.akin to a reply within the respect of Olivia Gatwood... these are not war chants... these are not war invitations... what deserves the hostile, is what bears an answer... these statements? they're only preliminaries; apparently two freedoms of the same argument, have the right / are expected to coexist: mind you, thinking, is the antithetic argument supporting talking... oh ****... right... i "sound" condescending... the clicking sound of my keyboard is condescending... at what point... did you arrive at the paradox... of hearing, before seeing? airplanes... i see, prior to the dragging "echo"... who said what who said who said what? i didn't say anything... i typed... keeping in line with: freedom of speech... what an exhausting right... esp. in a time when speaking is equated to thinking, and "speaking" is relegated to the opportunism, of writing being equated to "thinking"... talking... simply a tabloid freedom for the populace... i said ****... if this is not in the comment section... who said what who said who, who said when? when? maybe i delayed posting this... having thought it... a thinking, liberated from the cognitive schematic of a moral ought... a cognitive schematic to parody the enshrined freedom of speech, deviating from being forced to ask the moral ought? what is freedom of speech, by comparison? you are given the sort of freedom that implores you to speak... you are actually being given enforced rights to be compelled to speak... but not to think... to speak... at the exact same time... you didn't equate thinking with speaking... oh... right... this, "freedom"... was exacted when... quiet a large number of people were still deemed illiterate... and they were illiterate... but i'm literate... so... why would i need a freedom of speech... when, by writing, i have the higher right / freedom, to think?!

reworking a vindaloo recipe...
what sort of madman...
writes a recipe,
that includes 40 grams of
dried chillies?
i weighed them...
around 30 came in at 30 grams...
i had to revise...
the recipe...
a hopscotch chilli...
two fresh red chillies,
8 dried chillies,
and some Kashmir chilly
powder (much milder,
slightly sweet,
than usual)...
    it's a ******* meal...
it's not a competition as to
who can east the most spicy meal...
you play that **** while drinking
*****, not eating dinner!
mind you... vindaloo?
the most specifically scented
curry in the world...
you lift the lid off the...
baking tray? cooking utensil?
you're immediately hit by
a whiff of... sour spiciness...
can't describe it...
it feels like lime chilli...
hot & sour...
counter to the Chinese
sweet & salty...
   **** me...
     Indian cuisine...
                 it's like...
         what pepper,
salt and horseradish did to
European cuisine...
thank you England...
well... since i'm doing all
the cooking around this house...
i guess... a woman can just
sit pretty, and pretend to be
an ornament of the mantlepiece,
playing candy-crush saga...
works fine for me...
i wouldn't trust a woman
in the kitchen to begin with...
she might under-cook
the potatoes,
over-cook the pasta,
and over-salt a sauce...
so... yeah...
  women are not welcome
in the kitchen.

but, hell, they can bake, women can
do one thing right in the kitchen:
they can bake...
i hate baking, because it involves
waiting... i hate waiting...
a woman in a kitchen has
perfected the role of baking,
but that's about it...
figure this one out...
all this anti-white male rhetoric...
where are you going to
get your rhetoric...
when we die off, died out,
become the prime suspect
of the dodo project?!
    who's going to replace us...
and make the same argumentative
reprisals of your little,
tirade, symptom of
being borne by a real daddy,
and not a *****-bank
donation?!
   mother daughter relationships
must, really really work out
so well..
mind you, mind me...
i really need to ***...

when cooking, i hate waiting...
i don't like making
something, and then guessing /
waiting for the end results...
i want the whole fling...
the whole translation
of organic chemistry into
a heston blumenthal kitchen...
  i want...
the many aspect of transfiguration,
cooking no less an art,
but more a science...

women can bake,
they can also walk around pregnant...
can they cook?
you really want women
to return to the kitchen?!
seriously?!
under-cooked potatoes,
overcooked pasta,
following a vindaloo
recipe word for word?
you sure?
    in the army...
women didn't cook...
the men cooked for the men...
sure... a feminine role...
but...
   and this this is a pretty big but...

makes no fighter on an ill
stuffed gut...
           men cooking for men...
while the girls play the role
of the trophy mantlepiece...
"jogging" along to flirting
with candy-crush saga...

please, please... come into the kitchen
when you feel like
baking a banana bonanza...
otherwise... *******!

I was born on November 30th , I hear that makes me a Saggitarius.
I dunno what that means.
I  know how to swim, and I'm a sucker for a guy with a nice smile
And nice words.

I'm still learning how to whisper sweet nothings
I'm often loud at times when I should be quiet
I'm often quiet at times when I should be loud
I keep holding back or letting it all out at the wrong time.

I like sweet drinks... a lot.
I've been told that I give pretty bad hugs
People say that it feels like I'm trying to escape
Well I don't like letting people close.
Especially close enough to hear me breathe.

I have this odd fascination with things like time machines and technology,
I assume it's because I like to figure out how things work and fix them.
Am the same way with people, like to know what's coming before it does.
Love usually lasts a few moments,
That's also why I tend to fall in love with men
Who would never love me back
I know it sounds crazy, but it's actually much saner than it seems
And to be honest, I think it's safer that way
See relationships, they often remind me that I'm not afraid of letting go.
But I'm scared of what's gonna happen
The moment that my body hits the ground
I'm clumsy. I usually trip when am following my feelings.
I landed on my pride and it shattered like a mirror i check daily.
Now I can't even tell who's trying to give me a compliment
or just trying to get into my pants.

I've never been into martial arts but I have all these bruises,
I got from beating myself up over things I can't fix
I know it sounds weird but sometimes,
I wonder what the voices in my head say when am asleep.
I wonder what the doors would do if they found out
About all the things that I've done when they are closed.
I've got a trash can that's overflowing with really, really obnoxious mistakes
And a dump site in my closet with all the skeletons.
You'll trap me in a corner and insist I get help.

Hi, my name is Em,
I enjoy ice cream and yoghurt, people watching
And figuring out how to make them work.
I allow myself to cry more than I need to,
from letting all the wrong people in.
I have solar-powered energy, I have a battery-operated heart,
It flickers and dies from overuse.
My hobbies include rewriting my life story, hiding behind poems,
And trying to convince myself that I do matter to someone.
I don't know much, but I do know this
I know that if you don't have standards,
you won't be treated right and be happy.
I know God is still reworking my faults and flaws,
I'm a unique work in progress.

I need you.  You have invaded my heart
like an army looking for bloodshed in the
most important battle of the war.
You have left my heart ripped open,
dripping the hot blood of the most crimson
red the world has ever seen.
My veins are reworking themselves to spell
out your name.  Look closely,
you can see them through my translucent skin.

I'm reaching out for you but the air is cold.
The oxygen that fills my lungs smells of only ice.
No one is near, you're so far away.
I can't stay with you.  You are warm, I am cold.
You're wrapped up and I'm abandoned.
You sleep well with the ghost of another,
I don't sleep. Empty spaces in my bed,
empty spaces in my heart.

Don't talk to me like that; I can't take it.
I fall.  Don't talk to me.  I can't take it.
I fall. Each word that comes out of your mouth.
I trip on it, I lose my grip. I fall. My balance lost
forever with you. I fall. I'm in love. I fell.
And i'm still so cold.
And my heart is still bleeding.

. a sober me will do something akin to: listening to cabbage's song perdurabo from the album nihilistic glamour shots on repeat... reworking en plein air poetics: notes towards writing in the anthropocene (brian teare) - yes, the scribbly bits - and yes, the song on repeat... with an interlude for dinner, a movie (unsane): and about 10 minutes wrestling with a bottle of ***** in plain sight... after a movie like UNSANE? you wish for a drink to mule the whole plot of insanity on screen... but a reminder: i was working on something more important, wasn't i?

cultural darwinism: what could ever be
more than a history that is a history
         in etymology?
  
there is no proof of going up
bound to a ladder -

supposed "praxis":

well... i too was on the search for
an "etymology" of a script
that i'd be able to call: yore - yonder...

albeit not in            ᚷᛖᚱᛗᚨᛁᚲ
i thought i could not
have shared a genesis
                                 as that:

'as old in writing:
as in thought.'

something older,
so to my surprise: it does exist!

but reworking it
had to be known (at least to me) -

standard-bearer:
26... letters... from English /
Latin... script...

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱈ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C    (20)

exceptions:
                              X

other exceptions?
                             graphemes...
which will be included...

20 letters... minus X:
                         minus V... or...
when d'aal...

                 Y....  and H... and J

Ⱘ - Y          
Ⱓ  - Ju   

the closest i've come to is...
well... Greek has 24 letters...
who says that anything less is...
"uncivilised"?
Hebrew... that's 22 letters...

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱃ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C    (20)
Ⱘ - Y         (21)              what's needed,
in all honesty... is... something to balance
laughter on... a H...   ah...           Ⱈ - ch...

which brings me onto the graphemes...
some are missing:
some, depends on your orthographic
taste, in the context of Western Slavic...
you'd be making orthographic
mistakes:
personally?
   if you're going to bother marking
an S with an acute sign...
you might as well allow the S caron...

ergo?

a list of graphemes
and diacritical individual markers:

Ⱎ - Š
Ⱔ - Ę
           which makes Ą missing...
Ⱍ - Č
                       Ż is missing...
   no, no mirage... je suis sam...
Ⰶ - Ź...

or at least this is a sketch of what
i would inherit from proto-slavic...
high-slavic?
   that's the ogonek on the A and
the E... no caron above the vowels,
an an orthographic pedantry of
either U or Ó...

there's already a name for
all of this: i just didn't know where
to look!
- and i was looking at it
to begin with!
  well... what seems like...
modulating what would
have been the equivalent
of: runes...

the glagolith, the bukvitsa:
h'ieronymian...

or mine:                    gadanina
since there's no Ł
   to write out:   słowo (word - swovo)

- looks like we now know
the "problem" of the H, I and J...
here and there: erroneous leftovers of
etymology... scraps...

    and... no one thinks that
the English language has... "too many"
letters?

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱃ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C  
Ⱘ - Y         Ⱈ - (c)H
                    
       certainly the graphemes
  (Ⱎ - Š, Ⱍ - Č & Ⰶ - Ź...
but there's a missing...
                               grapheme
for the je suis! Ř or Ż
   Ⱔ - Ę)...

apparently i need:
                                 Ⱑ - ja
after all..

so... how does one test this out?

   ⰘⰅⰡⰀ!
               ⰏⰀⰏ
                           ⰐⰀ
           ⰋⰏⰋⰤ
                          ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ

a day's "hobbying" just to end up
writing something like that...

last revision:

Ⰰ - A           Ⰱ - B          Ⰲ - W        Ⰳ - G
Ⰴ - D         Ⰵ - E            Ⰽ - K           Ⱄ - S
Ⰸ - Z          Ⰻ - I            Ⰾ - L         Ⰿ - M
Ⱀ - N          Ⱁ - O            Ⱅ - T         Ⱆ - U        
Ⱃ - R           Ⱂ - P            Ⱇ - F          Ⱌ - C  
Ⱘ - Y         Ⱈ - H           (Ⱎ - Š          Ⱔ - Ę
Ⱍ - Č          Ⰶ - Ź           Ⱑ - ja)...

  i.e.: there are still only 22 letters...
                    Ł does exist:
like any diacritical mark in modern Russian...
look at it!
                         Ⰾⱏⰹ...

                         БЛЫОTO

душкa душкa!     Мишa...

              Ⰻ    ⰜⰑ

                       Ⰸ         ⰕⰅⰃⰑ?

it's almost like,
i remember those guys from
school, who would sneak out
on weekends
at night, to scribble graffiti;
wherever it was,
or wasn't,
   i sure as wasn't:
                the ever studious
faustian archetype...

      tzn.:
                    ⰖⰝⰑⰐⰨ
                                      ­ⰕⰖⰏⰀⰐ!
here...
            here's my graffiti...
but... ha ha!
here's an idea...

  how about....
how about!
    people get those ****** Chinese
worded tattoo written off their skins?

i don't live outside my poetry,
                                                             i live me poetry,
i have five cigarettes in a packet
and about 3/4 of a bottle
of whiskey left: i haven't had a natural
falling asleep pattern to mind
with a 9-to-5 of tomorrow to mind
for, over, 9, years! i synthesise sleep!
not out of laziness - mind you, if i was in a wheelchair
i wouldn't be eager to fake-dance
or embrace swimming - limb or limbless
there's still Pistorius to mind,
doesn't mind a moth-on-fire to
apply Einstein's relativity to what
Socrates already said: apply
relativity to dichotomy and it all just
becomes an undecipherable monism
without a beyond to justify good and evil...
a... **** it... whatever! let's admire
Louis the XIV fireworks and wine!
but his brother, ooh! what a firecracker!
Chevalier de Lorraine was my hair too curly
they almost might - the intrigue decipher -er,
additions to a false spelling mishap -
or the proof of nobility, had the mother
begged otherwise and the daughter not
endangered the quest by seeking out
a scaffold -er's errand to guillotine the tulips
for a fragrant bouquet - here the admiration
for the stern heart of the east replaced
with the jealous heart of the west...
but Philippe! **** two horses and a cow!
i.e. *******! what a reworking of puppets...
in the hall of the crimson king... e -ing,
-ah ah-ah... the rōnin purity, the pride,
a poet's wet-dream of fancy, best luck drunk,
bad luck sober - i wondered quiet a many times
whether i had ***** or just a ticklish farce of
fancy to roller-pin the protruding genitalia
into the constituency / obligation / necessity of marriage...
the same as Narcissus spoke without an **** partner -
the ****** rap of Louis the XIV courtroom
imitating behind curtain the head of Charles I
in clone chandelier the fate of John the Baptist and
the ****** of hate of Salome...
how the two combined, the export of Iraq met
in Egypt with likewise revision of the genital parts,
Iraq translated into Israel, the two combined...
why f.g.m. rose from yawned over m.g.m. because
of the harem of kings! Philippe though! what a king!
that standards shook, the banners quaked,
the muskets shot blanks for a deadly purpose,
and there was poor Louis with the armour of quote
and a ***** of power inherited: appearance is power -
likewise today, what appears powerful is indeed
powerful, but only in deception,
beside the deception there's is no power
except the innate purpose for symbolic hierarchies,
and look where that ends up, Sinatra singing a song
about pennies raining from heaven,
indeed pennies among the streets of paupers,
the crown easily *******-on from a pavement's perspective...
i'd ask you to sit on your laurels were you
emperors, but you are kings...
so why not sit on that thorny crown of yours?!
hey! pristine gold is worth more than a poet's anatomy!
that's the casual expression, if you sit on laurels you're being
lazy... a poet's Welsh longbow man's V salute against
the French emperors - but i'd like to see them sit on
that famous crown of thorns, or the seven gilded
pikes of Rome resurrecting Vlad and the villainous Turk;
sarcasm disarms all seriousness in attitude
toward rank, and in turn disarming itself as
placed in hierarchic demands of humour -
sarcasm competes outside of the hierarchy of humours,
outside of comedy, it's there to be a buckling
when authority becomes all too... ridiculous.

One by one they fall
The ones I thought
Were my friends
There they go,
Distancing themselves
From me,
Until they are completely gone
From sight
But not from mind

Every night I remember
The fallen faces
Once friends
Now death eaters
Devouring my
Malleable flesh

"You will never lose me"
The newest one to the
Fallen faces said just the night before
She lied, and stole my friend

One less from my already
Tiny group
Of people who "care" for me

I never know what I do
To deserve this from anyone
Maybe its my tone
My anger
The demons that let themselves loose
On the page

Or maybe it's the things that count
The things they know and see of me
The kindness I give to them
The love I give for all I care for
Or the horrible, despicable, evil
Things inside themselves,
That I protect them from

My malleable flesh
That they currode away
The flesh that
They know is weak
And know they can walk all over
Because of my overwhelming kindness

I don't know
Why I keep believing
When people say they won't leave
When they always do

My mother
Gives me my kindness
My father
Gives me the rage I throw
On pages and pages
But never show

My mother
The reason why I'm so malleable
My father
The reason why I have the dreams
Of killing, of yelling

Both
My depression

My mind now
Reworking all that has just happened
In it self
It organizes my thoughts
Replaying the events
Showing what to do next time

Re-Awakening itself
To now know
Not to trust those who
Show no effort
Who pretend to know
Who eventually, will be the others
In my dreams,
Of killing
In my writing,
Where all of my demons let loose.

I want to love all
Even thought I know
Not all will love me

Waiting at a café table
You walk in and I’m disabled
Seeing for the first time
The blue-green-grey of those troubled eyes
Lost in the limelight
Where I found you, saw you,
Knew you in this new space,
Feeling this strange rhyme,
Waiting at an intersection of
Strung out weathered hope
The silence lengthens, the stare deepens
Casting what I knew into distant realms,
Reworking the good and
Finding those lines redrawn
I no longer anticipate, but wait
For those answers only you can give,
Those I was never able to predict.

I am constantly rewriting lines
I am always retracing my steps
I am stuck reworking my code
I am lost in reconfiguration

A skipping records plays
(plays, plays, p-p-plays)
and I am caught in-between
here and there and where I want to be

I want someone who is
More than just a cure for my loneliness
Someone who can seal my madness with a kiss

More than a pretty face
An electric soul
a fiery grace
More than static
Over and out of control

Til death do we tear each other apart
Reworking our guts into the bigger picture
You can't spell heart without "art"

To the one who can supernova my senses with
a stare
     a touch
          a telepathic tug

*Just be here now

I wish that we hadn't dated last year
I'm doing better now
But alas
You're not here

Would timing have changed
Our inevitable fate?
What if I'd been better
In a "more myself" state

--

But I cannot choose
How the cards fall
At the mercy of the moment
Despite wanting to control all

From this I have learned and grown
In innumerable ways
Lessons I can carry
Into life's next phase

An hour is as fleeting as
the angle of the morning sun,
as brief as any moment has
a kinship with the current one.

The fabric of the world with all
its artwork, every sun-dried streak,
refits the future with a small
reworking of a brush technique.

You peal back his past and and pull it through
sewing his history and his going to be up in a moment
torment and torture, you delight in his pain and his fighting
delighting in the life you are tainting, destroying
watching him straining,he is trying to forget what remaining
and I am stuck painting
sketching
reworking
searching
He wants to forget you,He wants to forget your mean, your mad, the things you stole and the things you have.
He wants to forget your mean and your mad... and all the things you once had.
He wants to forget you.
erase your face from the storybook life we have now
you refuse to let absence in, showing up in the dark
throwing bricks
steeling things from his yard
he is too nice, he is too hurt
I love him more and more and I feel this burn
burn your house
burn your yard
steel your cat
and fuel this urge
burn your mean
burn your fire
burn that look
that old desire
burn that smile that's backed with hate
fight that feeling that turns me irate
sit back down
I refuse
to do anything
that makes me feel like you
Hating what hurts what I love most
Burning hot
cheers lets toast
toast to being more
the high road is hard, I am feeling chard
I remember what matters most
I have him in my heart, he has me and his
when he says my name he does not cringe
He loves me.

Such is the mirror of a tomorrow
That makes now’s theft no more than a borrow.
Myriad borrows without reflection
Gybe the sailor’s course beyond correction.
Sailing on the waves of a reworking.
Reinforcing winter’s wind’s inflection
To fill the world with a dire infection.
Yesterday left to cruel sorrow.
Winter prevails for tomorrow.

The fallen guide the vacuous minded.
They follow to their destiny of dead.
In eternity of eternal sleep
Blind to the reward they shall never reap.
Perpendicularly prevailing for
Fighting back with righteousness they shall keep
Until victorious they take the leap
To the promise that has been read
By those remaining sound minded.

Such was the mirror of that yesterday
That cleans the slate thereafter, ev’ryday.
Their dirges sound hollow when spring is here.
They’ll never return lest we forget fear.
We learn to reflect the heart of the all.
No more need we shed a single sad tear
For this, it is written, he will forswear.
Embrace love for there’s no other way,
As it will prevail forever and a day.

A poetical set
of two clauses

or something
-I've never been
good at math-

(speech as
is before it
implies any
poetry)

(the indeterminate,
aleatory
in nature fully
rid of all
things prose)

do they
intersect?
at which point
does X differ
from Y and
does the
M ***** upwards
or down?

checks and
reworking

I've never
been good
at math

Jesus My Saving God, works within me.

Creating my path toward his salvation.

For he does not want me to be lost here.

So through his plan and path in my life.

He creates an path that shall finish my salvation.

He works within all of his peoples life here.

Reworking an path that shall lead unto him.

It is part of the beauty of his amazing grace.

So never allow your life to end too soon.

Taught your books
Reread your words
Walked at Walden
Life changing monent
Touching your desk left me humbled
Always crafting words like reworking recipes to improve them
Poets can't laugh at themselves but their words lessen life's highs and lows

C@rainbowchaser2019

The moon rose behind
the mountains, like
a runway.

The stars up ahead
looked pretty, from
far away.



With little vision in my eyes,
and face half-under messy water,
those lonely shores now rippled with life,
moonlight flash on pier.

Scratched ghosts of headland through seafoam,
bruise-coloured & careful, and I alone,
seeing faces in old raindrop night-time
moonscape storm had come.

All with black language of love and luck,
started war with that woman, since we changed.
Despite remem’bring tattoos and smiles at dusk,
in my dreams you fade.

Island ferry siren naked,
waves of black and brown, pulling it inward,
vibrating great shadows of formless bay,
and consuming it.

Through the spiral of shiv’ring moonlight
magic, cheap birds lost their names in the moonlight,
reworking old songs they half-memorised,
breathing us goodnight.

But have you heard their songs lately?
Are they kissing, working on new poetry?
What will they remember in three-month’s time?
And who will be there when it all falls down?

Well does that matter anymore?
This poet’s a fool, he thought he changed; It’s
just new kind’s of ****, new moonlight on pier,
hold me, anyway.

The rust-red banks of old love soon
crashed under cigarettes of rippling tide,
as horror covered whole stretch of sky,
midnight scene, & I.

Out of the fire he called me, as I stand the ashes fall off of me.
All that is left of me , is what was not burn in the fire of cleansing.
For he is at work within each of us, cleansing with a Holy Fire.
Transforming us, into his Perfect likeness, remolding each of us.
Molding , transforming us reworking us into a Holy Child.
For he uses circumstances, situations, and people in our lives.
To create an race of Humble, Holy Race of soldiers that belong to him.
For he take an group of nobodies and make us into his somebodies.
That he shall use to reach a world that is dying from our sins.

i could really, really, find a purpose
in life, by ******* off
a mystic, like Sadhguru,
which would be nothing short
of spectacular...
      and not for some personal
gratification,
                         but for equilibrium
of some sort...
           notably on the topic
of ailments...
          having studied chemistry
and, oddly enough, gained a degree,
i resorted to a drop-out mentality...
what can you do,
    when your brain becomes your
laboratory...
    and the times when you once
synthesised esters is reduced to
perfecting, a chicken saag recipe...
**** me their cuisine is
breathtaking...
     never mind the mistic...
  apparently the news from India
isn't good...
         Hindus doing Muslims in,
    a ****** is told to do 100 sit-ups
as punishment for ****** a 16 year old...
  hence the mystic simplicity...
     mind you...
    for years I was prescribed
an antidepressant, amitriptyline
(25mg)... but for some strange reason
I treated it like a sleeping pill,
or at least that's what I thouht it was...
blatantly there is an instruction "manual"
for the drug...
                   DO NOT MIX WITH
ALCOHOL... and what does this little chemist
do?
    he mixes it with alcohol...
      the odd naproxen...
     but the question is...
    do most people take antidepressants
before they go to sleep,
    or during the day, before breakfast, etc.?
I'm a ******* cheap-***, can't afford
a laboratory, might as use this
****** fatty-sponge as an alternative...
curiously still:
  Alzheimer is caused by killer protein,
and the pop consensus is:
to train the brain to work as a muscle...
straining it on puzzles...
   mental "exercise"...
      but the yogi is right...
as my res vanus reworking of
the res cogitans suggests:
    perpetual "thinking" is exhausting,
Nietzsche had a macabre take
on things: when the you look into
the abyss...
           seems that, fear,
rather than puzzles,
    can be a greater motivational
artifact, than some banal puzzle in
a newspaper...
                 as much "exercise"
   is achieved by not thinking, than is
achieved by "thinking"...
   example:
               emptiness is substituted
with a cognitive custard when necessitating
a complete brain coordination,
notably when changing lightbulbs
subconsciously thinking about:
  how many blondes it takes to...    
    remembering that you too had blondish
hair, once upon a time worn long...
   oh we can play the words game
with the cited yogi...
     bud-
            (dog kennel)
                      -da-: (will give)
   on da / ona da:
    he will give, she will give...
            which is half of what
Budapest was built on...
                   do most people prescribed
antidepressants, take the pills before
bedtime?
               unlike taking hormonal pills
having had your thyroid gland removed,
I. E. half an hour before breakfast...
   I can't see how,
    overcoming the "placebo effect"
   of almost all psychoactive pharmacological
drugs isn't compensated by
the taxable, and notoriously
evident effects of psychoactive...
      pleasures...
                            stigma schtigma...
      are people really reduced to
a sort of shame equivalent to being
a child, caught stealing cookies from
a cookie jar,  when talking about
the most subtle of ailments?
                            last time I heard
is that there is nothing worse than apathy...
apathy breeds no pathology after all...
        but to call these subtle, ether ailments
as self-generated...
                begs the question
of the "self", and the per se...
                              at once frivolous in
the guise of depression,
  but then authentic in the genuineness
of lethargy... and in the extreme example:
narcolepsy...
       sure, sure, I know:
hot **** and a bag of marbles...
                       thank god I do not
hold responsibility or have the authority
to prescribe drugs...
     sly rat Timothy Leary...
   trying to slither out of an interview
after populirising LSD
   and the girl who jumed out the window...
good to know that if I am hurting
anyone, it's only myself, and it's done
by no other, than yours truly...
    and, apparently...
while saving the Amazon and not wishing
to exhaust these words to be on
a printed page...
      sometimes, there's simply
a rhythm to writing...
    there is not actual concentration
on the content...
       there is only a rhythm to writing...
since I never managed to
play the piano...
      at least there's the rhythm in
writing, and not a chance for
a desperate, exasperated poet making
it to centre stage...
         and with that sort of
honesty:
       I'd love to have the chance to
pass off a Hindu yogi...
                             or repaint
every Christian icon...
              with a needle puncture in
each of the saints' halos...
                 early prototype of
astronouts or something?

Per-iety given at prices
Left some pleading
Outrages. Sorted out of the fraction
Impacted esteem-edly
Presence of a implemented higher order
Of infernal representatives
Pulling the heart string of this
Is it you? Is it me?
Seeing isn’t really the hope to distinguish
Or figure these dream referrals
Quoting back to notations
Burnt upon a whim of superiority
Longed for to study past civilizations
Of the occurrences established in that dormancy
Of the optimal credential
Rerolling the formula to reduce onward
Continue with the answer
Now newly numerated
Mother of the order coming over
Exploding to the sorting, reworking

and how much of the writing of existentialist
philosophers,
   namely their signature,
   the antithesis of a ditto-head -
the dittoing out, as it were, reveals so little
in questing for the pristine form
of metaphor?
            i see no metaphor in "said" writings...
thought, seen,
     but not exactly spoken...
                         i've been bothered by
their aesthetic for some time...
                       it's not an expression of
metaphor,
             to cite heidegger...
    the forms opposed to "devotion"...
what is that supposed to imply?
              the existentialist aesthetic of
their scripts, has nothing to do with
poetic nuance, a cryptology -
         a literally and a figuratively contrast...
based on the speed with which one
write a fluid sentence,
   and doesn't relegate himself to revisionism...
or apologetic(s) of ensuring
the crux of spelling,
   leaving an editor and proof reader
redundant...
                     what is this?
      this "                         "
  encapsulation?
                             at least the Irish knew
how to approach the printed example
of a dialogue in a novel, i.e.
- so
- so what?
- ergo, zis!
  
   counter?
   "i think that red dress looks nice on you",
she said,
   "thank you", came the reply...

   see the aesthetic superiority?
    bang bang bang...
water feature cascade
with beginning with hyphens...
james joyce understood this...

    because... why couldn't it be
an encapsulation within the confines
of: 'so i said so', he said...

        aren't people at all bothered
about how dialogue is transcribed from
theater manuscripts to a novel,
with the additional explanations of
two characters talking,
   the     "      !      ",  he said...
    with a "      ?      ", she replied....

      orthodox church chants of the monks...
ancient Teutonic chants...

  akin to to - but prior to -
the old school version of a search
engine...
  you've read a historical novel
in early through to late spring...
watched the movie adaptation
    by aleksander ford (1959) -
      
   and you start flicking through,
page by page, of a 754 page worth of a novel...
from the beginning, on the odd
occasion wetting your finger
to increase the page-turning speed...
and then you find"it"...
on page 533...
   and you've just spent twenty minutes
browsing the paper and embedded
ink...
  
         recalling the movie:
   well... the chronological adaption
is ****** up, it's at the beginning
of the movie?

what movie the henryk sienkiewicz"
adaptation of *krzyżacy
  (knights of the teutonic order)
became...

   a song...
   inscribed by walter von der vogeldweide
  (1170 - 1230) -
bi den rôsen -
    
bi den rôsen er wol mac
        tandaradei!
   merken wa mir'z houbet lac!
  tandaradei!

    (after the roses he will
    recogniße,
  where my head rested)...

or another song,
   never you might:
the airy-fairy take of poetry
to counter the novel...
  
much of a novel is bricklaying
by comparison,
myopic scheming of the paragraph...

poetry, becomes, focal,
in it becoming crutches for
novelists...
    novelists provide
the volume...
poets?
      the genesis, exodus,
and sometimes the in-between impetus...

wyszedł Niemiec z wielgim zyskiem,
     pogrzebli go z gołym pyskiem,
          hoc! hoc!

no... not ad hoc:
   but a wet snare jazz drumming
****** of tss...
   like imitation of an intimidating
snake, prior to the bite...
  tst... tss...
               hoc: as in: hop!
            doing the 'opak...
           given that i know how much
the english love, simply love...
to ensure H is a surd letter...
notably in Indian butter...
dhāl...

         but is this existential philosophy
aesthetic a case for disguising
monologue?
    or engaging in dialogue?
  there was never any (of the latter)
to begin with...
  point being...
          it's a quasi-stenographic tactic
to avoid a metaphor,
and delve into:
    misnomers -
      to aid... allowing a speed
of narration...
   no reworking, no editorial lax -
   fresh bagels...
                    
    i too will sometimes allocate a misnomer,
without "the brackets" -
and never intend for a metaphor...
    
    but if poetry has the concept
of metaphor,
  philosophy has to have the concept
of a misnomer...
   which, serves both definitions
on the bias of ambiguity...
     where poetry delves in image
conjuring -
say... an elephant's head
attached to a torso of a giraffe...
    philosophy delves into the more
obvious: so i "said"...

   when... in actual fact...
   all that was "said" was the clicking sound
of a laptop keyboard...
   a text appearing on a public
blank slate...
    and someone regurgitating the text
by, "thinking" it through,
right down to, encompass
the dotted line summary

.................................................................­....

My heart pumping iron like a
Boilermaker
The steady hand; focused mind
Next move,
Weave through
Don’t swallow untruths
Reworking foundation like a
Millwright
Don’t let the past dismantled disarray
Frighten you away
The plans frayed
The gas breaks
I’m interlocking interrelations like a
Pipefitter
Piecing together chronicles
Of a story fabricated
Easily persuaded
Vulnerable and naked
If you’re awake,
Don’t make me wait,
Fated to the dark
Until my iron coagulates

i..


is n´t modern world marvelous
lily smirks..
we would have been old

and dead..she regards
her toes
and rather wistfully

now,
young,
and ******..

it could be
but
always beauty..!

and adventure
go on
for ever!

ii..

a)


i never really
enjoyed party
lily..

i had to be
taught
how to breathe..

i had a little
death fascination
caught between

water and skies
by the quarry
white lime..

in my wellingtons
time
fathomless..

the very shallow water
reflected the
sky perfectly..

and rose out that mirror
see..
and eventually..

voices
sounded
to me..

very very very
beautifully
slowly

(i would say
adagio..)
i would think

good or bad
with my neck
at 60 degrees

this loud choral
arrangement-
the air quivered..

sometimes i would
make
to advance..

then rise in love
come!
come..

(the lively
imagination
of a lonely child..

or some kind of
out of world
experience..)

wild lovely entrancing
i would return
again and again..

b)

once,
there
stood
a
man
behind
me..

i made
to run
but
he
calmed
with
his
hand..

he looked
where i had
been looking
and listening
to the band..

looked at me
in question
i thought don´t ask..

then one time
two big policemen
resisted my charging

bike and form..
something happened
by joseph heller..

the more i returned
the quieter
the sounds..

until
they´d gone
no birds sung

no gentle breeze
so he stared into
my frightened eyes..

and something occurred
i felt his knowledge
his wisdom wise..

so we stood in this
pestilent place
this blackest of crows..

imparted of his way
somehow
i am still

trying to figure
out today..
what did he say..

so then on returning
there was barbed wire
and chipboard..

i looked at it long
a blockage
called too late
perhaps..


to keep the creative juices flowing
i filled in with this very good book..
  up their with the dice man
as prose noir..
another reworking of an old
poem and older..i remember but am no wiser..
..

there are only two options...
******* into the wind...
or... pouring gasoline on the fire...

but there's always that third
avenue of "substance":
once the overrated demand
to speak freely -
when... thinking could be...
in the winding
crude pivot of...

       what was it that "we" were
trying to achieve...
ah...
writing is not speaking...
writing is an extension
of thinking...

    outside of the comment
section...
freedom of speech: retracted...
i must prefer the patience
of a spider...

the circus is over:
time to eat enough matter
to have one's teeth agitated:
to watch the toothpicks march
on mensa!

         come now... come...
the clowns are crying in the street...
it's just no fun...
to have no alternative narrative
to work with...

              a thing onto itself...
the advent of all these workaholic
slogans...
i will: as i have...
spend 2 hours pretending to sleep
on the floor...
trying vanity...
and how claustrophobia works...
when...

          the sunset has become
suffocating... the sunrise has no horizon...
and the old fable...
  of the moon's litany of lies...
seeking a skull about to melt
into... a lake of mercury...

          i want to shut up...
i want all my fingers to be broken...
i want to read braille with my elbows
and the tip of my nose...

         but i don't want that...
when... poetryfoundation.org...
has nothing new to post...
beside... an open letter of commitment
to our community...
well... the **** is way past
stinking... it's drying up...
it's becoming brick adequate...
one could confuse it with
a horse-**** shoe...

                   i hear a gallop of four horses...
but no... i want that to be the sound
of a train 5 miles away...
but "something" is sinking...
and what i hear is...
     the rattling nuance...
of a million rats fusing into several
centipedes...
scuttling... burning bridges as they
come... and go...

there are no details of my involvement
in any of this...
there simply isn't a question
to pose...

         not out of cowardice...
for once it would be good to know...
what all this hullaboo pertains to:
being asked...
when - the exhausted pronoun >?<
    wanders onto the stage...

       and there really isn't a worth
of question to be asked...

    i.e. ? walks before the mirror...
strips ****-naked...
             ? |  !         yes...
and an exclamation mark is all
that's arrived at...

the clown-world meme isn't funny
anymore... no one is juggling
reverse-psychology tactics...
i.e. laughing = crying
       and crying = laughing...

i forgot to put... the preservastion
of nuance as: what's to primarily
survive this... **** of self-righteous
gloating...
                
two names come to mind...
                  muammar al-gadaffi...
and... who ever said...
that... saddam hussein would
be... anything but...
that saudi king on his magic
carpet ride over yemen...
                  
   ill-fitting glove...
never the ill-fitted hand...
                                 always the...
prenup - juggling words...
prenup: hullabaloo...
               thai squid loot of the depths...
that ottoman slave trader
of the janissary corp...
    
i once had a soul...
i once had a mind...
          i probably still have...
the verb antics of the exclusivity of
a body...
it's not like the mind had
telekinetic capacities...
     schizoid telepathy... good riddle
for the metaphor junction:
ausfahrt...
                       mr. n'gogo...
                 and some mistress of:
m'lakak'eh-goopt'ah...
               for the first time...
i started to imagine speaking
without the use of their nasal cavity...

past-oral:
              vs. "pastral"
                         i guess there's a big O "missing"...
concerning... it's written pastoral...
it is said: pastral...
       "apparently"
                  equal to... the choir...
and... that one "idiot" attempting
to not sing...

               one junction i know of...
esp. with weißbier: franцiskaner: weißbier...
beer... liquid bread...
and ol' michael schumacher...
"living" as a cucumber since...
2013...
                 that's of worthy note...
   "living" as a cucumber...
ever since... slam-dunking head-first
like a lucifer / icarus while skiing...
                         against sisyphus' stone...

any limbo-land beside this...
mad-max fury road and let's...
keep the cufflings...
give me the sober rules...
and i'll just work my way around
them drunk: as any sanity prone
clown might...

  not this... but... apparently...
all this... and necessarily: now...
the cat never borrows the moon
for a smile...
but indeed... death...
will borrow the sickle.... and when
the sickle isn't enough:
the scythe...
             reworking of the flag...
the hammer and the nail...
who's to be the hammer...
and who's to be the nail?

                       petitions open: now -
our new "flag":
whatever we arrived at...
when burning it... some time ago...
1970s Tehran best.

.as i reiterated the stream-of-consciousness cut-off point: wow! that's a great way of thinking about "it".

and "it" is a great starting point,
i never understood how
the French existentialists,
or existentialists in general,
notably the rigid Germans
could invert the comma on
such a pivotal word like ego...
maybe this whole "gender neutrality"
of pronouns stems from
what the French existentialists
cited, i.e. "i"...
but then...
   aren't we talking about
a number neutrality?
     they isn't one, as one would
claim, in Royal speak, no?

i still prefer to don female sunglasses,
i prefer the feline contorts...

there was something else...
ah... **** me, i almost forgot,
a reworking of
cogito ergo sum...

   right...

            cogitans qua esse

i.e.

it's more of a question,
a prompt rather than a proposition,
i.e. an observation,
it's a prompt, a vector,
because there are no fixed
coordinates,
hence?
it's self-explanatory:
        exploration is on the table...

mind you:
i know of gay males who
love divas...
  lady gaga, kesha, rihanna, etc.,

i can't control the music i like,
music is unconscious
with regards to liking or disliking
it...
     headphones and the analogy
within the confines of the sound
of progress?
   really?! the sound of cars is
motivational, enough to not escape
into music?
   don't **** on me with
that kind of *******...

and in relation to dreams,
   i love this quote from rogue one
(non verbatim):

are you the sort of man that carries
his prison wherever he goes?
that's how i count for the phenomenon
of dreams...
      i rarely dream...
i sleep...
   but dreams are shackles
under the scalpel-scrutiny of
Freud's observation...
   lazy, bourgeoisie demands for
scrutiny and, fixations on
metaphysical affairs...

   sure... dreams originate in the brain...
hyper-inflated memory...
dreams are a distorted,
hyper-inflated memory...
i'm pretty sure that people
with a photographic memory
dream very little...
        the cheapest,
   gateway hallucinogenic...

i don't like dreams,
reality is too real to concern myself
with dreaming,
but i have no say in that,
my body prevents me from
elaborate labyrinths in
the land of Nod & Nox...
which, oddly enough...
is mildly refreshing.

- but back to the Cartesian revision...
plain and simple

cogitans qua esse -

    thinking as being, being...
in question:
how much of your thinking
translates itself into
your, being?
day dream, O Joe?
conjure fantasies?
   hence the question,
because the fact per se is no
longer enough...
people are wondering...

the old i think therefore i exist
isn't enough...
given...
how much of your thinking
actually exists, in being
what your thinking surmounts
to the prompt of thought
in its genesis -

what can motivate you to think
if not the originality of
your being,
however subtly construed
in deviance,
yet hinging onto a figment
of a "norm"?

because, well... **** me! cogito ergo sum
is a eureka moment!
it's not a preposition,
it's a proposition, hence a vector,
with coordinates,
and it can be changed,
since it's proposed,
                 and not supposed...
otherwise it wouldn't be
so ****** revolutionary!

hence my counter, it's a question...
cogitans qua esse...
thinking as being, being?
yes, we're all Nazis having read
the defector Heidegger's obscure works...
pure and proud Aryans...
gorilla punches on the chest
and all...

   it's a simple question,
   and i'm done with undermining
ontology with
                          ******* out maxims
akin to Nietzsche or la Rochefoucauld,
or Machiavelli.

They ask me
why I'm always spaced out, because my brain is fun
.. full of circuits
reworking
a chaos circus
to learn
and relearn
constantly
gotta get up on yo feet
to feed it
so you say your lost at sea?
Please
I don't wanna hear it
Just heal it,
honestly...

****! there's no milk in the house.. never mind... the house has already stressed a want to deviate from the standard English cup-ah... it's not exactly unique... the English way of contaminating black tea with a squirt of cow *****... sorry... juice... there are plenty of stories surrounding this practice in Siberia... among... lactating women... if Siberia is on show... then the whole of Russia too... if i were ever to visit the United States... Tokyo conquers my imagination over New York... there's the Belgium of L.A.... i'm simply not that interested... oh the natural north American continent i'm very much interested in... but not so much with what has layered itself over it... i'd still rather see the Kamchatka peninsula... the volcano "avenue"... ****! there's no milk in the house... the household decided to switch to a green tea: a yerba māté (or... m'ah t'eh)... lime infusion for some... IM-BIR (ginger) infusion for others... no milk in the house... which implies that i'll have to buy a pint of milk on the sly... and glug it down... in between finishing off an ice-cream on a stick... raspberry: rhapsody ber-e! or bear: é (yes... no exclamation mark).. milk the hooves of my trot... the Sri Lankan rubber of my 23cm tires pumped up to 80+ Pascal(s)          (?)... if it's not a 35cl of whiskey is must be a pint of milk... goat milk is overrated... by all clinical standards of wholesale... it's nothing short of what's cow: long-life... excessive pasteurißed milksch... ah: some relief in german when scribbling in  Ęgliš - phonetically: with a "trick" of hiding the N: lost an IN(?) inquisitive tone: tier above... the monotone of narrative... oh... hiding one arm of the tetragrammaton is easy... sharp quest: q: ooh... oh! i seem to have forgotten what i wanted to scribble in the elder-tongue... maybe it might come back to me... after all... there's an undercurrent of: congregation but: the aliases are awry... we do not share the same etymological roots... der körper schlafen: solange der schatten: getanzt! jetzt! jetzt ich merken: von die
unmittelbarkeit of thought with short-term memory! this one time... the devil didn't come with either fire or with the perfumery stressing sulphur... at best he was gagging to add a zest of: zitrone-limette-orange... perhaps... just perhaps... der teufel vergessen (to forget is also a memory) zu bringen das feuer... aber! er tat bringen RAUCH und (the definite plural article for) SPIEGEL! i learned my lesson... upon each visit to Ypres.. seeing the graves of supposed ethnic brothers... the anglo-parade of "individualism"... and how the Detusche were... burried: en masse... no robin: now sparrow... designated their song over the seemingly marble stones of the named... but when it came to how the Germans were... folded... brick-on-brick... a haunting reminder... the sparrow / robin always deemed it necessary to... haunt a tree with a song... for the tree to escape the polyphony of the wind... we're talking a ****** riddling... empathy with the neighbours of Europe... push from Asia that wasn't the HOO'NS... the English had a Spanish torrent: back in the day... odd... how easily the English has capitulated having invited their former colonies to the sandpit... their native women have been barren: without a sense of agency...  they still capitulate... like... there's no like quiet like it... the Spanish armada failed like the Mongolian fleet failed when the invasion of Japan was being scrutinised... why wouldn't i somehow: pity the German soldiers of world war I... entombed in mass graves... sure as **** & the constipation that comes prior... i figured it out... just today... when men... single... and send their ******* dysfunctions: clean-cut-and-perfect... they take the shot of themselves... AFTER... they have *******... obviously it looks larger... with all the blood drained from the abilities of the scribbling hand.. they take the vanity shot after they have *******... nothing worth of note: prior...

(the devil forgot to bring the fire... but... he did bring smoke und mirrors!) i mentioned this somewhere... in: alt... etwas güt! (not... gat: not gut... my gut? good... softer... german-esque) Englisch ist ein späterzunge: it made sense... when there was an Empire.. but... now? ******* rhubarb... Rue-Barb... graffiti or no graffiti? that technical observation... no articles... included... when adjectives are being "stressed"? perhaps only in german... in all the german tongues: this over-stressing of the pronouns... of definite... indefinite articles... in the ****** tongue the pronoun I... makes are rare curtain drop... Freud was right about the vanities of men... Copernicus... Darwin... but he faltered... citing himself... some languages have pronoun exclusion parameters... you can't change a grammar... while nouns are asexual i English they are "sexed" up in other languages... but you'll find it rare: to spot the ****** use the pronoun: JA... i... ich... isch... whether speaking or writibg... in terms of language... England? *******... wenigsachsen! truly... *******... like i was addressed: silly ****... verpiss dich: wenigsachsen!

i had a "friend" once: a fwend... more like someone
i shared an occasional drink with:
then again... i did most of the drinking
while he staged most of the awkwardness when
i'd: from time to time... turn into a silent boor...
anyway... i was lazy and he was fat...
or i was fat and he was lazy...
                     by one stroke of the blue moon he
thought it was wise to lose some weight
by going to the gym...
never a good idea to shed off a dozen or two or
three pounds by going to the gym...
by all means: turn to the bicycle...
turn to swimming... turn to push-ups...
stomach crunches? eh... like Socrates remarked:
i like my stomach lamb-tender...
makes it easier to continue sparring the ol'
liver with a southpaw cider before noon...
but it was never a good idea to hit the gym, bro...
to shed some weight...
now... well... he's definitely slimmer...
a no-fat content milkshake sort of a shadow
that he now casts...
but... eh... gym bro... you won't find my lifting
weights... cardiovascular exercises since:
it's the closest you get to imitating ***...
plus... when you're the wolf with the three little
piglets on a red light at a traffic junction:
all hot & bothered: heaving and hyping up
the loss of breath...
ping... go the ******* of some traffic collision
of a woman... bad bragging rights...
hell: if no one's going to use me up
for some luvyy-dubby-teddy-bear-*******
i might as well: self-deprecate myself...
- you won't find me lifting weights because
this "friend": fwend of mine has exchanged
a weight problem for a... skin problem...
nothing dermatological you see...
it's the excess of it...
   if he only listened to me and shed the weight
via the cardiovascular "method"
his torso wouldn't be looking like a interspecies
mutation of how a dried prune turned into
a phallus and magically ****** an elephant's
******...
just saying... swim... press-up... cycle...
by all means...                 hell: even explore the mind
while taking to a marathon length walk...

p.s. for anyone who's a W. H. Auden admirer...
perhaps i was too... perhaps i still sort of...
well... it's not terrible important...
but you know how homosexuals can be
these scalding / scolding ******* behind each
other's backs... or at least that's the impression
i get having revisited a passage from
Harold Norse's autobiography...
i reread it to remind myself that...
                      i might leave traces of conversational
overtones... i might not rhyme:
or bother much with: tech-niq(ue) -
although: in (brackets) - surds...
                          you write them to differentiate
what would probably some out
to tek-nick: although the -nick would extend
into meek with an N -
but it's worthwhile to remember that...

i had another "friend": fwend... he complained
that i wrote in word salads...
last time i checked: he wasn't fond of a slice of cucumber:
either...
so much for friends: "fwends"...
i'm itching at 35 years old
and i'm itching for...
beside the prostitutes that give me
the most pristine smooches...
purpose... yes... that grand: "thing":
i simply don't have a noun for what's
already readily available...

chin low: forehead: high!
(kinn niedrig:
stirn hoch!)

                rotkehlchen und / oder spaatz
auf mein fahne!

i forgot to have friends...
i have my shadow to keep me company...
ich haven mein shatten zu
halten mein... kompaine...
    i die: Adolfo: KLAR
es ist nicht: Portugiesisch:
no leash? nein: leine: or geese..

                a cat might as-alles-goot...
fall asleep...
in an around a bookshelf of
unread Rousseau...
     **** the ego... **** the most ineffective crux...
the lost pagan: the hyper-inflated
intellectual Hebrew...

came the res cogitans... so too must have come
the res venus...
i find the lack of fear of deity suspicious
surrounding the Muslim bravado...
lasts for about one...
oink-oink-...
prickling at the mythological blonde:
by the time we're through:
there might be the rarity of the ginger
Pakistani...
or the bleached beauty of Afghanistan...
the mythological blonde escapade...

thank god i''m not reproducing...
now allowance of daughter by my side...
side to sire... what?
licking out some... sorry... you're not playing
jazz: some ******* ***-hole?!
i'm glad to not be in the race
of rats...
i'm bowing out: no one said it wouldn't
be painful... it will be...

i rather die the death of a wolf
with his teeth being pulled out...
than die the death of...
estranged relatives...
social cohesion race mingling *******...
it was so nice... so nice...
when black people ****** black people
before the blakc boy discovered the white
girl...
to hell with her... as Genghis Khan
sufficed to surmount...
if it didn't happen on the shore of the Danube...
then... it didn't happen: at all..

no... i'm just tired of how the English see
***... in Belgium you could buy a *****-mag
like you'd be watching a girl put on a full show
of cow-******* and a sack: without
the hurt feelings of a niqab:

well... i get the Muslims... somehow...
they're just about ripe in being synonymous
with... French footballers...
that's what happens when you don't
fear your deity:
you become... sort of... shrapnel...
tooth-itches:
not: teeth-itching... hell...
not (a) tooth-itch...
pseudo-grammatical post- Reconquista of Spain...
the ****-
-stanis still think of themselves as:
because of the Ummah: we... the Berbers of North:
Af- Af-... ath... aph... who knows?

the Muslims are... oblivious to having
a fear of their deity...
it's not like... i sacrifice my *******...
to ******* freely...
because... i don't exactly require:
a woman on a leash... a niqab might work...
but...
Muslims are yet to evolve to fear their deity...
after the fear comes
the secular apathy...
like the one staged by the Hebrews during
the holocaust...
a god: what god?
capitulating English folk...
because Birmingham sings aloud: loot!
hey presto... it feels like:
there's looting to behold...
between you an me...
i don't mind the future or:
copper-necks
and Brazilian mulattos...

100 years from now...
the details of a Hapsburg dynasty will be worth...
the face of F.D.R. on a dime...
equivalent or: there: about...

as is due: i must: applaud the victor:
i'll die towing the remains of the day:
a sunset come the tide toward
the Faroe Isles...
where i'll breath my last into
fathoming the wind...

dodo project: last introspection...
by no god or genes...
let these people have what they utmost
deserve...
the humidity is getting to me...

i'll just... sort of die... admiring the corpus
of either the Janissaries
or the Mamluks....

to heave as much as a woman;
to enter the confines of a storm:
i 'd sooner fathom
the depth of the angered sea...
than... quest...
for the benevolence of a woman...
i've teased the depths...
i've angered the tides...
i've become:
the anchoring of the shore!

tomorrow the world ends...
thank god i'm no safe-keeping of either
Shakespeare or the Quran...
why?
toward my own privacy...
i'm sure at least one *******...
will want be revived:
just one... that might want to keep me alive..
just one? timid bunch?

have it your way: camel-jockey...
have it your way,,,
like any new-found-riches of an Arab
undermining a Bangladeshi..
**** the Arabs...
leave 'em in their...
whatever an Arab "thinks":
most probably something less than a Pakistani thinks of...
ahem: 'em...

**** the H'arabs!
best begin a reworking of: no oil involved...
with the ****'ites...
Persian pirate... to hell with the poodle
masters of the parasitical Sunnis.

It's easier to deal with an enemy
when he's dead,
because you can change what he said,
reworking it retroactively
to make it so you both agree
like Richard Daley did with Martin Luther King
Jr.

But if you don’t want to wait for death then
you can co-op or cop people's thoughts
so you can sell them some slick ****,
that prepackaged can of emotional spam
that lets self-serving men rewrite history
to suit their capitalistic autocratic
caste system that casts victims
of the almost mindless majority.

.when circumcised men talk about the pornograhic usage of un-circumcised men... the whole: ein, zwei und drei of sitting on a toilet... well... i've heard, that some circumcised men read a book while expanding their ****... what's the problem? this is a conversation to be had between circumcised men shaming *******... what about 1970s Italian *****, and Bronzino... and still-images reworking the imagination as to what could be established with a photograph of a body; who the hell ever suggested watching *******-*****?! are you talking about the sort of guys who never managed to experience buying a *****-mag from a newsagents? circumcised men... never my sort of calibre of intellectual titans... uncircumcised men: different story... i don't actually know how to talk to circumcised boasting males, they're as weird and incels to me... actually: weirder... they have a stipend for raising the more: unnatural line of argumentation; em, would it be more natural to talk about circumcising lips? what else might you not need? how about the ears and the nose? you don't need those lame artifacts! ****, one better! why would you need... eyelids?! you don't need eyelids... why would you need eyelids?! if you don't need a *******... the logical conclusion arrives at: if you don't require a *******... you don't need eyelids!

you know how relativism
doesn't exist
within a subjective
dialogue?
   in the statement:
relative:
   a subjective experience
is absolute...
and an objective ".........."
  is... relative...
with the only worth it is supposedly
able to summon...
i.e.: nothing!

______

and whatever made man's mind
into a spaghetti tangle...
lessons to be learned:
for whatever the lessons,
i only keep forgetting,
what sort of lesson is that?
equipped with the "knowledge"
of an omni-this
and an omnit-that...
            "knowledge":
    what is, english,
translated into a song in
finnish?
                  nigh of nought!
     metaphors...
you sure you'll lead
them by obscure poetic techniques,
when shunning our
grief?
             what?!
the modern sing-along karaoke,
the modern thespian...
i agree...
   ****** poets came
ashore...
                  none to ever loose
their mind to madness...
and even fewer to,
exercise a rite to sucumb
to the asylum...
          a growing beard
will not save you from
the insanity of the best
kept secrets...
      
my i thank the deity...
as i succumbed to bypass
the P.U.A. reversed dynamic....
how the love
for folk music translated
itself from classical,
choral and jazz works,
back into confidance for
succumbing to folk....

           the sort of carnal
desire / hunger spoken of the flesh
of woman, died in me,
the moment,
when i laid my ability to love
to rest...
   i once loved...
       once was enough...
now if there's a god and i'm
to learn a lesson?
          right now:
god can *******...
                i have learned
too many lessons
to begin with...
any more lessons and i'm still bound
to a scholastic boundary,
i'm still bound to endless rubrics,
and subsequently,
the only freedoms are arrived
at, with the expressions
of terrorists...

                learn how to become
an imbecile!
             god, god, god...
                i'm a "schizophrenic"
but more bilingual thanks
to this, this omni-****,
grand, glad glory of humanity!
save the west?!
save it yourself...
     hope you get some *******
on board...
you have my blessing...
but none of my conviction.

   p.s.

   well, that was the draft,
          skleroza -
   a polish term...
  brechta (he's laughing) -
it's not chatter...
                 like in east german,
          ich is isch: e-ś/sh...
come to think of it,
the english zunge is now
my playground... my circus...
i love, how, i can fathom
a position, of ownership
via acquisition,
    leaving the natives scrambled...
the natives are contained,
they only know one language...

but last time i checked
the news... 5,000 jobs are on
the line... given the english
steel industry is finally buckling...
only 5,000 jobs?
  not so bad...
  around 7,000+ jobs
were undermined from my home
city,
              a whole city
was displaced...
          yeah... it was...
          a steel industry based
city, exponential growth...
            now the english,
know my pain,
of being: immigrants...
   they have it easier though...
there's south africa, canada,
h'america, australia, new zealand,
to fall back on, without
learning a new zunge...
    bon voyage!
          sehen sie später!
   what else was there?
  is the soviet satellite state's
steel industry imploded,
the english steel industry was
only given around 30 years
of preservation...
and that's considered lucky:
the pillars for the stade de france?
they were produced
in my home town...
   ostrowiec świętokrzyski...
too many consonants?
         what's your gujarati like?
not "too many" consonants
              in hindu words, or greek?
    
a mongrel german loan word...
polacks have this inherent
validation process of
integrating loan words into
their zunge...
           it's a ******* etymological
playground,
   came the russians,
came the swedes,
the norse men who founded Kiev
while rowing down the Vistula,
came the Mongol, came the ***
who later founded nation of the Magyar...
oh, i don't need tattoos,
i have plenty of historical events
that already tattoo the insides
of my cranium...

apology: i will use english grammar,
                  to write in der richtigzunge,
i'll never get it right,
but i need to escape this
***** of a language,
this neu-lingua-franca...
this language of globalißation...
            apparently the easiest language
to learn... not if you have been thrown
into the deep end of the pool aged 8
unable to speak a single word...
learning: the hard way,
the only way...

                                                    "easi­est"...
well, given how there are no orthographic
distinctions: and some do appear,
and how the language is plagued
by instances of surd-particulars:
i.e. "silent" letters...
              well... if, so so "silent"
why conjured in the visibility of the eye?
e.g. gnome...     gnostic...
              oh look... diagnostics...
it's no longer "silent", is it?
            and where, may i ask,
is the gamma in a word like:
thought?
          ah... aesthetics anti-orthography...
for all the misgivings i have
with my native zunge...
based on loan words...
                  at least is expresses
a clarity of syllables...
                    thought?
                       ­     phonetically?
     fowt.
                     when when: w,
             fowt.
                             see? looks ugly, doesn't it,
oh but i'm not worried about the new
gate-keepers of techno-literacy,
coding,
     that **** will outlive me... it's only young,
i'm, more, interested,
in the old, gate-keepers,
            the old gate-keepers,
the clergy, the priests, the literate caste...
it's already evident they don't care
for their own power...
so they're getting sloppy in abusing it,
no longer able to hide it as well,
even if they caged marquis de sade
in the bastille... because he was,
probably going to make public his
uncle's deviances...
  and what did the marquis de sade actually
do? he told a ******* to
re-invent the crucifix into a *****...
one "deviance", and then he was hounded...

so if you asked me, what sort of drunk,
are you?
     not your typical drunk,
given, drinking is a matter of using
the sedative property of alcohol...
i was, regularly,
   i dress, well... whatever the night
appreciates and a low body count...
and, while rehydrating my body...
i make dinner for my parents,
busied by garden work,
   i can plant a cherry tree,
say kind words to it,
   even my mother was surprised...
she bore no fruits last year,
only flowers...
        this year?
                     unlike the plum tree...
and i pray to gott,
  that i have enough grapes to make
myself about 15 bottles of homemade wine...
i'm the drunk,
who will write something, akin, to this,
discipline, is, key...
                    grammatical discipline...
as i will stand... rolling out dough,
using a glass to cut little u.f.o. shapes
of dough for pierogi:
           polish dumplings... roughly 40...
filled with meat, sourscrout,
                              onions, mushrooms...
i'm a drunk,
              i don't mind,
    i've seen what a stereotypical drunk
does, namely my grandfather...
                        but i am a god-fearing man...
and no amount of "awe" with regards
to reading philosophy will come between
me and a bottle of *****...
such that i would turn to
          a drunken stupor...
                     sure, the odd occassion
of a drinking session,
turning into me comforting a teenager
on a website, while washing my shaved
head with whiskey come sunrise...
or going into the forest to scream...
to prove to myself:
            beyond the breath,
                             the vox, the schrei.

p.p.s. or p.p.p.s.?
a man threw a crab-meat torilla wrap
at a mosque and...
one pig snorted a sentence that read
as follow:
while i was never a carrion...
a scavenger of the dead...
perhaps mr. and mrs. pig have wronged
the camel-jockeys somehow...
seeing how i sweat more than
a sheep and if i were to fathom the sun
i'd suntan to a crisp-bacon...

bite matthew: bite where there's
a paradoxical impromptu n00b n00b...
so pig is off the menu...
but crab meat isn't?
mr. pig and mrs. pig and the pigglets
roman and lypi
said: because of no furr we are...
least santified because...
we devolved from the boar...
truly we are the Huguenots of the animal
kingdom...
even the bonsai tigers
bound to the lineage of Muhammad's cat...
Muezza...
have it better...
but why belittle us worse than...
what's freely eaten... if not the Beijing dog...
and not the north h'american vulture...
then the ***** of the Maldives!

this supposed eating of ****...
well... a bear will eat the automated process
of fermentation of fallen apples!
and fall over drunk!
no animal will eat ****...
islamic myth...
but there are cannibals as there are
necromanducare...
vultures... *****...
and we eat ***** and even dare to call it:
a most pristine meat...

sure... ******* the dead is only
a human phenomenon...
pigs alligned...
but eating the dead? so... it's not fresh...
and it's not readily available...
and it is allowed to do its utmost
to rot, first?
and Islam begs to blame the porky
but leaves the crab, absolved?!

lamb stinks...
esp. the kidneys...
for some reason pork doesn't give off
a whiff of chanel no. 5 oddity and or
perfurmery!

no better, no worse... there's just this.