye for an eye)
was seemingly erased from our natural ontology...
i hate "christ" on a personal level...
i love the church for how well it organises people...
i just hate "christ": cosmopolitan this ******* figurine
this slaughter piece standard to conquer the north...
while these ****** ****- go lampooing their desert whims
of wisdom like bogus hocus pocus...

**** these desert ******* these camel jockeys...
i've reached a clarity levelling that's
beyond my concern for whatever humpty-dumpty politco
dynamic is left available:
if my ancestors lived through **** Germany
and Soviet Russia: a people desperately willing
with so few quid... you think these Arabs
with their ******* easy money thrill me to scare me?!
really?!
               i'm waiting for martydom.