"schematic" poems
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am
she
asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****
rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!
neither either or he writes and so believes
for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not
for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!
my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self
but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria
and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am
my choice and the big D
(a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance
so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day
don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****
she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly
“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
Polished off the filler rods
now lifes got me dreaming
soley about the silver lining
the spooning of the woman on the moon
Keep mapping the schematic, the big move
heading straight to the oil soaked cash
Ready again to make the great dash
This time I'll save my dimes
for those unavoidable hard times
I'll pile it under my matress
a secrete stash thats all mine
Work my *** to the bone
by welding up a storm
Sitting all leathered up
on my light weaver throne
To meditate and consentrate
on 13 times the suns bright
Keep the eyes focused and fixate
count to ten when the mechanics frustrate
Troubleshoot the lines of life
fix the issue then
collect the lute.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 6:14 PM UTC
man leisured by the least obliging functioning
of what he terms “proper” manual endeavours of the biceps
will clearly resolve the matter being his last adventure that’s consumerism,
creating as many menial jobs as possible without the freedom
to enjoy hardish and the elements;
but of course man’s life will become easier,
but his adventure seeking will
simply become a zoology, a safari,
a safety netting - consumerism is hardly
an adventure, it’s a bicycle schematic:
one wheel produces, another wheel consumes;
most of the jobs under the hammer
were not menial, they became menial
only when heidegger’s hammer was involved
and the rebellion came when hammering nails
in turned into discussing philosophy;
it’s hard to commence an emergence of philosophy
window shopping, woman’s new kitchen area:
you know how many marriages i have seen fail
because of over-cooked pasta? too many.
you know how many glass houses i’ve seen constructed
by women peering into shop windows at mannequins?
too many. i sometimes think about sartre’s c.c.t.v. voyeurism
pervasive in english society alongside paedophilia,
and i guess the jigsaw parts fit... they do;
once dubbed the nation of shopkeepers,
now dubbed the nation of integrally ~foreign mortgage lenders
(nation of property developers / landlords... indeed,
once a nation of shopkeepers, now a nation of landlords):
or a nation re-evaluating communism
by importing slavs to talk of the ups and lows of communism
by trying to curb capitalistic egoism and turn it into a collective
without communism’s egoism father stalin:
or queen bee or queen ant china.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
i stand on the central Warsaw train-station,
and there's this girl checking her
mobile interet, phone,
and she looks pretty...
and... i really don't want to **** her like
the guys **** her in ***** movies...
maybe that''s shy i'm considered
"effeminate"....
maybe...
i just didn't **** enough women...
or maybe...
i speak the tongue of the crusaders...
but we sent the artillery...
the beautiful women to the Arab
******
and kept the nation safe...
Islam, akin to the comparison
of the Bubonic Plague...
Islam... virus of the mind...
i'll contest thi...
i'll ******* die for this...
i've been feeling weird for the past
few days....
Tom Petty died....
so... why would anyone give
a **** if Wayne Static
does the coffer?
so... i'm supposed to care?!
**** you!
Jeff hanneman died...
but do you see me,
making a case for a ******* parade?!
no?
good... that's how i like it...
******* south London
plonker!
every single time...
i fall in love with a girl
at the central train-station in Warsaw...
the love dies a sudden death...
when i get to the....
Western train station of Warsaw...
the Ukrainians et al...
the Mongols...
love's up,
dead, long gone...
i'm basically living
the enterprise in re-experiencing
a slow death...
feral lands...
these Polacks are like...
please don't land in Warsaw....
i know...
Krakow has Auschwitz as a tourist
destination...
but... but...
you will not see the generic
schematic of globalization...
every time i travel to Warsaw i fall in love,
and then i think of "it"...
**** marriage..
no thanks,
you have it covered...
on your way;
i might not be on the winning side,
but sure as ****
i'm also not on the losing side either...
and t think...
that i could even concise my
life within the confines of
imitating my father...
i could have...
but then... life...
isn't exactly a chance on bet within the confines
of a roulette.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
my replacing takes part by small
designs. displacements accumulate,
until some day you look
out the window or
breathe to check you're still
alive; and, like that,
this weight will be gone.
this burden, effortlessly
dissipating.
this lament reaches from all hollows.
'cause you only reap from seeds
sown, right? it never
rained once.
you know, though,
i, likewise, never threw a single one down,
and instead just bit my tongue,
carrying out schematic emptinesses.
these hollows fill out and
encompass the entire world;
at the focus of everything,
i act out absolutes
and do nothing at all.
these new fields still look
burnt. i still turn soil, hoping for
salvation.
what if it rains?
will i cope?
will i drown?
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
Is schismatic schematic prophetic problematic differences
a future world
to be unscholarly resolved with arms?
Heresy, is an accusation that requires hanging,
not just participles, but participants,
let us tear apart the baby,
give me half and you, can scrape the pavements.
I see , no communion, no Democracy, no theologian
or Cleric, no Christ, no Buddha, or Mohammed,
coming to our rescue.
No one says, this is craziness, totally religious
schismatic
I may be. But,
give me an alternative.
I cry, today.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
ᚠ Φ
F
Θ ᚦ
no explanations
exist within a geometry outside
the circle, only architecture, sole,
yet the sole geometry of architecture
is an encircling, a lifting,
and had i wrote my poetry
in the comfort of rising beyond Marx
is socio-political schematic i would,
but i rather talk to scaffolders than to poets,
i'd rip my heart through enough thin
veil to prove it so that i shared an entombing of lips
wholly bodied with one! i rather!
care for this ******* Parisian princess
in your divorce as best you can...
i kept a cat for seven years before my neighbour
decided it was time to ***** affection
to an animal neither tilling for ably feeding
to instead choose his daughter as my wife:
i rejected feeling no compass of conversation...
the cat died, i went into the graveyard and dug
a gravestone out and buried my cat in
the moonlight: don't ever come across me and my pet!
you killed half the intelligence that was me!
**** you! humanity engaging with humanity
it plagiarises as itself an ownership to suit puppet
strings like it might tailoring,
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POST COLONIAL NATIONS SEEK NEW *******
TO CRAFT THE LOST COTTON BUDS INTO
GRANULE CEMENT SET! POLAND ******
EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
POLAND ****** EUROPE! POLAND ****** EUROPE!
MAMA RUSSIA! PAPA PRUSSIA! HOSANNA! HOSANNA!
LAUREL LEAFS AS I SAT ON THEM! THE CROWN
OF KING TU-154...
ROMANIA DONKEY DON QUIXOTE!
WHOOP WHOOP! WHOOP WHOOP GREK IZLAND
CORFU! then the postman comes with my jealousy
as within reach of hope to attain old age...
(snigger)... i hope i don't... i want million
dollar baby's truth to wake me.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 8:04 PM UTC
Rebellious minds wander through enlightenment
With new found insight into a deeper understanding
An illuminated sense of self - disguised in complexity
Stroking our ego's with a persuasive fascination
Gutless contrarians thriving off schematic exceptions
Objecting to proposals is all that seems formidable
Double edged intellect embracing it's own prevarication
Claiming supremacy as the better half of the equation
One more plagiarized thought to dwell on
Re-occurrence of Ideals in plain lucidity
Come crawling forth from the genetic sea
To stain our mind with a rhetorical monotony
Monolithic horizons expanding out of view
A facade of a paradise - lost in a new weary age
These frail structures collapse and rebuild
reclaiming everything that we once had known
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
*call me twisted,
but i’ve always admired a certain degree of controversy.
complexity is a dangerous beauty, like a hurricane -
admired from afar,
deadly up close.
my biggest fear was always photocopiers.
monotonous carbon copies, binge feeding
on Christmas music
and cold commercialized coffee.
simplicity was schematic,
intricacy was ******
with a quivering hand and downcast eyes,
i clothed myself in these layers.
gift-wrapped, with a ‘danger’ sign as a gift card,
i became an enigma to myself.
diamond rings came with dark clouds,
locks and keys gave way to gun shots and bullet wounds.
fairytales were never meant for the 3-d world.
none of us are “fated” for a happy ending.
riding off into the sunset only comes with
hard work and hard lessons.
yes, i may still be an overthinker.
i may still have more thoughts than i have time
to put them in.
mundane things are still transfigured into
tainted, disfigured imitations
of insecurity, agonising and mental mutilation.
but it does not have to be this way.
pick up a pair of 2-d glasses.
you don’t have to see the world in technicolor.
sometimes monochrome lenses
do tinge the world
in shades of nostalgia, clarity, and hope.
peel off those layers.
you may cry, but cry of catharsis.
it may sting, but salt always does.
wear simplicity as your sail,
rose-tinted with trust and a silent knowing.
you may realise that what you were always looking for
was always right beside you.*
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Replicated "t" square, heated and manipulated to match a hand drawn schematic, eye-balled and transferred to a soiled napkin two days prior.
Recovery spent melee inspired by whispered breath. Kin to wind, multi- colored marshmallows, or hard candies that have been rewrapped quickly and shuffled to the bottom of the bag.
Periscope ala multi-limbed, e.g. tentacular. Rain spun abundant large geometric insect eyes radiating opalescent transit; here and there, over or under, stop and go, when = then, two - days - life - end.
Glowing hand, darkest white light in a vacant space. All secrets hidden with trust, imagination, and neglect; recalling memories for those who live to forget. Like a hunger fed plentifully followed by a playful belch aloud for honor and comfort. Later, the indulgence calls and abdominal gases produce an acidic truth that burns the memory back into awareness.
Flush it away now! Get rid of it quickly. There is no time to respect the whole past, only that which allows performance to continue uninterrupted.
Tuck those memories away deeper this time; the ***** will drown you before it drowns them. Laying around and crying aloud won't pay the bills; if nothing else remember, a good American is a good consumer and a good consumer never wastes time getting to know themselves when the alternative is television.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
Conjecturing on the intimate remnants of your heart
surmising on the proper way to dissect its parts
delving into the chasm that holds your most private illusions of grandeur
bewildered by the vast expanses, these weathered lips simply stammer
the complexity of the concept left me stifled, mouth failing to make any attempts at offering kind words
as the reverberations of vocal chords became the only sound we heard
ricocheting off the precipices of your heart's unsurmountable walls
useless like hands digging the sands in fruitless attempts to draw
the full force off the ocean from a shallow hole
I stared at the blueprints of your heart's desires failing to find the control
every route on the schematic
seemed as if inner city traffic
flooded with passengers never fulling knowing when they will reach their destination rightfully so, at the center of your attention
as I sketch out the dimensions
factoring in the time it will take to find the route that leads me back to you
I marvel at the resiliency of your heart, then drive straight through
beyond these hallowed walls lies a future I was destined to reach
I shred these maps, light a match and burn all the blueprints of me...
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
the less money I make,
the more I give away...
need to get cured,
need me some cure,
to keep my money in
my Persian silk sow purse,
so when enfeebled,
can pay a nurse to
wipe my drooling chin
need me some
curmudgeon herbs
to get rid of this
happy insanity
cure this ****** mudge,
from giving away his green fudge,
so when doing his
sleepy-eyed sums,
the tallying up,
the counting down
did he qualify,
as a good ole one,
his conscience
busy unconsciously,
anudging, adjudging,
to see if the boyo can
sleep better this night.
So when he meets
the maker,
He won't say
hey faker,
but fakir,
magic maker,
dervish swayer
and
*"you my kind of poet,
let's make us some
smiling mischievous trouble,
give away whatever it takes,
love potions number nine,
winning lottery tickets
for everyone,
you and me,
scheming schematic
crazy man poet and god,
to make it happy-en."*
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
Through the glaze of snow falling from ninety-nine cent aluminium, we'd taken the remains of a novel formulation to remove the stars from the sky and plant them in a field. I took crushing endlessness and the heat of leaves growing in moments to make the autumn of a town I hadn't yet seen. This is how I escaped from the sealed-elevator flight plan the first time; talking had failed me, pinned against the face of a fleeing infant. His mother could never find a way to paint him as a forgery, a skeleton, and make it stick, so he coughed rough and eloped from the schematic with his brother as their father remained on the ground, paying out the parking lot tower fees, unaware that he, himself, was only a figment.
and I, just another figment, ventured off into the village, the leaves cascading and trembling, the gold of their hues dissipating as the flight crew shook a lifeless husk, spent lives ago, now, with the clamour of shells dividing, each split or junction or birth yielding arcs of light as my sister tells me how the strings she pulls around her wrists tell metric time whilst I brush my hand against concrete and glass, leaving traces of skin within the grain, sloughing away finally in the small moments as I float through an antique dealership: mahogany gods, carved tall as redwoods, and bathed in mist like the western coast at dawn.
and I, indifferent to the television sets implanted between memories, broadcasting coffee-stain eyes lost midsummer years ago, still indifferent.
as I finally reach the elevator, the last level, the depth below, struck me. I am the test subject, my irrealities are just trying to get out, to survive this feigned life, to be born into the world I frequent. They are abstractions and know it. I have not said a word as I step out onto that plane, amidst the rising roar of engines and the row of the crowds and the swell of my emptiness.
I breathe in and become the field, at last.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
there’s usually two ways of writing an abstract
like one might have written one for
a chemistry experiment, a debriefing, a plot
summary as you might have it, although
in philosophy it’s either geometric of algebraic,
to take into account a chance meeting between sartre (b)
and descartes (a) i can only utilise the algebraic
in a framework of a platonic schematic, i.e. dialogue,
and since dialogue then casually, in conversation, like so:
example no. 1 (exercise of good faith)
(a) i think i had
a brain haemorrhage
(b) i doubt it.
example no. 2 (exercise of bad faith)
(b) i had
a brain haemorrhage
(a) how do you know?
(i.e. i’ll deny this statement.)
it really is as simple as that, after all, all the ball of wool
untangling in the standard philosophy books is meddled at times,
it is hard to craft an entry of a decent dialogue without
the one-sided stance of monologues that fill the pages of books,
but take any major tenet of the two philosopher’s works
and set a scene of two buddies talking in a pub, and that’s you
having skipped the best 200 pages of untimely meditations
and about 400 pages of being and nothingness - not out of rudeness
but on the simple basis: **** i understood it!
so if anything can be relevant in modern philosophy, and that’s
modern from 17th century to the present era
it is only relevant when applying a platonic schematic,
because it has to be talked about, and when talked about
simplified, because why would anyone want to over-complicate
and apply an aristotelian schematic of inspection
by writing very crude philosophies by the simple process
of over-complicating the thinking process as that, which
does not necessarily need thought attached to it - like at present,
with western society debasing any original theology
by forcing all the ills of the world as the adequate justification...
the origin of this, you will find,
is not from the people who suffer as such,
but from people who are safe, healthy and satiated with
adequate materialism,
the kind to have a very english middle-class sentimentality
to care for whimsical sensibilities, prudences and etiquette in general,
that's how placebo atheism works, it's still a ****** theology,
the real atheists? hmm, guess... the list is pretty dramatic
in the way they approached coupling freedom and will
and others - that's why i prefer my invention of coupling
a placebo effect with atheism... rather than writing out
a theology of absence - look... here's a trick:
a theology of indefinite absence (a) / theology of definite absence (the),
and then the ism from empiricism.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
All thoughts are individual. It is impossible to take the energy and apparatus to which that energy is transferred through to develop a thought. Therefore no knowledge is taken, all is perceived to wit a schematic and the apparatus developed by our brains to develop the thought. The thought is then subjected to the body and undergoes scrutiny to provide a relevance, priority and application. Therefore it would be safe to assume that all knowledge is neither subjective nor objective but an entirely new word that could exemplify itself as "Understood as developed by ones own." Where I got this schematic for this idea was in counterance to the percieved robbing of thoughts and ideas from books and ideas. Would it be proper to call it the same thought? No. Would it be proper to call it a reaction? Only in the most mechanical of senses that is cause following effect.
This idea would be to liken to a computer having a file copied from one machine to another, while the content remains the same in its physical interpretation on the screen would completely change. As if being opened by two seperate programs. And we are not talking about the files being the same when we talk about ideas, ideas are consequences of what is perceived therefore consequences of the that is copied. Ideas are the effect and in their way, an individual interpretation by how the schematic of an idea is followed by what is transferred.
This idea in itself makes up for the massive hurdle that is misunderstanding between two people, each hearing fundamentally the same things while producing two differing ideas. In summation, an idea is a scrutinized original built on the schematic of that which is perceived and is each independent of a person and their surroundings.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 1:20 AM UTC
Just as the sevenfold revelation
Finishes its great unraveling
It is burned to ash
Even as I think them
The words lose meaning
Revelations as delicate cobweb strands
If I could just put them down on paper
But by the time they are written
Have become
Trite, cheap, frivalous
Mere shadows of the first-thoughts
I wish I could draw it for you
It would not be a schematic
Or a biochemical roadmap of the mind
Not a diagram of a chambered heart
But an equation unsolvable
In fact it is hard to tell where the absolutes end
And the variables begin
It is a secret part kicking and tossing itself inside
Just begging to climb it's way out
Of the primape body in which it is imprisioned!
As the body casts the shadow
So does it cast it's shape on the darkness of eternity
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
Growing up ugly, alternately fat and thin
eating scars for breakfast and time for tea
having almost climbed out of a buried bin
only for it to be upended & held in place with
1939's world atlas; the one that got europe all wrong
& like me, was designed with accuracy in mind
Personable birds of prey prodded, persuaded
and set free the mean old biped growing inside
beach ***** jolly popped and sandcastles raided
just to see the looks on hope & holyglow faces
their defeat in optimism: my triumph as ****
full circle towards schematic self-sabotage
Once again i am bitter drunk and to be wed
we improvised trite vows and cut ourselves
spare keys for access to one another's sickbeds
In attendance: maternal ghosts and retired reapers
hurting with knowledge & witholding screams
Liver-spotted harbingers of age and all its mistakes
Older now than I ever thought was likely:
refuse to fight against the alarms of everything
as everything and everything change around me
But there are too many different colours of skin
and i never was a tolerant, I was always just witch
Now finally alone enough to weigh my empty chairs
Surprising, that when black hands materialise
my own teeth flash & spit through septic spells
make even him blink, in his absence of eyes
For in his face is a nothing that stills me
It's the same nothing that i've rotted with
All my sorry life i'd settled this way, instead of that
To ask for one more would be greedy, wouldn't it?
Now it feels like I've begged before, i'll beg again
I think when he kisses me it will be over
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
i've seen the commentary...
but let's do the ratios...
youtubers sometimes tend to boast
about their subscribes,
notably dr. steve turley,
100K (100,000)
and styxhexenhammer666
30K (30,000)...
yes, i know that a chris isaack
track is, a tad bit too much
reminiscent of Abba...
point being? my turn...
so...
the ratio... i have 138
followers... but my post popular
"poem" ranks at around
4,700 views...
an average dr. steve turley video
ranks in at 20,000,
and with subscribers numbering
100,000...
whole styxhexenhammer666,
30,000 subscribers, but
at average counts of views at hovering
past the 1,000 mark...
now the ratios...
please let me be wrong, please
let me be wrong...
0.5 for dr. steve turley
lopsided ratios:
100,000 / 20,000....
styxhexenhammer666
comes in at 30...
30,000 / 1,000...
me?
i come in at... ha ha!
5,700 / 138
34.057...
i'm not boasting...
but i hate to see decent people boast
about their prescription rates,
but then...
0.029...
but within the confines of
giving an answer back...
you get the picture...
their viewers plummet...
the ratios do not add up...
i'd boast, sure as hell i'd boast...
but... i sorta don't feel like it...
i never saw the bonus side of boasting
when it came to numbers...
more subscribers,
than views?
big ******* problem...
so... proud, concerning, what?!
oh... wait...
i just figured this out
differently...
0.033 (styxhexenhammer666)
and 0.2 (dr. steve turley)...
oh wait... dr. steve turley: circa 74,000
subscribers...
and the average viewership
of a video circa 21,000?
3.52....
0.02837....
ola! village people!
counter ratios...
views : subscribers
counter to subscribers : views
(in ratio)....
that age old relativism
of "success"...
give me a minute, i need to work
on the schematic rubric...
views : subscribers | subscribers : views
(a) ~5700 ÷ 138 (a) 138 ÷ ~5700
= 41.30 = 0.024
(b) ~1000 ÷ ~30,000 (b) ~30,000 ÷ ~1000
= 0.033 = 300
(c) ~21,000 ÷ ~70,000 (c) ~70,000 ÷ ~21,000
= 0.284 = 3.52
(a) denoting me,
(b) denoting sythexenhammer666
(c) denoting dr. steve turley
so wait, give me a minute...
since we're all so happy
******* a boasting match...
i have... less subscribers...
but more views...
than people who have more,
subscribers... but less views?
i know i'm fiddling with the numbers...
but to use but one instance...
i have more views than
i have subscribers...
while these youtube vloggers have
more subscribers than
they have views...
interesting...
but if everyone's going to be playing
the ******* numbers game...
i thought:
might as well bring by bucket and *****
into this sand-pit,
and see if i can play along
with these kids...
citing my attempt at a massive *****
you never know:
it could work!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
we wound in stars on old fishing rods;
reeling on promises from days where
the light still brought species, clutter,
schematic belief. you caught three. i
caught nothing, but glimmers of hope.
allusions and reality are often cleft,
though. this truth i'd rather cast,
like myself, over cliff-face. but, i
alone am
mutable in this scheme. you named
yours as blank-faced children, born
to the sea.
predictably, i named mine woe.
fate moves through seasons, sovereign
groups, ways set down to dot. the
object stands;
here lies truth. this is the truth:
pebbles form kiltered circles
under the dock. floating
above the architecture of my
ribs consuming churned
air, i watch me fade. i
discern and too, dilapidate.
you raised yours with colour
in iris. i picked mine up
lovingly-
this woe is
awake and tightly circling.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
distant dreams repeat themselves
right behind my conscious thoughts
but all I feel is fleeing stealth
masking every thought up core
so all I have is an idea
of how to wander between shifts
knowing by not being here
or anywhere without a drift
I am alive - at least: am I?
all is floating through my mind
I see an image, that's a lie
but what is hiding there behind
my ideas and mental fakes
the answer is not mine to know
the question is not mine to ask
construction is part of the show
confusion is part of the show
so I repeat schematic dreams
(repeating weird schismatic dreams)
that were schematized by no
one else that I appear to seem
instancies instead of rules
abstractable by asking minds
after all I'm always fooled
by knowing what I seemed to find
but feeling free since I can make
sense out of dubious words and facts
enjoying every working fake
makes me a living mind that acts
in a world that's far beyond
the ways I can explore by thoughts
but all is blurred since it responds
to what's created in mind first
so integration lames my view
adapting to what I can think
changing within the things I do
framing self-referential links
so integration frames my mind
adapting to what I can think
living within the things I find
born by precursively ringed
ways of experiential links
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Fantasizing everyone
Sexualizing everyone
And why?
I am alone
Fantasizing everyone
Sexualizing everyone
Again.
I'm alone
And I
Devote myself to life as if to keep
The stars promised of our destiny
Safe and strong and confronting
Their mirrors with the proper self applause
Alone.
I contain a fire, the raging heat
The signal pyre, Autumn and the Spring
For heat, I chill with my demeanor
For cold, I prefer to warm your
Goosebumps with my open mouth
If permitted take the walkabout
To linger with my fingers down your leg
If permitted, take the hidden way
To kiss your heart and light your path
With the source of all your worry
Nurtured between my lips
Fantasizing everyone
Sexualizing everyone
And why?
What connectivity is left to crave?
The men who back their friends
Into corners after arranging
Clandestine ******* after
Clearing out the place to have their way
The men who stand with ****
In hand, pathetic and commanding
Limp of love, and targeting
The the light they view as weak
I was made just for that
Assembled in a factory
As an indentured guide
To lead to the promised land
They drew up my design
Schematic with *******
And motherly empathy
Perfect for abuse
And a ***** perfect
For dysphoria
For when I learn to love myself
It reminds me I'm
Armed with alarm
And filled with the fluid
The learned are simply right to hate
Alone.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 3:42 AM UTC
the inertia of animation of Narcissus...
the water that becomes ice
of a fixation...
in visage...
if only Narcissus found
himself...
fixating on his shadow...
then again...
whatever Jung proposed,
in schematic,
and without mythological
imagery...
to propose a counter...
has been lost
to the vague attempts of
countering mythology with
mystification of the shadow...
borrowing from Kant...
a shadow is something deemed
cold...
i say... a shadow is something
deemed animate...
Narcissus fell in love with
an inanimate reflection of himself...
and this is why Jung
failed to explain the shadow...
in that...
his explanation does little
justice to mythology...
and serves nothing more than
mysticism...
how can mythology not be treated
seriously...
when the current contest
of lived to recorded time
is exponentially comical...
myth is time with the logic
of said myth, being kept as...
what coincides with
whatever happens
now to happen later,
having borrowed from
what happened in the past,
a past, that... mediates the impeccable
intricacy of scientific prodding...
to disavow a humanism of
the, "grand explanatory project"...
as if... that will not be countered
by an irrational tomorrow...
to the rationalism of...
oh... say... 3 billions year, give or take.
the shadow is too mystical in
Jungian terms...
my explanation of the shadow is...
counter to Narcissus...
the demigod who...
looking at his shadow...
made a more subliminal
fascination...
the mere form,
and how thought somehow
contradicted consciousness (dasein)...
Jung took the mystical,
archetypical route...
i took the mythological,
archaic route;
i guess we both returned to the same
conclusion...
only that...
there wouldn't be a Narcissus
without a lake,
since there would be no Narcissistic
observation on either sea
or river...
but i sure as hell can cast
a shadow onto the sea,
as i can, onto a river.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 9:42 PM UTC
The synopsis we spend so much time writing - are for characters we no longer are. You cannot always draw lines between what was and what is and what should thenceforth be.
You cannot always make sense of your coexisting truths, you can only know that they are valid.
You cannot avoid good things because somewhere along the line, the character schematic you outlined for yourself doesn’t believe it deserves what you have.
You weren’t meant to be a story that plays out in a nostalgically pleasing way.
Life is vivid, changing, real, and unpredictable.
Unchartable.
With no plot other than the one we’re living in the moment, here and now.
We don’t even realize how often we choose our current experiences based on old beliefs we are still subconsciously holding of ourselves.
Because what we think of ourselves translates into what we allow of ourselves, and what we allow is what we experience, and what we experience is what amounts to our lives as a whole.
A whole of which is a book of stories, of which doesn’t need to seamlessly transition into one another.
Of which doesn’t have to be narrated the same way.
Of which can be as short or long or staggered or confusing or exciting as you want.
You are in control of how it plays out —
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC