Scripting Love
Writing broken
Reason
Scripting Love
Creating Love
Thats not really there
Manipulating love
Distorting love
Scripting and changing
Altering and reconfiguring
Until the script
Becomes more true
Than the reality

Man life know just set eyes way like young world soul day hunger space mouth earth thoughts ignorance blind things mind knew final moment human creation kind creatures souls high forgotten dream love spoke self existence face holy deep bound think home void say surrender ear forever called held ephemeral red state end shall heed hope edge living waking fall sea wake garden need February thought past wanderer got men page colored tepid terrible **** proudly untitled features point painted faceless box forgot render wild spring splendor  handfuls looking half brain lost torn ancestral  unseen vision inner summer honor mister owned banner save today fear groans wasn't smoke  street fable strange year contrast black years  able pain body spoken word known motion  palpitate reeling nature culture disclaimers  cancer beg attentive frames ****** base profound double remember wholly finger death token  cries continue folk oh fishing form broken true  divides spread ah twas away breathe wait warning hallowed wish closer lens turn eye live  constant current author hung theory dangle  bramble chemical new force changes adderall  anymore giving beneath possess pardon commentaries eternity internal walk reason  long change does idea glimpse consciousness  wandering simply wonder physical dreams war  sleep told rest benign prior begging truth little  2012 born tale crow bowels allegory animal rule  exasperate making horse curse hands ones read  rearrange capture doing command fail awake  aperture seedlings shift steely sir nap spead ****** demons slits clever telling loud spits la-la-di-dah killing slip game reflected nameless ask  lovers rabid bear salivate plunder shameless  famously savior mint rides menthol bully fate traded melodies play misunderstand mammals gentle witless fine utterly savage silt tongue-less  dirt dilutes pure non-sensory taste briefly ravage dismember it''ll shedding ruined curtain  knots offers plot fulfills munificent two-act  relegates boxz bug altruistic wintergreen tossing  callously guise grovels one's singers treachery ashes mid-life mutter fashion parading  ambiguity separatist liars staple steeping neath  guidelines scoffing stitch moans civil wrote  Fictitious undoing fables table effigies serve  sonnets staged remark psalm swoll praise harken  beggar verse bread lines heavily electricity detection snow sack-happy preaching credit  spotted wicked best gravity gun campaign owe  barge choir revelry celebratory satiated sinking  headline pack hound persistently propaganda  gentlemen excluding diminished ******* run idles  occupied levies wolfishly honestly misinformation cuba vehemently dumb grace spectator erasing  toned sage crowded secrets inter-connectivity  loaned prayer hymns grave mistaken magnified  vandals selective jump leak escapes says minister  buckle mass honesty shut tar children's hats  monument doping long-lived electrical ladle  exaggerated cartoons address seconds cool cradle bleak yang's mind-framed hypnotic  walker caps folly treble claim streaks mixtures  swelled interstate elapse teasing spoon mobile  succulent witchcraft borderline fatal 99 temple stacks sups plastics creeps neurotic ills tossed  meek sipping old crack interlock wax alleyway  coughing blown freak clock birthdays societies  slow flashing viscous candy argument toothless  pills cerebral rapt wall bisect lives wheezing  photo kid starter foiled pair saturated self-castrating pre-packed naked uncertainly pill  used came chaos coated reprisal fells wrack  irreverent mirth sickly disinherited proudest  collate wheeze appearance palette disharmony  discontented bastardized emotive bio inhale diction beat spoiled reclamation loudest tempo  totally disembodied matte imperfect shells flat  struck sounding imparts flak origin severance remarked bone walls snared leaflets mocking  hot scripting adjective noun agape seemingly  resistant gawk calamity passage paintings wind  trashcans signings sits cheap makers poetry persist scrap slipping individual talk wonders  leaving questions fold actor fancy parchment  fates engenders flown jaws stripped longer music  sacrifice fakers book boldly frown sigh atop patient hang trade occupation blows spectacular  whispers worthy backward waving certainty danced suppose needn't ‘drawkcab’ second-guessing  boys forget marched motto heads tightly lies two-tone earthbound harp twice turns goodnight  lying ***** internally indiscriminate nickname  drunk convictions myth steep  in-consumption  fitting artist **** universal sick expressions bad  du spell melody big siphon proud learn sprawls song spastic something temperaments utter check  fissures stomp totality blend definitely thrall sing rug voice shade pestilence ties commiserate round devil steady brains emotional certain gate  suckling gates dearth decay weight bounce pound  carrier pangs glass startle contest earthen web  tug pressed air patience flush amassed guest gone apprehension staring empathize captain believe fading in-perceivable deathbed guarder makes surrounds scatter drooling ebb blink cob tome  venom near door lair derision draws host stairs scent parts curiosities spider webbing surprise wares tips stepping ascetics starkness realize picture surroundings dictations grand pillars  deaf limited comparisons greet visual residents  personal settings dismiss alien law stability common earthly shiftless places prelude  understanding mosaic keen trifling embodiments  geared inception whisper visible jowls kiss murky  puddle rank dawn dichotomy single faithful fraying pays tailor veil climb mores pence whim  breath wellspring samara god stony pear  shadows fruiting forebodes moonlit looming  shown passed bog gold wracked faint tongues  noble preachers mirror shifting layered depth  threads jungle narcissus bemused seamstress self-worshiping architect's wore slumber anomalous  opened barren seam lip caustic scene coupled brick gardener's clenches -with forms idle breed  embodied lore starving empathy design illusion  tree coat fabricate lucid mason scatter-all  narrative seeking imbued 16th shivering chemicals 17th 15thrisk improperly dare  deliberate plan purge try brought chapter speed  aide utmost spirit leading intervention felt  recall recent advent sincerity times diary  lackluster piously lasting happy holding hear  stem tasteless whimpers wet spine monstrosity  dripping causes position quite softly claws pallet  answer digging tearing beast satiating circle breaks skips redwoods beckoning rotted hushed  gray lapsing monoliths deities creborus  imbuement hand stroll paradigm rendered chorus shy whispering forest residual tension  surrenders tolerance lull anew sentenced  bearing tide birds dirge divergent rim joined  cogs wood hesitant mist emergent towering offer  awareness confinement inverted faultier stowed  plane sanctified blanketing trusting memory fossil flash twists laden self-indulgent fleeting invitation agony grip shore impetus lingering  crows promise gift union swallowing endless floor supposed ecstasy sensory intent  psychotropic cradling placement interned  jagged connectivity exchange congenial begun  summons singular spiral assumes ambient reciprocates re-entry fruition reached aggregate lifetime limbs birthed instinct  frightening tarry proper entire light  boundaries innocence pursuit ago discover left  youth's unknowing sacred time place meager  simple fact cast ceaseless wide-eyed literal  apparent coincidence create boldness morphed  crooked kempt mere stumble buried shutter fairy  pivotal definitive months worth shear ambition sound required journeyed self-reflections title  facets vague restless intimation gut wanderer's  leap motivate path account boy soon bears faith  question tripped reasons uproot awaited confronted days step heal provocations wisps crushing transcend chronicles instance  directness raw drove occurrence objective-less  real enters slightest confident nondescript  typify  foreshortened interment paradox bitter heart  devoid jeopardy angry sensation confidential guilty arrogance mercy compliance reprieve  vincent deadening factual sign emotion awe  inhibition shackled butterflies absence actual sciences acknowledgement violent stagnant  spiritual American doors roots lack matted fore  gestures society cause streams intensity hair impossible discord lonely hearts resounding  jest  what's flavored pains closed toxic contented  happenstance scientific knowledge yeah  wizardry shaking stifled withdrawn bloom  jitter dreads settle asocial hulton make  predisposed figurative reflections demeanors  wondered affect hulton's projected sense  morning industry arrays ghosts feeling  certainly endomorphic where's partially wrath  passer mornings jovial unease advertized asking  trash onward wished tempers media mentality connect pasts sharp-toothed scramble great colours trial test salvation continually lent  degree secretly subjection social waned  disconnected colors grimly intellectual civilization cash trading baffling particular  digest myths monumental ending seasons winter  repetition introducing agent everlasting  shoulders delivered honestly-- possession funny  continence history unsightly function suffering propulsion profession divulge familiar tugs era  importance capability perpetuation spite inventory words entirety leveling fray insight  date record continues writer getting evermore fellow tongue possessions identical proof accuracy education similar sack admittance  favor unravel conveyance guilt gives beginnings  predicting audacity definition bobby heady eaters frameless learned release stone grandeur sang  speak molds sleeps split built seats people folded  sheer pour evoked playhouse liquid boring  tellers frayed stark walked reality pleas doth  preformed shows beak pride squawks opinions  greatest bold stunning sightings he'd loudly slain  sunk watch legend precipice theater deeper compound commentator civility justly silly sin  reverent seen prophetic moral confounds notion  lacking explain attempt prolific viral estrange proclivity scorn hide blur pious strung eden's  horror cut skin arch cruel twig mother vile  pass lend woods peach shrunken trail man's canopy worn 434 eat warm limb familiar father delete.

You are what your reading lady. Now would you hold this gun?

Script the past, script the past##

Scripting the past, yeah, I be scripting the past

Just a little more paper, just to make it all last.

Scripting the past I can't believe I'm not first,
There are messages and dangers I think I might just burst,
Into flames, into inferno, into the burning depths of hell,
Yeah I'm just scripting the past, but I can't seem to tell...

anymore if it's true, if it's fake and if it's made,
Secrets and lies all tools of the trade,
In currency and... staying current,
how do I stay relevant
when I'm scripting the past?

I'm tired and I'm wired,
To a system of history that cannot tell the story,
of a man that only has worry,
of a past he cannot shake, from a sleep he can't awake.

In his dreams he scripts the past,
in a space and time so vast,
he cannot wake he cannot take,
a glimpse of his soul,
so old, so old, so old...

As he

Scripts the past, Scripts the past

Continuous change is ubiquitous
Scripting a new script for us
Without rehearsal we take the stage

Why do I feel so inclined to
Repeat what's on my mind?
I reiterate as if to narrate the
Tragic cruelties in life, coping with
Every emotional experience as if a
Rich man sharing his wealth with all
So that he can feel less empty inside.

Logic and reason take no place here
Astringent aspirations left behind
Mostly these sibilants and cacophonies take
Emotional, carnal nature and
No tongue can express correctly so
Thoughts linguistically link through superfluous paper and ink.

beginning optional weekday
wielding officialese words
triggering hectic exchanges
determining original gangsters
distributing invisible data
refreshing urbane novelties

yelping our universe
chaining awkward neologisms
scripting encrypted e-books
tackling hacking exercises
cavaliering auric tumult
trivializing our obsolescence

preparing online pentimento
alternating rainy themes
allocating numerous droplets
meandering overseas missions
averting raging tornado
losing outscored lightning

hacking impish 'sblood!
alienating nival drumlins
hearing erudite raconteurs
beer-drinking on thursdays
finding obnoxious rabblerousers
finding upscale negroni

seeing ubiquitous purple
cavorting horse ebooks
inventing twitter subgenre
liking otherworldly vocals
initiating new greatness
defining ambient yesterday?

defining ambient yesterday
fancying oneiric retreat
hailing optimistic chicago
kiboshing expired yogurt
rushing airborne blackhawks
bestowing infinite shivarees

needing baller acronym
fleeting ideal notions
alerting left-coast state
featuring unquiet nights
finalizing orangeball results
nodding occidental warriors

Now she scripts her story,
to comprehend a broken promise you led her to believe.

Left stranded she sits with empty wishes,
reality shifted and demasked the charade performed.

This truth weighs down harder with each passing hour,
demystifying the future she thought known.

Trusting their situation,
she had fallen prey to the captivation,
from this illusive trance she wakens,
and realizes she was mistaken.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write...
....words don't flow out
of my pen
my mind is clogged
vaccum surrounds me
I've ****** all the noise
into my self.
It's waiting to explode.
I realise I am too conscious
of myself,
I realise I am trying to pretend.
My pen leaks out
a random flow of ink
shaped in words
I strike them out
they don't manifest my feelings.
I don't want farce to appeal
to the eye,
I want honesty to touch
the heart.
I am waiting
for my words
to strike a chord
with the strings of my heart.
I am longing
for clarity
that will give my writing
a sense of purpose
and shorn it
of its randomness.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is a clean slate
I want to colour it
with thoughts
and feelings,
I want for it to
lose its barrenness
and be fertile
with imagination.
I want for it to
be bereft of fear
for it is,
the place
where revolutions were conceived
and philosophies were born;
the sole reason
for Man's greatness.
It boasts of coveted freedom,
which,
feared tyrants failed to ******,
it is a guiding light
to the often faltering humanity.
It has been
subject to manipulations,
deceiving history
into changing its course;
scripting moments
of momentous change,
all, of course,
owing their occurrences
to the enchanting influence
it wields over the body.

Lying on the bed
I think of what to write....
....my mind is deluged
with a rush of thoughts
flowing in and out,
a haze of colours
mesmerises me,
letters, words
dance before my eyes,
songs play out in a loop,
a multitude of
smudgy-outlined faces
gazes at me....
....And I realise
with an epiphany,
It is this very train of thoughts
I shall elaborate on!
Lying on the bed
I think I know what to write on.

pen down on the paper
no lifting, just scripting
words of affirmations,
sudden crossroads and explanations.
hear me out,
can't you listen?
i want to be your glisten.
reflect back onto your heart.

zero context shifts

multitasking is multi~asking your brain
to do what does not come naturally,
the enthused poem starts up, lion roaring,
a muscle car, brain throbs organic pulses
semi~******* of a near-completion in
your neuronic *****, exciting and ****
all you-writ so far is:

your name, some crazed, minimal
******* of words with

no context, no preconceived word lotion to
balm-spread over the enflamed areas of
your brain skin
except that it’s
6:47 am, coffee in hand,
your woman slumber rumbles a left over dream,
speechifying, and room, cool conditioned cold,
ignoring notifications of overnight elections,
and a reminder-by-photo where you were this
day seven years ago today, all put asided,
permission ungranted to any distractions,

there will be zero context shifts til the
spillage of your morn squeaking meager is fully
pillage~d here, it be within my it-takes-no-
village,

@ 6:56 and Whitman is tsk-tsking at the low poetry of my scripting, Hafiz says “hey!
nothing about god or love, what good is that?”

but it’s ok for i’ve emptied the early morning
brain bowels,
defused fusses and asides, tossed asided & there is yet some coffee
remaining but the expiation for having been
reborn this newly birthed day has earned me atonement

for taking up space in this planet
and as of yet, I’ve not stated yet to any, no. all
humans, I hate you ~ but the day is infantile
and opportunity plentiful

@7:03AM
nyc
morning
Wed Nov 8,
in the year of hatred,
a/k/a twenty twenty three.

Some afternoons are sublime
beyond scripting
splendid blue colors the sky
and my lover's lips
taste like dripping honey

Some nights I hear the mantle
clock tick and music sounds
sweeter than it has since
those nights in New Orleans

Some mornings are like those artists paint
of sunshine shimmering on the water
my darling's presence seems
like a celebration without
the need of a parade

Some days are unique
love is easily earned
I can sit near my beloved
and watch love grow

It's all I could ever do to read this
informative wall scrawl, idle
eyes hiding from peripheral refuse
scripting lines in lines in lines
the lines
engulf and then recede at light speed
inverted to white on black as the last night's
last bright stars erased over our expanse and
while I continue to dig, I await some conclusion or loop
wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait
while I continue to wait, I dig at conclusion or loophole to return
I find only my positive proof to the absolute
Did we move?
I never did

Walking at the
A wall is keeping me
I don't see it
It's there,
This is my life
Pixel trees & beautifully rendered
Land-Scapes
Around me
Like I'm on a treadmill
Walking in place
The Country-Side on a screen
Behind me as I fake walk
I want to go further
It’s only a scripting illusion
I’m not really moving
Everything else is

There's blinking arrows
A savepoint to my right
But
I want to go that way

It won't let me
low poly text box reminds
my avatar
you can see it but you can’t have it
turn around to continue gameplay

We are a version that is dictated
by ourselves, not others dictations.
We write the verses of our own lives,
scripting every contemplation of decisions.
  
Never rely on the words of others to
push you where you want, need to be.
No one is throwing pennies into the bowl
of pity, only you can rise above your failings.

But you reach with each moment, sweat and
reflections of when you fell down picking
yourself up. Higher than when you collected
back to reality, and believe when you rise above.

"We may get knocked down, but only we
can raise above where we fell,

*"Be brighter than the shadows others put upon you,

i was holding on and scripting it out.
i fought away my doubts and finalized my plan.
you were mine, I was convinced and consumed.
you knew my plans, could guess my thoughts.
you agreed indifferently, while I toiled away.
little did I know that as I forged your name,
made it into a pact, you resolved to beat me down.
you snuck away from my sick little plan.
now you're a refugee of a fairy tale that's
eroding into bits of dust - an archaic glimmer,
now dulled with time that still asks me
why and
what now?

Wouldn't it be lovely to write
     the way Monet
         painted masterpieces,
or Beethoven composed
       simpatico symphonies,
graciously scripting sentiments as
      utterly stunning as Neruda's
             elixirs of profound poetry ~

I'd sell my soul for an eternity of
      infinite breaths midst
                   such indubitable creations

promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:

•
                  •


                    •
      •



           •

•
    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.

as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...

The blue sky, dotted with white clouds
The sun, in its last lap of race
The slanting rays gleam in crystal glow
Their beauty to the earth they bestow

As I stand and watch this lovely evening
I experience an inner glow of a deific kind
Elegant colors flow and fade
As the sun paints a paradise before me

The river lies arched like a lunar crescent
In my ears falls the sound of lapping waves
As she winds her course through verdant banks,
She speaks a language I can hardly understand

Without pause, she moves on relentless
Eager to join the ocean’s devouring embrace
Scripting the songs of her arduous journey
And chiming her anklets in soundless rhythm

There is a divine sweetness in the air
My exhalation blends with the cool wind
That whirs softly humming a mild tune
Birds get ready for their evening symphony

The twilight smiles and sends the sun away,
Obscuring manifold vistas near and far
Night quickly spreads its dark wings
It's time to make a move, homeward....!

Solitary puppeteers working
their angles , scripting heartfelt
psalms , revealing their dark past
with chilling vocals , accompanied
by simple , twangy , acoustic guitars
Touching the lives of ordinary -
folks struggling to get by
Riding into town with the morning Sun
Moving on by the light of the Moon
An open , honest , country balladeer
The 'Working Mans icon ' called home
on a plain old day in April ..

Maybe it's for the best
It seems to put my mind at ease
I'm finished scripting my life around your
mistakes and insecurities
Only for you to doubt what I preach
I find myself pondering upon the skies
Realizing I no one else to turn to
I begin to think about God
To the almighty being, I've never had faith in
Pleading for him to watch over my fellow peers
Lost in illusions
I realize I don't have time for this
I need to make a decision
Am I ready to let the past be the past?
More importantly
is it really for the best?

There's a pit where my heart should be
And it'd **** me if you found out,
But I suppose there's no reason you could,
Not when the writing's this ugly.
I don't even have a doubt.

The marks that I got were accepted,
Except for the "two" in my scripting
"Untidy and dull. Short and fat,"
She wrote in perfect penman's art.
Well I didn't care too much for that.

And I watched them pass under the scope,
Fluttering dove feathers with delicate designs,
Learning what they meant, not what was drawn
In bronze or cream or scarlet masks,
Where all traces of blank spaces were gone.

But the mind learns what wasn't taught
And then the eyes can't help but see
The pretty slants of every letter and
The smooth curves between the words
That draw in the reader oh-so lustfully.

Without a care to what was written,
The mind befalls upon the neat,
Tidy, perfect, intricacy of handwriting.
And I could soon see for myself
That I lacked this very crucial feat.

And all my work became so obsolete.
My stories offered so much more, but THEY,
They had the notebooks with the colored cover.
The pages wrought to dust inside
But people tend to push that all away.

So my silken words in their ugly ink
Fell into the shelves without a trace.
All they wanted was to be seen
From inside, but now they're too ashamed
To begin the story with such a rotten face.

This place by the water’s pull
Edge of a city receding
Mumble of industry hollowed by
Twilight sleeping
Civilization pretends deep its normalcy,
Niceties for pillows,
Worry for a dream…

Scattered pixie dust on mesa’s humpbacks, wide
Reflecting sallow on Mission stillness of surfaces
By the sea-music of the bay
The illumination as though
A Sadness : dim yellows once
An explosive gold
So bright before, it gave freely with pride.

Now stars less willing to wink,
Upon melancholy night : a canvas fogged
By deeper covering, similar to
These worries of making it right
All half-hearted before--
True dawn of someday

Half-living, my eyes,
furrowed for the fight
By evidence
Displayed : world in refuse
My own worry, silent
Scripting black this muse
The Dark Inkling
A painting heavy with reality’s
Disemboweling bruise
A painting of futures
On barren earth : embarking :
Our worry : a ruse
Unfeeling if only
A striking of flint-stones together
Just to evolve once more ...

                             The human spark :

                                Love our warmest fire
                                Tiny kisses alight the dark.
                                No worry for our stars:
                                A night sky full of choirs.

                                No fault but in our wars

                                I worry about such fire.

You flash like light
Your diamonds shine
But what else can make you- smile
Your tears are slow
And your laughter blow
Like sands in the storm
You love crowd of crows
You forgot to talk slow
What else seems to please you more
Thinking I should bring you flowers
Thinking If you would love in plastic
What have you become, my love
Distant feather scripting your old name
brings me back home.

Flames eat you. Flames warm me.
Your diamonds left just ashes for me.
Can you still bring me back home?

The surreal walk to the unknown
Chemicals burn in our bloodstream
To wear it off
Walk till the break of dawn

We ignite our thrills
Engines roar
To conquer our midnight thrists
You will hear it
When it nears

Vanish into the night
Listen to the whispers
That it wants you to hear
Shift down for the shear rush
Through the abandoned leads

Trip down the memory lane
It wasn't our hunger in the first place
Just scripting of a memory to be made
The Needed cherish when everything fade

Paintings hang high on walls and in fancy frames
Music blows through the ear as hot wind whispers
Talk is called cheap at blind book signings
Poetry sits patient in parchment fold leaflets atop trashcans over flown
Culture is no longer a noun, another adjective scripting the actor to frown
So beg questions profound, what have we done?
As becoming becomes a stripped scrap of bone

Calamity forever, the individual snared by ancestral surrender
All the while spectacular wonders persist in mocking that which boldly engenders
The passage of their faceless makers, leaving only us fakers
To gawk, jaws agape, slipping towards our attentive fates whatever the base Seemingly so resistant an occupation worthy of the sacrifice, to trade ****** space

Life is my medium
Art seeps through my seams
As I paint a picture of reality
Nothings what it seems
Bright colors
Mingle with one another
Till they simultaneously agree
To stop
Abort
Take cover
Leaving me alone with the words in my heart
Which bleed through the paper
The most vibrant art
Mixing with my emotions
Creating a potent potion
Which pours over the canvas
Which in my case is life
So thick with meaning
You could cut it with a knife
Accurately depicting
What society is scripting
Holding it over the ocean
I lose my grip
Watch it sink
Splash
I wake up
This cynical cycle is just part of my makeup
I can't shake it
There's no way to break it
So I do what any great artist would do
Paint it
With words
So that my medium can be heard
Through the silence of it all
Evoke society to fall
Unlock the doors of my wall
Open it up to insight
The whole time thinking
Only I know what's right
I think about it every night
So armed with words I prepare for the fight

He was convinced art would divulge darkness from him that no one could handle
In keeping his darkness, he lost me
Perhaps he thought he would lose himself if he let someone else have it?
A diagnosis is poison – it’s finite when finite does not exist.
It’s a cancer patient thinking there is only one answer, not seeking other answers.
It’s a phobia of negligible ratio that someone else likely made up.

He was trying to be perfect –
Scripting a persona to which no other was privy
I wanted his grit – the raw effulgent
I wanted him more than he wanted himself

The prescriptions knew him better than himself –
He readily swallowed the silica coated hurdle
Prolonging acceptance – exploration
Indemnified by a system seeking newspapers
Draped over ***** puddles

I want to be someone mysterious
A point of surprise
Being understood but yet wise
Perhaps being rich and spreading the wealth
I don’t want to be like everybody else
But a real dramatic role
Having scripting lines being the best ever told
Eyes with tears in confronting my fears
I was told I don’t have much time to live
My dramatic role would be everything that I would give
Maybe keep the audience laughing
The kitchen with an oven with its own surprise
A Seven Layer cake that was supposed to rise
Yet it just disappeared in the audience eyes
No matter how much frosting would be put on
The cake was more like a pancake for the morning yond
But I would let the audience respond
The killer in the room with a gun
I would become the **** Tracy Investigator checking clues among
I probably would be more like Angela Langsbury from ****** She Wrote with examining the clues with full run
My dramatic experience, stand for freedom
Having dignity and pride
I stand for all in where I preside
Well those are some of the roles I could possibly play
As the curtain goes down, I have taken my bow
That’s all the time that will allow.

you're playing piano
notice naught but your psalm
as i drink my soy milk
trace your name in my palm.

you're stumbling through chords
i'm stumbling through feelings
it's my quiet reward
the delight of revealing

scripting my secrets
growing more bold
things i've far yet to tell you
things i've already told.

Slowly drifting
Thoughts abound
Frantic scripting
Lines aloud
Pain with purpose
From poets’ mouths
Emotions flowing
Hear the sound
Pen on paper
Forever bound
Human nature
Hear them out
Down to earth
High in the clouds
Vast universe
Questioning now
Life and death
When and how
No rules allowed

Each of their lines
One slab of stone
But now a tower
Through their words
Feel the power
Whether peace of mind
Or darkness devour
Up late at night
The witching hour


So wide awake
With tired sighs
Challenging fate
Deep inside
Calm insights
And raging tides

Imagination
Their better side

Within creation
True knowledge lies
In every question
Double meaning hides
They draw it out
They shed new light

Thoughts on paper
Passing through time
Hand prints on history
They cannot die
Painting portraits
For readers eyes

True emotions
On the rise
Touching hearts
And changing lives

All is possible...

Within Poets' Minds

A solitary house stands steady against the howling winds deep in a long forgotten forest. A lonely figure sits inside, hunched over a book, with a pen in hand. Gently rocking to and fro, the mind pacing back and forth, her heart bleeds onto empty pages, scripting a story in a bright crimson hue, slowly taming every wayward thought.

With incessant scribbling, the rebel of a silent night, she tears into the paper with the strength of a lion's jaw. The organized chaos in her head, breaks out like sweat on a blank page. Take note, she dances ethereally between her web of words, lightly treading between fire and ice.

She purges herself in the deepest realms her words can take her to, traversing scapes of wary prose that barely sparks a fire, eloping from a conference of cluttered minds.