THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
Where are now the warring kings,
Word be-mockers? -- By the Rood,
Where are now the watring kings?
An idle word is now their glory,
By the stammering schoolboy said,
Reading some entangled story:
The kings of the old time are dead;
The wandering earth herself may be
Only a sudden flaming word,
In clanging space a moment heard,
Troubling the endless reverie.
Then nowise worship dusty deeds,
Nor seek, for this is also sooth,
To hunger fiercely after truth,
Lest all thy toiling only breeds
New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth
Saving in thine own heart.  Seek, then,
No learning from the starry men,
Who follow with the optic glass
The whirling ways of stars that pass --
Seek, then, for this is also sooth,
No word of theirs -- the cold star-bane
Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,
And dead is all their human truth.
Go gather by the humming sea
Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell.
And to its lips thy story tell,
And they thy comforters will be.
Rewording in melodious guile
Thy fretful words a little while,
Till they shall singing fade in ruth
And die a pearly brotherhood;
For words alone are certain good:
Sing, then, for this is also sooth.
I must be gone:  there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
His shouting days with mirth were crowned;
And still I dream he treads the lawn,
Walking ghostly in the dew,
Pierced by my glad singing through,
My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:
But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!
For fair are poppies on the brow:
Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

The ouroboros of eight,
mouth full, speaks forever
of doors and portals cautiously opened
from times past when scared eyes
scoured woodlands for sacred evergreen
and feasted to last the dark,
through the missionary rewording of the same,
to now, the snaking trucks
of the cola company

We’re slowly dying of thirst
In the desert of Trickle Down.
Allowing politicians to lie
And constantly fool around
With the laws, rewording them
So, they leave us all out.
Today, that’s what being a
Republican is all about

The GOP takes money
And waves it in our face.
They don’t know the meaning
Of the word disgrace.
They cater to the lobbyists
And the riches they present.
The kowtow and kiss the ***
Of the holy one percent.

If you are the kind of folks
With no millions in the bank
You don’t have a chance and
You have the GOP to thank.
They don’t like non-whites
Nor non-Christians here.
They wish you’d leave your money
Then quietly disappear.

While we’re on that Christian stuff
Don’t get so carried away
That you think Republicans
Care what you have to say
About the basic freedoms that
The Constitution gives.
They only mean it for themselves
That’s where the issue lives.

So, don’t you non-white citizens
Think you can open carry.
It’s just as sore an issue with them
As gays who want to marry.
It may be the law, but then
The police are on their side.
Those who thought otherwise
Have suffered and have died.

This is the Land of The Free okay
If you play by Republican rules.
Those who don’t believe that
Are soon proven to be fools.
This is the land of those
Who can buy a public office,
They feel the way you pray should
Be ruled by Republican caucus.

Maybe not yet
Couldn’t be the right time
If we haven’t quite met
Is it safe to define
This romantic
Semantically
Not ascertained
As rhetorically
Verbally
Just unexplained
Inundation
Of all too forgotten
Emotion
Feels more like a promise,
A vow,
But unspoken
For now
There is day in
Day out
Demonstration
You give me a reason to live
Ideation

Park benches, dark autumn early breezes
underneath the sounds of crunching leaves.
Your leather jacket,
My failed attempts at charm and
being mysterious.

A smile lit up like fireworks,
September was never brighter
while swinging and wailing like a siren
lost in the backseat of my car.

Looking at you with lingering memories
of someone that I used claim to be myself.
Pulled back and ripped apart like an old scar
that is now a fresh wound.

I didn't come here to tell you to stop yourself
from falling completely into me
like a crash in the ocean,
or a match striking paper.

I come with warnings and stamps of approval
from the regrets that lay furthest on my mind,
and I still just can't stop myself
from rewording these clever bruises,
that I'll have to explain when I get home.

I have a friend whose father, though imaginary, was able to get work driving a cab in the country parts of Ohio. if I close my eyes I can see my own father lost in some wooded area naked and wearing a cape. the cape is deep red and my friend is female. when my mother reads me a book without pictures I can tell when she’s rewording the phrases she finds plain. how she reads ahead while reading aloud is something I hope to one day mimic. I do worry about the books I claim to know as perhaps there is a sadness in them that remains untouched. plain things are often sad things. I would ask which causes which but for the unlimited amount of time we have left.

To my dear poems,
Although you're close to me, I will no longer strive for perfection with you
For I believe the raw emotions and imperfections make you beautiful and I am too in love with your flaws
The scraps of paper with scribbled words
Coffee stained napkins where sudden inspiration hit
Temporary words on palms
And unlike mine, I love your scars
You let my heart speak without a filter and the more perfection I force upon you by replacing words and rewording my pain,
it becomes nothing more than a never ending game,
making me obsessed about your appearance, I end up with useless words that make not a difference.
So instead of giving you hours, I will give you each a piece of myself and I know it will remain safe with you.
From your imperfect writer

.i can hardly feel nostalgic, when youtube was what it was, i could waste a good liter of whiskey and stay up all night trapped in the labyrinth of the most superior - ingenious algorithm, a personalised algorithm that was pure a.i.: it would learn from you, in the suggested feed, it always learned from what you like a priori and it would suggested a thesaurus interpretation, those were the fun odd days, a man could immerse himself in foraging for new music as well as butchering a liter of whiskey... lately my exploration days on the platform became nothing of human concerns, more a rat in a maze, even the drinking became dreaded labour of: "boredom"... some things had to change... what was the point of wasting a liter of whiskey per night on a screen that became as unshakeable as a mountain... so now, instead of wasting 20 quid a night on a bottle... half a liter will give me the lullaby effect... in terms of drinking that half a liter of whiskey: considering i will not enjoy using the internet as much... never mind the view count: i know that some written has a lower view count and that if it has a view count it builds up slowly... after all i am a modern contemporary... there's so much tolstoy to get through! the tally... but i will not allow myself the brahmi tally system, it's too complicated for my liking... and i can't write the european ||||(/) into html for some reason... let alone the chinese (正) version... i had to invent my own tally system - the braille tally:

           ⠁ ⠃ ⠇ ⠧ ⠷ (⠿)
           1  2  3   4  5  (6)
           a  b  l   v  à  (é)

    it's quiet a sobering experience...
                     only yesterday i drank about 250ml
and pretended to be asleep for six hours,
got up so refreshed that i started to decorate the kitchen
and made the most badass tagiatelli meatball sauce...
the trick was... onions garlic and two fresh chillies
fried first... a teaspoon of chilli powder
a teaspoon of paprika fried first,
   chicken stock added, then some tomato puree...
let that thicken...
meanwhile make the meatballs...
the breadcrumbs should be made into a paste
by adding milk... the meat fused with the breadcrumbs,
salt, pepper and italian herbs:
oregano, thyme, rosemary, basil etc. fried
and left to the side...
    a can of chopped tomato, worcestershire sauce...
some sugar... salt / pepper to taste...
then the meatballs would go in...
            the old youtube: explorer-tube is
not coming back...
        and... quiet frankly?
           exploring these alt. media outlets is a bit
of a headache...
what good is gab.ai to me,
                                         when i never used twitter?!
whatever this current: "culture war" is...
                  it's not worth fighting...
                             at this point videos gain
the traction of "count"...
         but then the "count" becomes diffused into
stupid comment sections where people need
the obligation to shout and pass the queue with
raised elbows...
                            repossession - a synthwave  music
mix...
                tomorrow i'll finish decorating the kitchen,
save myself another 10 quid...
try to find about 3 hours of sleep...
                     and i'll look back at the years
from 2008 through to 2016 as a glorious period
in internet history that has:
   unfortunately died and how the future generations
will never experience what i've experienced
when it came to an a.i. music shop assistant...
   so they say: a.i. will take away many professions...
by the looks of it...
   the first a.i. job for an a.i., as a music store curator...
the first a.i. music shop assistant?
fired... out of a job...
            it's strange...
                            oh but not so very strange...
a.i. to steal the jobs of humans...
    looks like humans hit first...
   and stole a.i.'s first job prospects,
on a site like youtube...
                     and what a fine job this a.i. did...
i never knew so much alt. music existed...
      well i did and i didn't: that's up for debate...
in translation? if you buy a vinyl copy
of a record... you still get a code to a site that lets
you download the mp3 copy...
so the best of both worlds...
                                a vinyl... and mp3s...
but bye bye wasting away every night on a site
that turned against its a.i. music shop assistant...
here's to sobering up...
                    by gradations...
       after all: one decent "poem" a glorious night
is enough to five spewed like venom spat from
                                                                      an u.z.i.

even i become remotely "o.c.d." when it comes down to
the english sway of notation.
                 i'm talking a basic arithmetic,
a basic arithmetic of notation in english, or quiete simply
english notation.
                         i deem         "    "       to denote:
                        a quote, of a quote - as in: third party
resources being cited.
                                            what i'd definitely be satisfied
with as deeming a quote, would be a    '          '      
                                                         encapsulation;
but the way english speakers denote a quote a quote
by using "         "     encapsulation? to me that's arithmetically
unsound...  or to use a blunt knife expression: simply wrong.
first of all             " = ditto
                 perhaps the english are unfamiliar with
continental standards of linguistic coding, but  " = ditto,
but of course         ditto ≠ quote...
                               " ≠ quote,
so why would you utilise the ditto symbol to imply, quote?
            it doesn't matter if it's either side of said words,
the symbol is not a quote-based symbol to be used...
   '        '       is; yep, two *******... now who's feeling creepy?
" = /as above/
        where no 2nd or 3rd party sources are cited / quoted -
at best the     "     "   encapsulation can only mean one thing,
and one thing only: ambiguity:
                        a bit like saying - a friend of a friend, said
that he once ordered k.f.c., and in it he found
        a k.f.m. (kentucky fried mouse)...
                                                but that's about it.
the ditto mark implies                               paraphrase,
you're basically rewording something,
                                  borrowing from the already stated
     in the above, given script, of your own original output.
so you see, i don't know how "      " encapsulation can denote
a quote, if the basic arithmetic states,    ' + ' = ",
                         and by the time someone supposedly quotes,
the notation of supposed citation will morph into  "'       "'
                       type of enclosure.

iskra (title): par (the body to bypass the 502 bad gateway)

O these tender winter nights,
when the moon graces the skies at night,
i missed him....
in my native tongue he's known as ol'
baldy... he's not known by the name Luna...
just like the sun is a she...
& not Helios...
i missed him... how i missed him when
the nights were short...
when the biting air mingling with
frost didn't nibble at the hands
and explore x-rays...
bone-father... pristine eye:
he who discards unnecessary dreams...
will never allow recurrent dreams
to fester your mind...
   i look at this migrant crisis & think...
why are these people looking for
an elder of the north?
am i the elder?
    another question: could i be as welcoming
with a ***** attested to Abraham...
- once upon a time
i was taking a train from Romford
to Liverpool St...
a single mum with her child...
the child approached me
with a book & started reciting  the words...
in deutsche... i tried to hide weeping...
oh course i shed a tear...
a child was reading to me
about... operating trucks...
constructing scaffolds...
             doing the "magic" that diggers do...

ULVER - KVELDSSANGER:
you can just skip to the song: Utreise...

i imagine that if i were united with a woman,
the role of father would drastically undermine
my relations with the woman...
pointless talk...

i'm currently undertaking a
nvq level 2 stewarding course... so a preliminary test
of your English & Mathematics skills...
i almost completed the English skills test today,
i'll do the Maths tomorrow:
i always preferred a su doku to a game
of scrabble / a crossword...

overall score... 56%...
passable... grade C...
now the stats...
comprehension at 80%
text comparisons... eh... 50%
implicit meaning 33%...
  
    you're getting the drift?
poets should never be NVQ tested on their language
skills... you start reading e. e. cummings
or william burroughs?! FAIL... outright fail...
too much freedom you see...
you have to have a return policy...
a return framework...
you need to learn English parrot...

language features... at 75%...
using glossaries (67%)
organisational features (ditto)
bias (a big ******* fat 0... it ought to be O%)
bias... maybe i just misread something
or... never mind...
NVQ level testing: it's not like getting a BSc in
chemistry... oh **** no...
it's a mind spaghetti pressed...
you need to be double sure... i.e. wrong at least once...
****'s sake...

fact & opinion (50%),
writing style (75%),
written communication (60%)
writing (33%)... seriously? seriously?!
format & structure (40%),
organisational markers (60%),
persuasive language (33%),
complex sentences (50%),
GRAMMAR (80%),
verbs (75%),
     punctuation (36%),
   spelling (78%)...

   but bias at O%? you ******* kidding me?
i can't tell the difference between reading
propaganda in newspaper & reading directions
to get from A to B?

NVQ jokers... you must be stupid...
let us help you...
******* left high school with some A-levels
now they think they can rough up a BSc
owner... you know... i did this one ****** module
at university, some sociology course...
they told us to write an essay...
that we couldn't plagiarise...
what the **** did i do?
i plagiarised... we were supposed to be monitored
some some giant precursor of an A.I. Brian...
brain... that was supposed to pick up plagiarism...
sure... but if you know the "magic" of rewording
& have a ******* thesaurus handy?
i had to listen to some music,
my focus was elsewhere...
i plagiarised the essay: through & through...
managed to get a 1st for it...
did the, "system" catch me ought?
of course it didn't... so much more computers
& rules & what became my totem...
no wolves on these isles... the foxes will suffice...

NVQ *******... just regurgitate:
it's not even remotely related to learning... its a parrot
parody... but... after the initial test...
let me tell you...
i never learned so much grammar as i did now...
not under the GCSE model, for sure...
if only the English punctuated like the rest of
Europe apply diacritical marks...
but i write: outside the realm of giving a flying-****
& a gingerbread to consider what's
formal what's informal... it's... arrr... art!
you bring me down to a level of proficiency in
understanding: oi! black: to the right...
white's: down...
to the centre...
                        it's somewhat debilitating when
having to make distinctions...
what is from what's... because somehow
the practice of... congesting? concentrating...
compounding words is... informal?
if the apostrophe is so hideous when it comes
to don't vs. do not... **** away with it
when it comes to the possessive article!
don't use it... so how does: it's Sams bicycle look
like now?!
pretty ******... people make up these rules
only to give themselves gatekeeping stature...
gatekeeping hierarchical procedures...
o.k. o.k. i get it...
but i'm writing this only as a retaliation:
don't think some of us don't know what's
happening...

i'm ******* gagging for the mathematical questions,
i hope a su doku comes up...
it probably won't...

i never had so much encounters with grammar,
people who don't write poetry have ****
for brains...
there are so many formalities...
... is not even a recognised punctuation:
"strategy"... you can't allow yourself
the " " markers... whoever wrote the NVQ exam
obviously didn't read any Heidegger...

i forget that the 'obvious' intention is...
i generally appreciate 'said' as a quote...
"x" indicates toying with metaphors, misnomers &
insinuations... but no... oh no...

studying history doesn't give you the luxury of
studying grammar...
seems like grammar is fine... 80%...
bias at a big fat 0 of O%... come on?
first they test you, then they double-sure...
language so rigid is bound to be:
a non-language...
                      
        soulless "thing"... but fair enough...
after the last, failed, terrorist attack... i'll plough through...
i like tending to the flock...
i like the look on...  faces... that seem to recognise me...
as if they know me from a dream...
and there i am... in the flesh...

my Indian companion... i fixed her clip-on tie
for her, i took the knee doing up her borrowed
steward jacket... blah blah...
she told me she was diabetic, complained about
how for a week her other companion told her
to watch her sugar intake: i will have nothing to
do with reminding you of anything...
she was freaked out by autumn leaves
piled up in the park, how she was afraid about
not knowing what might be lurking
beneath / in the pile...
i told her about my apprehension
with regards to swimming in the sea...
how i much adored swimming
in waters where i could see the depth:

swimming in glass...
how she was afraid of cycling after falling over...
how her mother made the analogy:
cycling is like flying...
only today, with my hood up...
yeah... it really is... your view is so unobstructed...
if you don't look down and spot
the tip of the handlebars...
you can almost forget your legs are peddling...
she finally managed to fathom enough
strength to kick a pile of leaves:
to no surprise... nothing but leaves beneath
the leaves...

a walk in the park... i like the idea that a woman
must be comforted...
i like women with suspicions of reality...
one little phobia here...
another little phobia over there...
i like pocket-sized minds & hearts...
its fits "in" nicely: to whatever grand event is
happening, otherwise...

the match "might" have been taking place...
but the park was so gloriously available to wander
in alone, at peace...
it made more sense playing the authority figure
with a walky-talky...
asking people to drink up their beers before
getting to the venue...
such a... simple role... not a plumber or carpenter
in sight... if this is work... then i don't know
what loitering is... all it took was a change of attire
to turn: this load of ******* into work...
from what otherwise would be considered...
loitering by the load of *******...
simple!

O but the moon is high in the sky & winter is finally
playing the ******* accordion like
it might be slapping a heron against a rock
to death... love it... no other month is so magical as this
one... while all the people slip into a pseudo-hibernation
faze... i find myself rejuvenated: realigned...
the cold serves me abundance that no fruit
can ever bring...

gone are the bothersome insects, esp. the flies...
while the cats self-impose their own curfews...

why is it, that in Poland you see hordes... of crows &
kafkas... hordes of them: like clouds...
but in England... solitary wind-bits...
at most... in Huginn & Muninn pairing...
as if the ravens in England adopted the nobility
of swans... in Eastern Europe them come as...
messerschmitt: schwarzkreuzwolken...

         furchtbar!
see... when the English speaking world starts
playing funny... political, social, whatever...
grammatical... i tend to "forget" i speak English:
oh how i adore this tongue...
it's an armchair, compared to all the other tongues...
with one exception: the elder English,
which has to be.... most probably...
if not the modern variant, then any other variant of...
what was spoken in Saxony was also
probably spoken in Thuringia,
Swabia... Pomerania... etc.

    like the guy who delivers some of the packages
to my door... der glücklichenmann...
for a long time i couldn't place him,
his "accent" was no accent at all...
several scenarios later did he disclose his origins...
Deutsche... ein glücklichendeutschemann!
ich muss sein in güt: gesellschaft!

eh... perhaps the German grammar structure
when translated into English was
***** a little by French grammar which:
who borrows from who:
western Slavic grammar is so similar to French
grammar... if i were only this,
before... i was taught by a self-righteous monolingual,
later a Spanish woman teaching French:
perhaps i could be speaking French right now!
im diesem augenblick!

but the guy leaving packages... only today i picked
it up... he does have an accent... he has a German
accent!
he hid it so well prior... before he freely disclosed
his national identity... i wouldn't have known...
now he accents his speech like a German might...
prior to: undistinguishable...
amazing... i could the same with my ******
mother tongue... but i'm schizoid...
i can make clarifying distinction between the two tongues...

only today... for once he sounded so German
when speaking English, he almost had me fooled thinking him
a Schwiezer!
das "Himalayamann"...
    mein gott: so ich gedanke(n)...

but English can only become insufferable once,
of twice, three times i strike gold...
i end up drinking and teasing some German....
it's not like the zeppelins are coming,
are they?!

let me know... i must know... the part where i'm to be
educated about a minority status,
by a minority that is becoming: less & less...
minder und minder ein minderheit...
i'll cook my own ******* curry:
this that & the other...
too bad you will not "make east" of my peoples' food...
how much, do you ******* want?

it seems:

genug ist nicht genug!

i turn to German to make a "sacrifice":
i turn to it for: TROST...
English is too cosmopolitan... at times...
in London: all the ****** time...
i looked at Derby supporters when
they played Fulham like animals...
not in a bad "sense": someone ought
to herd these ******* home
to a warm pillow...

i don't like being reeducated concerning
statures of anti-racism... that's ******* *******-wanking
reemphasis...
i can't be... anti-racist...
i can be: counter-...
i can... not-,
           but anti-racist is a belief in the inhumanity
of those that express their, little, piquant...
tastes... i can't be anti-racist...

if i want to **** a chocolate ice-cream cone...
mein gott: weltpolitik!
nein! nein! nein!
          zu hölle: mit diese scheiße!

it only takes one ******* would-be Jihadi to
identify you as a German
before the 2nd concludes...
hey... why don't i try pretending to be: German?!
women of my own ethnicity can't tell the difference...
let us, do German!

such sights to see... solche ist winter!
ausgedehntnächte...
der mond...  neugier ohne frage(n)...

***** like magic. It distracts from the truth

An elaborate rouse.

That's more like active abuse

Thoughts  he discourages.

 courage that you sadly refuse

While hes rewording your life 

To be matching his views

**** it. Reexamine how this happened

To you

Dreams to travel foreign galaxies

With the man that you knew

Now stuck in submission

******* planet for two

And misery is pity

That attracts you back to

The same ******* clown

Without the mask and a suit

 Hes asking you daily

 about what you actually do

Sherlock in his home

Without the badge and the clues

Bad as the news

When you discover hes cheating

Now hes calling you crazy

And you start to believe him

Hes enraged and laced with anger

*** some day you may leave em

So he grabs you by the throat and squeezes

Choking your breathing.

You hope he doesn't mean it

And soon it all will be over

Than you wake up from your dream

And see the same man on your shoulder

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...

standing in the supermarket,
the 70cl of Jackie Boy is on sale...
16 quid...
   last night i bought a liter for
30 quid...
   drank ~half of it...
          stood there measuring
with my L shaped measuring
tool of an extend index to the base
of an extended thumb...
will that work out to what
i've already drunk?
   apparently it did...
   while i tried to remember how many
people i past on my way to the supermarket...
1 fox...
              anyone else?
  nope... just me... and this one fox...
on my way back i tried to remember
what drove me to the act of
criminality,
of taking a knife in public...
oh... right... sushi...
and needing to peel and slice
up a lemon to eat the sushi on...
right...
          and that incident with
this guy running after a girl
and then the girl pointing at me
and shouting at the guy to look...
knife in full view...
   and then the guy running in the opposite
direction...
  yeah... that night...
really hazy...
   **** me... living on the outskirts of
a capital city, living in what is
technically: not the capital city has
its perks...
   walking at night?
you're probably the only person walking
the labyrinths...
   going for a drinking session in the forest,
or the chanced several days
of drought...
   and then throwing yourself
into a carpet of autumnal leaves...
smearing your face with them,
to extract the perfumery of decay?
still on your own...
         no one to bother you...
deer, hell-hounds, foxes,
badgers, rabbits... crows... kestrels...
seagulls... seagulls?!
oh yeah... i don't know how they
manage
to fly so far inland, but they do...
rowan, sparrows...
       wróbelsokolka...
****... almost a googlewhack...
**** it... the two search results...
but.... i'm guessing that's harder to find
than actual googlewhacks of a single
result...
     i still don't know how i managed
to get away with taking a knife
into a public realm... maybe because it
was the night time...
or that i was eating sushi...
or... the fact that a girl managed to get
away from a provocation is
some unknown in her realm of life
encounter...
    i guess, as you would, play
the ethnic card...
headphones: heard jack-****...
but it played out as:
see that white guy over there on
the bench?
   Oreo better run.... see what he has
in his hands?!
   yeah, Oreo better run back...
he has a knife in his sand...
sorry, what?!
   too little wasabi, not enough
pickled ginger,
the soya sauce not balancing
the lemon slice...
needs some sweetness?
  anyways...
    i love boring myself with
these sorts of cognitive arithmetic,
like... this memory
becomes a rubric designated
to 1 + 1 = 2...
it's intrinsically my ontological
focus of what subsequently
becomes the memorization of
the spelling of words...
   inclusive memory consists of...
h o w i w o u l d w r i t e t h i s
a n y w a y...
               the exclusive memory
is... what actually happened
in the subject matter...
   but **** on me...
  i wanted to test the field...
like back in Edinburgh on a second
year sociology cure,
with regards to the plagiarism
computer program that was supposed
to find out the plagiarists...
i was a plagiarists...
i didn't end up studying sociology,
rather...
   how to beat
    a plagiarism computer program
with a thesaurus,
   and a skill at rewording paragraphs...
what did i score?
   90+%?
                 guess the system
was a complete fail...
  hence me taking a knife
into a public sphere...
                just testing the territory.
- sure as hell the Jack will flow...
and i'll end up writing nothing
substantial...
although... there is that culinary
advice...
   shove a decent slice of lemon
into the insides of a whole chicken,
and decent **** of butter...
and then slice some butter and put
it over a chicken...
   obviously use an oven plastic
bag...
             and bake it for over one &
a half hours...
   juiciest cluck-cluck strutter you'll
ever serve...
   a lemon really exfoliates
the potential of the chicken in terms
of easing out the meat juices...
and...
    that's pretty much anything than
mattered today.