all of
America’s
gubmint hatin
yahoos, pining
to get their
country back,
should grab
yer rifles, stock
up on ammo
and giddy up
down  to Texas
to join the
secessionists
headin out
of the Union

Rick Perry
promises to
keep his promise
to close all the
gubmint departments
he can't remember
the names of

Ron Paul will
finally be liberated
from the tyranny
of his federal
paycheck and
can return to
his district to
practice medicine
unencumbered
by the acceptance
of medicare
payments

Ted Cruz will
move to coronate
his Cuban born
daddy as Viceroy
for life of the
western hemispheres
newest banana
republic

the last act of
of the Compartment
of Education will be
to turn every
public school
into a Holy Ghostin
Jehovah meetin
house

Judicial magistrates
will criminalize
poor people
or just make
them slaves
and all prisons
will be turned
into profit driven
plantations,
overseen by
the local
Sheriffs who
will be paid
time and a
half and 15%
of all profits

unfortunately
the Cowboy’s
will lose it’s
moniker as
America’s Team
if rattlesnake
booted
Jerry Jones
can’t make a
deal to turn
his stadium
into a sovereign
independent
territory as a
protectorate
of the USA

To assure
national purity
Texans will
build a Jericho
style wall to
define the boundaries
of their heavenly
kingdom and outlaw
all trumpet playing
within earshot
of their perturbed
borders

The Eyes of
Texas as the
state anthem
will need to
be reworded
The final stanza
will be changed
to "Until Gabriel
blows his nose"

keepin the ungodly
out and the chosen
people safely
insulated within
the shining
Lone Star State
will rise again
as a solitary
confederacy
of dunces

Music Selection:
The Eyes of Texas

Oakland
11/18/13
jbm

strange, there's always "the" truth, but always "a" lie... i never understood the monism of truth, and the pluralism of a lie (lies), what is interesting is that with the exclusion of articles: there's but one truth... as there is only a chance of lies... when your disregard the use of definite / indefinite articles, you are talking about truth and lies... reworded, as is necessary ti effectuate the purity of language... the truth: a lie... we speak of truth, but then reconsider this truth with: lies - lies have no uniformity, no honing foundation, not (0, 0) vector enterprise to guide a third negation (kant equate 0 with negation) - the third coordinate of negation is impossible... two negations are possible, but a third negation is near impossible, since there's the first negation of a proposition, then there's the negation of the negation of a proposition (second), but a third negation of the second negation (of a proposition) is impossible, because by second negation the third negation has no proposition to negate, only a negation, and a third denial is a contradiction, and how can a negation that's a "proposition", be negated?! magnet dynamic.

telling "the" truth (a truth) is actually
the easiest thing to do,
  truth doesn't erode the memory,
in that by not eroding the memory -
it allows a narrative a continuum
that does not necessarily have to
digress into a regression of overlaying,
repeating a said lie -
truth is hardly mingled with
memory, truth is forgetfulness -
however, lies reveal a strain on memory,
in that they have to be repeated,
to keep a narrative: intact.
    - and that's what my mother always
taught me:
              - unlike a chinese mother
who says: keep your heart small -
no, instead she said:
    don't like -
  conjure that one up against
the ten commandments:
  there's no shall, i.e. you shall
not lie, she simply said:
               don't lie -
                 if i lie i lie about
the most finicky concerns / details...
notably in culinary concerns -  
   i ask whether i under-salted a dish...
i don't lie about my drinking:
yes. to excess,
   in one ear, out the other -
a litre of whiskey is sometimes not
enough, per night,
           but then i act upon
the sober person cordiality -
              i hush my footsteps -
    i encourage bladder talk and
squeeze my **** to avoid
the unexpected gush of soggy
cornflakes...
  telling the truth is fun,
at least the narrative is glued together,
it feels almost vampire-like:
   perhaps there's a visage in the mirror
to my body, perhaps even a shadow
in the night, but when i stick my tongue
out from out of my tongue?
i see nothing.
  truth is a honing device -
lies: always shrapnel -
  a lie was never and never will be
a unifying concept -
            since there is
        no definite lie -
               as there is, a definite truth -
for there are indefinite lies -
   but no indefinite truths...
                  well, that's also wrong,
indefinite truths exist
           but their indefiniteness is
historiologically* true, rather than
historically true -
              i.e. history is a lie,
    but also a truth, when empowered
with a chance to repeat: or improve -
yet it is still necessary to denounce
  the article as sole inheritor of being
                 definite or indefinite -
              a chance to see truth (the)
applied to the definite article, as seeing
lies (a) applied to the indefinite article
is not merely singularity honing,
  or pluralism shrapnel...
              but by simple construct of but
three to four words:
  the truth...
                   vs. a lie: which implies
a singularity indefinite - i.e. a pluralism,
the truth resembles only one resolve -
a one inside a one;
     a lie?
              a lie of how many?
     hence the pluralism of a lie: lies.
                         now do we believe in
the signature ending via S?
                                        i never believed
in abstraction per se,
        the only abstraction i ever believed in,
was how to mature with one's use of
language,
              i only believed in listening to
idiots, while reading geniuses -
so much of language is burdened with talk,
that so much optics is lost...
                     i only fathomed philosophy
within the framework of how far
language could be abstracted, away from
the jovial everyday conversations in a marketplace,
thus said: how to unlearn asking
for a kilogram of apples from a country person;
but more importantly:
for to speak a tongue foreign to me,
but in a way,
as to make the native speakers:
feel nothing but shame,
and if not shame: confusion...
to become a tarantula...
for personal reasons, i rather keep
intact in the person i am becoming.

FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.

i.

I think meetings are like satsumas;
the skin
can peel
off in
tiny pieces,
your fingers will get covered in the juice
and you can spend hours picking off the white stringy bits
and then the fruit will taste sweet and it will be all worth it.

Or it peels off in one easy motion and it’s all full of pips or it’s dry or it’s bitter and that’s like meetings.

Meetings are strange because they can go on forever or they can be over in a minute.

Some people you meet everyday.
Others you meet once and never see them again.
My parents had the second type of meeting.
They met at a bus stop and my mother complained about the weather and my father agreed it was too hot and then he gave her his number and then she called him.
He became her window cleaner.
He moved in.
They lived in the same house.
They never saw each other.

Everything was terrible.
They never met again.
They drew up different lists:
Frankie, Rae, Teagan.
Genevieve, Emily, Jessica.
Somehow it became something else that neither particularly liked and the outside world didn’t much like it either. They locked the doors and I watched from the window.

Why don’t you go out? Don’t go out.

Everything was terrible.
Mother saw it on the TV.
Father saw it through other people’s windows.
But I can seem never break the peel.
It doesn’t come off in one easy motion
and it doesn’t come off in pieces.
It doesn’t come off at all.

But I am the girl from the cobweb;
I am the spider who stopped catching flies.
From the smell of gravy and soapy water to the kebabs and urban fox.

Meetings. Where do I begin?

ii.

Adrian Wren was wondering how many leg bones
it would take to build a wall around his house,
or rather round his old house.
The bones would have to go around the neighbour’s houses too
so he supposed it would take quite a lot of bones to go round all the houses.

He was writing an article about a murderer who kept the leg bones of his victims.
This was not a crucial element.
It was supposed to be about the murderer’s childhood,
in which the murderer was the victim.
The childhood did not answer the question: why leg bones of the victims?
The bones were building up in his head.
How would you glue bones together?
Adrian began typing;
the isolation and loneliness of being a middle child, the least favourite son.
The problem with being the victim.

It was actually kind of funny, when he thought about it.
Why a leg bone? Why not something smaller, that could be hidden?

Adrian wondered if the girl in the red boots thought about things like that. The girl who had knocked on the door of the too small flat to use his shower and borrow a cup.

Her shower,
she said,
kind
        of
            just
                   dripped.

iii.

Sometimes, I tell lies. Or not quite lies. Half truths. For example:
• These shoes belonged to a dead woman.
• Sea cucumbers can use their internal organs as a defence  mechanism.
• My cousin nearly died whilst attempting to eat a match.

I just want to tell something to someone but I don’t always have the real story, so I tell a not quite story. Or ask a not quite question. For example:
• What would life be like if humans had shells?
• Do we have shells?
• What do people living on mountains do with their faeces?

Right now, I’m looking at the flecks on the carpet, trying to find faces. Once, there was a house built above a graveyard and faces appeared on the floor. I wish there were faces on this floor. I wish I lived above a graveyard.

I live on the ground floor, above the bins. It’s interesting to watch what people have to put in the bins.

If only you’d concentrate on something important as much as you concentrate on that window.

But here’s the man from four floors away, putting his ******* in the bin. His clothes frown, his hair frowns, his whole being frowns. Frowns are like creases ironed into clothes, but who is the iron, what are the clothes?


*iv.

Adrian Wren was still trying to solve the riddle.
Most people thought they gave cryptic clues
about themselves but they were actually
just the conventional ones reworded.
This was a real riddle.
It was about her and it wasn’t about her.
It began with a J and ended with an I.
Anything could fit in between.

Jaci? Jessi?

She had a habit of appearing,
maybe at the bottom of the stairs.
Adrian was somehow angry at her,
just for being there,
sitting on the stairs,
picking a spider out of her hair,
walking out then coming back in as
if to test she really knew the code.
He was trying to write up an argument about people
on benefits but the space bar
keptgettingstuckandthewordsgotclumpedtogetherintonewwordsthat­noonehadanysuggestionsfor.

Jenni? Jodi? Juli?

Sometimes, he was certain she was trying to steal something.
Other times, she was one of those strange specimens
who attached themselves to another, because of an accidental look.
Mostly, she was just the girl in the boots without a name.

Jerri? Josi? Jani?*

Adrian found that the riddle hung
                                                             on
                                                             the edge
                                                              of­ the mind,
an itch which wasn’t really too itchy.

There were other things to worry about:
• Work
• Old things reopening
• Work
• Ignoring the phone
• Work
• A knocking at the door.
• Do you mind, if I come in – it’s just there’s this programme on telly and-

v.

Just tell me your name. He didn’t want to play this game.
Only, it was addictive, now he’d got started.
Now, it was a matter of having to know.
I gave you all the clues I’m giving, she grinned.


Joni,
Adrian said finally,
looking back at the screen
of his laptop.

vi.

Joni-Rae.
It was hyphenated because they couldn’t decide,
because they never really met.

Sometimes, people will call me Joan if they hate nicknames and Johnny if they can’t pronounce it.

Joni-Rae, but actually only ever Joni.
Begins with a J and ends in an I.
Does that still count, if I amputated part of it?
His middle name was nearly Ray too.
Adrian Ray Wren. Too many Rs.

I’m still looking for my middle name though. Does it mean I’m missing a bit of my meaning? Is there a bit of me I haven’t met just yet? Can we meet ourselves or only other people?

I wasn't always good with words
until I learn they can be manipulated
stripped for parts,
treated,
reworded and planted as if sod,
sound the same,
rebuilt like a cars:
thesauruses are essentially junk yards,
they allow you to play tennis with your mind
they can replace signs,
are intimidated by the weak
yet rejoiced by the blind,
and --
in the end
I know words can do more than just rhyme
they chime in during chimes and relate simple parking tickets
to fines,
politicians use them as smoke screens
with words
I can metaphorically call them ninja’s
the way they evade questions and attack with their sharp tongues
so I won
well -- I'm winning the battle with words,
just know I can curse you now
without saying a curse

You woke me up in the darkest hours of the morning, before the sun had even blinked those sleepy eyes twice, with a question that I'd been waiting for.

I'd thought about this question. I thought about how you would ask it. Where. When. Why. What I would say. What you would say back. But I never thought about it happening while I was still asleep.

I rolled over to see you. You saw me and said, "I have to ask you something."
I knew the question before it slipped through your alcohol flavored lips, and it still knocked the wind right out of me.

I wasn't prepared. Despite all the times I'd planned and reworded.
So I started to say, "Sometimes I think I do. But then.."

And you, so drunk and stubborn, you were not having it. You rolled over with a pout and proceeded to fake sleep.
And I rolled over behind you, put my lips to your ear, and I whispered it.

For the first time, I admitted it.
"I love you."


s.mndi

I find faults in my own actions,
I try, but I’m miles away from perfection.
Although it seems to be a fictional word,
After so long, it still has so many definitions.
As ages pass, they’re reworded, rephrased; but
Time seems so irrelevant to me,
Just a useless measurement of our life.
With no actual control, it rules us.
I find no safe state of mind
As I sink into my own misery.
I’m drowning in my own sorrow...

.i don't know are you here to listen to classical music for the same reasons as i? i never bothered with any i.q. testimony or how: i'll abstract "better"... i'm here because... quiet frankly... the drums are doin' my 'ed in... thump thump thump... knocking on doors and the sound of hooves on cobblestone clanking along would probably be a sometimes of a: more appealing hope... and quite frankly the lack of vocals... otherwise modern music and the drums would require one to scream rather than sing - to pass a soul a breath through the custard scrutiny of a wall... why wouldn't drumming translate into gore-screaming sensations; - i'm here to escape the drums and the vocals... some would claim that: Vladimir Lugovskoy has the most serene wikipedia entry of a life: that's better lived - if not best lived... no chance of drowning further than one should: with an epitaph... i have walked many graveyards... i'm yet to find a grave with an epitaph... to me that's like... finding a unicorn!

for as long as i remember... i thought that prokofiev
couldn't better his oeuvre...
outside of his lieutenant kijé (suite), op. 60...
notably the romance piece...

there's a saying about a classical music station...
say, a classic.fm - that what is played is only a fraction
of what was ever produced...
how is a pop music radio station any different
to a classical music station?

it's not really... and there's that other saying:
that most of what is played...
is by a fraction of composers...
the "lesser" composers are only known
for a single piece...

edging toward 34 years...  and... no...
i haven't heard this piece before...
for me it's like a compensation for
liking wojciech kilar's: the beginning
from the film dracula...
oddly enough...
how these two pieces seem to
                "borrow" from each other...

but no amount of time listening to a classical radio
station would have brought me here...
the youtube algorithm spat out an: anomaly...

        otherwise during the day... there's that program...
from 1pm to 5pm... when people phone in...
and... they rarely ask for something specific...
the names of classical music
            pieces are already complicated...
they instead ask for... something akin to the mood
they're in...
well: who would bother remembering
the names - muzak express!
high-brow my ***... music...
that... after all... is... the antithesis of
modernity in that: can i hear any drums?
i wouldn't bet on the drums being included...
whereas most of what's modern:
if the drums are not involved...
does that imply: there's no rigor and standard
bearing to time the matter?

i thought i better call in sometime ago...
and ask for... christopher young's - something
to think about - from the hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack...

well...
sergei eisenstein's 1938 film alexander nevsky -
and what prokofiev gave for it...
notably: the battle on ice: 5 April 1242...
but this is new to me...

it's not like discovering: the moody blues'
spin on pop music with:
nights in white satin and... days of future past...
i have listened to the radio many a times...
but prokofiev's alexander nevsky suite
never made it... to be aired...
a relic - russia under the mongolian yoke,
song about alexander nevsky,
the crusaders in pskov, arise ye russian people,
the battle on the ice,
the field of the dead, alexander's entry into pskov...
there really can be worse ways
to spend circa 40 minutes of your time...

was there a composer that might have
celebrated another date...
15 July 1410 - my history - this sort of history -
perhaps even "god":
apology - i know it's rather... infantile of me
not donning the proper togas and
contentious smiles... of it's a wish for salting
the open wound matter...
of course: always: the "other" the "forgotten"
crusades...
bride of the crown: lithuania -
the pagans that lived into the 15th century!
again: circa.

next on the list: prokofiev's ivan the terrible
suite... but i'm guessing that's going
to very ambitious of me...
but i have allowed myself to stomach
miles davis' ******* brew and coltraine's:
a love supreme...
  prokofiev's ivan: i don't predict anything
less epic... the ultimate nerve-ending shatter...
but... probably not as...
philip glass toying with penderecki...
mahler... even in classical music there are limits...
when a bout of existential apathy seeps in...
and you have grown out of cutting your arms...
or chicken-scratching them...
you might own a female cat...
and forget to cut her nails...
and you pick her up wanting to find
a babushka doll insides -
find the ultimate bonsai tiger to the already
bonsai tiger she already is...
and she digs her nails into your arms...
all this while imagining putting a needle
into your ear while listening to some mahler...
or penderecki...
that's: well... the ultimate sacrifice for anyone
self-harming...
a combination of the two...

otherwise, in history... why did the northern
crusades takes place?
well... the calamity of the 4th crusade...
the largest army... the german army...
pickled barbarossa and... the drowning in the puddle...
and the loss of moral...
a crusade was going to happen...
anyway... if it didn't happen in the holy land...
it could happen in the east:
perhaps a mongol or two could be converted
too...

but: mein gott - i have to check if i have
any tattoos on my skin...
why? perhaps my "soul": no god no soul...
ergo summa summarum (grand Σ)
that other explanation for what "motivates"
me and what: doesn't make me think
about my heart: unless i'm having a heart-attack...
this membrane that shields my thought
from acquiring thoughts concerning
these thoughtless items -
when i walk: i don't think about walking
or moving my feet...

come the exclusive res cogitans...
coupled with the inclusive res vanus:
the thinking thing vs. the empty thing...
no god: no soul...
but there's still a summa summarum!
thinking is not the spider
and my body is not the spiderweb!
****: i thought you might suggest: ego, spider...
that we still have "ego theory"
and the counter: the germanic root:
prefix automated equivalent: self-...

and that no serious history would ever
take place... outside of the ethnic minority
reactions from the 20th century...
then i am... infantile... or imbecilic...
for looking toward the old forest...
with... not all crusades happened in the holy land
and against the muslims which ignited
Saladin...
some happened in north-eastern europe...
where the last pagans sat dormant...
at least into the early 15th century...

they have a name: krzyżak...
and the breath of the world: the wind...
blew these ******* in our direction...
because... barbarossa was pickled...
and he drowned in a puddle...
and what better way to invigorate a loss
of morale... and... be "left out"
from the 4th crusade party with richard I
and philip II augustus of france than...
turn one's attention elsewhere...
but by... historiological standards...

i be infant... having this tattoo of history...
i need to be told:
the only serious part of 20th century
history is: the m.l.k. oration!
some other... social justice cwusade!
wow! you brought the welsh with you?
i figured: what's the point of tattoing my body
with something akin to...
a Lale Sokolov's 19860515...
i'm still "there": as much as heidegger's
dasein allows me to be:
an inflated tattoo... it's missing 10 million
at least... to reach this number...

all serious history ever happend after 1950...
in terms of social change...
the closures of psychiatric asylums
and those... clown "fakeries" from:
bulletin lobotomy...
we all have that added spice in... all soz'
we wuz' knots not yuz...
yizzy? hasiddy yizzy gerschwitz
mild rash: what's that?
we can change the "jew" to a ***... no problem...
but i am tired...
what? "jew" becames a ***?
em... yiddish? lazy ol' sloth in acquired
english slang: ***- as prefixed...
omitted a punctuation mark: susan me!

             the following history that prokofiev's music
was invested in... "idiosyncratic"...
or... a juvenile delinquent case of:
keeping remains of a memory that...
oh: mein gott! doesn't include...
a... multicultural mandate!

from my perspective: this borrowed tongue...
i wouldn't be looking for
remains of the crusader armies...
but then again: barbarossa did drown in
a puddle and was pickled...
and the germans feeling they were being left out...
marched home and found...
their second jerusalem in Wilno...
i guess the mongolian itch was also the "real"
reason why... why loiter?

i have my own... what? history?
oh right... the past is me either being "romancing the stone"...
or the celebrated fate of the mamluks
and the janissaries? slaves or slavs...
etymology... i wonder how that excess
of an added E... looks...
alongside... what's to be eaten...
from: GERMANS... ah... the A and N...
said the "germs" to the "slaves"...

word: swovo...
                                            yabudyed!

it's infantile history though:
the only history that would ever concern
me as having come from the 20th century
and the furthest past...
no... not necessary...
the social juice and oratory speeches...
character before afro...
in english: i remember moving to england
aged 8... and... well...
being born into a monochromatic all white...
society: brave Zulu warriors...
under the patron saint of joking paul II
braved the berlin wall and the satellite
yoke of the communist empire...
and made it! into Poland!

this story... is a tree: that needs to be... ****** on!
liberally!
otherwise? no **** no ancient oak
stamp... savvy?

it's still prokofiev! it's still the alexander nevsky suite!
it's me starving... 30 years without litening
to it... it's... making sure...
that wojciech kilar... doesn't "borrow" from the suite...
otherwise: russophobia...
a quiet literal fear of the evil genius from the Muscovites...
while, simultanoeusly...
appreciating their sing-along and literature...
further alienation on the trench line of
islamophobia: apart from Rumi...
and le trio joubran? what's new in arabia?
law-rence?!

i know i know... having a body free from tattoos...
but a brain tattooed all over with these insignificant
dates... my bad... my, travesty!
i should best remember the civil rights movement...
in a country...
how many times have i visited Ypres?
enough to play sunflower: he loves me, he loves me not
using poppies...
i'm still waiting for my first ****** overdose
from the trips...

schematic: western europe remembers the 1st world war...
eastern europe: remembers the 2nd world war...
but that's still me being: infantile...
why have i been dealt this ****** hand of cards...
in terms of: what history is worth being
remembered... and what isn't...

whatever is happening to the palestianians...
under the israelis...
nothing quiet akin to what happened
to the ottoman muslims under the serbs...
and... what if the soviet union...
took the route of yuogoslavia...
when it collapsed?
what if the soviet union... happened like
yugoslavia happened?
upon disintegrating?

can you imagine?! there's only one praise
for the soviet union... the way it folded...
after all... the soviet union didn't do a ******* ms. sarajevo
as yugoslavia did...
pierdolone jugole... abused prefix term further
up north...
what's that? proto- / any pan- ethnicity umbrella
movement? oh... i thought the germanic plan
was working so well...
who failed? the british: these little brother
saxons... or the p.i.g.s.? portugese, italians,
greeks, spaniards?
i once upon a time figured...
so it wasn't about eastern europeans joining?
well... who was bringing the bulgarian
prostitutes into england? the turks were...

i am gnashing my teeth and peeling a suntan
to later burn over a fire and call it...
once properly stretched: the sort of leather
required for a pair of shoes!
or a belt!

am i still being infantile...
given i know historical figures akin to:
philip II augustus... alexander nevsky...
conrad I of masovia...
       ulrich von jungingen....
no... wait long enough: these people will
become myths... phantoms... ghosts...
no sooner than with the onslaught of time
in the ***** of journalism!
why is there a myth of Oedipus:
it's safe! it's safe to reap psychoanalytical
archetypes serfs of ego from
the couch-sitting bollocking-*******-herders!
it's safe... until the day...
when the crucifix will emerge as nothing more...
than a *****!

east? anything east of the Oder river
is called a... cyrillic! maestro!
a... швaб... a szwab... a "swabian"... a helmut...
hell-muttering of some ****...
he's not a ßaß... that proud term for a people
that came along after the romans
left these isles: which i am speak from...
little africa in northern europe: deutchland...
the pomeranians, the bavarians:
the швaбы...

as the old proverb states, my grandmother:
the only woman in the world that
always wants to fiddle with my beard...
i have never met a woman that wanted to play
with my beard... apart from my grandmother...
well... she says:

if you go among the crows: you better croak their croak...
that's too over-worded...
kiedy wchodzisz miedzy wrony:
musisz krakac jak i onny...
(no diacritical markers...
i feel lazy a'today)...
how's my assimilation coming along?
unique, due, unique "dude":

if you go among the crows: you better croak like
a crow...
so... given the russian is a bear...
moi... the french slav... ******...
well... i'm either the totem stork... or...
the bison... the european wunderkind!
from what i've heard? the letter: Ł?
well... it's as much kashubian and sorbian...
as it is... navajo... inupiaq...

when jung asked: modern man in search of soul...
i asked the materialistic question:
better or for worse: this has to be reworded...
if the breath became the soul...
and the soul became the spaghetti of daydreams
and other leftover rewards of thought from
having abstracted outside or inside
the triangle and the letter delta...
there must be a categorical impetus:
i.e. nothing is true... but i'll continue a...
roulette of will... subsequently...
i'll call it the corona-sigma: the summa summarum...
the crown-total...
wow... there's even a chemical name for it:
18-Crown-6  (1,4,7,10,13,16-hexaoxacyclooctadecane):
yes... the remains of alt-vater-deutsche:
words: notapprovedtobewithouthyphens...
still make it via chemistry...
everything else? oxford hyphen standards...
must be kept!

an imperative is not an impetus...
an imperative has the faculty of a sense of sight...
an impetus? blind man sentenced for ****...
how the hell he ever managed to find
the key let alone the keyhole that led
to the shameful expression of O of the door being
opened... and... guilt!
the pleasures bound to...
the least obvious investigations...
and by now... any drunkard's roulette
when the words come less as a precursor...
but more as: dear... still clinging to a "moral"
afterthought? non sic?

we were talking about prokofiev... weren't we?
lieutenant kijé suite - romance -
my epitome of: "sad and lonely": but god!
my most happy!
and... the newly found: prkofiev:
alexander nevsky - the battle of the ice...
and: how, somehow, wolciech kilar...
borrowed or played ping-pong with this music
to... originate with a dracula soundtrack:
the beginning...

me and my tattooless body...
what is this history? does it have to belong
within the confines of the 20th century exodus?
aren't people always speaking in the 21st century like:
but it's the 21st century!
if they say such things then the exodus must have
happened in the 20th century...
circa 50 years later...
and we're expected to behave like...
at least two centuries have passed since...
1968...
the inverted circus: hear the bang of a firework
first... then... the actual firework explode!

it's not something you'd want to experience
when walking down the Nevsky Prospect in St. Petersburg...
that i did pull off...
i managed to find a russian girl to fall in love with me...
she only wanted a spring and summer...
an autumn for a break-up...
thank god for that...
who is going to see russia from the people
i went to school with?
india's a bore... thailand is a bore...
the U, S of A... a bore...
we do have the cultural export frontline exposure...
what's new?
hell: if i want... i'd make it to israel...
but a month in russia?

oh it was worth the slap in the face...
even she knows it...
we were young, we were cruel...
we only had obligations for the heart to weave
a pseudo-mind and a quasi-skeleton we
would later call: the siamese crux...
and just before i met her...
i remember Edinburgh being haunted
by a ****** eclipse of the moon -
some would even claim it was the first time
they saw a marsian moon...
tinged crimean... borrowed from cardinal red...
and crimson...

some life... 13 or 14 years ago...
like i said, once already...
memory: cameo cinema that i love to revive
almost every night, when drinking...
because: it is not the most spectacular
a life that's worth... a backlog of autobiographic
entries readied: end of life sequence:
better scribbled than forgotten...
but an ongoing parrot's chatter... impromptu...
this the most unfortunate of love stories...
one where... we didn't allow ourselves
to have to mutually share: adult responsibilities
as to have to squander good conversation...
when the bills came a'rolling in at the end
of each moth...
i guess we allowed ourselves
the last idealism of love either of us
would be able to experience...

for a relationship where she proposed...
she chose the engagement ring...
and she herself decided to break it with me...
she would later... "i think i'm pregnant":
descartes: "i think i doubt" therefore "i am"?
the supposed contraceptive measures we took...
how many partners did she have
after we broke up? cuckoo or what?!
oh i remember the ones i had...
the ones i payed for...

               what's not cling to: loved-up and
still not having the sort of...
love with obligations:
love as... the most pristine failure...
that... children in love...
without the existential focus points to...
achieve the invitation of time... inclusively
of boy becomes man becomes father becomes
grandfather...
and not exclusively as: you and me...
i.e. me and her...
etc.

Four hours of sleep,
Laughter and tears,
Philosophy with hidden fears,
And shaky hands
From too many coffee sips;
How else do I describe your
Invincible aura?

Are there really any words
To explain the floral imprint
That springs to life
With every thought of you
In my muddied mind?

Am I worthy of that otherworldly smile;
The one that lingers on your full lips
For longer than it takes to glimpse possibility,
Just so you can see its results
In the eyes of both friends and enemies?

I swear there is mercury
In your glossy eyes-
And I think I’ve reworded it a thousand times,
But they will always be
A poisonous brilliance of dual deadliness
That my demons cannot help but admire.

And amidst all the beauty,
There is glorious ugliness
Which I cherish in these deteriorating hemispheres of mine-
I always did envy the soft pillows beneath your eyes,
And how even your blemishes looked to me like patches of light.

Every fleeting thought of you
Is a glowing orb of searing vitality-
Like lightning flashes of opportunity
And sometimes
The only sparks that keeps me crawling
Through this never-ending tunnel of suffering.
But most of all, it is more, much more
Than anyone could ever deserve.

To simply call you Human would be an understatement;
In your case, I believe,
Masterpiece is a fitting supplement.

the **** are you talking about? i just came from there, you want me to go back, to tell you something new? (a) you weren't born under the iron curtain, and (b) you didn't live beneath it! + (c) you probably don't know many people who lived through, having been born in 1939! and yes, communist hoarded ****... you think they were all moby-esque: vegan feng shui minimalists?! barking up the wrong tree, no squirrels up there, just a ******* baboon.

i've said it once, and i'll say it again:
   the system *works -
it's a fail-safe mechanism of a worn-torn
country... that's why i don't argue
against capitalism,
but capitalism doesn't rebuild nations,
it can't:
   sometimes people have to huddle
and become "buddhists": selfless collectivists!
it's obviously transitionally orientated,
got that lead from syria,
    why do people turn all humanitarian
giving our free loafs of bread to children?
it's not supposed to be a permanent
system, for one thing:
   there is clearly an expiry date
on the packaged communist implementations...
i really do not understand western leftism...
just flew past me above my head:
giving me a haircut while it flew past...
can't say i agree...
  but then again, mullets were a thing in the 80s
with the metal scene...
   so no, you don't know veterans of the communist
idea implemented: snotty audacious *******...
not everyone required the athenian semi-detached
castle back, too much personal grief,
relatives lost, what not... communism is
spartan... but in the end, even hoarding was
allowed... notably? books... like i said,
i think i out-competed the size of a private
library compared with my grandfather...
   but i love his honesty:
  i haven't read much of these books -
odd, i own a library that i'd say i managed
to digest in the fraction of:   6.5 / 10... o.k. 7 / 10...
you can't exactly read an art book...
    or a book on b & w photography...
oh look! pretty pictures.
           dim wits, so why is it that there was this
massive fascination, under the iron curtain,
on a local small gov. level in a rainbow of sports?
everything worth citing the olympics was
taken to, it wasn't just the gulag of football,
              problem with body image?
just watch the olympics, even fat people wrestle
and lift weights... and ping-pong?
  test of reflexes...
                  how about ski-jumping?
      or szermierka? what's that? fencing,
what was pretty pop back then;
         and at least there was a celebration of manual
labour... these days?
    a real phobia - aspiring to the status of gods
we've crafted a problem...
        work is not celebrated, it's shunned -
nothing to do, and a poor inspection of being
leaves us with aspiring to be much:
   while at the same time - doing too little;
yes, i cheated the plagiarism algorithm / bot,
whatever, when writing a sociology essay at
edinburgh... i plagiarised!
   guess what, back then, in 2003 / 4 i.t. didn't
discover the cheat code: a ******* thesaurus...
so i took an essay written by an academic,
and just rearranged it, reworded, deconstructed
it, and? got a 1st.
  top notch stuff, i was never into sociology
in the first place, i just wanted to find out if i could
outsmart a computer system that was
designed to "see" whether a plagiarism was made...
kimovich kasparov would've been proud...
well, that's history,
    what else was there to say?
  ah... aphorism vii ponderings vi...
        i started taking notes...
   atheism presupposes the non-existence of god...
fair enough, but as a presupposition it's
adamant, stern, and always "seemingly" right,
if not angry, then just plain ridiculous -
     i'm a wolf that finds mauling these sheep
that gesticulate with both palms, knees and other
assortments... that's called a punch below
the belt in boxing...
     is it so hard to attack st. augustine, pascal,
or thomas aquinas, let alone maimonides,
rashi or nachmanides?
     come on... making a ridicule-centered argument
is doesn't deserve respect:
   for every ounce of ridicule - there's an ounce
of disrespect...
  theism merely supposes the existence of -
since the "law" states that
    a supposition cannot be related to a negative
expression of non-existence "of"..
while the atheistic presupposition cannot be
related to a positive expression the existence "of"...
(the inverted commas on a trivial word
like of? so i stop short of implying god, mmm'k?)
these opposites seem to be strangely
anti-chemical in relation to the mirror of chirality -
for some reason they are super-imposable...
they compliment each other,
primarily? the show must go one,
         neither side rests, and finalises itself...
why? well, if atheism is based upon presuppositonal
logic, and theism is based upon a suppositional
logic... then evidently they both share
the no-man's land of propositions...
     oddly enough the "non"-existence "of" argument
loves to be pro the suppositional circumstance...
now i know why kant focused on meditating
5 + 7 = 12...
               like a hebrew might burn the tetragrammaton
into his mind...
     it means? to ensure the rigidity of sentences,
to burn into his mind a clarifying ingredient -
that all sentences make: sense,
   with the basic arithmetic being the benchmark
for all subsequent endeavours into scribbling
down the critique: makes sense.
   now to come to think of it,
i'm purposively digressing paying attention
to heidegger's (vii, vi) -
       i just want to keep it to myself -
i might as well write it out verbatim, than try
to explain it...
  and subsequently write several other cohort
"paragraphs" stimulated by the content,
than attempt the dry martini of explaining what
he "meant"; because: he meant this.

it usually happens when a fly in mid-autumn still manages to fly through my window, and given that i'm currently smoking rolled tobacco (an art form, which my grandfather always admired me for, having perfected it), i've turned into a kind of slob, tobacco in my pockets, tobacco on the windowsill, tobacco on my books... it's almost like dust, i don't know how it gets from (a) to (b) of said places, however careful i am when rolling, there's always some loose strings of it lying around - as said: by locomotive breath: choo choo!

another thing that happens while drinking,
just take today for example, today,
woke at 11 am after sitting up to 6 am,
having exhausted my prescription sleeping pills,
turning to the painkiller naproxen
for, pretty much the same effects...
    naproxen man: da'h bomb, the goon in
the pharma rainbow...
  what? i studied chemistry, i'm not ashamed
of using what i could have synthesised
had there been no women in my class with
me being down-graded...
500mg of this baby, and you're suckling
at the **** of mother night -
i really would like to write down the ******
expression of a baby suckling at its mother's
***, the mooch mooch sucky sucky no fucky
sort of weirdness of the selfie duck pout...
how does that one go?
and then, momentarily, i get an injection
of intoxication, i mean genuine intoxication,
a glee in the eye, a wry smile,
   and a tornado for a thought...
    i can't seem to master the pompousness
of reading philosophy, frankly,
with the books i read, i can't,
   because so few people have read the originals
and simply *ctrl c ctrl p did justice,
via the people who read them,
  but even these people are hard to find,
because, at it seems:
      after reading a work of such majesty,
you rarely have a coherent argument,
what you get is a narrative,
   which takes the back-alley route, and sometimes,
just sometimes, the few essential
bits & bobs pop out, i call them less
regurgitated maxims perfected for a mundane
"critique" / "understanding" of a work,
and more: jack-in-box-but-guess-which-box-
jack-is-in-when-rummaging-throug­h-a-warehouse-
of-boxes...
        it's either a game of greek roulette -
or plain dumb lottery, your pick.
    but then it creeps up, this drunken sensation
akin to way back in the old days
when actually did get drunk and have
hangovers...
                   i checked my weight too,
115kg way back... 110.8kg today:
       wow! i'm a slimming jim-joe genius!
****, beside the point...
          in vitro, in vivo,      &? in vino!
it's all chinese fireworks when i sit down
and read the genre of philosophy,
  like i said, i don't need to make this a pompous
affair, method acting, for sure,
  just pretend to be stupid and you'll
end up loving this genre...
      mind you, at school i was better at history
than i was at chemistry or biology,
even though i went beyond high school
to edinburgh to major in chemistry,
  it was obvious that i took to reading philosophy
like a gun to a barrel filled with fish...
can't miss 'em...
                 but i esp. enjoy reading, say,
heidegger's ponderings, when i become frustrated
at not being able to solve a sudoku puzzle,
or when i try to escape to some mundane
the times on sunday magazine article that
just feels like washing my eyes with
a toothbrush dipped in wasabi...
                 it's like: ugh, and oh, and huh?
and then the tears come...
          and to be honest i have no idea what
heidegger just wrote, point being -
if you want "coherency" in language,
you read the linear genre - a novel!
        you want a breath of fresh air,
  and some alone time without a reality-check
gravity thought-pattern dragging you
into the everyday, + a sigh? you read a poem
(or try not to, given all that free space
in poetry, no wonder novels in paragraphs
can feel so claustrophobic by comparison)...
and i hate cute, pooches, coochies, itchies,
'oochies... whatever...
but it was the already stated italics -
   in vitro: in glass, yourself looking out,
looking in,
      in vivo: in life, yourself looking in,
looking out,
   in vino: just looking at veritas,
                                                       i.e. truth;
and the former two do sound very much
like george harrison's greatest contribution
to the beatles' oeuvre with
  the hyper-hippy train wreck to india that
was within you, without you...
no wait... it might have been that groove
with studio pagol's take on rain on yours...
jiggy jiggy jove, jiggy jiggy remix by jove jr.
so why do so few people read philosophy,
as an equal genre of literature
   with the same plateau stature as novels
and poetry and all the art books and what not?
1. it contains too many questions,
2. you really don't know what the person
    is implying,
3. its the primordial / archetypal form of
      subversion (socrates was a spartan in
      athens when the two factions were
      at their necks),
4. it's technical, in that, it's non-reproducible,
    in that it's also always original (if
    written with a spirit of authenticity),
5. it sometimes whirls in a language akin
     to sentences that read, much like
     chemistry: CH3OH etc.
6. it's non-linear narration, always backtracking,
    or layering, akin to geology,
    orthodoxically known as systematisation,
7. unlike nietzsche: i find systematisation
    an honesty, because systematisation is
    not a dishonesty, but a pulverisation of
    a single point on the wheel,
    i.e. it's the representation of the tangent...
    and as the world rotates,
      times change, whatever "metaphor" you
care to desire as implicitly as this "poem" -
      well, the ever fleetingly touching,
              but forever meteorically fleeing;
8. it's written in a language of thought,
  rather than action,
           therefore the grammatical category
   of the verb is practically missing,
purposively, since action as much as talk
is not an extension of thinking -
  why? how many mindless acts, enigmas
surround us (lost vegas?), and how much
idle babble in the houses of parliament?
9. god... every sensible philosophy book
does not avoid the:
  noun inside a noun inside a noun inside
ad infinitum...
      as such: to me god is a paraphrase -
the sharpening of a thesaurus,
  or, to better mention -
               to narrow the thesaurus in order
to find one's on vocabulary bank...
one's authentic storage of words -
  that does not deviate as it sometimes does,
so ****** obvious, by novelists who
sometimes reach for that "smart" word that sticks
out like a fifth limb in a sentence
  on the odd occassion;
  and why is god a paraphrase to me?
  look how many times that concept has been
reworded,
   the jews have a name for him,
       the prime 7 and the esoteric 72...
   the hindus have more gods than actual
names for a single deity,
    the christians don't have the father's name,
   the muslims bak bak hark allahu and then
miss the other 99...
         to me the best version is to call it by
way it really is: ditto.
- and now off to making hamburgers and chips.

musical Michelin men,
changing our stations like tires,
making movies melodies
and melodies mockeries,
break hearts with rhyming ironies
cliche enough for our youthful psyches to believe again...

but rock & roll hall of fame hip hop hypocrits
camp inside this skin and bone
with their guns and spinners
waking us into remedyless comas
like Waco, Texas kool-aid grasping fanatics
waiting for some Bruce springsteen,
-make me cry-
revival...

ties loosened by garage band
-cleansheet addicts of rewording reworded words-
pop stars
disguising themselves behind "emo hair"
and pencil darkened -i'm pensive- stares,
curtain emotions in some six degrees of separation,
"sure we get Lou Reed" sort of way
until the numbness feels like depth
and we are buried...

Bruce Springsteen makes me cry
as he yearns for his Queen of Arkansas,
Because I too am alone,
seeking solace in angels in Asbury
or bird preying on poetry atop wires
as I pray for God to exist
and for music to win back her soul...

but we have ALL sold our souls...
for gasoline,
for 15 minutes on a faux red carpet,
for the confusion to leave
and the pain to pass
for the season to change
and a smile to last...

Altering.
Pathways
adjusted,
rerouted.
What
was
no more.
Time.
Constant
tinkering.
Circuits
plastic
being
reworded,
re-wired.
Experiences
add up.
Tweaking
perception.
Tools,
evolving
attitudes.
Time.
Takes
time.
Old vs
new.
Gulf of
perception.
Generational
divide.
Reality’s
creation.
Generational
divide.
Years
in the
making.
Smile
at their
all knowing
innocence.

every September our teacher asks why history is important. It's the same responses every time, reworded to make it seem like we are different, intelligent, capable human beings who can think for ourselves:

"so we don't repeat the past"
                             "so we know what mistakes to avoid"
                                                                               "so we are not ignorant"

it doesn't vary, even now when our world is the history, when we live in a time we have already studied and find ourselves powerless yet again.
a sixteen page document emailed to us late at night reads "How the Spanish Flu Prepared America for Future Pandemics" in an effort to comfort us but does not provide relief to those of us trapped with sick families, sick minds warped and destroyed by the news that surrounds us from the moment we wake up to the moment we fall asleep in the bed we spent the day in.

"How the Spanish Flu Prepared America for Future Pandemics" is not a balm for our souls, just a reminder that we are taught to study and analyze to create armor against time but history will always repeat itself, lashing out at the fools who think essays will somehow protect against the cycle, that their words can overpower the earth herself.

You were crystal clear like
No clouds in the night sky.
Stars twinkling in the distance.
Our reflection in the lake.
When you told me
That you loved me.

You were opaque like opal
When you told me you
Weren't sure anymore.
You wanted to take a break
Fully aware that we were at risk
Of cracking, of shattering -
That was worth sacrificing for you.
But your conflicting confusing wording
Led me to believe there was hope.

I should let a caged bird fly away
See the world
Experience it all
Wait for it to come back home,
Patiently and faithfully.

You kept me in this in-between,
I had the naive belief
That the sediment would settle
If I did,
You would too.

All the sediment:
The broken promises
Tears dried on my cheeks
Drinks half-drank on the kitchen counter
Hours unslept and floors unswept,
And words I recorded and reworded
In an effort to best remember and reframe you.

All this sediment coated my mind and home.
I thought it would accumulate to enough carbon
To create a diamond under enough pressure
If we put our love together when we came back together
It would be set in our wedding rings
But you never did.
You not coming back became crystal clear eventually,
And the smoke and mirrors eventually faded.

So I blew away the dust
Began the cleanse.
The search.
Instigated and led by me.

He didn't want to argue or fight with anyone anymore. It doesn't have to be this way not holding a grudge or mad just trying to live and enjoy life.
All the physical and mental pain was enough trying to heal be better. No more childhood pain just moving forward away from the hurt. Not in that place or that person anymore. Cutting away the toxic letting go of those stuck on the past.
Releasing the dead weight since its not helping but holding you down stuck in the same old place. Slow progress is better than staying still.
Recycled thoughts reworded hoping to encourage inspire others. Another way other chances opportunities instead of the same false hope expecting change while working for new onto fresh new perspectives experiences gains from new encounters.

Insomnia has me feeling like my brain is on ***, ready to fight the whole wide world like a single player on PVE, you know the drill doc, it's basic carpentry, I want you to tap my heart with a faucet, wire a valve through a piece of PVC, then this forced hand writing will all come more naturally, you can put that guilty plea on me, until I can sizzle in the amniotic fluid that I used to be, there's no point, it's all debauchery, this is the pain that tugs, this is your brain and this is your brain on drugs, shiver on the floor, do you prefer hardwood or rugs? Patterns so enigmatic, hypnotic, it infects the minds of bugs, this is the stain on love, semantics' sake, purely you must remain above, the lonely strangers steal hugs, pedestal, peddle fool, spin you gold faster still gotta keep my cool, another angry person with something to say, the world won't tolerate em, they all hate em, they've all heard enough they can't complicate or placate, so they scab over like platelets, the drones of sweet, alluring ignorance, all holding hands to keep the cut from gushing while singing dixie in their barbershop quartets, it's a bust, tamper nothing, they'll scamper to something, all worthless, shine a red light, blink a blue light, hold up something bright and everyone scurries with folders of opinions in loop-anxious media-frenzied overfed fright, it's like seeing the sun for the first time after living your whole life in the night, it's like everything's been left and someone just discovered you can go a new direction: right. It's like originality is a race to who can say it first, there's a million voices on top of any million voices anywhere already placed, you can say your piece the worst, see it reworded into the best version of your vision, stolen and marketed with minimal revisions, and there you have it, imagination rewarded by death in a spotlight, cancerous half-a-half-life half-empty with only air to ****, a flower whose stem can't reach the water in its vase, but whose beauty makes everyone want a pluck, and now there's a fourth wall, and a war call, and I'm looking at alternate timelines like I was Andy Warhol, what did Nixon ever know? He made an oval face, looked at the tapes and just said no.

Alright, writer, make sense, no more stream of conscience nonsense, it's not word games, respond to what I say with what you heard games, it's not dropping references and names, you've been under pressure, under stress, get over yourself and decompress, take this ball of bile, blackened, bitter bomb of odious construction collecting in my chest and set it off on a page until the load becomes less, gunpowder and sulfur can hang in the air by my toes when I'm done, while my eyes grab red lines as if I'm drawing a maze to the iris, fading out while staring up at the sun, I'll put it all plain and forward, word for word, if I'm hurried be sure you've heard, if you sleep during this, rest assured, it's no line blurred, no speech slurred, no more detour deterred, I possess a demon whom genocide resides inside with eons of ****** pride and an entire tide of souls have died pulling their eyes out in screeching madness and suicide, laying down to suffer beside a spawn of passion incarnate with majestic homicide, whose tongue has split families into tragic feuds where it has lied, whose fingers fetch folly from hearts without a guide, who is to fresh air as a cloud of hydrogen cyanide my domicile is the reflection of your final moments as you are brutalized by one you've known and trusted, who's got you all alone, now see your face flash in their teeth when they smile, I am a manic satanic panic, a brooding mood of a human being, my inner darkness would be enough EMPs to **** the nuclear energies of the sun if that wickedness would this way come in freeing, the tender moments I have are with the meat I cut away from soft and fatty flesh of feeble people that I force to flee my presence, you filthy animals all procreate and makes goals to abolish hate, your virtues are the falsehoods my soul resents

Have no children
skip a generation
let the world breathe
let her recover from mankind
make no life, eradicate your infants
skip a generation
we don't need more time, give the earth a chance.