now don't get me wrong
i love wordsmiths
semiotic story-tellers
rhapsodists rhythmically reciting
love languages from memory
connecting disparate lines
between discordant thoughts like
gods breathing life into dust

for these steel swords we've
conjured up do not rust
nor do they cut flesh

with mouths like ink fountains
we espouse words at the whims
of pens that often seem possessed
of their own volition and
we are their mere harbingers

they slice to the quick
past bone and marrow to
the human spirit and
tap into sentience through
sophisticated sentence structure
measured meter catalyzing cadences
of consonance in confidence

so by all means
spit rhymes and chime in
on current events
i love the rally cries
that seek to stymy injustice
ridicule bigotry and
foment dissent

but don't preach at me
your words of salvation
fall on deaf ears
you cannot save me
because i'm already divine
one-of-a-kind
just like you

i don't fancy myself above
satirizing fictitious and megalomaniacal
depictions of godhood
i've found that humor
helps us navigate the
half-truths and veiled threats
that inundate our daily existence
regardless of whether
they originate from
preachers politicians pundits
or poets

****-shaming and victim-blaming
are pathetic attempts to cull dull minds
no thanks mine's full to the bursting
you think you're clever for slapping
together a couple of words brewed
for maximum effect but you haven't
got the faintest clue do you no

you're nothing but a bully with a pulpit
fearmongering and shouting damnation
mixing Church and State and business
in a trifecta of tyranny
an orgastic oligarchy
of eternal enmity

when we die we pass
into the black abyss of nothingness
each of us a blip on the spectrum of
life under constant duress
before we ultimately perish
a meaningless speck of dust on
an endless shore of who was
who is and who will come to be

this is not a nihilistic proclamation
nor an atheistic defamation of
human beings but a rational
refutation of misanthropy
masquerading as community

your love looks a lot like hatred

i seek to offer an alternative
to the endless cycles of
condemnation that sprout from
the pages of holy books
like gnarled trees bequeathed
unto us by the seeds
of false prophecies

let's face the music
we will all die alone
and there is nothing
and no one
waiting for us
no white light or
loved ones on
the other side
no arbiter of fate
waiting at the gate
to permit us entrance
to a heavenly place

if we could only muster the courage
to divorce ourselves from fatalistic
fantasies of the afterlife
that keep us bent-kneed
we might find within us the strength
to seize the day and
live life so brilliantly that

we'd create a heaven on earth
if merely we departed from the
hellish impulses that divide us
into despondent collections of
self-righteous hypocrites and
simply admit the only thing we
know for certain is that we
know nothing for certain at all

perhaps then we could salvage
a modicum of freedom from
the wreckage of shattered
egos and emaciated lies
that plague this planet
with circumstantial evidence
while relegating our liberty
and inhibiting conscience

in the spirit of free inquiry
then let us question
everyone and everything
starting with yours truly

Installed in the Eclectic Parallel World of the invisible portal of Saint John the Evangelist, everything levitated in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA). They would find themselves in communion with the clan count, resembling being in their proper ectoplasm; conforming to the only part of masonry ruled to redirect them in the messianic workings of the ascension stages. Vernarth; he besieged in the conscious state of him having to adhere to the cavern, after having finished his labors by waiting three months. He risks being consumed by the myriads and conflagrations, retracting them in parapsychological clouded ways, which subsisted to consecrate themselves in the lavish places divided towards the horizon. The iridescence threatens the primary ultraviolet, lifting the carriage of Apollo Citar, a neighbor of the astronomical cave sketch of the Muse Urania. A lame nuance escapes and dissolves from his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos, inserted in the death throes of his embryonic revelation, to pour him into the Megaron to build.

The saint appears only on certain days looking at Vernarth from afar, to encourage him in his progress on the rocky rocks of sharp silica, he is seen as a beautiful adonis dressed in a chlamys with delicate pinkish tones. With such scruples, he redounds a psalm of the angel that normally accompanies the Evangelist around him, with greenish and indigo tones in the perspective quadrinomial of heaven, that he was perishing in his most afterlife redemption in the glory of the empyrean. More convenient than the superlative spiritual intelligence irrigated with the aldehyde, and the condensed water of Skalá, in hecatombs that indicated anarchies of the luminous prophetic men and the habit of the exokarstic soil, endowed with a small perforated Epsilon demon, obtaining its chemical weathering in certain limestone rocks, dolomite, and plaster. Diverting the attention of Etréstles that he glowed overwhelmed and charred. He was not stopped by the currents of splendor and the stormy pollutions of Cymopolea, in his hieratic invocation of the scalded typhoons of the drills of Hephaestus. This demon could be Tytillinus timorous in the defections of the deities of Mnemosyne relegating himself from his precepts, which according to this legend induced protervas inclinations of the clergy during the omitted religious services, he is the one that Saint John the Evangelist feared, that he would not give him the Asfalés Pérasma “license” to enter and be able to commission them in tasks that had been predicted for the Katapausis services after the quarterly. The Travertine silica, with residual sedimentary rocks, was partialized from the extrinsic biogenic that is deposited outside, the travertine predicted the monumental rocky karst of Patmos, for the secretions of calcium carbonate, among so much modest certainty taking you through the Invisible Eclectic Portal, and their Mundis Parallel that crashed with attached carbon molecules that, in disarray, manned them. The chasm was a cascade of weathering that became stalactites in the runes of the travertines, Thermo dynamizing the cavities that were conceived in the invisible caverns, under the parallel caves of the translucent travertine and in the sapwood of the troglodyte ghosts, materializing on the top wind tunnel.

Vernarth; I was with everyone working in the building of the Temple near the outside walls of the Cavern of San Juan, there was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus, and Alikanto immersed in the Aulos who rang about exciting their ears with the royal denotes, which always had a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. In good ink, knowing that the entire limen of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigmatic revulsive with the presence of Tytillinus, all are reordered towards the poles of tangible etherization with Psalms 120 to 132, thus they would give the antipode disposition with the Divine Mercy, to compensate the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating the agonizing parallel world that coincides with that of the fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow refraining from the northern paragon with the Tytillinus' shadowing, with the hooks of bewilderment and its scathing thoughts. With precisely this conspicuous shape; Vernarth will allow himself to be swallowed by the beast and reside in his abrasive stomach, making him believe that it will be consumed by him, so that he will soon fall close to it when vomited, thus confusing him, to make him believe that he was the same baby from his conceived womb. Vernarth manages to capture this exotic sinister image near the sinkhole, seeing him depressed in the Tytillinus Prisco; where all attentive listened to the textual vocabularies of the beatific, with the fruit of Karpos, for the benefit of a descendant gained by defeating the devil.

The European Sibilla carried the Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xifos alternately for the death of innocents entrusted by Herod the Great, and for the evasion of the Holy family into Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Easter Triduum; alluding to the passion of Christ, and perpetrating the pain of the Devout at his death, and triumphant at his resurrection. The sense of surrealism transports Saint John digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his component of tribulation moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, mobilizing the triangular areas of the Palan, which moved in a geometric block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and the wind tunnel that lifted them, cornering the beast that visited them, pretending to be weak and imprecise. The man will carry the simile of his name, with hyperbole more or less in men who dare not to anticipate the conflicts of the gained space.

Vernarth, plots to continue insinuating with his labors, sees with optimism escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. He emerges from convulsions on all edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with vanities deterred at the end of the temporal Mundis Parallel. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, the fiery roar of the playful roar of the Tytillinus interferes, banishing the shaking of its **** to banish it from the Basilisk's egg, avoiding creating its heavy monarchy over them by prostrating them, as if to dissent. by being repentant or beheaded. Saint John the Evangelist will be an egregious demonologist, compiling thick volumes with the names of the attributions of each of the demons of infernal hierarchy. In this Venusian Aion symmetry, he moves them interconnecting with sublime periods where the intuition of the zafral of the human scale is lost, and of the archetype of Satanism or Satagenesis, with austere precision that includes Leviathan, ruler of the demons, to Ukobach, procurator of keeping the infernal flames alive. So that the manumission of slavery finally reigns according to one's own demonized moral individuality. The amount of an invocation of this type is always the soul of the unconscious individual, who will end up going to be squeezed into the underworld. The demons are invoked and they will invoke themselves in their dawn, to walk in their own darkness of the stagnant past, the mechanized present, and the multidimensional conscious future by means of exclusive enchantments that will be found here in the Mundi Parallel of the Invisible Eclectic Portal.

He saw in his mind’s eye her standing before the mug. In a craft show, on a stall: ceramics. It had a blue about it comforting as a still lake in remote mountains. The glaze had that quality that made you want to stretch your hand towards it, and if not pick it up and touch it entire, at least stroke it with the fingers, feel where the potter’s fingers had formed its shape on the wheel. Everything else on the stall was as nothing; only the mug held her gaze, her desire now to own it, to take its yet to be measured weight between both hands. Imagining breakfast and she would fill it with coffee and bring the hot, rich liquid to her lips: nature’s miracle of taste and aroma so necessary as the right start to any day of work or creative thought. She resolved not to look at the price as she had already decided to buy it come what may. It was beautiful and useful, and she told herself it would replace some mass-produced mug currently filling her kitchen cupboard, a mug that needed relegating to the next yard sale. Eventually, she dreamed, her cupboard would be full of such beautiful mugs she had thus found, thus chosen.

There was nothing here, he thought looking in his kitchen cupboard, that begins to hold a candle to such beauty – a couple of plain white utilitarian cups and saucers. No mugs to speak of. There was real coffee freshly brewing in a jug on the MFI table next to a sadly pink vase of flowers and ferns brought from a moorside garden – for her imagined visit. The dark colour of the coffee and its fragrant aroma (an added spoonful of expresso) formed, he mused, a temporary bridge over the always-distance of their separation. He wondered how his favourite Chinese poet Li Po would have fashioned a poem that spoke of such things: his loved-one far away over the mountains taking her first morning tea, still in her night gown her bare feet on the scrubbed wooden floor, poised before the day as a delicate flower nodding in the wind, the air sweet breathing through the open blinds, the dew sparkling still on the thin grass of her late summer garden.

And so, loving her beyond any measure, any reason, he writes:

*I am jealous of this blue mug
Taking such pleasure
In filling the shape
Of your quiet hand.

Afar, away, apart, beyond distance
I can only dream to drink
From the same rim that touches
Your perfect lips, your darting tongue.

Goddess, such a relegating term
But then again,
How do you abridge someone
Who embodies universes inside?
How do I, a mere wanderer,
who is in awe of your luminous wit
Who has traversed her terrains,
Strolled from the glacier
Though her well carved volcanoes
Down to her meadows where,
Her majestic rivers meet and form conflux.
Where her flower continuesly disperse
The elixir of eternal life,
When it is kindled by the desire.
How could i, a mere nomad
Who continouesly crave this water of life
Who is always seeking this fountain,
do you justice,
And encapsulate you, the infinite beauty,
In one word,
Except for the relegating term Goddess,
That my petty mind could come up with.

i gather you're aware of the fact that i'm familiar
with the many "lesser" things, let us assume that you
think i'm wholly ignorant, but i know otherwise.
then let us progress beyond the realm of man's holy crest,
namely thought, and thus speak of the feminine emasculation
where all thought is a whirlwind, and we decide to delve
on the sacred destructive element, via fifth namely electric
(what element beyond the candle if not the light-bulb?)
into the sixth, and that being: a woman's heart -
for this is a heart that narrates the unspoken, un-thought,
a housewife's fable (why the y missing when clearly stated
fay babble? excess, true, but necessary), here the four letters
translate in our accenting to provide the basis for concerning
syllable scalpel incisions, toward the penultimate atoms
and the ultimate sub-atomic shrapnel (i've learned the heaving
and congesting difficulty that language can provide -
ponce off logos if you want toward the source that's Heraclitus -
via Heidegger); somewhere between the tick (grave stress-or)
and the tock (acute stress-or), less breve (˘) / or the pushing down
to concentrate - again: we are encoding merely approximates
and diverge into Glaswegian or Cockney accents,
or otherwise in Australia. so how to rewrite the already stressed
word in italics? oh please put us out of our misery!
how do you apply the syllable incision, herr doktor?
indeed: făble -         ˘     and |        and the y -
                                                Y - lazy ******* gits!
who? the now seemingly ancient red-coats!
        even the Greeks applied diacritical marking on their
beautiful alphabet - the English thought they were Latin
and didn't bother, they have absolutely no orthographic
rules... so here's my suggestion: before damning
all metaphysics, apply orthography -
                                 and then do something about that extra
limb para-     that you left unexplored when competing
for the benzene ring - now reality looks really 2-dimensional
to me... we have ortho-exploration via orthography,
and we have metaphysics, but para? evidently only toward
war, with the gloomy paratroopers... and excess political
jargon of neocon and what not.
i'll go as far as necessary and say: even the acute aversion
to fable suits the surgical procedure: fáble -
a Spartacus moment: people! oh people! do you not
see where the origin of dyslexia lies with you?!
and do you know why i'm referencing all this
(from one random word, to a less randomised word)?
dyslexia and asthma - learn to breath and syllable words,
you'd be in the Black Forest of Germany with their
chemistry aligned word compounding and banishment
of the Oxford hyphenation for constantly relegating
acceptance. i ref. to Aldous Huxley and the occult,
but less perverse and more pristine...
why do cats eat cobwebs and love to play with frogs?
Baal - or Bæl -
                              Siamese Adam and Eve -
   never the Siamese in reality, same-*** Siamese -
                                                 but now the cutting up -
variants: count two for the umlaut,
             or a heart-attack flat-line macron and out comes
             Bāl                    or            Bäl          -
but look at it, orthography has suddenly usurped
the Anglo aesthetic - it either looks less appealing...
or actually correct / necessary.
     after synthesising the English language for over
20 years, i finally get to analyse it
                                                 and ask a priori questions
in an eternal back-flip cartwheel censure;
     but back toward the original intent stemming from
fable - what if we're working from Bæl?
     evidently someone's going to don a diacritical crown...
just to ensure we are true linguists -
                               hmm -
                                                       i could
concern myself with a breve marking - but the graphic
suggests otherwise... let's simply say it as twin partnership
of incision, and mark the syllable cut
    via Báèl.                       that slimy duke of inferno
    appears whenever the cat, the frog and the spider
                   coagulate into a formidable dynamic -
                and i guess as being of the Taurus zodiac i can
simply say: i disregard the earthly months and seasons
and call upon the zodiac month divisions -
suiting to my personality; and i know this appeals to
women, who's reasoning is of the heart, rather than
of the abstract brain that's the mind of men;
     brain is fat anyway, but oh the eager thumping
             of a woman wanton in all the many possibilities
unexplored; plus the scientific discussion regarding
linguistics - to prove i'm not a hot-air balloon worth of crap.

i'm not working from standard definition,
nor am i too fond of the phonetic alphabet
that denotes the sounds of latin with /ˈlætɪn/,
working backwards, noticing the modern
excesses of those little bothersome flies
that insinuate the necessary stressors,
noticing the blatant similarity of how latin
was written and how english is written...
latin œ or æ is like the german ß...
interchangeable symbolism that's hardly more
o than e or a than e... but an interchange of s and z...
most noticeable in english,
for example the even word and the odd word:

size... zebra... symbol...
           desire... sophistry
           spasm... sequence
           sugar (no one says soo gar... sh')
           suspension... sorrow
silk... zero... satire...       
                                      
like i mentioned once... disease is not easy
with the prefix dis- relegating ease into
the realm of broken arms / fingers...
how it sounds and how it's written:
dißeaße / disease    
(primarily due to y in the prefix original,
  but when compounded changed into i and
  thus invoking the scharfes s -
  w polskim szarfes es)                                               
see.. it works a tomahawk into slicing tomatoes
right off the 100ºC scalp achieved when boiled...
you can even squeeze in a ripe potato if you wanted...
many e e e, many... i thought about reading philosophy
in english, but it was no use... i never solved
the enigma of the ditto ensuring first person, 'second person'
and "third person" how and why it was used...
joyce irish was used akin to the polish method...
hyphen-sequencing dialogue in one, two, three:

- i think.
- i take oaths!
- we're both commanding.
- reminder of the remember:
                                                       ­                                  etc.
usually it was just i said
and then                    "
that                             "
nothing.

it's ****** confusing, but english is the ideal
playground to write philosophy,
written philosophy is so weak in english that
only three maxims guard it (interchangeable to hide the weakness):
beauty is on the inside not the outside,
good things come to those who wait...
altruism per se / utilitarianism per se;
you can write with as much weaved fabric of words as you
like given the english scenario...
but i mind the forest for the acorn
and the crispy autumnal loss of chlorophyl kindred of snow crunch,
so i can twist further in the latinised kabbalah,
moving away from hidden nouns
and into the territory of unsophisticated
pause symbols... revelatory pardon with a and o hidden,
electrified hyphen or comma misplaced,
hence excess poetry extraction from the populace
not loving the musicology of modern grime,
hence the bewilderment of ancient lore of english
sentenced with: that thou shalt not lore;
why did rome survive in the most detested
part of the empire, so naked so ancient?
it's bewildering beyond the extent of natural bewilderment!

so if i were to ever teach english as a foreign language,
i'd more pretty much all the diacritic marks
of other european languages into english,
which is the diacritic blank canvas, and each of
the odd words would be written, for practice and
memorisation of an atypical english accent,
e.g. deßire, spaßm and all the -isms like
empiricißm, psychologißm, egoißm etc.;
and i certainly wouldn't mutilate the language
like native speakers have done with
pseudo-stenography -
'ere, 'av 'sum pears up... th' ladder,
                                         so we know u woz 'ere, lolz.

some might call k the "misnomer" / mis-sonus of c...
but q it also bargaining to take that same oath
of being entitled, as is s.

may my grief residue to no depth sunken into as worth being kept,
but let it reside in falcon wing, ever rising higher
from such burial grounds as to be ennobled by wing
as once ennobled by thought, in kindred with soul,
and levied with tongue lip and kiss a bellowing hark and hiss
chimera beast loved for a minute of its existence;
nein! nein! a third nein be a minded counter well worth a find of an aye;
i too will regret a veto on the life i wished to commence
death-like in a wandering quote in the book of job,
but the new testament jested worse with the commence
of being crucified asking of self-belief as crucible -
and all adventure collapsed into fictive visionaries relegating
the chances of such experiences ever taking place,
as about adventurous as flipping pages: hence
escapist realism.

this old heart
wasn’t always so old,
it once was young and
tenderfoot,
wandering through days and
seeking regalement at night.

this old heart
rarely defeated it’s angst,
clenching fists at duelists
only with intentions of
defeasance,
never relegating the significance
of the win but focusing on the
sacking in a loss.

this old heart
played board games with
his sister on snow days after
laying out paths in the white dust
with an orange saucer
while chasing a laughter
only the belly could muster.

this old heart
was once a boy,
with hair like the white hot sun
on an August afternoon,
with bronze skin running about the grass,
chasing an aging brown dog with a ball
in it’s mouth.

this old heart
was once a boy, yes,
but remains no longer.

this old heart grows weary now.
this old heart bears weight.
this old heart stopped asking questions.
this old heart doesn’t laugh.
this old heart has no dog.
this old heart gets lost in the dark
whiling staring into the blinding sun.

Time wasted neck-deep in
idolatry, pretty bottles of
pretty liquids, light gold,
amber, charred oak brown
soaking vanillin and wood
which warms the tongue
perfectly.

I pop my pinky finger in
funny ways, relegating
flow of blood to necessary
extremities only, thumbs
or forefingers or whiny
joints screaming loudly for
sustenance.

There are days in my past
I wish I had skipped,
accidentally sleeping past
my alarms and the sirens
and noises of cars passing
past my window in whichever
home I find myself to wake.

There are days more recently
I have skipped, my mind
spending hours drunkenly
slipping from action to act,
poor me and my problems,
always worthy of an award,
a statuette of broken glass.

Unzip a snow-white teeth
A popcorn can
On the frying pan!

Confronted by
Circumstances dark,
I learned,  with optimism,
Crushed spirits and strength-
sapping moods to mask.

Adopted I applying
Pop operation of the stack
Or relegating gloomy things
To memory's back!

twice read, I find
my points have mostly
been made in plain geometry, were I to see

from an imaginary Euclidean POV

pre algebra and zeros and pi, as fa's I know,

Euclid makes a point.  ping
do re me, too.

We need some assumptions. True.

Words, Logos per se, re
main the principle tool used right
by both wisdom and knowledge and, now,
under knowledge stand two parts

see likka bubble, zygotic go, knowledge all good

big ol' bubble, knowledge of good and evil,

both, and you know both's a real big
old idea to think at once,

gotta have a push and a pull,
a listing and a lusting,
a compulsion to explode
versa verses reverberating assumptive
implosive con ex in clusives ping 3
do re me
sounds of music all disneyfied hills alive
from the POV of a flea
in the bark of my favorite pine, aw a
crow
dream
alla this,
how sweet is that, you guys don't know what that might
feel like, unless,
you know: in my realm,
right try angles reflect light in odd spectra
bounced from assumptive edges of unknowns.

Euclid, yeah, he failed to know everything anybody learned since he died,
we all know more than he ever did,
though
his timeless thoughts
remain. ..
as mine to twist into art-intuitive
artificial intelligence.
-----
Stop inter, ah, this fits here (no where else, per haps):
an e-ruptive Voltarian pledge of troth from an old bet lost.
Spelchek can't tame the pen, truth emerges
twixt i and e, subtly.
See,
intell still makes sense con egence on the end
and has aright to slide meaningfully
past spelchek and
evil Grammerly Aiing me.
See, both religating and relegating, merge and link.

Right, we assume
we prove flat Euclidean right exists. Okeh.

Here is the handln, wir machen schnell zwei

ping ping points ping
there was there three,
we did not see one, firstime, missed a point,

now, we may see beyond the first assumptive, abruptive,
inter
rupture rapture at/to that lacred nacred sphere.

A pretty pearly gate. Eggish in shape.

This, I imagined was the proverbial NAND/NULL gate,
an old door into superbloom summer
manifested to capture your
attention please, breathe
the beauty,
sneeze,
let it be.
Please, your self has private interpretations,
so it ain't prophecy.
No prophecy from Jehovah and them other names
the supreme being goes by
in woke reality
with quarks in it--  
no
secret intended to hide truth
(secret is same as private here, no private
interpretations) from those who can't see times changed.

---logos logic force, forces chaos into a bubble boing being
--- a peer pressure surge urge dopamine don't fail me now
--- devise a device depicting the mergence,
--- a logo for reality, in a word.
--- one artist made a circle, another formed a square

so many
interruptions, if you could only know,
you could be live, Euclid,

scary thought? no. a hope. an arrogant philosopher's hope
carved in stone

In the beginning == you know, right, everything must mean some
thing or nothing remains to measure worth,
as knowns unknowable for the effort
that you don't make
--- like Tristram Shandy, the marbled page, we few ever knew,
--- first gentle, re-cog-nize justify, ify ify yourself

Wisdom-******* children,
magnificent in countenance, as winners
of the won war fought before the peace.

--- easy treated, like "no sweat" a
--- Jeopardy version of Leela, the big show. You still die. it ain't scary.

resume the assumpting pressures
peer 'em up
umph, try

delta delta delta force chuck-nors negate  negate

dive dive dive

We must be read
y
we got us a bubble of being, in real life poetry.
Tha's deeply memeingful.
Here abouts. A bit o'breathin' room in the long dance.

But Euclid pointed out what I see from my old couch on the porch
on the westside of a piece of land
that pro-truded
from prime-eve, a fractal level a billion lacred layers
time-wise, geo-time-wise ago
yond hither, whence we was words a playin'

silly songs children read and sing along then seem to forget until

some go mad in our dotage and become as little children, once more but

we know now how to learn anything we wish to know.

This could be heaven,
according to the description I was given when escape from hell
was my selfish desire.
Self formed from scraps I over heard as a young'n.

A point remains to appear made in the assumption.

Ah, hey, right tringled triangles.

sit witme, see star one, assume natural numbers a re-able
one two 3
iii --- signals scramble-ble
see we have two brains

two whole brains with minds and minds and minds of their own

and you love simplicity.

Did you ever have to make up your mind?
Pick up on one and leave the other won in a spoonful o'luv

look from my eye to that star,
consider this, Euclid winks, too. One aim alone is right,

thus there is the edge of the sphere of my visual known universe,
the bubble of my being.

Eat me raw or don't eat me at all. said the bull headed god somebody
influential in reality
killed

A bullheaded being, a rampaging ****** slain by some named being
a hero, not me or you…
though new legends lien in wait, eh?

ah, time shift assumption, Euclid POV, nonessential,

flatness is a fractical impossible unthingable thing, plainly stated

imaginable, non-re-alizable.

Spread as spilled milk never cried over, take heart, hoped for
evers come to be
noticed as they pass, plenty people pass
these days,

endurin' to the end is all it takes.
Euclid don't matter and Jesus done cared.

With nary a thought to pose or process
With scary, a way of thinking
I am someone, or the type who, tends to do certain things in a certain way
But what is it worth if it does not read well?
Or to call someone who sounds like yourself and the ensuing contrast of awkwardness
**** n' ****, luck or gettin' lucky in any way colloquial terms for coitus or *** in general, I've none which is not to say I've not in the past or won't in the future but right now there is no significant two-way companionship which I really do want for a variety of reasons to be.
To simply, with cliche, be.
No such comfort will exist in my life for longer than a comparably short while, it would seem.  Nope, no happiness for me, only discomfort, depression, and stress.
No such great is a thing as a two-person love and experience.
And I am alone, truly.
And I am alone, more truly than my peers or fellow poets or parents or family or any other being sharing a universal genus or scientific similarity.
You know nothing of insanity so stop spouting and spewing this beautiful word and defaming and relegating it to a common "lol" or emoticon or any other thing that is obviously below it.
Standard crusted creation of melting erasure dissolving dissipation and dead-eyed cuffing stuffs stuffing still with tough metal roughs of through-bred thoroughly fed fattened and read something a little like this - DISGUSTING MUSK-SCENTED RUSTING HORMONE RIDDEN DERISION OF A TEENAGE HUMAN ****.
Operated in an operation inside of an operation on a mechani-borg.

you know, you are allowed a Kandinsky or a *******
moment in poetry:
it's like the development of the cut-up technique
beginning with Tristan Tzara and the Dada "school"
of "thought", developed later by William Burroughs
et al., it doesn't have to be fixated to a definite
curvature, a smooth narrative, this is poetry
in a boat, during a storm on the sea, it's not a Cambridge v.
Oxford boat race on the pristine Thames...
some critics ascribe such methodology as either
outright stupid or by psychiatric definition a word
salad, but it's simply kaleidoscopic juxtaposition,
it really is a dog drooling ultraviolet saliva onto a
canvas, while someone shakes his head
(preferably a bulldog, or a boxer, or a St. Bernard)...
oh look at him, such ***** eyes, gotta just cuddle him...
i'm not using newspaper snippets, as if writing
a stalker's letter, cutting out letters and gluing them
together on a piece of paper... it's spontaneous
combustion (most of the time)... the only method in it
is that there isn't a method to begin with...
unless randomisation of a gaseous substance with
that hectic squash game of atoms is the adequate
simile... if i were to say that was a metaphorical comparison
i'd be walking through foggy streets of London (circa 1884):
after all words have only a one dimensional interaction
that's the existential recipient of all of them,
the existentially affirmative aye - i left the other
affirmative word thought among the others,
since, sometimes, as in the cases of melancholia, thought
isn't necessarily categorised as affirmative, relegating,
drowning the prime affirmative aye with its awkward
structure (form)... all the words must pass through the ego,
not all of them have to pass through thought,
the ones that bounce against the squash cube wall that's
ego make it onto the page... more do so when compared
with treating thought as the wall and the effective structure
for the rubber ball to bounce against.
me playing squash? oh yes, very much so, loved it,
played about 4 times a week, better than tennis,
which is why no squash tournaments are televised, it's
not really a spectator sport, it's too enjoyable to have
a passive public... it's a sport with the player in mind,
like a horse attached to a carriage with those shutters
over their eyes; so now what? is poetry not allowed to
look like a ******* painting, randomised and incoherent
when compared to the standard practices of narrators?

***, is such a minor pass, on exfoliating expressions of pleasure, it's overrated, because it invokes such a bias, of bragging... its saturation with bragging hierarchies...

let's just assume, that working out pop music
favoritism, is less, "debilitating" than
attracting the attention of the ultra-******
squad of full bodied latex apocalypse ****
junkies...

           clearly... no one wants a hide & seek
pregnancy errant of succumbing to
the stature of fatherhood, when, the woman
you're involved...
can't tell you the difference between
her mother as her sister,
and her grandmother, as her mother...

oops?!

         but ***-bragging is such a shallow
form of entertainment...
            it's like the antithesis of
the Olympic spirit, with modern mob sports...
jargon this, jargon that...
counter: i am in favor of cult-status horror
movies, minor projects,
low budget... hellraiser -
notably for the atmospheric semi-religious
music strategies... auras...

        but atmospheric horror movies?
no ghouls, no goblins,
akin to that famous case of
marcin wrona hanging himself
having directed a movie about
a dýbbūk?
                    can you seriously contend
with reinventing comedy via
black comedy, dry comedy,
when the horror movie genre has moved
into the atmospheric partake of
reinvention - having
exhausted all the stereotypes,
and given them, a romantic twist?
      
*** bragging is such a minor pleasure...
  eloquence... tenacity...
    supposition: an entire banquet
of countering false allegations...
      all, much more, than mere ***...
           burning, the flesh,
rather than cutting it,
in the insistence of teenage girls...
ancient Roman bulimia rites
      of the transversed
                  state of young adulthood...

so neglecting...
   giving these girls the power of
****** sycophancy, shedding blood...
cutting, slitting, imitating the ***** slit...
never even teaching them,
about heating up a scissor hand,
burning themselves,
and cannibalizing their pain...
           turning it into
a cognitive strength...
              
  the horror genre has moved
into an atmospheric countenance...
comedy? lacking...
can't even find a redeeming aspect of
slapstick...
          where once was black humor...
western comedy,
never, ever, entertained
the concept of, a, cabaret...
it's too entrenched in
   monologist style comic entertainment...

which reads very much
like a slogan akin to:

SAVE THE AUTISTIC CHILDREN!

the bragging will stop,
the ******* embers of sheiks will drop
and drool...
     and ***...
    for whatever it was worth...
    will receive its relegating boot
from mainstream jealousy
          shackling, at the shuffling
ankles;
   mary ******* poppins...
  schim schim schim-n-é...
schim... mmm...
                    whatever...
                        out of all the movie genres?
horror...
         is the most nostalgic,
most melodic,
   of a classical schooling -
         ssss chewing, chart cheap:  
isch contra ich vilderswill...
          double U?  but not double V?
            eh...
                    secondary credit to fantasy
movies...
       j. r. r. tolkien...
would have never believed that
the story didn't make the compelling case...
nor the visual effects...
   but the music? sure as **** did.

Unaware of the music within
Rarely dancing to its rhythm
An outsider pulls the wrong chords
Making us dance to their discordant tunes
Becoming mere puppets, with strings attached
Unable to play the right notes
Our music relegating to the subconscious
Drowning among the loud beats
The hand of the stranger plays along
Touching all the wrong notes
Music, not close to the heart
Life is taken over by the estranged notes
Till then the subconscious waits in agony
Waiting for the moment to be in limelight
And hoping to become the music conductor
Playing the right notes and dancing to the right tunes

© Amitav

Relegating tyrants
Of Biblical acclaim
In to History's dustbin
Error's vast domain

Gravity is the final nail
In Religion's hearse
Illuminating forces
Of the passing Universe

Invisible, indelible
Pulling apples to the Earth
Unassailable, immutable
Rotating planets' girth

To be just attuned to accommodate life
What would be the chance
Gravity is the epitome
Of a cheerful happenstance

the following disambiguation debate,
relegating orthography toward the status of
"diacritical" aesthetic -
    and diacritic use, per se:

psiór vs.
                       pśιór debate;

the word in bold just denotes: a dog.

we all know that there are two letters
in the english language, that have been
***** diacritically - name iota:
for j is usually confused with y,
in that piquant sense of differentiation:
yap *** - yapping - jaw mongering?
          
every area of interests has its cul de sac,
its brick-wall, a dead-end as it were,
a point where transcendence is
welcomed, unavoidable,
but nonetheless: miserably stalled.

philosophers have the cartesian
   *cogito ergo sum -
whatever arithmetic of wording
they produce, not even samson
could topple this pillar of foundation
for the temple of thought.

the same is with my example...
it would appear that the diacritical
**** of ι with a floating head i
did not translate further, beyond
the same treatment of yot (j) -
gee a jeep! yodh: serif (י) and
rashi -

yet by oath alone, hebrew orthography
invokes itself in letters...
unlike the post-roman orthography
of words... the "compass"

                   ι    י      
                      Y         (    .    )
                      ي

                            ­        floating alongside
e...

         if only the greek sigma
   had the tetragrammaton of the arabic "ι" -
the initial σ (يـ‎) & the final ς (ـي) are
indeed there, but what of the isolated
(ي‎) & the medial (ـيـ‎)?  
             unless of course
                        we treat to invoke the
upper-case: Σ - such as is missing in arabic,
and is only a question of: how much
the prolonged line?

   it still begs the question,
if the element of diacritical use is lost
upon the iota...
                   can there be an orthographic
"beauty is in the eye of the beholder"
change in the aesthetic of applicable
diacritical markings?

  the debate is rather simple:

  either decapitate the unnecessary head off
the iota: or keep it,

        psiór        vs.
                               ­           pśιór

because it within the eye of the beholder
at this point...
           it's not that hard to confuse
J with Y, and give rise to the christian endeavour:
son before the father, father within the son,
and the congregating, willing to enforce
   a fake billion, unlike the tight-knit chinese...

you do the math... a billion, but at what expense /
expanse of territory?
                      look where the true billionth is:
a tiny land area by comparison...
  you **** the letter iota:
and then morph a yod into a J,
while engaging in ancient mutational
permutations of "radioactive" goo,
i.e. γΥ -
                       yeah yeah yeah,
  vs. rastafarian jah jah, jah... wait for it:
oh **** me: ha ha!
    
in english, the philosophical cul de sac
is the missing diacritical markings...
  english, without diacritical invitation:
has, absolutely, no, concept, of, orthography...

sure... that's why its hell-bent on metaphysics,
esp. populist metaphysics akin to
the matrix trinity of movies:
              they always jump to the conclusions
concerning the nature of "reality"...
  which you can understand,
given that they have no idea within
the confines of considering orthography...
it's alien to them...
     **** knows what the para- prefix could
show us...
                        ok ok... we already know
the joke by alfred jarry in
the exploits of dr. faustrool -
with his "witty" invention of
                 pataphysics -
                i swear this french dwarf inveted
the spaghetti (string) theory with
that mutation of the prefix ascribed locality
on the beneze ring, i.e. how para- became pata-.
whatever...
  
but without a concept of diacritical
appropriation,
   you are only left with an endeavour into
into metaphysics...
   and never minding the mediating
dogma / fancy of orthography...
                        
     oh well... that's the english language for you...

god i love being a pompous *******,
who knows english better than the natives;
not that i have an elevated sense of worth
because of this,
  only that i appreciate the sense
of devaluing the origins of: said speech:
as if to take out a whip,
    and whip the lazy *******
                       on into the slaughterhouse!

The bridge to pass across
the relegating river has fallen now
you have to spread your blood
to cross,the milk now taste sour
now you will have to press your breast
to drink white.
The day turns black and night turns
to red,strongly pouring fear on children.
But if there is life there is hope they say,
so where is hope to visit?
why not if there is life there is
food to stay strong?
or if there is life there is money
to buy immortality
or shelter for protection?
why not?
who will tell me why is
hope that life include?
But the answer come straight
from ancient mountain where
God resides,no sane man hope
for what is seen
we only hope for next minute
not now but hope is like
volumptuous bag that carries
good tidings
Hope is expectation of a night
without sweat
Hope is expectations of courage that will not met
Hope is expectation of bed that
will not wet.
So I say to the living that
hope a sunshine after the rain
there is a friend coming that
will stay and will not leave again
There is a honey coming to
establish joy in our bitter stomach
●ROHM 2017

Sorting it all out
The how's and the why's
The sanity from the insanity
And the Truth!

That ******, vile, 5 letter word
That sends everyone running
From each other,
One another,
Themselves,
And the reality of our own
***** dog,
got ****
liberating
Freedom relegating
T.R.U.T.H.
Truth!!!!

.among the everyday banality of language, the following is a skim-reading of a week's worth of constrained usage, without a chance for a soliloquy: even the following extract isn't a soliloquy... but, what could be so concerning when... people read harlequins novellas... old women... for me this diatribe against oneself comes in the manner of: last come, last served, and served? not even the crumbs of a worth of debate on the matter... stiffened fingers, and a satiated delicacy of a novel... point being: you can't speak more than you can think: or think more than you can say... in the same way: the more you read, the less chance you will write... with this instance: the Libra is certainly over-weighing me, having ingested a 3 vol. part 2 of Sienkiewicz's trilogy: Potop.

- a month spent away from the internet narrative,
and... it's almost like...
the world gets bigger,
in the smallest of places...
and small... on this... canvas...
a month detached from this medium and...
i don't even know how to
reintegrate myself into it...
i wasn't ever a big comment section
fan...
               so... looking at the blank
is probably the best thing i ever did...

people riling at the new Gillette advert...
well...
                 yeah...
but have you seen the "new" Gillette
advert?
  see, i was watching
Australian Open on eurosport
channel,
    and a Gillette advert came on...
so i thought:
  this must be the advert
           "everyone" on the internet
is riling against...
  in the manner of a
            "conscientious consumer"...
wait a minute...

        dissonance...
the two adverts didn't match-up...
the advert people were riling against
wasn't the advert i saw
while watching yesterday's
Australian Open matches...

   the advert i saw...
the only odd bit was a shot
of a man
               shaving his legs
on the edge of a bathtub...

  what advert is the riling crew on
about?

so it's not the advert of a man
shaving his legs?
                             that's not the one?
        
****! that's not even the same
advert!
   but it's still being aired...
            this "new" advert that i saw...

i don't even know what the new
advert is...
    maybe on eurosport
i did see the new advert...

god... a man shaving his legs
on the edge of a bathtub...
ouch...
  where did that stripper
scene where a man shaves
his chest go?

come stomach region:
i'm ******!

so what i saw only yesterday,
wasn't the new advert?
so i was watching an old
advert?
    
whatever...
      i think i was watching
the thighs of Serena Williams
and thinking:

can a horse, buckle?
****... trick question:
what came first,
the chicken, or the egg?
how about: both, at the same time?

try fitting ***** envy in that...
the subject of objectification,
never objectification per se...
there was never a problem
of being objectified: per se...
but being: subject to an object...

a month spent reading
a novel,
and upon reingaging in
the grand internet narrative
i come across a video
akin to: boogie talks -
the quartering and dating...
what?!
  it's a simple curiosity...

like: today i relearned what
feels normal for me...
a winter's night...
a cold beer...
alleys, scarce street lighting,
a cigarette...
and: a vanilla ice opening
movie scene utopia...
i.e. no one around...

i seriously can't engage in
the narrative...
so i decided to buy cheap
*** and assume that
this would only reiterate an
argument: if i had any
to begin with...

such curiosities...
but in the streets at night...
you pass a cat,
he's eyeing your legs...
you eye his gaze...
and then an impromptu of:
stopping...

in his head: we were just
passing...
but a freezing moment
of my legs, and...

              he scuttles a meter
or two, before i too continue
to walk...

what once was the royalty of
paper,
and a paperback chart...
now...
     a pixel tabloid: gargantuan
glutton - which doesn't even
hide behind an anonymity...
fine print: sure... if it included
my Braille idea...
other than that?

   relegating all as tabloid,
yawn...
   playing the ostrich....
                 or being ostracized?

current fascination?
a Sveedish export: black lake...
like some of joke...
so many variations of HI...
   beside that?
is it horror?
   unless the thing that
scares Swedes the most
                is creaking doors...
i'm actually afraid in
reverse...
   what the **** is this place:
a pseudo-prison,
a penal colony?

          what is scary is
the everyday Swedish nature
of dealing with crime...

oh: before the ******* get a chance to fire me,
resign me, whatever you want to call it,
i will go "out of my way" and do the ***** task myself:

you can't exactly couple being promoted in
one venue and upkeep what used to be a juggling
act with an security agency to cover your
back by being picky-choosy (i swear an E is missing
in that word) sey not say not siy...
so a Dear Fulham Team letter is necessary to:
excuse myself from further engaging in shifts...

ARBEIT MACHT FREI...
i still can't stomach the truthful irony of those words...
if only the **** employed the Hebs
in concentration camps to make ammunition
instead of telling them to lift bags
of sand from X and moving them to Y
and then from Y back to X for this macabre
circus-prison of sadism without *** being deployed...
*** as in: the act of ***...

weird sushi... weird sushi "thinking"...
but a welcome return to ice age barbarism...
how this return to "default" taught some of us:
conscious of the unconscious...
only recently, fervently, on Kauai...
i learned, intimately,
that the reason i don't conjure pictures / movies
in my dreams is, because:
i startle the sleeper next to me
applying myself to propping up like
an exorcism manifest woodoo (V for ****
you French ***** by the Velsh
                  longbowmen: adieu! my slingshot works
just fine... merdechiens: mèreconnards!

hey hey! orthographic police...
mère but not mèrde...
         hey! Napoleon! fix this...
    no? o.k. i'll fix it...
            it's not (after all) merdé... i known that in French
you utilise diacritical accents to cut off
using distinct, direct, phoneticism of: the use of letters...
because the ****** tongue is the only
Arya equivalent of any spoken European: tongue...
by pride or detail alone...

by the command of the druid skies of England
with white and clot
and with rain also akin to milk
this milk of misery and some geographic whereabouts
like Olson's Gloucester (Glow-Mr)
of New England or Maine...
poets of worth become periodical:
autobiographical in detail: because i should
notice their influence on me...

           just like i can make a summary of my engagement
with Edie Edith and compare that
to the laments of Kierkegaard in Either / Or
about the necessity of a married life...
because touch is a language in and of itself
and only yesterday we spoke for nearly 2h about...
intellectual stuff...
           "stuff"...
                  bouts of depression in Oregon...
something new to me...
i admired Picasso's pink and blue but never thought
she had experienced such pitchy domineering men...

pitchy? no... ah... an F in      pithy...
that's an F in piTHy...       (by aid no e, yet y: yeti!)
               fret over feta in thought and beta:
but no...
post-modernism is still alive and very much decent
of me to keep it so...
i.e. alive...

           to rise to the grandiosity of names listed in the song
by the Dead Can Dance (fortunate the man with none):
Solomon, sagacious, to him complexities seemed plain,
he cursed the hour of his birth, vanus, vanus, alles hohl...
Caesar, courageous,
Socrates, honest, the man who never lied...
            they weren't so grateful... instead the rulers
fixed him a trial...

English should be written with more apostrophes
can can be known...
for example, Tottenham...
which does not utilise all the letters in the script
written... but is like haven't for have not O
omitting a letter or a syllable altogether...
Tot"ñ"'am...
                Tot'ym'um'am
Tot'nudge­-nudge'am...

                            Fulham is easier:
  Ful'am...       the genius approach of the English tongue
is the apostrophe: which is a letter eater...
because in writing it is written as: FULL-HAM
but is uttered-ushered as Ful'am...
                oh how ***** Wonka of me to have this second
tongue as a plaything as a "gimp" as this
pedophilic fetish fantasy...
    my Pontius Pilate is currently obsessed with
Islamic cleanliness before a prayer:

i too: am washing my hands clean...
before i make no prayer...
just give a deity a thought... thought...

i can obsess about the English: ing-leash for almost forever...
given two eyes two arms two ears...
moving forward everyone in the future should know
a minimum of two tongues...
that's the precursor for the advent of national /
geographic capitulation... to the soft machine
of capitalism... the hard machines are there
regardless of whether it's the soft machine
of capitalism or communism...
computer computer on my desk...
who's the smartest idiot of the rest?
but in the future two tongues for every man...
at least to levitate from any potential symptoms
of schizophrenia...
   how do you think i "cured" myself from auditory
hallucinations?
if i heard splinter-ego vanities in English...
i started to confuse / conflate the symptoms by
reaching out to my mutterzunge....

by now America should be a bilingual nation,
speaking both fluent English and Spanish...
just like England should be a bilingual nation
speaking English and German...
i already know that Poland is sort of a Switzerland
of the Slavic world...
and i will not speak ***** Cyrillic Russian...
because to me: when i hear it...
Russian is a half-formed Polish...
it ******* sounds barbaric... even the phonetic encoding
is half-baked... M and A stand out like sore thumbs
aesthetically ugliest of all...

oh my toy my little Shakespeare psychoanalysis:
i did tell her... not all psychopaths turn out
to be geniuses at killing, serially...
i too lament the primo disguise of psychopaths:
faking competence...
they fake being competent in work...
ask one for profiteroles you might end up
with an East End steak and ale pie...
but that's me being hyperbolic...

               such is the joy of utilising a tongue without
having any geographical or historical lineage
attached to it... even my accent can't be equipped
with a regional bias: so i speak a generic,
"educated" (more self than school),
cosmopolitan English of... Lóndûn...
not on a Loan, Don...
              Qix...                Kich... Kichote
kichać? to sneeze... Pan Kicham...
  
                                           Sir Sneeze-a-lot...

because there's a fury in my genius that
decided to **** of both the guardian angel and demon
and spare god a bias with regards to what's
good or what's bad
given that this third party of creatures
are akin to angels and demons, yet stricter in
revealing their presence having sought out
a potential in man...

and with the ego going into the compartment of: exists
does not exist...
and with thought going into the compartment of:
essential or not essential...
because every ego is essential:
it's only a question whether it exists or doesn't...
but forever does: given that as fluidity
it can morph from reality to myth...
from journalism to history to poetry to allegory / myth...
to dream... to the archetypes...
of course the ego can replenish itself with
"reincarnations"... but an Achilles in a carwash?!
no...
that's what the Hindus got so wong... Rrrr... i call it a trill R
journalists in England call it a... a... *******:
rhasp? no...                        whatever the Bristol crew yar ar
m'ah pirate...

i do believe in reincarnation...
isolated case of 'cogito'...
         oh sure as **** 'cogito': prompt - limbless verb
to do: thought... think...
      cogitatio...
                         ratio of cogs... that's essentially
"reincarnated"... which is god...
        the universal quest of Q / ?

      who is a distinct figure to I or the existentialist
isolation of I via "I"...
because Q is like a shadow of I
                       who is the ego in the collective unconscious
of Jungian ******-analytical philosophy /
    psychological sophistry...
the Q is the I in the collective unconscious...

I have a Q... i am (not i'm ayemmm) I A'H MMM
a Q in the collective unconscious,
just like everyone else...
i can do I in third person but
obviously doing Q in third person is more natural
and less intrusive should the trans-gang
of confused genitals
come to the fore of the meta-gang of...
                             is bad *** such a massive issue
that it has to turn political...
i always tried to have *** good enough not to later
script it as a fantasy of having *** with vampires...

thinking is recycled... reincarnated...
we all arrive at its plateau...
and let's face it... we daydream and therefore thinking
can be recycled...
as the primo tool of exacting a definition of
being aware, conscious...
it's the most ridiculous "tool"...
thinking is like a sponge without soap...
it just moves dirt from one place on the body to another...
the sword of Damocles if you were:
but a parody of that sword...

to deviate from giving quench (of thirst)
driven by existential "demands": that current man,
the modern, hyperbolic contemporary,
the journalist with an opinion column in
the editorial section of a newspaper is,
"somehow"(?) the arbiter of truthfulness
and all that is sacred to the otherwise wordly-politico
jargon ball-crushing gimmick
and the licking scrutiny of H-Bomb Contraceptive-Pill
synonimity...
hmm...

       the Hindus "maybe" forgot the cyclic nature
of thought and the linear nature of the ego...
no one is going to be "reborn" or "replaced"...
the constituent ontology of this little thing
called life: res es vivo...
not theologia in vitro... but theologia in vivo...
well... with the "polytheism" of the many schisms
of Christianity: each a "god" unto his own...
because how else to explain

NARRATIO FALSUS
of christianity: what chimera was born on the torture
chamber of Golgotha that can't:
be: no: longer: romanticised!
what was once a primer for original sin
that became the primer for original innocence...
this macabre inversion of toothpicks
and how bones can and will itch
should one have the wrong sort of protein
lodged in-between...
"christ" ushered in the concept of original innocence...

where?! where is his guilt made justifiable
by all the hoard of jurisprudence standards
kept...
to... yield 2000 years of history based off of
a fictive friction is... frankly? besides me...
and i'm not referring to this Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
anti-Rome conspiracy as a joke
in the slightest...

so few might consider themselves Gnostics...
but i'm done with these Christmassy blues
like winter is somehow a depressing...
it has occured countless times...
it reminds me of when
the snow fell and the nights were blue
and the snow like ivory
fell and sank into a melt(ing)...

       by then i will want Reyla to know from
Edie that i baked her a birthday cake
and that she shouldn't have worried about
her peers not attending her birthday party:
because they did and the pool party was in full swing
and the strawberries were juicy and
i was not a ******* after all (because pedohplia
is a male-exclusive gimmick
for branching out to seek less
translatable munchkin-fetishes?)

what with Reyla's father being, ****-tod-dead...
you'd think i might want to champion
a borrowed ambition from ancient Rome
regarding the surrogacy of offspring...
my genes are unimportant...
but if i can allow a truce with
the ROTA EX COGITATIO...
the wheel of thought... not... no... not the wheel
of fortune... thinking is cyclic...
that's why we encounter the same questions
universally...

yes, some of us are overpowered by the geniuses
to compromise with Promethean advances
for the better of all of us...
but the rest is daydreams
lazy-thinking and a recurrency of dreams...
thinking is a soft-machine...

the circle out of thinking... rota ex cogitatio...
i for i alike...
             to my left and right a deposit of her:
for her liking... by call of swan:
a song of death...
              by wake i imply death and eyes that close:
this dirge... a barge and a chuckle from
Charon... that broken oar...
a bit like a fiddle-stick in a teacup that's
also a river should sugar be dissolved in it...

because it is love that makes me feel magnificent,
invonlunerable: invulnerable...
because it is love that gives me organs for a body
otherwise without (them)...
because it is love and moreover a lover's longing
that gives me double the love and
what oh love will i ever do with this
irrational-ability but dig my trenches and hark
and puff and shatter mirrors and clause
illusions into the mix and keep this:
dearest affection dearest hope dearest dark of
shadow mingle truth
            cauldron of ingredients with pulled out
teeth to mix with frog burps...

ah... now for that letter... i'd rather resign than be fired...
it's painfully obvious:
regardless of what my earnings might be...
if i can be appreciated as competent in one place
but not another:
i'm no sufler statistician for a theatre with:
no production...

the letter:

Dear Fulham Team,

It comes with a deep seeded regret that I have to compromise with these words to compose a Resignation Letter: as to my future as a Fulham F.C. employee.

Since the end of Lockdown circa 2021 Fulham F.C. has provided me with ample opportunities to hone in on my hidden strengths in interacting with the public via working for Executive Events Security - as you might be aware, for whatever reason, the agency decided to terminate the contract - yet with the implosive power of nostalgia I felt inclined to reapply for a job with the club directly.

To somehow reiterate my original stance, it brings me great regret having to write this Letter of Resignation - I have recently been given the opportunity to fill a Supervisory position at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. I have checked future dates for the season and noticed a "coincidental" clash of shifts for F.F.C., Tottenham Hotspur F.C. (and West Ham United - I am still employed at the agency that provides services for this venue).

The only available shifts I could make myself opportune would be with a West Ham F.C. clash, yet given my recent promotion at Tottenham Hotspur F.C. and the 80% demand of attendance given my position - I would not be able to juggle allegiance to two clubs as I might have done through an agency without a self-inflicted parody of interests.

To make my argument more solid, Tottenham Hotspur F.C. will allow me to exert more responsibility and also offer me more shift-times than I'm currently able to receive at F.F.C., given the venue is partaken to events outside the realm of a football season.

I simply couldn't allow myself to leave this matter unresolved, hoping that somehow I could do a patchwork of the choicest of availabilities, relegating F.F.C. as second choice whenever clashing with Tottenham.

Yet, I must stress the importance that F.F.C. played toward building my awareness to the importance of this profession, through my 2 year experience of starting this profession, I can, without any hesitation (and therefore doubt) confirm that, being a fan of the sport that's football, therefore being ultimately neutral when it comes to the sordid affair of team-tribalism, on numerous occasions, at other venues and indeed at Craven Cottage, I have earnestly expressed the following sentiment:

I'm not a fan of any football team as such, technically I should be a West Ham or a Dagenham & Redbridge fan - from a geographical standpoint of adhering to the geo-politics of 'nearest therefore dearest'... but I will always remain a fan of Fulham fans... because they are the fans that imbue a need for reciprocating a base human decency, unmet on any other football venue.

I hope I have made my notice as amicable as possible - in my mind it would be unfair to remain on the payroll wishfully thinking that my absenteeism was NOT because of a conflict of interests due to work elsewhere, therefore I'd rather hand in my resignation due to this, than have someone from the team "call me out" on the matter.

As ever and with a deep-seeded regret, I hope I have become across as transparent and in that: doubly regretful, for having bothered you with giving me employability, yet having to resign.

Kind Regards

Mateusz Elert

The earliest recollection with
lower gastrointestinal eruptions,
viz psychosomatic induced distress
occurred when yours truly
quite a young lad, which specialist
invited me to ingest barium sulfate,
whereby the pinkish chalk like solution
traced a path thru digestive tract
visible while I stood behind a screen.

Rear lee if ever attested subject
suffices as an apt poetic title
amidst bookish canon - while
this writer (similar to other aspirants
in their respective creative pursuits)
aware arbitrary perusers may deem vile

core body of voluntary selective readers
mentally affix probationary trial
before unequivocally gravitating
toward my genre or signature
swiftly tailored harried style,
which unique modality
of expression eventually

accruing some degree of popularity
affecting unseen frown or smile
nonetheless, accepting, enjoying,
and tolerating how I playfully rile
aware that anonymous reader's
patience can wear thin relegating mine

worded persona on par with a reptile
unknowingly breaking fragile bond,
hence she/he might not reconcile
without awareness a valuable kinship,
dismiss me as puerile,
thus forsaking tenuous link, one

that may never bare tangible fruition,
yet all along self scrutiny occurs to refine
thy cerebral thought provoking profile
also intimating months gone by bias
arises toward my
figurative handily prehensile

expansive vocabulary, could
(and/or does) rank as a pile
of unpleasant gluteus maximus
sphincter muscle missile
imposing effort to tone down exuberant,
flamboyant, and gallant mercantile

flashing blindingly exasperatingly,
and inflamingly nauseating vocabulary,
not deliberately juvenile
but this luxe lavish embellishment
a labor of (lost) love with English
Language (inherent since...

in utero), thus...infantile
asper taking shape without conscious
deliberation, though imbecile
appellation possibly affixed
as lasting impression,
perhaps even engendering hostile,

whereat no effort to exhort
unconditional acceptance of me guile
will transpire, cuz this chap
recognizes how tenuously fragile,
the online choice to remain a steadfast
virtual friendship quintessentially fissile

oft times casting the notion how facile
mine arrangement springs from one
core textured intellectual domicile
that houses persona of one docile
amphibious descendent, whose forebear,
yes twas a crocodile!

23,190 days ago,

Yours truly got hashtagged
as the 2,975,075,410TH
person alive on Earth
according to website
https://worldpopulationhistory.org/
my-population-number/.

Come November 15, 2022
(a little more than
four months from now -
actually one hundred twenty days
after today July 11, 2022),
the world's population
projected to reach eight billion.

The latter date underlined
and iterated above
recognized as World Population Day
according to United Nations
World Population Prospects 2022.

Though prone to espouse Malthusian theory
(the idea that population growth
graphs potentially exponential curve
while the growth of the food supply
or other resources remain linear,
which eventually reduces living standards
to the point of triggering a population die off),
I tend to embrace more optimistic forecasts
encompassing number of people
livingsocial cheek to jowl
upon oblate spheroid
also known as planet earth.

Throughout mein kampf and hard times
(spanning three score plus three years)
the fourth industrial revolution (4IR) prevails.

The 4th Industrial Revolution (4IR)
constitutes a fusion of advances
in artificial intelligence (AI), robotics,
the Internet of Things (IoT),
genetic engineering, quantum computing,
and more applications with microchips
implemented in almost every electronic device
we use today, including smartphones,
gaming consoles, cars and medical equipment.

I feel excluded amidst radical transformations
upending long established paradigms,
and hanker with nostalgic tug in my breast
when civilization linkedin with humankind
reliant upon sweat of their brow efforts
cultivating, harvesting, oiling tired muscles
xing off daily, weekly, monthly... chores
until the morrow beckons hours spent
physically engrossed with labor of love.

No doubt I characterize, fantasize, idealize,
mythologize, romanticize... woebegone time
that only existed within the outer limits
of the twilight zone, where dark shadows
presaged the approach of an alien nation
seeding colonization courtesy
super intelligent species
employing exploitation of innocent naivete
characteristic of yours truly
suitable as key personality,
whereby intergalactic entities jump/kickstart
regime trumpeting other worldly credo
gussied up as faux capitalistic enterprise.

Deft cosmic management utilizes
extra terrestrial workshops
that inculcate transparent
lgbtqia2+ friendly principles
plus reproductive rights
no matter ****** orientation
trends atypically heterosexual
imposing zero tolerance policy instituted
to accommodate divers
creed, ethnicity, gender,
nationality, race, religion, et cetera.

Such far out hypothetical scenario,
whereby once self important **** sapiens
become plaything of all powerful universe force
able, eager, ready and willing
to mutate into any terrestrial animal or plant
can even shrink down
into bot size unit and embed themselves
inside body electric
of people like you and me
ultimately regulating ability
for us to procreate
eventually relegating humankind
to the dustbin of history.

Enshrined vessel corporeal ,
the numberless strands
of infinite time ,
kaleidoscope persona of
Nature , Temperance and Psyche .
☆
With serene countenance ,
in sweet golden light ,
the codes of the Goddess ,
Queen of Cups
and Queen of Swords .
☆
With transforming Geometry
of Justice and
Compassion ,
the unseen ancient force
of her terrible power ,
far beyond base contemplation ,
☆
Rains down the verdict
on dishonour and strife ,
elevating the
transcended ,
while relegating all else
to Beelzebub , earthbound
and gehenna .

revitalizing ontology,
    on the basis of ***,
          rather than reinvigorating
ontology,
with a post scriptum
that's ***?
              bad idea...
whatever the propaganda
is, left, right, or center -
i'm in the dodo project camp...
i'm not exactly hot-headed
for the passing of the genes
argument...
         i like the role
of a cameo status...
   i'm not here for
the patriarchal status...
            of furthered, in ditto,
example...
           no one said that i have to...
so?
     i won't;
   plenty of useful idiots waiting
their turn;
i'm almost ecstatic...
waiting my turn, for an elaboration
of the ******...
            CHOICE...
   and...
           really?
  i've encountered more prostitutes
who took more responsibility
over becoming impregnated,
than your, "free", women...
              don't start ******* on the foot
that makes the first thread of
walking the pavement
it secured in what it later calls
civilization...
             seriously?!
          a woman can turn a man
into an orphanage donor with a flick
of the index and thumb rickety click click
punchbag?
   - and trans-nationalistic?
          WHAT?!
           i've lost the origins of the plot...
and you don't have one anymore...
       keep it among
the homosexual community of
surrogate mm... -hood...
              mama papa swan...
  i want to commit suicide...
   for one reason alone...
      i can't be bothered living in a world,
in the medium of
homosexually raised children,
and advanced a.i.,
                 sorry...
   too much grammar lessons...
and, last time i checked...
i was taught the english language,
without even focusing on the grammar...
   nope...
              teach a your ******* french bulldog
to usher in a maine **** meow...
    prison? i don't mind...
i guess i might radicalize someone
once inside... it's not a problem!
         but succumbing to this *******
revision of grammar?!
          my first dobermann?
axel?!
                i wish i had him handy right now...
and in most instances:
i can be nice...
but when i ask for coordinates?
******* attitude...
hiding, hiding...
      scuttling like rats
before a pompous fox march...
ah... whatever...
         i already offered a chance
to meet and talk over a beer...
      but... apparently...
  i'm relegating myself to talking
to quasi-autistic sham-exploiters.

To him who has made
mockery
of my existence his routine,
I say thank you.

To him who has scorned
my dreams,
relegating her to the very foundations mother earth,I say thank you.

To him who has derived pleasure
posing a living blockade, in my way.
An everlasting thorn in my skin, an ache in my heart. Mày you be  enriched.

For the blessings,
measures of wisdom
and experience you have procured for me, I thank you.

You posed a barrier,
yet you are a stepping stone.
You created a hedge,  it is my wall of challenges, now. A distraction, which has set new focus. I thank you.

Drifting out across eternities there's no reason for the implied meaning...
Of the one soulless window relegating
Virtue to impress a, soulful asunder, guardian of the depraved
For that virtue binds the integral fascination
To review any principle within.. that moment ...
Therein spineless front which denigrates
Onto a microfiche when the whole of erroneous examplature
Accessible is our landscape shouldering the yearning for
the violent outbreak
A leaf a shrub a vine and rivers only hassles any one
persistence knows of the sort
(brake)
Exemplification drenches furrows of enlightened, this apogee
sent not for the gender or of race
Or what makes comprehension before it?!
The fascinations of factions of persons who believe, endure
Self taught reasons, a face for arguing, rather than beseech they atone to learn
What central devolving fresh thought hinders the use of such philosophy?
The negative review of the very exchange, rapine, when found is virtue of altruistic and proud epiphany?
One may wished to have claimed afore as necessity...
Avenues of negativity suspend course!
and excessive janitorial clumsy virtue transcends!
For lack of suave ambitious truth the negativity turns to supersedent personal...
strength... that RENDERS

Must we all be born, previously a zygote and more through
friction busters whether(strike the lustors) the minds or bodies of...
... ... ...
... the front end
blasphemous
fender
******!

today – late morning of November 4th 2022
sudden onset experienced whereby
whooshing waste naturally flushed out
ala mine body electric performed colonoscopy
diarrheal gangbuster instigated
maybe Machiavellian microbe
with powerful ****** surge
analogous to invisible plunger
forcing out every last tidbit
constituting raw bits of
partially digested food
propelled with pronounced might
found yours truly pooped out.

Mine earliest recollection with
lower gastrointestinal eruptions,
viz (diagnosis courtesy medical technicians
informed this then youngster
stomach ache symptoms
disappointingly jump/kick started,
concluded, and associated
with psychosomatic induced distress)
occurred when sexagenarian - me
quite a young lad, which specialist
invited me to ingest barium sulfate,
linked with class of medications
called radiopaque contrast media.

The suspension (liquid)
worked by coating esophagus,
stomach, or intestine
with material not absorbed
into body so diseased
or damaged areas
could be clearly seen
by examination or CT scan.

Once I grudgingly swallowed
the pinkish chalk like solution
a path traced thru digestive tract
visible while I stood behind a screen
subsequently no life or death crisis evinced.

Rear lee if ever attested subject
suffices as an apt poetic title
amidst bookish canon - while
this writer (similar to other aspirants
in their respective creative pursuits)
aware arbitrary perusers may deem vile.

Core body of voluntary selective readers
mentally affix probationary trial
before unequivocally gravitating
toward (or being repulsed away from)
my unique genre or signature
swiftly tailored harried style,
which modus operandi modality
of expression eventually

accruing some degree of popularity
affecting unseen frown or smile
nevertheless, accepting, enjoying,
and tolerating how I playfully rile
aware that anonymous reader's
patience can wear thin relegating mine

worded persona on par with a reptile
unknowingly breaking fragile bond,
hence she/he might not reconcile
without awareness rejecting valuable kinship,
immediately dismiss me as asinine or puerile,
thus forsaking tenuous link, one

that may never bare tangible fruition,
yet all along self scrutiny occurs to refine
thy cerebral thought provoking profile
also intimating months gone by bias
arises toward gobbledygook
figurative handily prehensile

expansive vocabulary, verbosity could
(and/or does) rank as a pile
of unpleasant gluteus maximus
sphincter muscle missile excreta
imposing effort to tone down exuberant,
flamboyant, and gallant
gibberish bookish mercantile

flashing blindingly exasperatingly,
and inflamingly nauseating vocabulary,
not deliberately juvenile,
but this luxe lavish embellishment
a labor of (lost) love with English
Language (inherent since...

in utero), thus...infantile
asper taking shape without conscious
deliberation, though imbecile
appellation possibly affixed
as lasting impression,
perhaps even engendering hostile,

opinion, whereat no effort to exhort
unconditional acceptance of me guile
will transpire, cuz this chap
recognizes how tenuously fragile,
the online choice to remain a steadfast
virtual friendship quintessentially fissile

oft times casting the notion how facile
mine arrangement springs from one
core textured intellectual domicile
that houses persona of one docile
amphibious descendent, whose forebear,
yes twas a Democratic crocodile!

Step right up, folks. You will see
That I have a product that's basically free.
The only cost--the only expense--
Is sacrificing your common sense.

Though SOME people give them a different name,
Conspiracy theories are my game.
They're quite easy to get behind
If you have a paranoid mind.

Misinformation can cause confusion
By relegating truth to the world of illusion
And make you think that wrong is right--
That white is black and black is white.

The more outrageous, the more far-fetched,
The more bizarrely the truth can be stretched,
The more my theories will gather force.
Yep, that's just a matter of course.

From PizzaGate to voter fraud,
Conspiracy theories--no matter how odd--
Will spread across the Internet,
Seeking out every space cadet.

Some of the craziest ones we've seen
Are focused on the spread of COVID-19.
The deep state myths are other ones;
Or the Dems are out to get your guns.

The president--one of my biggest fans--
Is such an asset to my plans.
As long as ignorance continues to grow,
My stories will continue to flow.

-by Bob B (7-29-20)