/notably concerning graduate education at the university of Edinburgh: why do these doctors think they can teach, who made them so, well, what's the word, useless, demeaned at having to teach? every time a doctor of chemistry was asked to teach it was like watching someone being tortured in an iron maiden... sure, a professor of chemistry could teach, just like every single post-graduate, PhD student should have taught, a doctor of chemistry didn't teach, unless he taught as Americans are prone to speaking in acronyms, and they say the Scots speak an undecipherable english... like **** they do, understood them like I might understand the zest pinch of a hobskotch chili! after all, the chemistry doctor doesn't exactly make use of his PhD students, but since they were the sheep first to the slaughter before the guillotine of knowledge, they could translate the higher tier chemistry to the undergraduates... no one sane enough would want to learn chemistry from a doctor of chemistry... those men and women are lost to their own enterprises, to their own Faustian romance, to teach chemistry at university, it would be best to be taught by those inclined to further adhere to advanced pedagogy... post-graduates ought to replace doctors in teaching undergraduate material... balanced out by the fact that the said doctors would not require the help of PhD students in research, with what already is time wasted on lecturing, what to them is, the ****** obvious... but then again... the supply and demand isn't there... even though PhD students could teach, they don't, smug chemistry doctors lecture in the guise of solipsism... theyd rather be engrossed in their research than give lectures... but since those trained PhD monkeys do all the trial and error, wasted time, which the doctors themselves could do... they waste their time on giving undergraduate lectures... because these recent protests at universities, where students complained about not having enough time spent with doctors in the field... I'd start by bemoaning not being given enough post-graduate time... after all, the people who closest to jumping over the waiting benchmark.../

in vino veritas:
due proof that snobbery
and that indie collection
of the smiths' reissue
only goes so far,
    comparatively,
Miles Davis' kind of blue
isn't overrated nor is
it overplayed,
notably a conversation
with Boris, the Russian
in Edinburgh,
who had to pick sketches
of spain as his favourite...
pop music versus ******
fetishes... people will be
ashamed of pop song guilty
pleasures than any bedroom
"deviances",
the boat the boat, whatever floats
yours...  
mine? seven years late,
Britney spears' criminal...
because John Coltrane'
a love supreme is easier
to digest than ******* brew?
fudged packed *******
and a perpetuated crescendo...
Boris could have took to
Porgy and Bess...
         or the birth of cool...
whatever it was,
high above Steppenwolf
   desiring the immortality
of a Bach... still:
       there's Händel...
but let's face it,
both sides lost something,
whatever the iron curtain
was, there was also
something akin to the,
jazz window...
                  because can you
even imagine jazz being learned
at a music liceum?
       i still don't know why
the Japanese love classical music,
or why it's Chopin rather than
List embedded in their heads,
not the gentle fingers of Satie
or Debussy...
         two Portuguese jesuits did
little to spread Christianity,
but music written by Chopin
found its atom, its universality
of translation...
                  even withe the Higgs...
something that is non-divisible,
not atomic, not sub-atomic,
                               über-atomar...
supra-atomic, which includes
the sub-atomic spectrum...
         a perpetuated ad continuum
     of ad per se, in addition to:
an addition, an addition,
        a void brimful of a lost
paraphrasing...
                          in the name of...
in the direction of (the) ortho-
   and of (the) meta-
    and of (the) para-...
                  amen.
                       the upright,
rigidness of: jump off a building,
see pancakes at the bottom...
the desire for a hier-und-nach...
well.. telegram cipher from 1930s
**** Germany,  in response
to heidegger's da-sein...
     da-nach...
                 no need to explore
the paragraph, just enough tease
to block out images of, "paradise"...
       para or besides norms,
    a phenomenon and
      an anomaly that's a res per se,
Kantian for: noumenon...
          a proposition without a school,
or tree of logic, which,
Husserl did manifest...
    in phenomenology...
              I can't help but notice
that classical music is only
relevant today because of movies...
listen to any classical music chart,
7/10 times it's music accompanying
a movie...
               comparing
kind of blue to midnight sonata?
yep, the later is overplayed...
   it's no longer a piece of music,
but a literary cliché...
      even in such wonderful books
like geek love by Katherine Dunn...
jazz is the only genre of music
that comes close to prog. rock,
    id est, no song: an album...
      even though I admit
king crimson's in the court...
     with children of men
      as a backdrop...
once upon a time the iron curtain
and the jazz window...
    rap, shmap, shpindle me dingo...
and the old man still lectures me
on work, born in 1939,
who still remembrance the Soviet army
of boy-soldiers and black-clad SS-men...
oh there was work just after the war,
given what Aries took with
the harvest just years prior...
                       woe to the aspiring poets
born in a cocoon of a father
who laboured by perfecting a trade
that, apparently,  no future Englishman
would take up! or if they did...
only via the trickling down
of the plutocratic, extended family...
and a ****** job they did too...
         well... if everyone is willing
to be and only be, a pop star entertainer...
I'd hate to imagine this piece
to be an instruction manual,
   a cohrent: whip and stirrup
demanding a gallop...
                       perhaps less cabaret voltaire,
and more jackson *******,
because why should painters be
allowed all the excuses under the sun?
and when will I see a poetry anthology
written solely by critics?
          oddly enough:
or rather, the pitfall...
     reading a poem never manifests
itself in a drive to write one myself...
an enzyme of a blank,
      a substrate of a butcher's novel...
or rather... a meaty novel, preferably
historical, notably one
that serves as an answer to Muslims
with regards to:
   remembering the Crusades,
forgotten the Golden Horde...
           and never really bothering
to look into the other crusades
against the Prussians, Lithuanians,
Kashubians et al.
                   such feral lands...
perhaps if you speak the language
as well as Norman Davies...
  you might, just might, not stand out
like a sore thumb in these parts.

you know what i find funny? the phrase: i could eat you. juxtaposing vide cor meum against... this is the part where punctuation marks are never collision prone diacritical marks... but then again, there's that dietary joke... i could eat you... dependence on your bones not being properly disavowed within a langoustine broth... and there you are: a grey area mindful of Stalin... *****! i'm trying to humanise ******, stop interrupting! where once a moths' flutter, later a rainbow in the nacht! mind that niqab... nicht would mean nothing. some insinuated cappuchino, some cackles... some said cutie-pies invoking rouge cheeks... every time i watch these culinary shows i get thinking about cannibalism to counter veganism... and then i laugh... i don't want to find stinking socks and political correctness as "my way, did it to suit Lascaux cavern graffiti"... i preferred wanking than keeping up with women... it's the song i heard before lambs stiffened and muslims became muslims, and falafel was mince... ******, get under the hosepipe and you're there, all freely gagging for the fizz... a touch of tinsel... vide cor meum... return of policy... as half-heartfelt kaleidoscope returning to define a rainbow... i love that phrase given the palette opportunity... i could eat you. it's the demonic encouragement that solidifies the stench into what's to be seasoned properly... i don't know.. the phrasing: i could eat you sounds more formidable in delayed practice than: i can **** you... plus the gazpacho... which means: Batman ate cold cauliflower soup and slurred to slurp the question: but it's cold? Baldwin replied: it's supposed to be! they said orthography as a rigidness of aesthetic, i said... that's questionable whether any is applicable, given we're talking about graffiti.

i got tired of sensing other people's jealousy,
and tried to love them,
which ended up to be as much as a matrimony
toward one woman, ambition-bound
to incarnate the matrimony of swans...
  and the poor old ******, left to fantasy in
his days as a widower...
   every time i look at a lonely swans
i try to duck-quack the thing into existence...
            but there are variation of marriage...
a west london accountant can speak terrible
crap against an ethnicity i try to not identify with...
but i am courageously borne from,
    and therefore have to express some affiliation...
as a matter of principle...
  i rather not, but iu must, even though i sprechen
a host tongue... and am, therefore,
embedded with claims of socialite elitism...
                 but then i compare...
and these these comparisons are the due phrase...
Marilyn Manson's *a minute of decay
is a chance to hear the bass guitar overpower
           the drums... a bit like a culinary pistachio
moment in a risotto...
   i want room to breathe in!
     i want vaughan williams' fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis... i sanctify the need
   for prokofiev's lieutenant kíjé's suite...
(dots are optional, the syllables aren't,
a classical dot above the iota might revel in
being the defining moment of tonguing /
dissecting a word... but it doesn't have to be so)
i need air to breath in, a moment to whimper...
why do the **** love Chopin and not Liszt?
   a bid ******* odd... i don't like either Chopin
or Liszt... because as Kaiser Yoseph said
in amadeus... to many notes...
and i agree... vivaldi made violins into cherub
       pumpernickle sparrows -
you danced, you joyed, you came across St. Vitus' dance...
   you were doing arithmetic as concord speed
within a framework of even (white) and odd (black)
numbers... once you played the nocturnal Fabergé -
someone suggested you move the ******
  goose to the Hermitage, and frame it!
why are the Japanese are the only Europeans in Asia...
      never mind, they just are,
hence they compete for playing Chopin like they consider
sushi to be a culinary exception of the tartar -
minus the influence, obviously, hence the stress to
impose Chopin... but never Liszt... odd...
          template virtuoso and you think of Liszt
than you might conjure Chopin...
           better than that... conjure champagne
bottles blundering to the volcano's worth of fizz...
still... the Japanese are a curiosity...
first of all: they abide by Chopin and chopsticks
not being utilised when gobbling sushi...
   they have the ambassadors of kimono,
samurai, origami, karaoke, bonßai (zye, rye),
          Fukushima... Hiroshima... yep, that place
were stanley lee derived the concept of x-men...
          still, they have permanent ambassadors in
opur midsts... words that can't be "translated" due
to etymological puritanism...
       finally the Portuguese sailed away, and founded
Brazil on the promise of an infinite supply of toothpicks
from the Amazon -
or? hai sensei!           hatch that with the catchphrase:
     kajagoogoo: shy-shy, hush-hush, eye-to-eye.
          we're storming the labyrinth right not,
and i still can't believe that poetry revolves around
the rhythm of rhyme... play any ping-pong, lately?
     no wonder poetry is a peacocking dollop
of clogged-up cow dung... it's just asking
for a *****-slap in a playground.
           but why Chopin and not Liszt?
the **** are what Napoleon was to the Duchy of
Warsaw... they love that arithmetic of
a pebble-dasher's *******...
       wet dreams... some authentic curiosities of
civilisation still have them... i wouldn't recommend
listening to them recounting the fables, personally...
i'd listen in on the succubus jerking them off...
  and just recently i was walking the deaf streets at
night with a bottle of beer and felt the bottle
of beer almost being tugged from my hand...
  and some say that eating a woman's umbilical-chord
is what's necessary to live as a man to later
sing some aria; or like drinking a pregnant woman's
**** will ensure you don't become myopic...
             i don't like Chopin,
i don't like Liszt either... i want a room, and a chance
to breathe... at the end of the classical expression
summarising the wind, we had a return
to the rooting in Africa... earthly delights
and a grumbling stomach in need of feeding,
  jazz did the work for us, jazz still had
an orchestral element to add a Lacan of all things
worthy of deconstruction...
       but then the French came along and shoved
fondue into our ears... and we said
alight with an eureka moment... pop!
             n'ah... the moment when the bass overpowers
the drums... i really have this wild fascination
with the bass guitar...
                 because i don't get Mozart,
and i do think that Handel did much more than
even the sacrificial lamb that Beethoven is...
                  listen... poetry doesn't have to be
music... rhyming is ping-pong anyway...
but as long as you feel in debt concerning music,
the music will come on its own accord...
today i was rattled by a mix of dub (without a step)
and beck's odelay... cruise-missile dylan...
give or take...
      well, given the italicised pr.s. (pre scriptum) -
much later an aged blonde boasted about snorkeling
******* and young ****... and missing out
when she teased me coming back to her abode...
           moth steals from a butterfly,
butterfly never turns into a daisy...
                       you're still a **** and i'm about
half of the total worth of being a ****...
which makes as equal... or queue more.
           variably condoned to be synonym with
mosque...  but i said mannequin...
     it's this **** with the five a day....
Christendom mentioned fruit & veg...
Islam mentioned variations of a murmur...
   is prayer classified as fruit, or vegetable?
you're as bewildered as i am...
   i too thought tomato is a fruit...
turns out it's a vegetable...
primarily due to basil, feta, and the mediterranean.
               herring belong in the baltic,
******* attempting that sort of ballistics...
ask about the relationship between
              a. yan sobieski
         b. ******
                    c. window on arabia (vienna,
counter st. petersburg) -
     oh you'll get many thanks...
sure... you'll end up becoming assured
that dogs don't need petting, but training,
and that you have to make all friends bound
to be kenneled, because they won't learn otherwise;
it's a bit sad...
          for about a minute...
                   you tried being peace-abiding,
peace-mindful...
   you wanted to state compassion...
  in the end people need a slap... or as 2000 years of
history proved... a crucifix.

Best known for writing such words it scrawled in many languages inked out of hearts of
Poet’s politician’s clergy investment of mind and soul glided over parchment it would open
Doors of wood hinges were heard to creak when wise words were spoken and angry kings could
No longer hold freedom back after words of truth shined forth with wisdom and would not
Be denied by personnel greed and cruelty the very breath of man was infused in such
Documents that had veracity that was uncommon in nature the heights were noted the
Indignity and stupidity and rigidness that would in slave people was forever snapped no bonds
Could hold after the quill responded to such ignorance pleasantries were subscribed to by
Mortal hand that reached beyond uncertainty and touched divine sensibility it wrote on
Personnel levels in the case of widowhood when the dark curtains of loss were drawn and no
Light shined into the soul of the bereaved in the darkness a sister friend’s face slowly emerged
From the murky dark waters that sorrows flood brought in her embrace and understanding the
Quill wrote of a slow growing power a bridge was constructed over the river of nerve and
Exhausting pangs longing for the beloved that was departed but through this single individual
The stitching of healing began its most needed work through another the sharing of faith and
Trust would create a heart that no longer was held in gloom but pierced the heavenly blue
Where the fair one stood in garments of gleaming white of mist and tranquil portions no longer
Was fate alone in play but joyous music the flute the horn the violin drew a picture of a country
Lane there love was once again completed harmony over arched death itself and it was all
Viewed under the greatest banner men ever knew and it is friendship the telling and knowing of
Tears and a shoulder to cry on it gives way to building blocks that create a different life
Widowhood made agreeable while the wound still remains it is a course changer the injured
Now arises a heroine of quiet silent grace a source of strength a viable counter weight to grief’s
Unbearable character the quill surmounts the littleness in people stories are in abundance that
Show both sides of the issue the abyss that selfishness brings but what heights can be reached
By serving others instead of self weights the quill lifts effortlessly weighty matters the line we
Have come through many slings and arrows fits twists and turns the quill runs before as a lion
Tamer it cracks a whip trouble is quickly vanquished there is writing everywhere the quill will
Guide to so many existing ideas that create formidable answers but with this in play the
Intangible restless pull of something beyond reason that must be recognized and dealt with all
Success and pleasure will melt away as the pull of importance that will not give way most of us
Know the undeniable truth that over all that is said above a greater quill writes in perfect
Accord without error not of fleshly hand but spirit that moved on men to state His wishes and
Commands without this writing no one can know true happiness or fulfillment outside of this
Most extraordinary compelling truth but what record there is of such sadness because of failure
To listen to a love story of tremendous drama all pertaining to the highest highs and the lowest
Lows and of one by love just won’t give up on the ones He holds so dear it comes down to this
Reality it still stands true there is a Hell to shun and a heaven to win through all the swirling
Down through time this great weight rests on us all what we decide will be flames or bliss abide
With him who hates you completely or the one who loved you to the point of dying in agony
You are the only one who can complete the story the quill writes love and mercy sadly so many
Show it has little effect the quill writes on sin is death those who practice it will surely die this is
The second death the lake of fire

big bang? i just call it the: reassertion of φνς; big bang? the bing bang? scientists are creative and artists are prone to rigour? what an "unexpectedly" unoriginal definition to draft the genesis... bangs in vacuum?! that tree falling in the forest trick that only women seem to answer? i'm literally having a limp-**** moment with someone telling me: it began with a big bang! wow (łał)! amazing! you predicted a sound, excavating it from a vacuum, where, apparently, you can't hear one!

most of the time it's like dry laugh, perpetuated by a: ha ha... but then someone becomes drunk and gives the scales to further the impromptu, managing a: ha ha ha ha... ah ha ha ha ha... equivalent to: chasing a fly out of a room... catch the ****** by their *****! catch the ****** by the *****! unlike chasing a mouse... which is fun... more fun than a stampede in mecca for sure... you get to build a labyrinth... you get to catch the little ******... dangle him by its tail for a selfie... then you walk into the corridor of the apartment building you're living in... and what does the mouse do? so traumatißed by the lack of mouse-traps... what does he do? commits himself to suicide... jumps off the stairs into the abyss of paved concrete, and i'm like: i built this theme-park for you, and the best thing you can do is jump to your immediate death? is there another universe handy? i'm not quiet ready to deal with this one seriously.

that's for the intro, but try to incorporate the concept
of *polyphony in writing,
they'll think you're mad... rightly so, most people
love the concept of the paragraph,
just like they love donning eyeglasses -
and they love the linear concept, that "reveals"
a story...
                    they love that ****, give them rotten
cabbage and tomatoes and send them to
the shakespeare globe... to get a proper critique
if the theatre performance turns sour...
         grows fungii and what not.

oh i had a suitcase of verbiage with me...
      but the writing bit is really working on me
to necessitate a fathomable break from... "composition".

etymological pointers nonetheless:
    slav               and e?
   not really, not when you speak the language...
am i ethno-centric? i probably am,
you sort of have to be... comes with the package...
or the: shindig?
                               oh look... i know slang.
anyway...
                            around here i'm the only one laughing,
it's not an idiotic laugh that stresses: nothing or
nowhere...
                   it's the times supplement article:
the new narcissism (harriet walker reports)...
and i can't stop laughing...
   because it includes: taking selfies by the mona lisa
and by the gates of auschwitz...
                and then the n.p.d. complex (narcissistic
personality disoder)...
            and i can't stop laughing...
and i'm thinking: what's wrong with these people?
oh, right... the per se... (giggle)...
                           they're like su dokus you
abandon because you can't relax when solving them...
stray dogs and ****...
                      you whaa'?                  dunno.
i'm actually afraid of people that advertise missing
cats... how horrible do you have to be to
make a cat                       stray?
                             the ****'s wrong with you?
cats are counter-intuitively clingy... there's no leash
on them, and there's no walkies... but how abusive
or just dumb-boring (do you have to be)
                     to make a cat become stray / missing?

... (pending, ding-along-ah-****)...

"artists" made the mistake like philosophers...
                     they think poetry ought to be visual...
they already have the polyphony spectrum there,
the ******* rainbow... and then they think poetry
is all about imitating geometry: cohesion, rigidness...
bunch of ***** in all honesty...
                   Bach invented polyphony, we're going to
talk about it like we might talk about digression...
layering... it's also a geological term for: oh... looky looky
at this piece of sediment!
                     i don't think poets should mingle with
painters, to be honest: i wish they were an
apartheid apart...
                     poetry isn't a visual art-form... based on
the concept of the φνς (that's hebrew for:
hiding your vowels, like the romans imitated
adding stresses to letters)                           ooh! fancy!
is writing 50 years behind painting? (w. burroughs quote)...
don't know... is writing a century behind
                                     musical composition?
that's more likely than writing competing with
painters... why did poets cling to painters in the first place?
φoνoς... you're not painting a picture...
                   oh ******* o'hara, and you tenure
as regent of an art gallery: get hit and die by a beachball.

variants:
in the west the etymology of slav = +e
      well... unless you speak the tongue you can say:
                 zdrowie na budowie - buda! psie / pśιe!
there really is an etymological variant to the anglophone
understanding of stating the noun, indicative...
                but i need to bring the greek iota into the picture...
i.e. it's naked, it has no diacritical marks attached to it...
i.e. ι                      so... now...
lesson no. 1:          slav, in mother tongue   słowianiń -
iota variant?                            słowiańιn   (lazily, just słowianin)
   etymologically speaking, i.e. derived from what?
word... the slavs call it:          słowo.
   literally.
                      germanic peoples of north america can
be so obnoxious that it really does suit them...
    but who the **** would want to marry their women?
probably muslims... and breed a bunch of inbreds,
household peasant people,
                        orangutan down syndrome people;
gonna **** your granny pete?

oh right...

    lesson no. 2:
   i can't stop laughing at this grammatical transgression...
you really have to transcribe the transgender concept...
      ...
           as might have been expected: laughter can really
exhaust you... what i didn't know was:
           to the point where you are lullabied to sleep -
fully dressed - to only find yourself getting up in
the morning: pouring yourself the remains of the ***,
sticking your head out the window and seeing
spring in full swing: two sparrows getting it on...
                                       but gender neutral pronouns?
what, like it?
                                oh hey, here comes cousin it -
huh? i swear the point of pronouns, or at least
the categorical basis for a word to be a pronoun is
to stress a gender of the speaker -
                                        the argument for gender
neutral pronouns: let me put it in analogue form -
you see on the news, daesh destroying ancient
roman temples in syria...
                            world heritage sites protected
by international law... what this transgender movement
is doing to the english language? looks pretty
similar to me (in non relative terms) -
                     but it's sure as **** in being some form
of desecration... it can't be anything else...
the problem would be staggering if appropriated in
poland... where gender feeds into verbs...
                                   if this movement is an isolated
indicdent, that is,isolated in that it's an anglophone
phenomenon (thailand? well... they got into the groove
and didn't perform a real ****** on their sprechen) -
just an example of how gender is incorporated in
the western slavic language...

i.e.
         podniósł (masculine - [he] picked it up...
    the thing being picked up is not specified)

   podniosła    (feminine - [she picked it up...
      ""      "      "           "       "    "    "          ")

could have just written ditto, anyway:
                   but also notice the beautiful orthographic
transition - it's almost a ******* representation
with the acute o (ó = u, well: orthography is not
exactly grammar, but like grammar: it's an aesthetic) -
      pod-nio(h)-sla(h)            - i'm lazy, american
linguistic studies use this form of notation -
                    evidently i'm expecting some puritan who
actually studies phonetic encoding to come up to
me and tell me: no no... it's like so:
                the point is, a transgender movement could
never pick up in the western slavic language:
     well, because a gender specified pronoun
permeates to other words that aren't in the pronoun
category... i.e. as the above - verb category -
                        obviously the above two example are
what they are in terms of gender, but they're
also a past participle attached to them... past tense -
but we are talking about pronouns, aren't we?
   so that has to be incorporated into the example -
evidently a *****-nilly pure verb of the above two is
gender neutral, but it has nothing to do with pronouns.
- like i already said once before:
                compared with german? english is shrapnel.

that was notorious when you hide while looking at yourself in mirror
you wish like fantasy you could cut your age with mind of scissors
there was disappointment for that few white hairs which could not hide
cleverly mind said maturity is by my side and now vision is wide
skin getting lose but rigidness and flexibility getting tight
i am not bored from getting pump up ideas my experience are right
how long can i sustain new ideas decision making must come to rest
who knows better than me what is good and what is best.

I stopped looking for you in the sun and the stars
you don’t belong there
you will never do them justice.
When I look up at the night sky absolutely mesmerized by the possibility of such beauty I no longer think of you.
You belong on earth, so grounded by your own rigidness that flight is impossible.

Ballerina's feet
are calloused
twisted
bruised and ugly from far too much use

My friends and I used to compare the carnage
which we called, forgivingly, feet

I was never much a dancer
Flexible, but ungainly
I could lift my leg over my head and hold it for a minute
keep time to music
but there was something about the rigidness of it that I never quite-

I loved it
sweet passion of a not so distant youth
and my feet were always the most battered

i don't think i wrote something incoherent... i mean, i could be accussed of having written something incoherent... but the way i look at it, i didn't exactly write a discourse... platonism - theatrical notation of philosophy, theatre as such... became abhorred way-back before platonistic abhorrence of poetry became established in the koranic text... so no... i don't think i wrote something incoherent, i might be guilty of writing it in a berserk-like frenzy... but it's not incoherent... it's simply said in a language, that's says θ = φ, ε = η, o = ω, ξ = χ, so you see... all the aesthetics dwindles... because i wrote this without it being reminiscent of a beautiful conversation under the moon in some exotic place... or a conversation you might have in a supermarket when buying a pint of milk... that's why the above stated greek letters are actually the same... and they exist as "chiral" if you decide to take into consideration aesthetic orthodoxy with origins in making literacy a monopoly... nothing contained in here is incoherent... the only "incoherency" of this piece is that: you wouldn't really talk to someone about it, when buying groceries, or having a nostalgic conversation with a friend... it's ad abstractum... that thing that's also not bound to any parliament or church.

some people really do aspire to be quenched
by the phenomenon status...
   to be the slang first said,
   to be the last, doctrine fed,
          i admire these people, well, admire,
like i'd admire king Solomon -
who prayed to be bewstowed by wisdom,
and what came of his prayer?
              a weak heart, and a walrus status
with a harem...
        i hold my **** like king David holds the lyre...
call it what you want...
              but you see a shagged out beauty like
Dakota Skye, and you just have to bash out
the tennis *****...
                   it comes naturally:
will i get a crown for celibacy, or should i wait
for prostate cancer...
          is there anyone in the vicinity to help me out?
not really...
i can't fanticise about either of my neighbours...
   ****-wits attest to the tried path of protestantism's
freedom-libido...
            but what i'm curious about more perverse
than that... perosnal hygiene isn't really the question
being asked...
                  yes, take a ****, partake in the double-quickie...
it almost feels like ******* and taking a ****
is a *******'s worth of v.i.p. pass when
they say shalom, you ease out the **** and
*******... hence the ******* perfume to boot...
   why do it in the shower?
       why get comfy and do it in an armchair?
   lucky me... i need no *****...
and doubly-lucky me: i read enough marquis de sade...
   oh no, he's not repetitive in his book *******,
he's lost the ability to lullaby you to sleep
strapped to a chair in a sadist's disneyland by now...
       but hell: i see no need to glorify these assertions,
i'm just gagging for the moment my
peers will find it boring doing what they do,
when they reach middle-age and have forgotten
******* per se, as a driving factor for
imagination, or how one thrives on keeping
imagination alive by jerking off...
            it becomes a story of: not really looking
for my dream girl... just give me anything that moves
and i'll be content...
                 when was the last time you
picked up a bisexual thai girl in a park off a bench,
took her home, played her some jazz, and later
****** her in the garden by the moonlight?
       what finally convinced her?
in her own words: i've never seen so many books...
   well yeah, that's modesty creeping up on me.
    and unless you're not using the medicine:
what?! you gonna start imagining ******* your mother?
    the point is that Kant can never become a
populist philosopher... he made his life so: that
he never encountered the weitgheist of Napoleon
at Juna... Kant wasn't the antithesis of Marxism...
      you can't take Kant to a movie premier in Leicester Sq....
   you can take Kant to the pulpit...
   sure thing, you can take Hegel, as you do,
to get people mobilised...
       that's why i prefer Kant in that he gave me something
to work on... as much as i admire
                  the people subjected to creating phenomenons of
themselves... so that people can be cloned and bleached
and be told the marching orders: these days musicians
are the kings... poets are the paupers...
   i identify with neither...
                       i mean, just the one word he invented,
if you want to ask me about a priori and a posteriori
atypical things people regurgitate about Kant,
i'm not your man...
                      if i can salute to the pig through of everything
and nothing,
                       i'll make a statue from oyster shells instead...
it's enough that i told you what Kant wrote
that 0 = negation...
                               but given what i'm trying to
really say is the people who give us individuality...
it doesn't matter whether you live in a democracy or
an autocracy...
   the matter is simpler, because only one word has
any meaning right now: to congregate at the altar of
the noumenon...
                               res per se... that the latin translation...
   i don't know how best to poeticise the blurry line
between psychiatry and philosophy, given that most
    psychiatrists would put philosophers in bird cages
and asked them to howl like wolves rather than
tweet like budgies...
                            all i can say about a priori
and a posteriori though?
                                              outside of time and space,
a bit like: beyond good and evil...
    a priori i denote by the right-wing word pure...
   and a posteriori by the      ditto           word impure...
    ethnical alliance of words, you know how the 20th century
story goes...
                      a priori: a blank canvas...
          a posteriori: the painting...
                          i'm not going to stutter on the word
knowledge any time soon...
                                        i see no fascination with knowledge,
i know the world is more transit and fleeting
if i sentence my emotional whole to doubt,
than if i sentence it to denial...
                      to a rigidness... that i sentence it to a permanence,
an illusion, of growing old and having all the lovelies
at my biding, in a political cartwheel...
                           either knowledge diminishes doubt,
or it embraces denial... but the wavering of thought can't
be detached from thinking...
                     with thought being ascribed denial rather than
doubt... it soon morphs into delusion...
                 can you really sport that sort of blonde quiff and
speak about red buttons?
    it's not even Friday and i'm sorta waiting for a mob
boxing match in Washington... easy kicks...
     it's Klitschko vs. Tyson on the cards,
   if i'm not feeling it... then all the past electorate weeks
have been a waste... all the protests signifying a jack-in-a-box...
who escaped it as nothing but purple puff...
and rarely, rarely... do you see people asking
for riches in terms of the words they use...
     vocab materialism is a bit like actual materialism...
a gold-plated toilet seat is about as sought-after as a word
    without being systematically used to banish synonyms...
the horrid affair of english intellectualism...
   the presupposed moral authority...
                            i mean, they moralise *******,
you go to a brothel... they strap a pair of dove wings to prostitutes
and call you a ****...
                          and there's you doing the opposite
of what should attract *******...
       i mean: you pay an extra ten quid to ****** mollest her
oyster of a *******...
                   that has to be some sort of Gethsemane *******...
oh please lord: when will it end?! (enter herr cackle,
the self-righteous faun, dressed as a magpie)...
        never knew that a kiss meant so much
when you didn't put 1 with 2 to make it a *******
and asked the devil to debate: what did i wrong here?
ah, that bit... jumped in the bath and soaked myself
in cold water while she remained, bed bound and *******...
    god: those tickling *****!
                    i could do it 20 times a day and i'd still feel
goosebumps all over them...
                     it's like that talk of the ghost-limb
when people get gangrene / frostbite amputations...
    well, that's what i call a case of "castrato" -
             i'm getting the impressions i lost them to
serve the Catholic church... shame the pharaohs of egypt
never asked the eunuchs how to sing...
   real shame that... a right ol' spot of bother...
   they were the harem toys when the pharaoh couldn't keep up,
i say: there's a limit... the ***** count sometimes
doesn't compete with the libido...
after a while it dilutes and you're shooting blanks...
   but you have a harem of 3000 ladies, king Solomon...
how will you keep them harem bound?
   king Solomon also said: i need 300 pristine virgins
to be castrated... that's 3 to 10 ratio... but since i'm the king
i need my lineage...
and remember that crazy cat lady?
                          she kept 30 cats and those 30 cats just said:
the lady's o.k.... all these 29 cuddly ***** are bothering my
beauty sleep! dogs can sniff each other up... cats?
primo solipsists... they need their personal space...
            the "crazy" cat lady wasn't crazy, the 30 cats became
demented... last time i heard tigers weren't responsible for
wilderbeast stampedes...
                 solipsists... well: "solipsists"... bound to the strict
natural dictum of their species...
              don't you think tigers would love to
roam like hyenas or wolves, or laze like lions?
                        i was really talking about Kant through
this Dionysian frenzy, wasn't i?
                     how when not to look toward
imitating a noumenon or forging out a route toward
such a circumstance?
                            even Heidegger move away from
this ultimate pinpoint...
                                Heidegger claimed that his dasein
made very little of a constancy of the Cartesian thing,
meaning that he couldn't stand-still...
         that somehow being was greather than stasis...
which already create
            the Kantian parallel predating Heidegger himself...
   the suffix of dasein (sein) is what's considered thought...
         it's a prophetic circumstance of seeing a there,
necessarily a future time... and hence him being branded
**** eternal... when in fact that can't be the case...
            nonetheless Kant moved away from Descartes
and said: res per se...
                          and not res cogitans...
he did so, as is apparent in his critique by isolating
                       the precursor: "i think" as an ambiguous fact...
  ambiguous in a sense of: providng the encapsulating
  mechanics for what is best attested as the populist vocab
calls it: eccentricity of "i am" - that which attracts
         the reversal of "i think" being an ambiguous fact,
and more of a chance to demand a circus, of not being
quiet adept at making "i think" an amiguous fact...
and beside the circus of the "madman", having qualms
   as to why adrenaline took over the argument for
and purpose of there being thought involved.
        -  oh honey... i'll mind-******* and eat your
refrigerator out, and by the end we'll be singing sweet ol'
Alabama wishing for a single summer by a lake
frolicking like two butterflies... if this **** can ever come to
an end   -
             Kant didn't, in the cursor that's i am, posit as
a necessary ambiguity... (the res and res per se
were already established) -
                   hence Heidegger had to come...
and make thinking the ambiguity... and that ambiguity did
come, in the form of the ad abstracto there;
                         thinking fizzled out (as Heidegger himself
concluded: we're still not thinking) -
            it's not that we're not thinking, it's that not being "there"
      dictates to us the subsequently not being -
         i.e. that's the borderline distinction -
          by actually being "there" we wouldn't be thinking anyway...
no one thought in Auschwitz...
                            there was no thought encompassed in that hell...
it was dogmatism on one side, versus natural intuition on
the other...  the one side being nurtured by political dogma:
the latter half being bound to an unforgiving nature
                  of man's testmanet outside of all fears of the natural,
and elemental torture...
   as man is prone: with the fewer number of natural
tragedies... he's bound to reach for the godhead and speak
with a tongue, like the sound of Xerxes ordering the Hellespont
to be whipped still..
                  and i know this will have very or only little
appeal in the anglophone world...
                       i'm not at all bothered by it...
what's obstructing the anglophone sphere is this basic need
to pray at the altar of pragmatism...
    you can't make language complicated enough these days...
   philosophy isn't recognised as something beyond
the simple arithmetic of: i can make my speech coherent...
   or... i can write a, b, c, d, e... like Kant says of mathematical
language: 1 + 1 = 2... but then you come to university
level mathematics... and it's no longer 1 + 1 = 2 to be concerned
with... that's what philosophy testifies... a complexity beyond
learning a foreign language, so you can live in Paris,
          and buy groceries, or raise a family... so:
   even language these days can't be deemed worthy of
complication... which, mind you, on my behalf
would make me throw a punch in your face... and your attempt
at complication language a mere ugh... and me then
applauding you toward the current simplicity of the world
affairs... or at least to the psychiatric parlour...
    because... last time i heard... only anti-psychiatrists
bothered to read philosophy books... actual psychiatirsts
either read pharmacology booktlets for the poor...
    and those sofa-session monologues stemming from Freud
of rich under-****** or over-zelous in dreaming rich kids.

And I love your Saturn hands
the knotted slim fingers
fixed in your fawn fine hair
long 'round your fine mirror accented face
crystal blue eyes that might otherwise send someone into 10 story ocean waves
should I come too close, I'm sure I'd have more than myself to save
Your dry weathered thumb brush my flustered lips
It looks like we're now apart of the papacy
creating an obvious contrast of our opposing polarities
Something in the way that winter craves to reach this upcoming spring
Hard tailored to the rules of some domestic order
the rigidness in your loving touch
leaves the eyes of my heart wide
Can you walk into me, several times more
It wont break the ties that bind our instincts
but It'll give me tastes of what free people enjoy
Kiss me, with more than what it normally takes
we're both starving to breathe
into another
into another
Just as it rains do we lose your leather jacket
that identity we cant force ourselves to leave
Rain to our face
wettness between our smother
lavish expressons of what we hope our wild selves to explore
water to this drought
for which we suffer and for what reasons no-one spoken truely
can they say

/political correctness is a term used for people who have forgotten, near-archaic social formalities... oddly enough, social-formality is still obliterating political debate,  and is only existent, when met with political "dialectic"... since ancient Greece,  dialectics has been the enemy of politics, since it curbed the stampede of orchestrated, pristine, rhetoric... which is why politicians stutter, or mishandle... what was once a fact, has now become a statistic... which is... something you call: diluted ****, or diarrhoea...

political correctness?!
    what is "political"
about an ontological
focus of a priori
   social formalities?
   political correctness,
id est:
    satus quo prolongation?
as far as i know that
ship has sailed...
perhaps like the Titanic's
maiden voyage,
not blessed with a champagne
bottle christening...
a Kantian revival against
the Hegelian "dialectic"...
after all, he was the Copernicus
to what became the Marxist-
Galileo fiasco!
    if only Copernicus
became a martyr for looking
down the whirlpool of
a flushed toilet... who knows?!
*******... spaghetti
al fresco and Venitian blinds...
fatso mafiasos and
Marlon Brando dyslexia
due to cotton buds shoved
into his cheeks like
a ******* jerbal...
             gallows the schmuck,
hence came Zodiac Leo...
i'm actually apprehensive
about the fact that political
correctness is actually
an: apolitical statement...
seen that khaki attired king rat
scuttling about giving
shadow commands?!
me neither...
   but at least in a dictatorship...
some *******
doesn't have a choice,
but own up...
    illusion of the emperor's
new clothes...
you're right... the clothes
are rented...
   because there weren't any
to begin with!
   no wonder there's a shadow
spine to the "pristine"
idea of democracy...
chivaraly was also,
once upon a time, a novel idea
and an idea with a span of
history (ideology, vogue)...
      but came the undertaker
and buried that *******
with the maiden's hankerchief
he used as target practice for either
*****, or snot...
    political correctness is any ugly
term for what is otherwise
a root of social formality,
   laughable, even still...
  political correctness has no
a priori root to pivot on...
   political correctness attempts to
be a form of social formality,
but it's... kinda hard to
speak about an unspoken rule
that has been passed on
and is anti-political,
id est: intuitive... hardly the curious
child with a stick and a wasp hive...
      people feel unhinged...
no wonder!
        a social formality is within
the ontological a priori focus...
an inheritence that's silent...
but, politics, is never exactly
   an a priori focus...
              tinged with a posteriori
artifacts, it usually cites
Napoleon, ****** and Russia...
             to be "politically"
incorrect, is to what? what?!
                    momentarily relaxing
social formality?
                gender neutral pronouns
of the western world... ha ha!
a much older debate about
pronouns exists in the Slavic world...
made concise be the use of
the pronoun you...
     and of course,  i...
       which focuses on a loss of the title
herr und fraulein...
              ha ha...
told you that nag hammadi library
shepherd and pivotal St. Thomas' gospel
was going to be a hit...
              Chinese whispers in Judea...
the current... thrill of bi-cis-dunno...
doughnut?
    - only two people worth
admiring in the 20th century:
Lenon and Kennedy...
   the sort of people who true... fans!
i make a falsetto,
some Hannibal Lector will be
on my heels, thinking up
a ritual where, I'm actually eaten,
in a snippet of my body, akin
to the tender-bits of my liver...
   way to go... a sabbath encore
of those ***** ****-takes of beauty
Scotch banshees!
       fifth limb and the word: USURPER!
nope... make my tongue
into a ***- (yes, like
****** I might call the urban
of what is a renowned country's
worth of Billy, hence
the hyphen attaché)...

     whatever is politically correct
(mind you, german idealism,
rigidness of vocabulary,
only 3 definitions of a word
are utilised, the fourth
becomes a writers' scurvy
or a ***** tattoo in a thesaurus)...

whatever is politically "correct",
hence the ambiguity of -ness
is an orphan of both social
formality & informality...
who the **** would asked
for a political butcher,
let alone a member of parliament
take on a rabbi's son?!

nooooo....   oooooone....
       lovely,  ain't that
the pretty siht:
sight of a tightening
of a cravat prior to
the folded napkin in heavy cotton
before the state dinner...
minus the China and
the yardstick worth of... silverware...

came the ümlaut...  
the closing of the parabola...
the shy messiah...
the rollingpin of omicron,
the ******'s worth of omega.
   und?!
          ah...
    the siamese twins of H
in the tetragrammaton...
once a wave (W)...
     once a particle 3D (Y)...
jew counted matchsticks
   and read a book...
Pole has 1 to count,
       afro-boy has 20+ raps
for one gil scott-heron
  for every ****** factory
and for every if it came to:
this revolution, lardy lardy,
was televised...
now we're praying that it
could please! please! shut! up!
            
the toying with Greek and
a crucifix that became the tongue
of the golgotha-cranium?
   do the sons of light caste
a shadow?
       surely "we" read the light
from shadows...
   night, however...
is... without form....
        devoid of the triangle
and the square...
    the universe is ever expanding
is the closest they came to
giving it a geometry...
and then they finally settled on a:
linear proposition...
   came the "big" and the "bang"...
and then the, "supposed"
sparrow eater worth of vacuum...

there is an understanding
of social formality
  (a priori)
     as there is a knowledge
of social informality
      (a posteriori)...
    political "correctness":
a claim of being...
       politicians should learn this
mantra:
    to be politically "correct / incorrect"
is to be... apolitical...
   what?  
                just because
the church bred atheists...
a parliament can't breed apoliticians?
  granted...
     the parliament has a luxury
of a god on a string...
          and a suddenly materialised
"god"...
             the church is already a warm broth
of gurgling **** in the shadows...

for whatever the audacity of
youth apparent,
the fervour in me is hardly
as Dynamo for Alt.    
        in what remains an inherited
burgeon of power....
   than a plebiscite of gambling...

who speaks of political correctness
is only speaking of
a buffer zone to the ham trough...
yes, thank you,
I know there is no talk of
political correctness in the scenario
of a uniformed police officer
and me drinking a beer on a bench...
politicised bystanders...
****... me...
   can they flip and omelette like
a pancake?
        social formalities don't need
a stray dog's worth of tongue
to suddenly discover
the arithmetic of counting teeth!

I know a man who melted in the layers of my skin
And I will call him Icarus, now where do I begin -

I met him in the middle of the earth and all its time
A moment I cannot recall, a true forever's why
The wax from every question mark his mind could ever draw
Had taken on another form, a vein he never saw
And so it was a pair of eyes much different from his own
Became a house he'd recognize and even call his home
The company he found within enabled him to wake
A kind of curiosity he fought but couldn't shake
For underneath the rigidness his character sustained
Was but a man alive and well with everything to gain

On the surface, we're fine
We are friends, we are partners.
Who would know
that underneath that cleverly crafted facade
we're standing here, head to head
unable to move forward.

We are right and we are wrong
we can never come to an end
we can never compromise, it seems
for any little step in my direction
is far to big of one for you

you want exactly what you want
nothing more
nothing less
and anything but is something that angers you
frustrates you
and does the same for me.

You're just as guilty as I
in this deadly game of chess
but where I am willing to bend
your rigidness will cause you to break

what you have with me is a
non-diaviating dogmatism of
the units of language,
common colloquial says is
at best attuned: black is black,
white is white.
i have a dogmatism surrounding
this...
i''m very rigid in the term a priori,
and in so saying: darwinism
  has no a apriori benefactor
to challenge me...
   i'm rigid in words
    on the basis that's i do not
accept the thesaurus manifesto...
  the game of synonym and antonym
will not make me write a better novel,
i just think that's *******.
      the problem with darwinism
attracting a higher status
      than the miser narcissus quote
of looking into **** similis
leaves the biodiversity of monkeys
paramount above the biodiversity
of other species of animals...
i acknowledge darwinism,
but as science clearly says:
it can never reach the rigidity of
being deemed an a priori certainty...
modern man's rebellion is
against darwinism forcing itself
into the a priori regiment...
as a scientific theory darwinism can't
do just that...
     darwinism is solely
    a posteriori in terms of
conceptualisation... i have no beginning
as man qualifying myself as being
monkey-borne,
i don't have enough time to
       conceptualise such a beginning
with all its viable ceonceits as modes
to state a groundwork to an ontological basis...
worthy of execution...
         to a satisfactory basis...
     darwinism can't exist in the a priori
sphere, because science cannot either...
               darwinism can't equate
itself with theology,
on the simple premise that there's a suffix
-logy involved...
                       and the rest belongs
to the archives of mutilated language...
                or the mutilation of, should i be exact
in the dicta.
                 i cannot be born with
an innate predisposition to state that i am
of money origin...
          primarily because the monkey has adapted
in such a way, as to be so life affirming of its
existence that i'd be in no way similar
in this genesis, as i am bound to affirm the
  life prerogatives of a peacock dancing to the mating
call of a female peacock...
intellectually speaking i'm bound to experience
an intellectual shortcoming and a
               desert of worded experience...
the modern narcissus is the darwinist disciple...
                  i can't see anything more
abhorring than that...
                       to the conclusive demise:
making any history makes no sense,
the 18th century? makes no sense,
given we've been prescribed the platitude...
and the stoppage of time...
                   originating from **** similis
makes us no more noun-denotative
acquiresome of **** sapiens than the
byproduct that is **** insapiens...
                            i know the history is there,
and all the facts are there... but given our
current day-to-day... there's no bias for it making
our lives any different in terms of it having
any effect on us to say otherwise...
                      darwinism forgets that it behaves
like any  a posteriori fabric
                     in a way that it wants to become
rigid... but not rigid in a sense that
you might cling to a posteriori becoming
rigid for an equivalent of a one-man
  table-tennis match.... or *******...
  i mean darwinism doesn't have a place in
the a priori in the first place,
it can't be as pristine as space & time, god & nothing
care to allow it to be...
    i have a life-span of a maximum of 100 years...
i can't make history and tell it from the epoch
of dinosaurs to suit the right sort of palette...
    darwinism isn't inherent (a priori) in me...
it's scientific, therefore a posteriori in me...
                 it's sometimes called being stubborn,
or it's sometimes called communal slack...
      even if taken to the court, i can't defend darwinism...
what i can say is that: enough prayers left
at the darwinian altar has left me a david Attenborough
in the pornographic industry spectacle...
because why can't i be as **** similis as i care
not to be **** sapiens?!
                 the basic fact is that i have obscured
the thesarus in my lexicon...
                 i have made certain words rigid...
opposite of making a chair goo and custards...
it's a rigidness that i expect to spar with,
       i need the stability...
   and this makes me the shadow-man...
because i can't compete for a pulpit and a freedom
to speak... i can't!
    i am bound to shadows and book-worms...
and am for the better for it to be so gravitating me toward
the grave...
      i can't say darwinism exists a priori because i just
can't...
                        i say that because biology is the sole
science that does away with mathematical language...
             biology has no actual need for numbers,
          it has no need for He meaning helium...
it has no need for the laws of physics...
when physicists try to find the glue...
biology is already immersed in the glue...
                    biology doesn't need numbers...
yet it's there: eating up book after book in the domain
of history, fiction and poetry...
           the a priori implant of god is so much
easier to forget in the medium of thought
than establishing the a posteriori implant of god
that you simply don't think about...
i have about a hundred Islamic terrorists to testify...
   i don't understand this attack on the a priori
stronghold of certain ideas being sanctimonious...
  darwinism cannot reach the pinnacle of a priori
inquiry simply because it begins with an a posteriori
requisite...
                            which is why the whole affair
went to court... with the monk

I long for our time together.
The ecstasy of every moment.

Together we are a cascading waterfall,
of emotions, imagery, beauty and thought.

I crave the words and phrases that tumble
from your hard tipped lips.

I kiss and nibble your ivory skin,
brandishing the white with my own red ink.

The soft pale caress of our utterance
as your body swells and spills over
with my elaborate thoughts and deepest desires.

The sweet subtle change from
empty to full as I drink in and confess
every penetrating whisper
and every delicate moan onto thee.

I yearn to explore the strong rigidness
of you between my long silken finger tips.

I let loose and fly across this fleshy tundra,
as we merge completely and deeply every introspection.

A timeless moment of expression hidden secretly
in every inhale and exhale.
Expressions of the most profound;
love and lust
Reality and fiction
chaos and order
pain and pleasure

All of this I bestow on thee
waiting and timed just right
for that ever exquisite moment
of perfect unity.

As an ending ****** pulls and rips
its way through the soft tissues
of our souls, the most flawless
cries escape for us to behold.

The flooding release of one's own soul
as the body tremors and shakes
with its final gasps and goes limp
to lie in its final resting place.

But knowing you my dearest lover,
you shall never allow me the luxury
of repose for I give birth to spirit,
mind, body and soul.

And we shall ravenously dance
again and again, for that
haughty cycle shall never end
as I confess forever and ever
my very being and lay in wait
to be read and to be seen.

so you know, my next door neighbour calls me over to her garden,
she notices i'm smoking in my own garden,
and she's like: come on over, have a beer.
                    so i go over and her garden looks like world war iii,
as i have said many times.
                            i once complimented her: i like yout ****
garden... she actually has a **** the size of a tree...
                                                         i'm not kidding.
and i'm there, figuring what to do, there's a guy in a wheelchair
yelling at his mom over the phone, there's the dog zoe,
all black with one white paw, and she's barking and trying
to lick me...
                        and then there's this portrait of nelson mandela...
framed, behind glass... and a black violin in a case
that the dog probably ****** on...
                      and i pick it up, and take out the violin and
try to play some sort of ukulele -
              by the way? i hate people who have a rigid language
system in place... it's a bit like talking to a 2 + 2 sort of people,
if you're starting from romford and you want to
get to timbuktu? some people write so rigid that, starting
from romford... you might get as far as dover...
               their tongues are a bad excuse for the rigidness equivalent
to a spine... but even their spines are crooked...
                 spineless *******... and tongueless to boot.
well... so i'm over in my neighbour's garden, and the arsonist kid
over here is trying to make a bonfire...
         oh by the time the fire-crew were summoned,
he was throwing a television, and a vacuum cleaner into the flames...
it began with a matress, and a few chairs...
          but he was trying to get the fire started, and having soaked
the matress with white spirit (turpentine) - it wouldn't light up...
so i suggested... you have any kitchen towels? or some toilet paper?
i mean, if you soak that sort of thin-"skinned" materials,
you're going to get a: houston... we don't have a problem: a.ok.
**** me, you should have seen the smoke...
you start off burning a matress and a few chairs...
   then you throw in a few plank of wood...
then a vacuum cleaner... then a television?
                                        i was really expecting a bang!
what i was doing was sitting on my ledge, perky like a crow
doing a sudoku no. 9018...
        sniffing in the fumes of what looked like the most appropriate
"metaphor" for apocalyptic society...
   and then the fire-crew came, and extinguished the bonfire,
because my other neighbour called in the brigade.
i guess this is one of those times when you feel the need to make
the firemen useful... considering there are... what? scandinavian
architectural "problems" with wooden houses?
  oh yeah, sure... concrerte's gonna burn! -
   but while i gave him the idea, of soaking a roll of toilet paper
with the turpentine spirit... and watched the whole thing foooom!
out of control?          we started a sing-along...
     *the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...
   the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...
    we don't need no water, let the ******* burn,
                                                     burn *******... burn.

Gently,
ever-so gently,
I am covered by
your succulence,
sweet parted-lips
upon sweet parted-lips,
I eagerly search
your soft-folds
with such tenderness.

O what delight,
there is no fight,
but harmony!

A warm-moistness
engulfs,
surrounds
my rigidness,
consummating
our sensuous-act,
this sacred-gift,
a smothering of Heaven.

what you have with me is a non-diaviating dogmatism of
the units of language, common colloquial says is
at best attuned: black is black, white is white.
i have a dogmatism surrounding
this...
i''m very rigid in the term a priori,
and in so saying: darwinism
  has no a apriori benefactor
to challenge me...
   i'm rigid in words
    on the basis that's i do not
accept the thesaurus manifesto...
  the game of synonym and antonym
will not make me write a better novel,
i just think that's *******.
      the problem with darwinism
attracting a higher status
      than the miser narcissus quote
of looking into **** similis
leaves the biodiversity of monkeys
paramount above the biodiversity
of other species of animals...
i acknowledge darwinism,
but as science clearly says:
it can never reach the rigidity of
being deemed an a priori certainty...
modern man's rebellion is
against darwinism forcing itself
into the a priori regiment...
as a scientific theory darwinism can't
do just that...
     darwinism is solely
    a posteriori in terms of
conceptualisation... i have no beginning
as man qualifying myself as being
monkey-borne,
i don't have enough time to
       conceptualise such a beginning
with all its viable ceonceits as modes
to state a groundwork to an ontological basis...
worthy of execution...
         to a satisfactory basis...
     darwinism can't exist in the a priori
sphere, because science cannot either...
               darwinism can't equate
itself with theology,
on the simple premise that there's a suffix
-logy involved...
                       and the rest belongs
to the archives of mutilated language...
                or the mutilation of, should i be exact
in the dicta.
                 i cannot be born with
an innate predisposition to state that i am
of money origin...
          primarily because the monkey has adapted
in such a way, as to be so life affirming of its
existence that i'd be in no way similar
in this genesis, as i am bound to affirm the
  life prerogatives of a peacock dancing to the mating
call of a female peacock...
intellectually speaking i'm bound to experience
an intellectual shortcoming and a
               desert of worded experience...
the modern narcissus is the darwinist disciple...
                  i can't see anything more
abhorring than that...
                       to the conclusive demise:
making any history makes no sense,
the 18th century? makes no sense,
given we've been prescribed the platitude...
and the stoppage of time...
                   originating from **** similis
makes us no more noun-denotative
acquiresome of **** sapiens than the
byproduct that is **** insapiens...
                            i know the history is there,
and all the facts are there... but given our
current day-to-day... there's no bias for it making
our lives any different in terms of it having
any effect on us to say otherwise...
                      darwinism forgets that it behaves
like any  a posteriori fabric
                     in a way that it wants to become
rigid... but not rigid in a sense that
you might cling to a posteriori becoming
rigid for an equivalent of a one-man
  table-tennis match.... or *******...
  i mean darwinism doesn't have a place in
the a priori in the first place,
it can't be as pristine as space & time, god & nothing
care to allow it to be...
    i have a life-span of a maximum of 100 years...
i can't make history and tell it from the epoch
of dinosaurs to suit the right sort of palette...
    darwinism isn't inherent (a priori) in me...
it's scientific, therefore a posteriori in me...
                 it's sometimes called being stubborn,
or it's sometimes called communal slack...
      even if taken to the court, i can't defend darwinism...
what i can say is that: enough prayers left
at the darwinian altar has left me a david Attenborough
in the pornographic industry spectacle...
because why can't i be as **** similis as i care
not to be **** sapiens?!
                 the basic fact is that i have obscured
the thesarus in my lexicon...
                 i have made certain words rigid...
opposite of making a chair goo and custards...
it's a rigidness that i expect to spar with,
       i need the stability...
   and this makes me the shadow-man...
because i can't compete for a pulpit and a freedom
to speak... i can't!
    i am bound to shadows and book-worms...
and am for the better for it to be so gravitating me toward
the grave...
      i can't say darwinism exists a priori because i just
can't...
                        i say that because biology is the sole
science that does away with mathematical language...
             biology has no actual need for numbers,
          it has no need for He meaning helium...
it has no need for the laws of physics...
when physicists try to find the glue...
biology is already immersed in the glue...
                    biology doesn't need numbers...
yet it's there: eating up book after book in the domain
of history, fiction and poetry...
           the a priori implant of god is so much
easier to forget in the medium of thought
than establishing the a posteriori implant of god
that you simply don't think about...
i have about a hundred Islamic terrorists to testify...
   i don't understand this attack on the a priori
stronghold of certain ideas being sanctimonious...
  darwinism cannot reach the pinnacle of a priori
inquiry simply because it begins with an a posteriori
requisite...
                            which is why the whole affair
went to court... with the monkey trial...
(and the rest of the argument i accidently deleted...
which is a shame...
                 but then again, i guess i simply
left it trying to reinvent poetic rhyming,
i mean rhyming counter to plague, the hague,
                or vague...
i meant rhyming on the basis of prefix mandatory
reiteration, or the mundane alternative:
repetition, rather than rhyming
and in musical terms: really hitting the *** note
as to avoid even a sense of polyphony...
or polyphony meaning: personnae...
but i deleted the better half of the narrative...)
some ******* about omni re (things again)
culminating in the mora res = res cogitans...
  to think, to delay... a thing that delays a thing that things
when all things repeat themselves...
   by omni re i mean: that bollocking insistance
of autumn... well: it was a nice load of *******,
but then i did **** in my treatment of it;
which is to not say i didn't have more
intentional sentences to work with...
   accidents happens...
sometimes you get champagne,
most of the time: solitary definition of frustration
at the impeding technology...
                     airy fairy, miser's berry.

Perhaps another world exists,
Where all is pure and limitless,
And light shines on shadowed mist,
That dampens every moments bliss.

Perhaps this other world exists,
Where no mundanities of life persist,
And from the depths of the abyss,
Love escapes its rigidness.

A conquer of my dreams, reality, perspective in hand and in whole
Was just yesterday when she stood tall
Against an evergreen mountain
The wind's whisps
leaving lashes on her face
At an elevation like this one could smell renewal a rejuvenating aroma
As her breath travel to her navel in one
Quick motion
A blissful feeling of longing she always
Put herself on the pedestal
Knowing the self rejoicing rigidness
Her self-worth shone to be
An everlasting fire planted a seed
In the midst of her heart
An unshakable clarity and belonging
Swarmed her body in one action
As her mind drifted into a seemingly everlasting relaxation
In one exhalation drawing hands to the chest one palm ontop the other
She finally understood
A gift larger than life so valuable
That can only be acquired through
Real acceptance, the unconditional expression of self-love

Love was black,
and love was white.
I though I knew -
or was I told? -
the meaning.

Told.
Told, with a rigidness.
Told, with a consequence.
Because if it's not black,
and it's not white,
it's worthless.

But then that pure white,
darkened.
But then that pious black,
lightened.
Until it was the perfect
shade of gray.

And now I forget,
The deepness of that black
And the gleam of that white,
For gray is all I know.

it's one thing that philosophy dismissed
poetry, but it's another that psychiatry did
likewise, interpreting poetry as madness, esp.
western haiku is better than the Freudian
interpretation of dreams; can you believe
the unconscious holes hidden in western
interpretation of *** poetry?
the way you can weave an essay into a few words,
is like fidgeting a theory with
a few images - although the former is less
inclined to a rigidness, and more inclined to
a rubber-band elasticity -
Freud had a few images to work from given
we experience dreams in nanosecond intervals
given the overall mundaneness of a 8 hours repose -
but imagine injecting an essayist's
interpretation of a haiku akin to some psychiatrists
spotting Pythagoras rubbing a tree
for Greenpeace with an ******* of triangles & apples,
like Freud with some rich kid paying for his
opera visits of castratos singing: la dolce vita...
i mean the ******* iceberg...
a few words in haiku are bopping along to
the tides from the Arctic, yet beneath them a
mass of narratives, even the Beijing waiters reminisce
recitations from school to this Mao revolution
syllabus... the unconscious meaning: fill in the gaps...
mathematically? algebra...
after all, very few people experience
'Houston, we have a problem' moments.

as haunting
as the rigidness of your back
or suppleness of where that straight line leads

it’s been snowing all day and any semblance of spring that was evident yesterday is now covered up and gone. i feel i may never escape this season and all that it has brought me. i can’t seem to keep warm, to unfurl my body from the rigidness it has been stuck in since october. i look back on old photos from when the leaves were changing and the air had a cool, crisp smell to it and i barely recognize myself in them. no amount of makeup can cover up the veins of jagged cracks that were left behind after the wake of it all. it keeps me up at night that the fact a boy i knew for maybe five minutes occupies my mind more than the boy i spent over a year with. it bothers me that i allow myself to think about either of them, two boys who gave me nothing in return. it bothers me that my memory is so hazy and that remembering the good times are becoming harder and harder to reach. it bothers me that i don’t have the strength some days to make an effort to think about what i want. i’m so used to molding myself to the whims of others in an effort to keep the peace that i’m beginning to wither and fade, suffocating under the frigid vastness of this unrelenting season.

2 march, 2014

For all the years I live,
Add an eternity to that number,
And surely I won’t forgive
The missing dreams of untried slumber.
Radiant light becomes forgotten
In a darkening flit of mutiny,
The core of hope left rotten,
A result of bitter scrutiny.
Mixing up a varied blend
Of failure and of loss.
With distaste for what I cannot mend,
The torments of my world to toss.
My time rests in the shade
Of towering walls that barricade,
To protect the solitary blade
That unaware I myself had made.
As I watched reality slowly fade,
With wishful thinking that allowed—decayed.
A stubborn refusal to catch the hook,
Blinded, for my gaze I took,
Away from fortunes streaming brook,
To settle in my troubled nook.
Reflectively my head I shook,
For all I had to do was look.
Maybe another world exists,
Pure joyous and limitless,
Where I’ve chosen to resist,
The lonely climb of rigidness.
My soul to shine with light persists,
Expose my dreams and with it bliss,
Without regret, without a miss,
Under the veil of a hopeful mist.
It’s always time to contest
The false projections that manifest.
Finally with a subtle moments rest,
To ponder interests that were in my best
And heed self afflicting plight, lest…
We not forget how much life is surely blessed.

the parody...
  i think i remember stashing a week's
worth in my room
        and the stench they provided...
that's the parody, i think i remember...
thinking has nothing sensual about it,
now you're reaching into our faculties,
like: imagination being covert for sight,
then again memory does indeed comply
with that rule, but we call it "sight",
or a blockeg toilet of desirable "thoughts"...
    i wonder... is there anyone out there
to give me 5 sensual artefacts of rigidness
that my comply with a theory concerning
the ego?
  well... isn't this globalisation a real gathering...
what a gathering!
         there are one billion chinese armed
with shadow and here we are
  talking about how the process of individuation
comes about... like some miracle of birth,
  it just tickles my nuts whenever i hear it.
cat's in the bathroom imitating me
while i lean off a windowsill to spot a constellation
and given that: i can only see three at most,
well, four... if i count the rhombus
and the big and little dipper (out east we call
them carts... the things horses used to
drag along)...
      but all i want is the pentagram of man inverted,
like the clockdile that the ******* became
for germans...
           i want the "cognitive" lessons in what
i see, what i hear, feel...
       what are these "senses"?
they must be there for me to think about them,
but never trust that thought that has no ought
to it, no moral compass, per se...
                   that something is not needed,
i hardly talk anyway,
         i just pass as silent as a lake, or
merely and practicaly, just sit there...
                    newspapers?
yeah, for some reason books not keen on house-cleaning
chores never allow for stink...
  keep a week's worth of newspapers in your room
and they start decaying, and the stink arrives...
   which is why i don't value opinions coming from
newspapers, i call them the sights of
    pornographers of literature...
        or maybe why i don't see much in the vicinity...
in poland they actually call putin a wise man,
a leader... in the west everyone wants a cherry
on top of the cake that they're not...
        all the old people in poland cite
putin because he's able to keep poles,
how to say it? not imitating the nomad jew?
and actually sit on their ***** and count the ants?
is that how you say it... i go back to poland
for 3 weeks, read a kraszewski, watch ski jumping
cook a meal, walk in minus degrees into pine
woods and take a photograph of a power station,
and feel: there's no need to write a book...
3 weeks over there and i didn't feel a need to write
a book... alternatively:
i come back from my "hiatus" to england
and i'm in a on-the-ready-prompt gimmick;
i'm starting to see this departure from the life
i could have had as much as what defines the dog
or a door (onomatopoeias to god)
             but is really nothing more than a nagging
seagull... or why there is a need for prompt...
if graffiti didn't do it, then this, certainly will.
           writing "poetry" is never a good thing,
esp. when you don't feel like talking,
but then i feel a computer keyboard like
        chopin might feel the piano keyboard
or mozart feeling up a harpsichord...
          i can't even claim ginsberg's prodigy,
i mean: mean grit and hardship of a construction
site? the scottish widows' HQ roof? i can claim
i did that... because i literally did...
                it's almost like the construction
industry is the only thing standing before
the military-industrial complex... unless of course
you add napster and somali pirates into the equation...
    but yeah, newspapers really stink if you leave
them in a pile for a week of the respective past week,
books however don't... i haven't dusted them
because i probably read them, and i like to
imagine this fetish of the perfume they exfoliate
after a while, because you nurtured them in a way
that other people who horde books don't...
like my uncle once reminded me as to why i read:
i want enough books to make me look smart...
    yeah... and i want a casio to be above rolex...
and on a *** note: schrimps ahoy!
                     or as my scottish english teacher
in a catholic school once remarked but didn't
realise it until i spotted it (just now):
the gift of narrative is to digress -
   it's a "poem", it's not a pave of slab,
there really isn't a quality control mechanism
involve, other than the quality of writing too much
and being able to shut up for 10 years...
   respectively: to write a body of work,
which is where routine comes from
and routine breeding a type of rhetoric that's
constantly undermined...
               or i guess that's what's flying about:
because i really want to avoid what gave me prompt...
it's very trivial -
   it originates in how people quote:
   i.e.  the orthodox "[w]hen it happened"
enclosure... the prompt part when giving you
the prompt...                 as if needing an intro,
that **** is in [w]...
                                   what is an indirect citation to
the direct situation of giving a talk -
which i'm not, therefore i point it out.
    and yes, it ends with a number
because there are only two "arithmetic" results
of language, one of them is 1
  so a sentence e.g.: i went to the store to buy some milk
is representive of the sigma, 1, positive, affirming
  anything and nothing.
yet the other strand of "arithmetic" results of
language is 0... which is Kantian for negation (a denial
of, primarily the cartesian concept of doubt),
  and a sentence that results in the sigma 0
comes from a sentence e.g. i went to the store
to buy some mil and shot someone "by accident"...
well.. that's how english existentialism would actually
work, by dittoing / creating ambiguity
     that goes outside of the misnomer realm,
                  as in: including some sort of action,
hence the punctuation inclusive of "extracting"
  by; so yes, existentialism can actually include
   the conjunction word leading up to what is stated
as ~:
    easier to state what you mean or don't
than the mindless task of the perpetrated
counter-ask, esp. in a supermarket, i.e. i wanted
milk (also), instead i got a bullet to my head.
**** don't make 1 + 1 = 2 logic in terms of speaking,
and no, i don't believe that books ought to be
necessarily eloquent... we can stick to manners
at a dinner table... i see books as a cushion for
what would otherwise explode into violence...
         or is that just my take on things?
there was something though, that prompted me,
and it wasn't something i'd arrange
with dubious punctuation, as in:
to read a newspaper and listen to someone talking,
******* schizoi of me to do that in the first place,
or perhaps that's how you decide for a third
person to talk over the person actually talking
into your ear in a video, you reading a newspaper
article, and then realising you are allowed
the third party source of thought...
      then again it was upon seeing how people
cite...    what's the difference between citing
it as "[w]hen" and how you see it in certain books
e.g. 'when?'
                tiny little differences, but meteors in
how the modern version / aversion to dialectics looks like,
if it is ever staged in Marrakech supermarket...
            is dialectics thus a better word to denote
haggling? as that nursery rhyme goes:
      if meme and gene is id the posit for fixed ego?
like: that **** never changes, it goes on and on
and is the western serpent in the doors' song the end.
wait wait... credits...
          all credits to heidegger's ponderings
III... circa 1932, and the concept of volklich
which some east german would probably say
as volklisch - like in a rammstein song:
   isch bin... hark the ******* CH! or should i ask
the Gaul to come with his phlegm of R?
                   it's not that the english have a stiff upper-limp,
they have a numb tongue... taubzunge...
or an umtongue...
            and speaking ethnicity, i too can suggest
something... what kant already mentions with his
shadow | cold concept to... whatever it was he was doing...
western slavs are shadow people... a schattenvolk,
you don't really see them...
                   and if the history of israel...
becomes unrecognised by arabs in the middle east...
then so too poland in europe, unrecognised...
        well... they're there... but western vogue doesn't
really recognise its existence when you read a newspaper
and dare to cite statistics... so like: huh?
                 they can cite every, single, country,
in the supposed western "hemisphere" but they can't
cite something from the east...
                     and then someone from the schattenvolk
comes along and says something to them that
cite the statistics and they're like: bring
in the muslims!                    well, that done,
                 how about we watch the idea of a community
from the Ełk incident? two bottles of coca-cola
        and a death sentence...
                 or so and so and so and so did (a),
but shouldn't have received the result (b)...
           thankfully we had Newton to look for
the law of gravity... otherwise i really wouldn't know
what law man is actually capable of giving...
is it objective? so why am i protesting?
is it subjective? so why am i even asking?
the only thing more horrid from philosophy is
jurisprudence... but then i find philosophy bearable,
and "try" to practice it... jurisprudence?
             let's not get religiously motivated to exact what
is and what is not.

i do "think" that telepathy exists,
but only between a man and an animal,
the piercing stare of a cat lazing on your bed -
squinting almost "saying":
where's the *****,
   and where's the chess board?
i'm unlucky owning a ginger
specimen...
   black holes are
telephones to god?
   i prefer the mind of cat
and telephoning the devil:
he's usually the more informed one
given god's omniscience, other omni- etc.
imagine that gymnastics i have
to go through, to bypass
a cat's meow and read his
eye-contact...
   as i said: you'll get the investment
in the "investigation" once you've
read bulgakov...
oh sorry, no mark twain? oops...
must have forgot,
or burped a champagne bubble
from my gob, say hello to daisy,
****.
       you still breeding those
types of virgins these days?
lucky me, i get the cinema
of islam resurging and invading...
all i can do is, sit back,
and joing the chorus of applause.
even though cats sleep so much,
watching a cat sleeping never
leaves you feeling lazy...
always... itchy, for some reason.
maybe their autistic nonchalance
when awake...
        but **** me,
i "ask" him:
   händel or foster the people?
answer resides with the latter.

p.s. that's diacritical arithmetic,
isn't it? it's not some grapheme innuendo,
right? i know, i can count...
ä = paa (hiding the surd h to
either laugh, or breathe - catch 'un...
extrovert says hello with regards to what
introvert confuse, a tongue twister of
                          æ... is that
vampire for blah blah, or... bleh' bleh bleh bleh?
i was seriously going to posit that
comma below to insinuate the pause:
i.e. ultra syllable stressor) -
em... why make writing boring?
readable, page-turning?

          can writing at least resemble
its retarted yet autistic genius cousin
mathematics?
      i find more easy narrative
wiping my ***, on the throne of thrones,
listening to ac / dc's thunderstruck
song tapping the beat to avoid
getting a cramp from massaging my
prostate; so... go figure what's appropriate
given whatever circumstance
also requires a napkin and a fork.

right?

i can't imagine a world where written language
had the 1 + 1 = 2 rigidness ascribed to it,
what with the play-dough of
diacritical marks and punctuation marks
running rampant revisions...
  a microcosm? well that's diacritical
syllable distinction...
  a macrocosm? well that's punctuation
syllable distinction...
    all in all, comes the atom: letter,
comes the compound: word -
comes the sentence: chemistry,
   comes the paragraph / book -
                                the per se, alter. god.

Is it really so true that fear can keep us trapped and imprisoned by nothing but mere thoughts?

Invisible bars with such real rigidness in their stance.

Within these walls I wonder, is it normal to watch another person cry and feel like it's the most intimate you can be with a person? And if so, what does that say about what I'm putting up with?

You can open my legs repeatedly, but you'll never know me there; because unlike other humans I live in my heart.

If you know the key to that door isn't your ****, even though it fits, but it was your deepest secrets, would you dare to open me still?

Should I consider the ones who answer no to be cowards?

And maybe that is why I have grown to hate you. Because I stand in the bravery of authenticity but still tremble at the thought of being alone.

So maybe then in actuality I hate myself too.

In conclusion, I suppose I hate neither.

I only hate the mirror you are that shows me who the real coward is here, and I'm sick of staring.

like it were a letter extracted from another:
an iota from a psi (Ψ) -
or   "     from either theta (Θ) or phi (Φ)

ᛉ is not exactly an upside down
cross...
but all things run on
clockwork - here: around here...

but isn't the driving force:
this peter defying gravity
more than... what the "lord" and "savior"
managed with parched lips
upon golgotha:
i seek tel megiddo -
              i seek and i seek
and i'm nowhere to be found:
bound to a blindness that reads:
and this book will be required
reading for years to come!
and we will strive to
keep illiteracy paramount...
come the sudden switch-over...
we'll replace standard
literacy with: attempting
3D experiments on 2D canvas...
with coding the monster project
of a.i. -
    if i were a man that worked
for the n.h.s. and drew blood
for comforts of detail and
the necessity for still-life...

whatever the noun-denotation
of the hippy symbol: ☮...
                i have extracted the rune
from the omicron...

it's not heart-surgery -
                      old father Yr standing:
an elk beside a birch tree...
suppose there might be
some dog-esque antics of
******* against it...
lifting the impossibly invisible
lineage of linen to extract
that: suppose i were attempting
to sit in a saddle and ride a horse:
a dog that i am, *******...

i "suffer" for what zenodotus noted...
✝ 180°...
             i have before me a contest
from last night...
i wasn't even trying
to counter the original...
i started thinking:
how indistinguishable hope
is from doubt...

   clearly: the sensible chargehands
of philosophy in france
came with their existentialism:
in systems in clear-cut-packaging...
there was no room for
a plethora of emotions
associated with doubt...
there was an evolution of
the original statement -
but doubt was never to be invoked...
outright negation
as a pursuit: modus operandi of
sorts...

the original:
   - doubt (dubium) - it's still used...
something is dubious...
   - i doubt (dubio) -
god... so much of ******...
grammar-wise is akin to ancient
latin... pronouns are hidden /
incorporated into words...
  
          i arrived at no clear antithesis (
an-t-fes-sys)
           i didn't pry open
this stale bread with
sartre's outright negation policy
as moveable pieces...
that subjectivity is scarred...
that objectivity is nothing really
but watching shifting goalposts...
or a snooker match
or... a meditation on
neptune...
                  
     the original: dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
                            doubt, thought, being...
                dubitum, cogitatio, esse...
     can it... translate like such...
whether antoine thomas aptly capture
the truest of all intents:
so much of thinking goes to waste:
daydreaming - which never manifests
itself in being: anything but...

         i just wanted to come to the synonymous
project origin...
doubt is most certainly a plethora of
emotions: i never doubt by objective
standards: by doubting i am forever
subjected: subjective - etc.
objectivity is a certainty -
doubt doesn't allow me to be objective...
so the origins of a canvas...

but if in the public sphere people
are seriously debating 2 + 2 = 5...
via 2.4 + 2.4 = 4.8 = 5...
and they are... collage educated and...
there's no nuance of custard... leftover?
a butterfly effect...
over "there" there's a hurricane...
i am the anemic butterfly...

i will not come proving that
modern ****** is very similar to ancient
latin... it's painfully obvious to me...
życie: life
  żyje - i live
          życiem: with life...
życiorys - an accenting of life: nuanced -
perhaps even borrowing
from physiognomy...
          etc.

dubito, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
  here's my alt. "interpretation":
hope is as uncertain as doubt is...
it's almost foolish to tinge hope with
certainty and doubt with uncertainty...
there's no real hindsight...
to bother with...
my hope is both an uncertainty and
a certainty: a doubled-edging at
the itch... an itch that would require
two hands to scratch it...

how does it sound, therefore?
   spero, ergo cogito, ergo sum...
i hope, therefore i think, therefore i am...
the original proof is undisturbed...
   pronoun that becomes a verb-complex
for an otherwise inactive noun
  spero becomes spe(s)...
                         cogito becomes cogitatio...
sum becomes esse...
                    
it's not very much different...
the original is intact...
all i'm attempting to deduce is that:
hope is very much a doubt...
that hope is doubt...
that both hope and doubt fathom
the same replica of emotions
in their bouquet of: deadening actions...
it's an impossible standard
for moving: the impossible
object: perhaps it was a pseudo-Sisyphus
tasked with inventing
telekinesis and moving
a mountain instead of a stone...
after all: it's not like someone
was tasking him with the deed
for eternity:
  a midnight cleaner in an office
block...
the tormented could have
simply sat and befriended
the stone with thought...
          without having to move it...
a stone a nuance of mirror...
a test to agonise the olympians
for having otherthrown
their predecessors...
time wasted... time earned...
    give me limbs of gravity...
give me: soul...
and i will outlast the gods lost
to their... belligerence...
no war against things inanimate!
always the war of tricks and ploys
to masquerade their own
inhibitions: taming that ol' sod
from the exploits of the harem etc.:
don juan-esque exploits conquering
a nun...
  
  it's such a boredom to:
not turn into an oak... wake in the night...
to settle for the polyphony of
falling rain... an imitation
of a time-dial where otherwise...
creep: sand is otherwise invoked...

the dictum commonly referred to as?
the cogito? shouldn't it be commonly
referred to as: the cogitans -
i.e. from res cogitans (thinking thing)
doubly i.e. the thinking
rather than: the i think?
a definite article invoked as precursor
to an escaped pronoun from
the clutches of latin wording?
the i? an i?
                ah...          "self"... / selb...
a norwegian pyre...
          joan of d'arc...
                                    
         it has to become an absolute indistinctness:
indistinguishable: ability:
            indistinguishability -
a lack of an ability: spell that in math:
a nuance of quadratics?
am i to exhaust my memory
bank of: what's phonetically simplest
and what has to become
this monstrosity of encoding?
parle parle parle...

i have to arrive at:
dubito & spero to be: indistinguishable:
before the sobering blow of:
cogito... that also requires an
outlet into being: of sorts...
i cannot distinguish between
hope and doubt...

      both are plethoras riddled
with mine of exploding salt...
i'm wounding myself on a crease...
it's hardly a thirsty dagger -
how would poetry of puritanical narration
freed from a theatre and a supposed
audience... entertain
a seance with bilingual schizoid
quads?
the hyper-inflated status of
native speakers...
the denigration of bilingualism as:  
oh: this little "thing" acquired...
nothing more: since not born
with...

it's blatantly apparent:
i couldn't possibly teach...
push a buggy through a muddied trench
i just might...
howl to satiate the moon
with a tinge of blue
and watch as blood turns to ink
on this illuminating scythe of
forwarded futures:
we must acknowledge a past
as a guilt and never a nostalgia...

Hecate: hecat(e) contra: hey-cat-e!
it's not impossible in how
the syllables cascade / are juggled...
god bless the sober judges
of the last remaining shadow:
as standard: before the execution
come noon...

                i am yet to read any phonetic
encoding from africa:
except for the hieroglyphics:
which have become a emoji standard
for: limp owl ghost limb etc.
why is it odd that
asiatic people, notably the chinese:
cannot write narrative:
and their poetry is only haiku?

spaghetti: even though they have
ownership of noodles...
it's not like these people have
words: they wish they could sing...

but if if you have such
syllable complexity as
𡔈 (chu) - not chew: choo-choo...
and that's already so complex...
but arrives back at
Marco Polo's altar that sacrifice
of c + h + u...
what's stopping you
from... exfoliating in:
an art designed for either
sanskrit spreschen or the arab jolly
bunch of camel jockeys?

well... it's not like 0 was ever
to be derived from a squashed
doughnut of oMICRON...
never!
   beta 8...
                  god! n'eh-ver!
if you were burdened with beijing...
syllables: no words...
no ******* words!
you wouldn't... somehow...
exfoliate in numbers?!
shrimp **** applause?
i stopped minding
the pride of africa a long time ago:
let's 'ave 'em those long
trunks of elephant
and blonde ***** attache:
trunks of: ***** ***** wooly woo...

but if you have complex
syllables: like the chinese have...
hell... the fugazi shoguns attempted
a dial-back...
simplified their efforts...
there's still that persistence for
'aiku...
       counts! the sticks! ths stones!
arrives back with tonnes
of matchsticks and no clarity
of: how a wild fire does so:
pre-emptive automaton d'uh:
'cos' no: that fog in the rational mind
of man has to persist...
incistently...

                like a borrrowing from
insomnia...
but you can imagine...
letters "magically" turned into
numerical grievances
and a system of germartia was spawned...
for the office of the grand rabbi
of kiev...
A would have to equal 1...
B subsequently 2...
but the ol' hebrews decided
to keep their vowels niqab to begin with...
so that became a lost cause...

officially the hebrew have an alphabet
with not vowels...
with exception the gay Adams
of Ayin and Aleph...
        i will not hand-over
this hangover for much longer...
by designation of the tribe and for the tribes'
allowance sake...
i curse the moon: i howl after it:
cognitivelly:
to free my neighbours from
the reality i have to digest...
call it metaphorical howling if you must...
i have, to, heave... this...
junction of "coincidences"!
i am mad for the purpose of taming
a tongue: arrogance need master(ing)...

tired wheels: the same old burnt rubber
as made synonym with muscular
tension...
the same wheel of crushing heel!
i am my own less arrogant
finnish quake dressed in mystery
of a bothersome dwarf and troll...
learn beijing secrecy they say...
escape the mundane emoji heiroglyphs...
what word in any of these african
tongues was ever inscribed
in a system of phonetic encoding?
it took me years to unearth...
yes: a GALOGOLITIC system
was there...
i was looking for the antithesis
of runes...
before the greeks and tha latin brats
spoiled
the adventure...

i'm asking without judging concerning:
how you can simply come:
come this anti-thetical mathemtical
brain-drain: slave-whipping
and tell not grieving authority:
this is, how... you will... GRIEVE!

in england: for a people that have
never been licked: teased by a mongolian
horde: only extracting -
"*******" sold by their own
aristocracy - coming to h'america...
i am! offended!
samuel l. jackson plays a common
robber armed with a 12" *****'s
worth of a shotgun!
i am! most! offended!
here's to the goon sq.!

           after all... linch me with
the sauerkraut: too many vowels...
too many vowels...
always with these ******* vowels!
like they simply forgot to
castrate the choir! ****'s sake!
if there's a bounty for an ottoman
castrato! i'll willingly pay for one!
i don't exactly feed a need
to **** one... as long as ******
hits the highest pitch notes of
squeel...
              to have exported africans:
olympic sized...
they didn't solve the "problem"
of intellectual jews without a sense
of irony: arbeit macht frei is...
well... a maxim for...
the germans having to glorify
the physical splendour of african
bodies... notably...
intellectual glorifications
remain in the gutters and the concentration
camps...
in the dust and grievances...
the mind is not allowed
telekinesis...

    i stand before a mirror and pretend to
chew...
its not exactly known as to what...
but i mimic -

九       which is 'nine': 9...
         denotes: jiu: a french concept of sauce...
that it's not "really" is another
poker hand refraining
from: the ol' 19th century wild card
romance of: we comes
as prior to the comes
of the conquistador comes...
having ****** the mayans
and the aztecs into...
the pyramids of giza?
no apple & pears?

the altar? elevated?!
             i come cannibal...
for the glory of the one true god:
yes... he has found new flesh...
bound to the scrutiny of africa
and the dull shamanism of mammon...
kneeling bloods of african-can-cannah...
moi?! truant jew?!
when this adventure took off...
my little people of north eastern
europe: concept...
where not invited into the history
of the roman empire...
don't ask me why they had
to focus on whittle ol' precursor
imitation afghanistan that's
now hang-man's-land
of -ing...
                          borrow me some sorrow
from can-can-attache?
or... haughty-stray-layla?!
                 to live among the scots...
is to best forget one's attempt
to live among:
white-flight Loondon...
         honest as might: becomest a
birth of a kippah donning god...

you want... a translation?
         łąnt... i can that i can...
translate phonetically...
it's to no one's aid:
unless i'd be scribbling with
choice of either braille or morse...
i WANT... look at that...
rigidness of letters...
then let it come alive!
add some diacritical scrutiny...
let european breathe into it!

crab bucket list: listing the near impossible:
deimension of: to do...
like my first and last litany of
best kept secrets...
this wettening of an oink:
strapped to an over-gresed...

to tell a solemnly swear:
this grit of supposed demoracy -
one lie is ahead:
thirty more to somehow make
it to: a coming...
i die a ******: not being one...
there's this lost ambition and there's
this ambition and karma
and a plot narration apiece
with: all the sensible saints
and hardly: any of them:
arrive at an angelic status...

what i once imagined:
as a freedom to think:
to narrate without a need to pursue
mute onto paper...
i once imagined thinking
to be aa freedom above speaking...
little did i want...
that it had to become
this itch for trigger happy...
and the octopus of hands
that learned a new lesion...
a tightening of tendons...
an overworked scrutiny of muscular
fibre... fat for brains...
to have to congregate upon
this same altar...
this same:

   given an... wait for it...
entre-prunal..  
french is "bad": english is just
as bad..
i see a tree: there's a forest...
scholarship: a word i want to be
left with...
entreprenaurel..

that's obviously a wrong
spelling... must be drunk irish...
must be...
        entry-pre-nautical...
entrepreneurial...
          pre-               neurotic?
god give the next
beijing latex queen tiger:
the power to spell...
    or rewrite a 9... into a new...
or neu...
                      wery much like
a sam weller to question my
sancho...
because the opera is a forever:
forever always sing-along...

it's almost a necessary joke...
what's the differene
between an anglo-saxon workaholic
and a west-slavic... alcoholic...
the latter doesn't call
you 10 minutes to 9pm
come a friday
with... neurotic demands
for a frivolous scrutiny of:
monday's are ripe...

the bad taste in my mouth:
i'm missing both a tooth
and a moth...
that anglo-saxons pair up
with the japanese:
consitency:
it's not infamous: it's true:
arbeit macht frei...
it's a solid mantra for:
peoples lost to the cogs
and machinery:
as i demand to watch:
humanity... suffer...

            it's almost very much so:
humanity requires this pseudo-deity
this demigod:
this shame-riddled observer:
third party "spokesman"...

i want to hear...:
the creasing of the cushion...
the arithmetic closure for...
bones that might have
concerned themselves
the completed "architecture" of:
sitting in a chair...
as one Iowan might translate to...
the hybrid promises of: a lot of Maine...
give me a losing promise:
this last craze!
i heave to have to dabble:
this old soviet curse!

this is not my tongue!
'ere! hear how i drop:
zeppelin conjunctions!

translate?!
dies ist nicht mein zunge...
hier: hören ich wie fallen:
  ladybirds auf: Livonian...
cruss... little be of V...
gott, mit, unß!

crescendo!      
get african multi-african: proper
******...
come prokofiev's battle
of the ice...
******* mongrel shelter
smacker erst piece...
you who do not own
a history of my my, own...
who are the arabs
concerning the quest
for explaining the niorthern
crusades!
barbarossa was pickled!
tired arabs?!
here: now!
hier: jetzt!
                teutonic branding
of colours:
schwarzkreuz: auf..
                  weißtaubefeder!

and i am... somehow... expected:
to tire of the forthcomings of
a "delicate" past?
this english ignoble... precursor...
**** the hellish all that
might require: needs to Elgar!
who is Elgar?!
who the **** is Elgar?!

i tire of a people that are yet to know
the experiece
being involved in a mongolian: tirade...
or... a post-scriptum of... ha!
sever... this grandiosity:
this teutonic plague!

I don't wite poetry drunk and think
it's great, or rather: to later
                                       think, it's great

rather, as a genuine outlet,
   worth the dub: ***** poetry
(analyse that,
     Ronnie K., the sentimental
     psychopath),
    since i could be up to no...

(and already the sealed cascade
   of the original intention:
whirlwind spaghetti remnants
worth of: collage);

for Sienkiewicz really
is tedius, in the camp of writers
some dubbed:

a first class, second class writer,
i even managed to dream
that i was reading a contemporary
novel:

         yet somehow the remaining
200 pages of this (circa) 800 page
novel are hanging over me
ungidested, like some farce
of the sword of Democles...

me and my necrophilic taste in
books, or rather:
        catching up to: the dogma
of what youth is pushed in schools
and tested on...

    and I am of the authentic opinion
that Bolesław Pruß is readable,
a 19th century story,
     written in the 19th century...

Siekiewicz's romanticism is
too, inauthentic...
   i could blame the weather,
cold spring mornings,
a seemingly eternal sun throughout
the day...
       but the women
as unrelateable as hot sushi...
a 19th century romanticism
of a late 14th / eartly 15th century
"history":

           and they said Kraszewski
was supposed to be as entertaining
as soaking stale bread in water...

beyond a doubt...
     and without much to think about,
I can't imagine anyone who
writes these snippets (akin) to be
proud, and not ashamed
in some way that could better
translated / attired with the word:

barely satiated...
            I almost wish it sounded
better in my head,
even though it was worth
about a worth of time
   equal to that of a splinter
barely compensating a century
worth of oak, standing dumb
before its majesty.

at least a compensation though,
if I seemingly cannot fathom
"serious" literature
of the living, i also cannot fathom
poetry of the dead...
         the dead can't be excused
the fickleness of the living,
    as the living can't exactly
recreate the rigidness of the dead:
plus the obvious,
painstaking process of:
      the missing typewriter...

not to mention:
      sooner comes cinematic
version of a modern tale...
              and already the undomesticated
reader making books into
bricks...
            
    otherwise the constipated tradition
and literary hoarding of the past,
it almost dwarfs any ambition
when compared to the biblio-monolith
of, say, the Qu'ran...
                      no qualms for
having only read an instruction
manual, and wholeheartedly
   gesticulated at the moon
    and Mecca (or what's left of it)...

"satanic" credo murmurs in
a catholic church:
                         no way forward -
no way back...
      and certainly not down
the exhausted route of becoming
a ***** for secularism...
        somehow and most certainly
"somewhere"
                in an existential limbo...
without a crisis:
           or rather:
     watching about a hundred breakdowns
per day, and not exactly
gesticulating at an exited libido
as compensation for the disorientation
of others...

but there certainly could be worse
outlets than writing drunk...
thankfully sometimes the quiet sober
opinion at 7am,
     where I am, genuinely jealous
of the salat...
          yet unconvertable,
             bound to that infernal
religion that is: on the tip of
the tongue of an English teacher -
humanism.

               no serious literature
of the living, as certainly that of
the "canonised" dead,
   countered with:
      no serious poetry of
     of (ditto): only that of the living
and of the immediately: in transit
id est: with third party remnants...

evidently i was going to
break these "rules" / whims
   by having inherited the remnants
of the Beat movement,
      and invested in gathering
a necessary compedium...
          
    a time when it almost feels like:
your average Joe and John
were not overtly politicised...
        as compensation for
voting apathy,
                  and the unredeemable
post scriptum of nuance...

no, I don't think much of the poetry
I write drunk...
     but I can certainly attest
    that, with it as an outlet -
     I'm far from requiring a punching
bag, bound to some chemical
rainbow of explanations,
    that, for the most part:
                act like placebos;

came the people happy in their
misery...
    came the people gluttonous
in their happiness...
        only that the former
            had the better humour,
since the latter,
   very much akin to their politics:

perhaps sarcasm is the lowest
form of wit,
   but given sarcasm in a subtle
way... without ridicule...
it's still better than snarly
conservative humour...
                         for some reason...
without pointing out the obvious:
having to laugh
at jokes of an angry man...
     turns out a crying clown
is thrice as funny.