i find that the only time it's permissible to think
is at acute times, when something turns
heroism awry -
  we live in times when toiling in a field of
potatoes would be considered a heroism -
     because something has soured our attempts
at heroism...
    and i can't stress enough how modernity  
has nibbled at ancient feats of heroism
                       with such a bravado and inactivity,
    yes: tautology is the curse awaiting us all...
       what is revelatory about ontology?
some would say that oncology says much more
concerning man with a doubly impeding
temporality than ontology could ever fashion
a man with prescription: dogmatism -
    for one can only ask: can philosophy ever
contain a medical property?
can philosophy be medicine? i ask because i dare
not believe that writing per se is universally adequate
in being prescribed -
                      well... biology compared to medicine
is a feeble argument, its blunder was attracting
a theological posit for an argument to be practised
because: it found itself feeble before medicine.
the "thinkers" of biology attacked theology
after realising biology (a specified conglomerate
of words with the vector indicating a
                  depersonalisation of a biography) -
but both biology and theology are entrenched
with their respective vocabulary caging -
   no one would win the debate...
                     it became a comparative scenario of
first world war trench-warfare on the Belgian plateau...
    this was an attack on medicine...
    or what's useful given that biology can be rather
useless... i've never seen such desperation
               of a field of interest: that didn't simultaneously
argue from the perspective of jealousy...
         biology cannot replace theology -
   but that's beside the point... philosophy is more
akin to medicine than any -logy compound specifying
limits... auto-suggestive of the convenience that
says: man is born stupid, he dies stupid, and he "thinks"
   he knows everything that's happening in-between.
and no... i would never write a populist celebration
of war or Achilles... had i not engaged with an actual
conflict, i'd write nothing of this sort...
           and there is a crisis in heroism these days,
   hardly a reason to equate thinking as a heroic act...
  but compared with modern heroism,
namely what's defined by losing weight and gaining
protruding muscular patterns...
     what's nothing more than paying the gas bill
or simply: bringing home the bacon...
                 thinking has become a heroic act in a way,
eased to such a conclusion with
        stalinist obstruction of thought in the first place...
we call it political correctness and to be heroic
these days means: transcending what is but zoological
humanism...         because the counterpart of heroism
in the purely physical realm is but running a marathon,
rather than walking one...
       attracting bothersome flies of charity,
                 gluttony's reversal...
             what sort of heroics are these? what's to be
celebrated by such feats... if it all culminates into
nothing but a pat-on-the-back and not a statue?
            and by god... don't you think that people
who still rummage in language and can't see trilling
the R as unfashionable require a diacritical distinction
to be added to the letter? but of course, German
can sound soft too... but given the English hollowed-out
the R and lost the trill, or that the French hark the ******
letter... i'm thinking of how to represent the trill
   of the R... as the rolling and ravaging roulettes
                 embedded in the comparison of enacted
damage, with the stiletto shoe doing more damage than
an elephant's stomp.

Solidarity won't risk us
Surfing the chalkline of an urban meniscus
Measure our thoughts in reluctance

The breeze at ease flows through the trees following sore knees.
We go on in awe of ever imposing trepidation. No regards to Earth's indulgent rotation.

In my best diction I could write you a hearty fiction full of contradictory facts. But honesty and falsities are beyond the sea, leaving sequential masks.    

An opportunity to me to create these beings of fact, to ride and act the illusion of the glide is set in my mind and on the street. My best distortion of living rigor mortis is this wooden plank, set at my feet.

She ***** the sweetness of lust like taste of  blood. Death hold grips can describes her hugs. They fall into a web, like the ones who finder. And now there all are hers, the Black Widow Spider. lured in the dark of her legs, sleek and black. Disregard the warning sign, Red  hidden  down the curve of  her back. Fall into her into her mesmerize trap, Queen of seducers. lust at first sight waiting to turn hearts into stone like medusa. Dangerously 50 shades of black, which side of her they want? Games on your weakness, Russian Roulettes gun. Blindsided by her deceit, tangled in webs of her power. And now she feeds on their thoughts, like a brain ******* vampire. The beauty of her web, is persuasion of her femininity. Her birth is to gain your soul and her winning is her fertility. Because she will feed their starvation of love, and innocently build their esteem with everything she can think of. Create  *** beyond their wildest fantasies. Drive them wild, begging for another hit down on their knees. Thriving off the lost of emotions, dominating  feelings with full control. Then will leave them hanging when the festivities get all old. But the ones she scared will never understand. That the cuts from their abuser was caused by past life of a sexually abusive man. Is the price they pay worth their time?In the end to be hurt by a beautifully seductive mind. To be caught in the webs of a warm, wet place and lose a hold. Of Reality that this girl is pure selfish, untrustworthy and devilishly cold. foolishly loosing themselves in her body, While she’s alive for the fun but in reality is unattached with her body,a defense for untouchable, if they would only listen to whispers in the night, her body sings. To cope with her pain, A deaf man chooses not to hear this melody. The itsy bitsy spider, went  up the waterspout, Down came her fangs and dried, his lonely heart out.  Out comes the sun and hides her heart of pain, so the itsy bitsy spider waits to eats another one again. Black Widows Game

Grime from age, wiped over
Once.
Get off me, blood bones, open
hearts. Once prayers, came easily
but they don’t sleep with darkness, they have
deliverance,
caked over old wraths and daunted roulettes, I glitter
Shiver. Anxious as a teacup in an earthquake, asking God,
“Why do you make fresh kisses that do no good?”

Though
I sound poetically incorrect
I heart you
Hearter
Than any man
Can ever

I’m a realist
Not a stenciled prince

Are you unconvinced?

Conniving acts
Are for those
Who can’t match

We’re misplacements
Made purposely
To find
Each other

Well,
We’ve found!
Though,
You look excited

We should settle down

Before
Anyone notice’s
This happiness
And tries to end
Ride and Die
If we must
Go out
Like Bonnie & Clyde
In the dust…
Die in the ride
We rode to death
We won’t go
Like Romeo or Juliette
Russian roulettes’
For the odds
And we have demands
**** chancing
On standings
We already have

Forget about whatever
And focus on forever
We have too much left
After this life
To worry about now...

What gives ten
Ask for nothing then
A gentleman entering a gambling den
Orders for the best drinks
Lights his cigarettes with a matchstick
Part of his down-to-earth routine
Not a schtick

He may even come close
To being as slick
As the English ****
Sherlock Holmes and,
Dr. Watson and his stick

Two men
Down in
The roulettes of the den
Landed every time on the red one
And every time his luck had just begun
Look out you two
You’re gonna get hit
If this Henry Gondorff cheats
Then you’re dead beat
You won’t get to even feel a *****
You’ll feel you’ve been stung by the bee

After he gets back at all the mafia men
Trying to show off by showing a ridiculous ten
He writes down a cheque
To buy out the casino
With just a sign of a Mont Blanc fountain pen

After he’s done
He goes down to the *******
Leading a pack of ten
A boisterous pack of men
They’ll probably get laid by the number one
In the house by the name of Whetton by the second

After he’s done running after medicine
She’s already got his fix
She don’t need no kick
He’s given her a night of his sweet love-making
Her heart isn’t aching

Ohh but **** it
Not again
She’s falling in love again
Being class number one chick
With a style of her own
She’s understanding a love she’s never known
You thought she was some dumb ***-addict

Now the guy knows that she’s smart
Being the upstart
He’s warm with affection again
With one night of love-makin’
With the maid of Whetton
Need no one beat her
Because he needs her

The two make love again
Forgetting the punishment
Of getting married to their sweetheart
Who is innocent

The man was after all depressed
He was sexually repressed
After the death of his marital success
She didn’t want him anywhere near his girlfriend

Of course she’d heard of him
They were close to each other then
Before he started thwarting his morals
As his life spirals
Downward
They know he’s up to no good
With the ***** in the neighbourbood

enlighten me... so, these slave owners,
managed to catch 6ft5 black guys without
a problem? you seen these
6ft5 ******* playing the n.b.a., you think
it was easy catching
these guys? you selling me sardines'
worth of chickens?
hands up in the air, just asking,
you really think it's that
easy catching a 6ft5 basketball player?
either you think
i'm ******* stupid, or we're writing
a disney love affair... i dare you:
try catching a gorilla
without using tranquilisers...
   oi oi... 'ere comes an arab with his
sensitive islamic
doctrines: ******, you think
that just because you're olive skinned,
that you're suddenly immune?!
no, i've had, enough! pricey white *****
don't bother me, i'm done,
i'm doing the pontius pilate till i reach
my grave: you ******* me one
more ******* time about:
how easy it was to
grapple with 6ft+ africans
and send em picking cotton,
i'll just reply: oh, so you mastered the art
of catching those with an i.q. below 70?!
i can catch doughnuts:
just dangle a doughnut in
the air, and watch them zombie-run
a marathon slobbering along
the way...
    then again: plenty of that
in arabia, what with third
cousin roulettes...
maybe a ******: maybe
not a ******:
and here i was thinking:
wasn't darwinism a stinger?
a cold cold heart of stone
with a pinch of logic?
oh, we're getting all mushy mushy,
are we? tell me next time
you're in the area of softened speech...
i'm just... dying... to hear
the translation into urdu:
come come,
serve your ****** emergencies,
come come,
fist come, fist served!
come! 2 4 1 beauties!
    disgusting pseudo-communists
ready to serve you,
pseudo-communists of
the west never listen to
actual p.s. communists of
the slavs, come! we have
a camel and a market stall
in your name: tomorrow you'll
remember macaresh!
i'm still bewildered though,
how did these slave owners
catch these usain bolts of the day?!
    huh?!
it's a mighty ******* mystery
to me, and will be:
like mobile phones, for my grandfather!
strong, agile, perfect harmony
africans, stowed away by
meagre whities...
    that's like a big bang theory
and the theories surround
black holes: rolled up into one!
i just want to know: how?!
        as one famous cites in
a resurgence:
  either they were baboon *** stupid
protruding pink -
or the chieftan of congo thought:
n'ah: mini bombo!
    mi needy not needy ing em!
so cotton fields it is;
i never allowed myself such
quick enlightenment -
  but when a scurvy ridden european
with a height of 5ft10 manages
to bag a 6ft5 african:
something is way beyond
       fishing for herring,
in the red coastline of the faroe island
whaling benediction;
        oh please, you think the guilt
trip was going to work on
all white people, esp. those who
didn't venture into colonialism?
and those who experienced the totalitarian
left, and now see a *******'s worth
of left in "trying to revive"
                       communism?
russia is a simple adversary: it's obvious,
it has a tinge of stereotype brewing
beneath it: after the conclusion
of the cold war...
it's the middle ground you should be
worried about...
  did you know,
that only two races of people managed
to sack moscow?
yep: the mongols in 1382 (MCCCLXXXII) -
and the poles in 1612 (MDCXII) -
it's great writing roman numerals,
it's as complicated as writing actual words...
so yeah: how did
        these black death post-scriptums
who's sole diet was parsnips,
  maggoty meat, tatties, chives,
parsley, salt & pepper, towering at
5ft10, catch these idiotic 6ft5 africans
and whipped them into cotton farming?!
seems like a mystery to me:
given that today, no one can really test
himself, outrunning the anomaly of
a certain jamaican;
perhaps certain people just like:
   being ushered and therefore hushed;
now, that's harsh...
          as every expression of given: reality.

Master of roulettes,
card counting
and every other game.
Winning bets
And risking odds.
Somewhere along the road
You realise that there are no odds at all
it might be how dealers shuffle the cards
or when they drop the ball.
It is simply the chaotic order of life.
Empirical knowledge,
refined by gamblers
over the years
keeping it secret
and here I am exposing them.
To win black jack or poker,
you must pay heed of the number of cards,
To win the roulette,
you must understand its physics.
In the end,
you simply must work for your rewards
the more it screws up,
the harder it is,
The greater your rewards will be
for you have earned what you want
and learned and grew through your hard work.