Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl
Live just down the hall
From each other
Somewhere in my mind

'Cause these ***** old men
Are known to have penned
Many favorite kid books of mine

But they also worked blue
And wrote more than a few
Naughty songs, novels and rhymes

They stayed true to their style
They'd go the extra mile
Their ****'s guaranteed to blow minds!

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the ***,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the ***** rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His ****,
And How the Monkey Lost His ****,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the ***** looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines

I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent

Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice

That is how an orange ought to be peeled.

See with glittering eyes
That's what Roald said

mornings are better
when wrapped up
in strawberry kiwi
paper and burned.
-
like gene wilder
and roald dahl
with lickable wallpaper
cut up into skins.
-
a mile took more
effort than i thought,
and i'd rather replace
the tar in my lungs
with love,
but no one
likes to shotgun anymore,
and the man i've written
so much about
has pulled a move
more fitting me
than him,
-

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."

                                                                                        
                                                                                                -Roald Dahl

I like when we are alone together.
I like to be alone with you.
I like to be safe and adventuring at the same time, when my head meets the mountain and my feet meet the rock.

my moonbeam mountain boots fell apart the moment I left home, but I picked up my blueberry pail and I took to the fields like I always do.

He picked up your knife and he stabbed a man in the stomach of his heart, where he kept his daughter’s pocket mouse nomenclature. He kept the cells in a jar next to his collection of Roald Dahl stories.

Probably. Maybe not.

I like when I can sleep in your bed and feel absolutely balanced. You tip my femininity when you scratch my back with your stubble before you shave in the mornings and it is so lovely to be near one who can cry.

Stop these doubts, mental jail bars, and iron tongues.
I was never good at words.
I still cannot convey the emotions that
I want to come across.
But my mouth is all I can use.
Gesticulations are not enough.
Can I come near to the perfection of which I am pining for?
My love for the words, for the phrases
that turns into metaphors and the sonnets
which Shakespeare wrote
and the Roald Dahl books I keep on my shelves are what I have when things get too much.
Even with letting go my pain and coming to terms with things...
how come I still struggle against myself?
Can I even approach the level which all poets must come to so that it is not about the words anymore but about the overall picture these words make?
Do I have the strength to ignore grammar
and punctuation for even a little while?
I am so close and so far away.
I want to die as a poet.
In a bath tub where the walls are paper
and the water is ink and after physically cleansing myself, I can begin to clean my soul too.
Am I a flickering flame that refuses to be blown out after a couple puffs of air?
Maybe I am, maybe i'm not.
But If I were to be this enduring flame of orange, red, and yellow, I hope that one day I can understand myself when I write these words so that I can truly achieve what I am looking for.
I want to spit fire.
But right now, all I can do is blow steam.

Dr No the first entry
Showcased the talent of Sean Connery
Brilliant score by John Barry
Ursula Andress the first Bond Girl
Set the standards for those who coveted the role
Joseph Wiseman the title character
A legend from the New York theater
Unforgettable introduction scene at the casino
The title score would become the theme music
Never dated even today pure magic
Dr No recieved a yes from the audience

From Russia with love
People went to the cinemas like droves
Great villain in Robert Shaw
Remains one of the best performances in the series so far
Daniela Bianchi runner up in the Miss Universe contest
Followed Ursula in here hp footsteps and stood the test
Train journey from Istanbul to Belgrade
Remains in your memory forever
Title song by Matt Munroe
Melodious and fills your heart to the Core

Goldfinger the franchise became better
Gert Forbe a German actor
Portrayed the title character
Buying Gold and Destroying the world
Twin objectives planned by having Fort Knox bombed
Sean Connery drives the Aston Martin DB 5
Revolving number plates
And ejector seat designed
Honor Blackman as ** Galore
Glamour delivered more
Pilot in Goldfinger's fleet
Unaware of his sinister deeds
Joins forces with Connery
Everything ends happily
Title song by Shirley Bassy singing to the tunes of John Barry

Thunderball beat them all
In box office ticket sale
The gun barrel sequence
For the first time
Performed by Sean Connery himself
Loss of two nuclear warheads
Masterminded by Blofeld
Claudine Auger as Domino
More than just a cameo
Scenes shot underwater Technology testing new waters
Filmed in Nassau
Amongst other stunning locales
Sean Connery is Vintage
Adolfo Celi
Tested to replace Connery
Cast as Emile Largo
Gave the role a go


You only live twice
Heard it in Nancy Sinatras voice
Set in the far east
Found villains in the Japanese
Sean Connery thought this would suffice
Wanted to give up tole after five
Top actress of Japanese cinemas golden age
Akiko Wakabayashi
Got the chance to play
The role of the Bond Girl
A rare choice in Roald Dahl
As writer for this adventure
Cold war theme with Donald Pleasance playing Blofeld
Superpowers missiles gone missing
With both sides blaming
And Sean Connery saving

Diamonds are Forever
Brought back Sean Connery after a near disaster
Unheard of salary paid
To the Scottish National party donated
Jill St John joined hands
The thriller filmed in Vegas
Blofeld killed by Bond
Resurfaces after the misleading con
Diamonds smuggled
Not resurfaced
Found by Bond a plot
Involving Blofeld and weapon in space
Shirley Bassey renders the song With an original score by John Barry
Sean Connery final official outing as James Bond
A great swan song

To me love is,
Mysterious like the statues in Louvre,
Sweet like the chocolate factory in Roald Dahl's book,
Warm like the idea of having a cup of hot chocolate in the coldest of days,
Yet it is painful like the burnt marks on my toasted bread.

******, another day of slow internet access...
feels like the late 1990s,
or early 2000s with the dial-up modem...
just around the time when
internet videos were not big...
                ******, ******, ****** all day...
just expecting my regular fix
of information,
             and all those metaphors for
   ***** syringes -
                ****** as someone else's thinking...
attempting a head-stand on a tight-rope
in some, very, familiar, circus...
three ms. ambers down:
   oh... so the music videos allow me to
bypass this... "debacle": cool cool,
strapped in, ready to go...
        just today,
   under the matrix -esque skies of england...
i smoked my first cigarette
and watch a pair of robins sit on
my neighbour's fence...
     aww... so pwetty pwetty...
       also nice...
                to spot a pair of robins...
and not the standard bearers of bird-watching
in your garden that are composed
of sparrow...
       all that orange: in the right place...
a bit like:
   that myth of the page 3 tabloid
the sun, glued to something beyond
a cleavage...
           cleavage... hmm...
that's the difference between cleavage
and the grand canyon of a ***?
cue soundtrack: the gardener
                          by marylin manson...
i never felt more alive...
      digging that hole...
              almost all of a reality of life
can be experienced in an english garden
in outer-suburbia...
   30 minutes... you might chance
deer, you'll certainly spot a fox...
   audacious manifesto...
     sometimes... even a rat...
   scuttling along,
   hush hush politics...
   as i imagine...
                                    animal farm:
who would the rats be?
  don't know why i never came around
reading anything by
roald dahl - or j. r. r. tolkien
for that matter...
    to have to "short-cut" my way
into the heavier literature exploits...
   so i dag, and dag,
shovel and fork in hand,
interchanging,
   until i managed to reach
a geology amateur fetish...
    ah... the foundation of London...
clay...
         dig deep enough,
past the garden earth layer,
you hit the clay...
             half a meter deep,
then the load...
              ***** must have weighed
around 50kg
     in her nursery package...
      moved her from the patio
into the vicinity of the dug hole...
via a pagoda...
                            broke my back...
broke a sweat...
             but i managed to plant her...
as i managed to plant
that plum tree 3 years ago...
    and as i lodged her in,
i whispered a shamanic fare-you-well
to her...
   'she's in good company,
of course she's going to bloom,
           bloom and produce cherries'...
clearly i underestimate my weakness...
or, rather,
              i play the salamander -
while back on the internet...
               a movie review by
black pilled about pawnbroker...
so it must be spring,
or at least: spring on the edge...
    so much for the robins,
and as much about plating a cherry
tree in an english garden...
            tended to by some ******...
it's like a snap-shot
of a memory,
carrying mineral felt
        on a construction site...
around 30kg rolls like i might carry
an anorexic unfathomability of a woman...
sooner or later the swallows
will return,
     and all in all...
the eeries, a sensation:
   so bird is part lizard...
    it's a lizard in a disguise of a mammal...
and... of all the creatures...
birds,
    are the most elevated,
in terms of ****** affairs...
   like the base standard of the monogamy
of swans,
    and all that crying eye
of a swan widow, or widower...
well sure...
  cognitively... we're on top
of the hierarchy...
    but in terms of: sigma replicas...
with our outliers...
    *** "stuff"?
             i guess we were beaten
by swans...
   and in terms of muscles,
gorillas, and diet?
               gorillas beat us to it too...
either "we're" a paradox,
or there's a god akin to Loki
          playing us the mules of foolery;
somehow "reality" is not suspect,
somehow: it always was;
but now there's a cherry tree in
my garden, which i planted...
        just about the right sort
of compensation for not having
a protruding Adam's apple
                     bulging from my neck.

before i sit down to the... how (is it)
   how my mother usually
words it: pięknie, ślicznie, prozaicznie...

  beautifully, beautifully, prosaically...    

            (how how = howl)

śliniak - baby bib...
  ślimak - snail: a garden essential
if cabbages get chopped on the guillotine...

etymology or rather: the similarity of spelling
of words...

piekło - hell...

                      i'm thinking hard about soft machines,
i was trying to find william burroughs'
the soft machine
    in my library, stashed it somewhere deep
so had to resort to mind-bending alterations
to cite his style:

but not yet...
    from the river Jordan to the Mediterranean sea...
of what is known at least i know
a Palestinian is a Philistine is a Philistine
  
geb nodrap, nodrap, said watt, geb nodrap
dis yb, nem owt. yad la...

        such is Beckett...

thinking about the soft machines in hard machines:
about algorithms in computers
no modern novelist with a clue
as to programming, coding...
   bullet shining and diamond biting quality testing

a hack in googlewhacking and
years ago i hacked an iPod the wrong way...
had a bunch of scratched CDs... copied them
into an mp4 format, shoved them into the iPod
and what happened?

the iPod crashed... ****** it right there
right done and proper...
did the same with some lesser known player
with an mp3 format... scratches audible
but the hardware was intact...

like now, hacking my samsung s8....
   get frequent messages about moisture getting into
my USB port... hardly...
the phone is old and by "capitalistic" standards
of new **** newer **** newest ****
"needs" replacement... no... it doesn't...

(all misnomers in "quotes": have to air them out
like ***** sheets)

hit the restart button and once the the second
loading screen comes on
plug in the USB and the phone recharges just fine...
but (i) still have to hack the hardware
while the soft machines update themselves: pronto...

i'm using chatGPT to do the custard churning
of content for me...
and i use sololearn for stretching
punctuation marks
into flying paper rides into 3D...
like so:

<p>paraphrasing</p>
<button>grease</button>
    {else
/^exchanging results>/
            ]wormholes[
but that's still basic trimming:
i'd rather be in the garden
doing so autumnal cleaning -
spring cleaning in the house
while the garden requires autumnal cleaning:
pretty neat...

             oh the joy of knowing a slavic language
and a germanic language: perfect fusion...
for nuancing furthest apart, historically speaking:
borrowing from the 20th century...

щ is szcz is also šč
  (******* pressed on qwerty s then
ring finger pressing down on 3
index finger pressing down on
c and the ring finger again pressing down on 3
for the crowns)

    the only languages where these sounds
couple together (or at least, that i know of) -
дeщ - deszcz -
but there's something inherently wrong with
the Russian script -
you actually want for the transliteration
to be complete...
as was the case with the transliteration
of Greek into Latin...

namely the following letters:
a e m
              i mean: kudos on transliterating
iota into и...
      
but a bit lazy, drunk almost,
          having left a and e intact... and m (μ)
α ε.

       evidently you wouldn't use ε if you already
used it for з ζ (zet o zet)
and i understand that O is infinitely
un-transliterate-able...

л λ...

             sore sight for sore eyes... this unfinished
Russian script...
it could be finished like so:

    ɐ ǝ         borrowing from я

which would leave m in the hands of...
well...

if not the myslite or something akin...
given the mu is hμ

hunch: i.e. hmm...
                ღ           (georgian ghani
or ო            oni
     or even ლ    lasi)

then again... how about armenian?
ah... borrowing the armenian π:

պ...

   boy...

  мальчик could become

պɐльчик

                        all hypothetical stuff...

դեշճ

                   or via mkhedruli (st. george)
ᲓᲔᲷ (schva - ooh... ease in a sh for heaven's sake,
welcome the reaper) -

which is still rain... implying it was a happy sunny
day in England and i'm scribbling this down

brzeg: the shoreline.... a marriage of george
and armenia...

                                                      բᲯեᲒ

so much for ceasefires and fanatical marches
with ******* star of david "transliteration"
placards are brandished by supposedly very sensible
people...

to alleviate my confusion i had to watch a historical
programme on t.v. about the history of the ᛋᛋ
because i'm quite frankly a little confused
like i might be with a quiet quite...
                                                  easy mistake...
oh yes, i do mean the glam black Hugo Boss ᛋᛋ...

but still in some wintry part of the world
a journalistic yawn:
                                   a bit like the narrative structure
is awry or the wrong sort of gambling
with memory
given the fright of pan am flight 103, 1988...
in the same year
       iran air flight 655...

                                           it's only a question of:
as a people with what narratives do we go forward,
i'm thinking of what narratives i keep...
clearly memory is a fickle beast
and eroded by memorising spelling
and basic arithmetic from an early age
my personal memory hoard is limited
as it should be: or shouldn't?

                    absolutely zero imagination...
   so switched from watching history to watching
charlie and the chocolate history
and became flooded with the memory of
Samuel - how we used to walk to school
almost every single day for a year or so...

how he loved Roald Dahl and how reading
really wasn't my thing...
maybe i was neglected as a child for not reading
books for children: out of self-neglect
because i passed straight into the minds
of Stendhal and Marquis de Sade...
                                and Plato... oddly enough...

ah... it would appear i'm ready:
to sit down to the mind-custard of prosaic
NVQ level 3 coursework in
spectator safety... officially supervising teams:
on paper... since technically already doing
the practice.

if etymology is a history - but not a history: in that it is
more a historiology - which, well: history is the study
of time: but time as exclusively begot by man,
a temporal study of man: by man...
history is, after all: not the history of geology:
since stones have no memory:
only friction and pressure and a time-space exclusivity...

what am i talking about?
probably a quote from the pre-Socratics,
the inquisitive genuis: genius of the Greek
spirit - without citations of Homer:
because i won't: will not cite anything Greek
beside the romantic curving of lower-case
a as α

     perhaps it's just a dreary winter mid afternoon
and i'm feeling all "sentimental":
but sentiments are for women
while emotions are a masculine "thing"...
yes... i see the divergence of the sexes -
my words will not become pop fictive in any retrospect:
handed or mishandled...
etymology and history...

i wonder why i still have the capacity to utilise
the word:     ALBIET
albeit....            to substitute it for ALTHOUGH...
albeit = although...
           old Germanic sing-sing-along...
i would rather use albeit rather than although...
or... rather: that's alðough
raðer ðan                   ðorn:
a halo and a crown?

  i ask again:
         a'h geislabaugur og a'h kórónu?

now i will not ask:
why a'h? otherwise the English tongue would not
hollow out the vowel to a simple a-plha
lymph ah... but a as ~aye... a as a yes...
no...
       ah: dental care: say ah with your mouth open
and a dentist's hands shoved in your mouth...
that sort of ah... but a'h... not ah...
as in no: ah! of relief... an a'h of dental inspection
"constipation"...

hmm... i just had one sharpshooter whiskey
drool of a moment and i'm all ***** Wonka and
the Chocolate Factory in my head...
my eternal demise will be not exploring
the imagination of Roald Dahl as a child...
didn't have time to be a child...
learned how old-English conservatism worked
circa the 1990s in terms of illegality of
migration...
i remember punching the walls when my father
was arrested with my mother: handcuffed...
day short of gaining legal status
since arrival circa 1990...

                    my revenge: banana-boat migration...
now the floodgates have opened for
the miracle of the roaming stars...
but England is a ******* besides:
it's the weather that's a drag...
you must have a melancholic-Scandi disposition
to digest the morose and the melancholic...
by now England is so multicultural that
i begin to wonder whether the English even
noted that: waging war against **** Germany
on principle of defending Poland was
ever a good idea...

       given that Polish soldiers joined the RAF
and fought on English soil all the while no English
soldier stood foot-by-foot on Polish soil...
is Ukraine any, ******* different?
master posing ridiculous affairs of double standard
ethics.. ha...            

ah... another word... constenation...
i forgot what it means: but i remember the word...
"á propos" / pardon pardon:
consternation... not constellation...
akin to the rubric of the word: not grievance...
hmm... not belegarence...
belligerence...

           funny tongue this English and French:
hide letters, show letters: eat letters... regurgitate letters:
dyslexia must be a phenomenon in
the anti-orthography of the English tongue:
'leash... my leash:
my poly-schizoid Shakespearean:
if an apple fell on Newton's head...
a pear for a quill to break the mind
and let explode-in-exploring the phantoms of
abortions...

me? no, i don't have the luxury of choice...
i could (perhaps) choose a naive 20 year old woman
as (a) "compliment":
but then again i find naive women discouraging
for my taste... i don't appreciate the dynamic of
fathers grooming sons or daughters into becoming
the same: football team supporters...
i'm privy to this subtle hyper-paedophilia...
it is... a hyper-paedophilia since the hyper- prefix
denotes: it is collectively: collusively(?)
no, not collusively... openly done...
football team fan grooming...
it is: hyper-paedophilia... a variation of brainwashing
without adherence to ****** acts:
instead... *** ARMY... per example being
a child with a father who's a Tottenham Hotspur
supported...

having digested Ezra Pound's Cantos...
currently digesting Charles Olson's Maximus poems:
i'm not assured anything by postmodernism,
clearly the 20th century was a bridging-gap
in how evolution was to play out
societally...
                  industrially...
already i'm sitting on the throne of bypassing
the old function of journalism:
i have come to question journalistic integrity
with due diligence and find it:
bankrupt: bankrupt like the priesthood:
that journalism was the priesthood of the secular
world i see me: heretic: obnoxious stamina orc...
i'm yet to die... and till then i will:
conjure a hammer and a scythe for every moment
i endeavour to feel a canary of a heart
in my ribcage...

as i was thinking:
of the difference between men and women:
of women and the cycle: birth and rebirth...
the beginning and the end...
while with men there is no cycle:
there's only a way through, a dead end and...
from nothing -
i have no luxury of the riddle of the chicken and egg
i only have the ego and the O of oscillation
i oscillate and do not idea-morph a re-:
recycling, rejuvenation, reincarnation...
i'm a crow's beak device of honing in...
by eclipses of the suns and the gods
and all that is sheen and mirror-smiles...
i am a fetishist of death...
as much as: well... only when life becomes
intolerable do i become: a death-fetishist...
which raises my libido and poo...

         (cut off... not necessarily implying i *******
while taking a ****, but given that
cats can't **** and **** at the same time,
it feels rather natural to ******* while
on the throne of thrones)....

what came first? the ego or the cogito?
that's simpler... can i think without "i"?
clearly i can abstract, which is like: the wording
of division (÷) with words and not numbers:
then again pronouns are like integers...
but given the current climate of "politically correct"
pronoun fetishes of they zee zoo
we have people who have no concept of
pronoun-integer compactness -
fraction-peoples ***-unit abuse victims:
by any decent scrutiny of a glance...
           somewhat casual-schizoid and not:
the classical schizoid-bilingualism...
more schizoid-bisexuality... brains in the sheets
and in the hemorrhaging genitals...

one could add: there appeared a rainbow at
the spectacle of Golgotha...
sickly sweet genius of the Greco-Hebrew conspiracy
against the ailing military genius of Rome...

i am going to write an apologetic letter to
Fulham F.C. for granting me work...
till the end of the year Fulham shifts are clashing with
Tottenham and West Ham shifts and i just won't
be able to fulfill the demand:
and given that both the Tottenham stadium
and London stadium have a summer prospect
of entertaining artists for concerts...
well: working at Fulham is a sort of regress...
although the rate of pay is circa £20 while the other
stadiums pay less... it's still less pay given
that Fulham is only a football stadium
and cannot be utilised as a concert venue

a much needed letter of apology:
given that until the end of the season Fulham shifts
clash with Tottenham shifts...
and that given recent developments at
Tottenham invoke me in a supervisory role:
outside, hands-on... directing the crowd
like a Moses... obviously the escalated "burden"
of accountability is a promising aspect of
any role: given the mantra of:
the easiest job in the world is not appealing...
alias of: but i'm not heart-surgeon either...
tongue and language this spare plaything of mine
i will notoriously retreat into grammatical-gymnastics...

just to reiterate: chicken or the egg?
that's wording it in old Latin,
avoiding shrapnel wordings...
i.e. what came first, the chicken or the egg(?)
similarly:
(what came first) the ego or the cogito?
primo ego vel primo ego cogito?
clearly the construction of consciousness
"consciousness" begins with "scenting" the optics:
"scenting" the optics?
oh... coordinating the senses...
coordinating = harmonizing...
even though thought leaves so much room for
error and does not actually invoke any
active participation in the senses...
the ego: doesn't either...

no amount of thinking equates to the participation
in identity, thinking doesn't
stubborn ego is all about the id in the capacity
of the ideologue of identity...
a quasi-magnetism of adhering to
fixations... a unit a baron of the integer
never too sure whether or not capable
to disintegrate into a schizoid fractionable pronoun:
semi-noun politics:
wording at play...

    of course i'm drinking: to get through Olson
you need to drink...
to get through Pound you have to...
****'s sake... go and see an opera...
to get through Ginsberg you have to listen to jazz
and for the rest of the *******:
i like to listen to anti-feminist lyrics
of Sheryl Crow while reading Bukowski...
something about a "home" being a place
where men lie...
not lie as in: take a rest...
but rather deceive...
       i don't like deception: i already have a shadow
so the night is deceiving me
dragging behind me...

men and women: unlike an INXS (in excess) song...
men think disparagingly:
women think disproportionately:
women have really **** spatial coordination...
i almost punched a woman in the face
while giving directions at Fulham...
apparently my open hand seemed like
a pucker kiss in her mind:
"learning disabilities"(?)               maybe...
the world O so cruel:
but not                            Ω    (i.e. ooh not oh)
so cruel: like there's some juice to be squeezed
from a frigid lemon: frigid?

who can i complain to...
a girlfriend in her 50s and me nearing my 40s
at least i don't have a reproductive incentive...
woke up to fun fun fun
went to bed with fun fun fun...
calls it creamy-pie when the junk juice of
alligator drools oozes from her ****...
because i really couldn't stomach
a woman in her 30s with a Cpt. Hook syndrome
of wanting children...

tick-tock-o-ah-clock-tick-tock-o-ah-clock
(have a double helix on that, mate?)

i'm too fail-safe for that sort of jargon...
if i didn't replicate my genes by now
i want the "fun" to continue...
surrogate fatherhood sounds most appealing...
in line with my sentiments for ancient Roman
history...

but let's face it (face it i, not you or we):
men's thinking distinguishes them from others (other men)
while they return to a generic man...
prototypes galore...
we all want different things...
either riches or festering in a semi-digested state
of existential prowess with mothers and fathers
and hobbies...
some want to scale the heights and have eleven children
by 6 different mothers... rich enough to do so...
as men we want different things...
regardless: even being homeless is a Bob Dylan
phantasmagorical allure for a freedom
deeply associated with: of Sinope (Diogenes)...

the modern world has taught me to be more of a cat...
i imitate a cat:
i like a roof over my head...
i'll cook i'll clean i'll keep conversation...
Matthew the cat...
i like the cold but i also like the warmth...
woman is a universal creature:
all women want the same thing...
although their allure changes from woman to woman
each woman is different, individually:
as a person...
but in terms of a woman being a thinking creature:
all women are the same...

men? men are the same: thoroughly throughout...
every instance... it wasn't a man that caused
the Trojan war...
Trojan war and the accountability of being inquisitive
from the metaphor of Eden?
men are generic in person...
although different in thought: since we want
a variety we come to represent...
by our ***-outliers...
criminality is: rest assured: a search for freedom...

coming to the conclusion that...
well... there was German idealism there was Platonism
there was scholasticism there was there was...
but... what? first wave second wave third wave...
it's still feminism...
            no original thinking no...
it's still stoic feminism...
it's still going to be cynic feminism...
a **** contraceptive pilling of... cartesian feminism...
prefixing femme fatale to anything
a man thought of first to cope with
living without children...

but i do have a surrogate girl i'm very much fond
of so much fond of that i was willing
to stay up almost all night to bake her a birthday cake
so good so that during the pool party
every single attendee SHUT THE **** UP
and gobbled down the carbohydrate plush-hush...
****'s sake...

stoic "feminism"...
one movement to rule them all... Sauron hypochondriacs
of owning *****... as if the role of mother
was a burden...
and not a negligence of "self-discovery"...
oh sure... those desperate brats are brimming on
a necessary spanking but seeing them being
spoiled and not affected by a cane
is also, sort of, disorientating for them...
the joke being: you give them "too much" freedom
and... guess what!(?) they won't be able
to decipher freedom, denote it,
filter out what they might end up wanting!

stoic feminism my ***...
my *** greasing up a donkey's hind with a warm ****...
2000 years of men thinking:
reduced to 50 years of women playing
the crab-bucket game of cocktail miasmas...
it's infuriating given the innate persuasiveness
of women to: get the Trojan horse on the move
by men... gaslighting 21st century advent...
mind you i've been with enough
prostitutes to know the difference between
staged: receiving pleasure and
staged: faking pleasure as non-received...
up to a point where she's calling you up constantly
and you keep reminding her:
listen... i've found my little Robinson Crusoe
isle of happiness and i really don't
mind not proving my manhood anymore...
i've tried a ******* and i can vouch that
it's not an ego boost but a hindering experience
of not seeing a lover's face during *******...

because it is like the execution of the prophet
Isaiah: being cut in half at the bowels...
it's disorientating: ******* two women at once...
of sure... it looks great for a ******...
but in practice?            no....       n'ah ah...
unless... you reduce it to one jerking you off
into the mouth of the other... or something like that...
then again all the ****** tension in the workplace...
by the time you arrive at ****** intimacy
with someone... it will probably be...
something akin to: 2 years
                                              and 7,186 miles away...

or at least...
there i was thinking: what also came first,
letters or names?
nouns...
i'm pretty sure we said words long before
we used letters...
we only came back to conjuring letters after already
conjured up vector-meanings
as words...
the ancient Greeks confuse me with their
anticipation of atoms...
but there was surely a construct of meaning
concerning water before w-a-t-e-r
                    and certainly before H₂O...

so yes... words came before letters...
it's only later that we designated the cutting up of meaning(s)
into... more so...
a - a letter but also an indefinite article...
i - a letter but also a pronoun, personal?    sure... "i" too...
in ******
you have w - which translates to 'in'
and z - which translates to 'with'               yes...

there is a distinction between "air"         and 'earth' quotes...

we must have grunted shovelled, breathed in breathed out
and then! the genesis of the first word...
i wonder what the first word was, ever was...
it sure as **** wasn't god...
given that god was probably the last word...
sun and moon and water and
first to speak of giving names to things
to coordinate... much later time and space:
concepts per se...
curiosity by noun
yet confirmation of a shared experience
by the inequality of verbs:
like banking is not plumbing
and the disparaging rewards of:
say, borderline automation fancy of markets when
investing money and not,
    and when not providing enough poems
or: charitable carpenter with...
hoarding musical chairs no one will sit on?
lopsided supply-and-demand nature of money...
compared to actual goods...

plastic-money... there's too much of it in the world...
apparently money doesn't grow on trees
anymore... since these days banknotes are made
of plastic... and there is too much plastic in the world...
paper-money: simple thinking...
let's go back to basics...
point being: i enjoy books and music...
i buy whiskey and once upon a time i used
to transfer my earnings to prostitutes...

money isn't paper anymore...
nor is journalism a secular priesthood...
the true advent of democracy via the internet
and all the while the current politicians are clowns...
beside who the true politicians are:
the soloists akin to the demagogues and dictators...
because that's who you "suddenly" end up trusting:
solo-actors...
          well at least they are immune to conspiracies
of "in-groups" that languish any accountability...
at least i know who is accountable for what...
because Tony Blair and...          are...    will       be?!

by writing this and posting it...
i can bypass all that editorial scrutiny of what will
sell or not sell...
i earn enough to not worry about money...
that's the whole idea...
money per se being something akin to a "philosopher's stone":
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a plumber...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into a train driver...
i can turn a piece of "paper" into...

money is the "philosopher's stone"...
oddly enough... water imitation...
let's keep out of each other's way...
    best that way...
but there is too much wealth in this world...
wealth that is not appreciated: but squandered...
squandered by being floundered...

hell... i'm quite frankly content to cycle through
London, use the public transport than
have to "compensate" with "contritions"
of being mechanically - (&) viable
          for the workforce without a horse but a car...
esp in this oorban gungle... j j jade...

the male authority figures are strong and hard
to push through
but you keep at it
until they cop swallow you

lengthen your hemlines ladies,
the future doesn't want anything to do with you
roald dahl nailed you pretty good

you delete, you delete,
impaired and in the streets

at first i thought you were like the clockwork orange kids,
but then you appeared as yourselves, much more like
the ****** up people of all ages in the wicker man
walking jester up the hill

devil's jesters i guess
where will you find your devil's jester next

“Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” -Roald Dahl

“Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” -Carl Sagan

“To be able to look back upon one’s life in satisfaction, is to live twice.” -Kahlil Gibran

“If the wind will not serve, take to the oars.” Latin proverb

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.” -Anne Frank

“Each of us has his own alphabet with which to create poetry.” -Irving Stone

Roald Dahl's birthday today
          Human beans
              Charlie!

A Frenchman translated
Joyce’s poem for Bloomsday.

On reading it he exclaimed
Une omelette sans beurre.

Indeed, apparently it lost all
Of its content and meaning.

Edward Fitzgerald read a
Translation of the Rubyiatt.

My God he said. What’s all
The talk about Khayyam?

He went and learned Persian
Just to read the Quatrains.

James Joyce learned the
Entire Norwegian language.

He done so, simply to read
One poem by Hendrik Ibsen.

The poem was Peer Gynt and
Then he abandoned Norwegan.

When Ibsen died in Oslo, the
Funeral was delayed for Joyce.

I am close to Ibsen birthplace
And will visit his grave in Oslo.

Next, we need to find out about
Roald Amusden the South Poler.