Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

Why do we fight and argue
Over things that dont make since

Why do we scream and shout
Over things we cant work out

Why do we have this incessant need to banter and bicker
About every little meaningless insecurity

We scrutinies everyone's lives but our own
Plaster their lies on every visible space
And the skeletons are beating down your vale
Of  hidden closet doors

Offer up your educated opinion in your best efforts of advise
For dealing with their misdeeds
And at every turn the skeletons are beating down
Your vale of  hidden closet doors

They scrutinies your every move
Cold and calculated to take away your dignity
Until all you have left are the demons they made
And the skeletons are beating down your vale of  hidden closet doors

They spit it back in your face
And expect you not to move
Only to leave you standing there
Feeling disgraced and bruised

They created havoc in your life
To be left wandering with no tears to cry
You bottled up every ounce of pain
Wondering the tole your broken laughter would gain

Made many a useless plea
Fall upon many a deaf ear
Let escape many hollow sighs
Wondering if they heard your placid crys

Broke the shattered mirror
For disgust of  pieces of battered dreams
Wondering if the skeleton key can be re-cut
Standing behind your vale of hidden closet doors.

I watch myself
watch myself
watching their dance,
my action is actioned
by panel and plan

Significant thought
to trivial task,
I find myself missing
that which I've hatched

Impromptu I can do,
in scrutinies stare,
replayed ad infinitum
pretend I don't care

When waiting has waited
and I dare to break free,
will the watcher be waiting
or will I be free?

with the most askance inspection
of the most
atomißed of man...

because what does... "fame" look
like in a small town?
i go the shop, the cashier "knows"
me... or at least i have
in possession...
a recognißable face
that can have immediate
impact,
   for whatever the worth
of recognition is worth,
                                   these days...

the nooks & crannies
of cliché tactics...
                  two girls lost in the night,
a stumbling wanderer
picking one of them up
after heaving himself
over
a public park fence...
exposed *****...
14...
         a black cat being cuddled
15 minutes later...
psychotic behavior...
finding the other girl
lying dead-pan face flat
at a bus-stop...
              a phonecall
to one of the girl's father
driving a black cab...
the guys getting home safely,
an IM from one of
the girl's mother: thank you...
the end...

was it necessary of me
write this?
                 don't know...
anything is worth bashing
a blank stare of a page,
intimidating me
to give me prompt...

i can cleave a slice off the meaty
dictum when it comes
to a small town dynamic
compared to biggie big-town
bad boy city...

fame...
          funny...
            i like claustrophobic
"fame"... imbued to a small town
interaction...
   oh sure... there is anonymity
involved...
  but the stage? recurrent...
the audience? non-existent.
the actors?
           blatantly bland
and repeateded beyond
the concerns of: the obvious...
  a granny doing shopping...
goes to the local store...
shops, talks to the cashiers...
returns to her home...
pretends to sleep,
switching on the television,
like...
  counting t.v. personnas...
shadow or shadows...
never mind the fact that she's
wide-awake...
         and there's "fame"...
the **** does fame juice-up-to-forget
about dynamic worth of:
the furthered conversation?
   small town...
yeah... you're famous...
when the supermarket cashiers
"know" your face...
or at least "being" recognißed...
   to have to starve for being
recognißed within the confines
of an anonymous crowd...
              like: being eaten alive
by zombies wishing for hyenas...
sordid crap...
  nothing Dickensian about it...
routine...
                            crisp cut off from
a missing paragraph...
that never was, that never will
be...
                    
modern, fame,
and that hybrid of the c.c.t.v.
mentality...
precursor, status worth,
the pre-aligned
sending of a postcard...
or a letter...
                 like...
'i almost tried to forget minding
my own double' (shadow)...
not that i would ever...
such the nature
of the big big, world...
and such the fate
of the little little, moi...

        big POP and
the little rock...
          one thing to **** against
the wind, one thing alotegether
to **** into a hurricane...
                 glaring
scoops of disgruntled shattering
to attempt to mend...

         fame...
                        famine in the mouths
of others...
   enoughs pigeons reading
to settle on a scoop of dead-beat
and we, have ourselves,
a democratic event!

           just when... god was never
an imaginary "friend",
or some leftover trait
of infantile leftovers...
         before that?
that parasite, is dislodged from
my mind,
excluded from giving me
some, if any, ontological focus...
i want St. Peter's to be toppled
to rubble...
      until then?
  then... who the **** is infantile
and who has me thinking
of a caged canary, to genesis with?!

big city: seeking fame...
little city: fame as the artefact
of familiarity...
some would call: metaphor:
claustrophobia...

            fame is not something
you will find,
beside... the clarity of
what big city provisions
you with...
an anonymous crowd...
no... little town?
fame?
        more like infamy...
oh for sure...
no kafkaesque novel
accomplice to support you...
either.

      nightmare:
anything, anywhere...
as long as it is bland...
    akin to... a supposedly
forgot, addition of,
necessary seasoning,
toying with the basics...
just... as simple as...
salt, pepper, bay leaf...
a whole all spice bud...

should i be seeking fame...
shoot me...
         any if all of...
only the past two years
has the journalist become
the status symbol of
a politician...
       equally not worth
being allowed a democratic
outlet
to begin with...

the day when
the word journalist = politician...
some people might
even suspect me of
amnesia...
  i wish it was amnesia...

             priest? long gone...
but of course
there's the propping
of the theatre...
           to ensure no truth
is left to be investigated...
as long as the murals
      the click-bait...
the mosaic sticks?
  
         as long as
a social contract...
a cordiality is solidified?
                   well!
what is there to complain about?
apart from a few
charlatans?!
   little town
come big city dynamic...
   2 centuries apart,
living, qua: in the same one...
paradox...
          
ever fold and unfold
an umbrella
quickly enough
to imitate the sound
of a crow
fluttering
its wings?
   you know: brrrr...
attempting to shake
off excess water from
the flight tools?
      
i couldn't handle being
boxed into a stereotype...
as i am...
still flirting with
         baron: anonymous;
once born
to be settled into
a grave...
             having to watch
some people agitate
the dead
        with their mea culpas
of... by the grave
a hubris...

           a recant...
the lighted candle...
the memory preserved...

or?
     hell... with the ******
on the conveyor belt...
NEXT!

       in these times...
even ghosts forgot to haunt...
all the schizophrenics are
like: no...
         beyond this world
beings talking to me?
so much... self-assurance...
everyone is taken
to silently gloat
about their telepathic
abilities?

      as old as the Cartesian
trinity... what? telepathy...
res extensa...
     extended thing...
   that's called telepathy...

me?
    i'm still trying to find the sort
of language that would
preserve me,
in continuing to burrow
something, resembling...
part-cipher
   and part-decipher (non-verb)...
all in all...
gesticulating between
overt metaphor,
and conscious of & when
a misnomer was
applied to bypass into
a waterfall, -esque,
                 fluidity of expression.

- this **** is not billboard
material...
what does it matter...
should it matter...
or will it ever matter...
          the grand choir composition:
NEIN...
                  its prime identity
of purpose...
    to never make it as text
worthy of a script
accompanied by canned laughter.

please,                           p'ooh bear,
oh but i did man-up,   "      "...
i thought it was a bit
******* to have a woman
by accident drop
a baby into the equation...
so i would stay attached
for her faults...
i have faults of my own...
but playing the gamble,
of throwing a baby into
the equation,
i.e. faking taking contraceptives?!
i already said i was willing
to explore the realm outside
the ****** with a latex suit...
i "manned-up"...
took to self-imposed celibacy...
what sort of woman
would impose the *******
strap-apparatus,
thinking you're the perfect
father material like that?
never a problem with
prostitutes when it comes
to wearing a ******...
odd as it might sound:
quiet the responsible woman
masquerading in the role
of *****...
      go figure...
       the more liberated
as also the more: making
pretenses...
       no fuckie-fuckie when
no mañana...
come tomorrow / a today?
here's the dough...
   manning up...
so that's...
when you get a surprise
pregnancy...
and... she's russian,
you've acquired a British citizenry...
and...
there's a transnational
moral debate to be had?
it's the moral deposit of
arguing pro-life
    when... better stick to
the cosmopolitan cocktail,
for the: fun & shakes...
  ****... less trouble with
prostitutes when it comes to:
well... no ******* would ever
attempt to, "by accident" fall
pregnant...
    and i can regenerate
only ******* twice a year...
or once... depending whether
or not i remembered to trim
my ***** for ******* etiquette...
sure... no "thrill of the chase"...
but sure as **** "things"
are transparent...
      some of us also thought
that...
going to a catholic school,
we'd settle, marry,
and **** in full grip of
the matrimonial oaths of a wedding...
you impose the rules,
some will rebel...
   the way i see it...
the entry of Islam,
the whole orientation around
the introduction of Islam
in Europe...
  they probably know,
what i already know...
the gap...
        the fertile gap of
ideological filling...
        whatever Islam is trying
to do, i already know what
is behind their impetus...
the fact that so many Christians
haven't read
the nag hammadi library...
   i've read it...
Islam solves nothing...
   it doesn't bridge or fill the gap...
between orthodox writings,
and the "heretical" writings,
unearthed from Egypt in 1945...
Islam doesn't feed the hunger
in me...
what does feed me...
is the entirety of St. Thomas' Gospel...
the fact that the four canonical
gospels,
are a Greek reinterpretation
of the tetragrammaton?
    once upon a time it was called
religious indoctrination,
the Janissary Dogma...
brainwashing...
so little has changed...
science simply calls it, cloning;
daft, defiance, unto death...
mother death...
let me see beyond
the feminine bias...
   i might have a mother,
and i might see a mother in
women, but i have no consciousness
worthy of such acknowledgement
of said stature...
      mother death:
    i am to complete my
entry into your womb,
come for me...
     when i am,
all but undeniably most eager,
as un-expecting;
because why would i give
a cherub's cherry's load
of *******' worth of my life
to the glorification of woman?
women give birth to women
as well as men, no?
hence?
                   mother death...
who...
               becomes fertile...
                from a lived life,
impregnated by
   the ******* insurgence of
a plethora of pain...
  mother death...
            a womb,
the complexity of a universe...
and all die, certain:
a woman, as i,
a man, as i,
                     unto mother death,
like kosher salt additions
of exacting a pain,
a life, a pinch,
            and their names,
lost, upon the additional
scrutinies of droplets,
into a vast, yawning sea of time.

i sporadically entertain my uncle's ex-girlfriend
at the house from time to time:
don't ask me why...
    she dated him when i was...
8 through to 11...
                       donkey's years ago...
days when the st. valentine's park in ilford,
essex... was like: alice in wonderland...
it had tennis courts, it had a mini golf course,
it had an open air swimming pool...
   it had exotic bird cages...
                                it had row boats
on the pond...
                 i mean: if my ex-girlfriend was
still visiting me...
                  i don't know: rather... i don't want
to know... my uncle is rather estranged and
that's that... i saw her a year ago:
i made her a curry...
                         i saw her today: in between
the odd house job: flinging concrete etc.
i made...
         she could practically be a stranger...
but that's... exactly the point...
here's to extracting water from a stone...
   i'll write this and it will not really tickle my
fancy...
    once, perhaps, not so long ago -
                    i'm just fudge-packing myself
into a lullaby of lolz... from the "narrative"
prescribed to me, you, "us" by the...
ahem... philanthropists...
                    hell: better with the misanthropes...
at least they are not scheming
philanthropists...
        indeed a "polyphony" of tastes...
which is a curry...
                    nowhere in europe except in england
this demand for the blues and the Raj...
the compliment:
   'this tastes like a restaurant dish...'
  and she wasn't kidding... she did bring a bottle
of wine and a bottle of gin...
i did used about 6 chicken *******...
i hoped that with the coconut rice
and the naan breads i'd have enough for
4 people today and for 3 people tomorrow...
    em... yeah...
                i watched her like i might have
been a woman and cooked for a coal miner
in a 20th century Silesia...
              the sri lankan curry with apple cider
vinegar and the coconut milk blah blah...
but... hell... apparently i can save myself
for a night (once in a while) from
self-deprecating humour and take a word
of a stranger as: rigid dogma...
      that i can cook better than i can write...
            i felt sorry for... having read enough
of Knausgaard and know: fish-fingers...
   scandinavian food?
   oh, you mean like two days ago when
i figured: rödbetsallad - sure... if you have
the right meat... but it doesn't **** to know that...
raw beets with carrots an onion
   chilly and some greens with a....
balsamic vinegar, orange juice, olive oil
and dijon mustard is a **** good dressing...
i mean: hide the japanese sushi..
give me raw herrings in a creamy / tangy sauce...
baltic "sushi": suit you, sir... oooh...
fastest eaten dish in town...
    tow the town across the atlantic -
settle the score on the coast of maine...
or nova scotia: scou-shia...
         nova orbis...
                 i cook good food... that's so much
more comforting that scribble these little details...
after all... i pride myself on the arsenal of spices
i own... whoever has their nukes can keep 'em!
i drop one black cardamom grenade and we're
in for a proper party!
the kolhapuri masala - which is poetry -
a "polyphony" of sorts:

10 dried red chillies
2 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp coriander seeds
1 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tsp fennel seeds
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp fenugreek seeds
6 cloves
1 tbsp black mustard seeds
50 g unsweetened desiccated coconut
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp red chilli powder

i surprised star anise is not invoked -
surprise me less: i am not - no black cardamom?
it must have been a different masala -
obviously a textbook use of ginger / garlic pulp
and turmeric... and onions...
and tomatoes...
and how is it that the "west indies" survived
so intact: was it purely on the argument from
sanskrit - perhaps...
who am i... little ****** from a place
where haggis might have originated...
but most certainly a type of broth that
uses... cow intestines: honeycomb tripe...
well... that's just ******* spectacular!
we're also the people that will eat
a chicken heart goulash / chicken stomachs...
nothing is wasted but...
hell... to have the oil fields of arabia
or the spice garden of india?
              tough question!

what was or is leftover?
   the parsley revolution?
        the basil    "
                            coriander?
     what was haggis... is still haggis...
and neeps and tatties?!
        allspice - nutmeg and paprika...
bland (apple imports from "kazakhstan")
europe of old...
blushing spanish oranges...
        whale fat from the north...
chimichurri: give me curry for an oak
of beef: a stump of it... argentinian -
give me spices for a steam engine...
                   trade offs...
                 and that buddha soft-patch of
inquisitive philosophy spin-offs in
the western canon: feng shui pseudo-zen
or tao...
     unlike selling protestantism
when none arrived with the spanish toward
the west or the port-of-geese in hai!nippon!

followed up by listening to some iron maiden:
after all: they did release brave new world
at a time when their x-factor etc. days were
over so they could delve into hiring a new
army of listeners: they weren't going to
sit on their laurels like led zeppelin et al.,

- only prior i watched two woodland pigeons
battle on a pergola i erected and weaved
a wisteria into it... the female was perched looking
on... i never imagined woodland pigeons
to hold such ferocity in their slender guise -
they would jump on top of each other
in an imitation of mating and with their
feet as fangs rip into the manes of each other...
throats throbbing with a short-of-breath pulse...

i broke the battle by having to pass
under the pergola with bags of sand and cement...
as man and with dealings in imitating
nature:
    well... a history as an etymological affair of sorts:
hardly...
   pigeon: gołąb (******),
              holub (czech),
                         golub (croat),
               golob (slovenian),
                     porumbel (romanian),
        balandis (lithuanian),
               galamb (hungarian)...

   looks like... the closest etymological
cousins of a ******'s pigeon is:
the croat and the *** pigeon...
               but... uncle auntie here...
pidge-on: pij-off:
      the german           taube...
the french pigeonne...
               picciona (italian)...
                                paloma (spanish)...
   "hence" the romanian porumbel...
but not the alt-saxon taube...
     or the norwegian    due...
or the swedish: duva...
           estonian tuvi finnish kyyhkynen...

do i dare see what...
not to bother dear mater mortuus...
greek!  περιστέρι (well... sure looks like...
a future of pigeon... em...)
turkish!                   güvercin...

almost like the story of Islam is a story
that ended with Muhammad
and began with Ishmael ibin
     Hagar the housemaid for Abraham's
wife Sarah...
     almost that: "same ****, different cover"
scenario...
but with words...
   and words alone:  after all...
is there any relevant history outside of
etymology - given that... napoleon invade
russia ****** invaded russia:
i.e. that shamelessness of repetition?

it's so apparent: to be hung-up on the trifles
of "love":
more like... the barrage of youth and hormonal
cocktails of agonies that must end in defeat
and monasticism at best...
"defeat" is rather an open word...
becoming tamed with: retreat and introspection...
she asked me to get her shawl
as the sun was setting and
while bringing it to her i had a sniff of it...
no perfumes... just the scent of skin
and a woman in her 50s...
   the smell of: an old maid... not a ******...
an old maid...
but how refreshing: tame make-up...
nothing too protagonist or shock-circus!

second slurps from an uncle's engagement
of ***** in pigtails?
well... it's just nice to hear a stranger
compliment your food...
esp. since this wasn't some formal setting
for a restaurant...
if i could earn on the basis of peanuts
and compliments and...
               how michelangelo was...
           no not constipated...
no not conscripted...
        not contained...
                        pope julius II...
michelangelo was... COMMISSIONED...
   well... what a noble begotten proof of...
the truth of labour...
            so much for the derelict promise:
the ugly work - although still towing
a grand scheme of aesthetic with it:
akin to plumbing or electrical scrutiny -
or waterproofing -
   but as i have learned:
   the work less scene does gravitate toward
repaying a man with a sense
of ingratitude -
for the work itself -
   after all: there's no work of art to slobber over...
to guise oneself in a fetish for
sending postcards...
the work itself harbours an ingratitude
to the person who performs it...
that "minor detail" of something working
without fail...
hardly a bureaucratic competition:
grizi-piórek (a slang term for a bureaucrat)
literally: feather-nibbler...

    the bewildered youth of man and that
which comes of him in the later posit of life
as aging - for not enough has been
cited concerning old maids -
the crippling opportunism of girls
that turns us into comic atlasas with
only poses to a name -

     i have to hide my admiration for old men:
esp. those that write their little
jokes: praying on existential shot-hand
and their unshakeable rationale -

a brief interlude into a concept of a new
life: my uncle's ex-girlfriend:
i've been to the brothel:
the "joys" of flesh *** flesh are such
unwelcome avenues that i know
how desperately i ******* to smother
the solipsist in me but at the same time
nullify the ****** out of
respect for a caricature of conversation:

that the stars were mentioned and that
venus or mars was among them...
by the geographic posit of edinburgh:
and the firth of forth i held with a certainty
a more than concept of n.e.w.s.:
north east west and south...
but north east london: that gargantua is no
edinburgh...

only today i posited myself on mashisters' hill
and the mouth of the thames...
and where the dartford bridge is
and where canary wharf is...
it doesn't help much to travel into
central london and stand before Thames...
to finally flip out a compass...
this odd river that has no flow
but a tide...
a river with no mountains...
no Vistula no Danube...
this cruel passable detail:
  a river without mountains with
a tide but now flow...

decipher for me this grey murk of eels
wriggling hollow...
she asked me: is it difficult to go back
"home"...
burden by the tired toiling among
so many monolinguals:
can i tell apart the accents on these isles?
that i can tell a scot from an eire-fiction
that the welsh still: hope for god grant
them their same old future tongue...

veneti...
                  veneti...
                                         veneti:
it is that it has become more and more
difficult to leave "home" than arrive
at it... but from populist english so
thoroughly breeding into a stiffening sire
and clamour of pict sacrilege -
grand echoes of unused words...

old maid who graces the same existential
pangs as me: aimless hollow head spermatoid...
after all the hormonal whirlwinds pass
and there comes a second nakedness...
before trust and a spontaneous jumping
to conclusions that never arrive at anything
more than the generic cul de sac...

to have to disbelieve mothers...
             it is necessary to have to disbelieve mothers...
for no greater grandiosity incumbent...
a brief interlude and how i can:
simply peacock-strut... exfoliate like
i might... have forever succumbed to
the latin variation of bulimia and that old
variant of ****...
willingly running ****-naked into
a riddling throb of nettles...
with disembodiment and an aspect
of freely arrived at nerve extensions
clinging to an ancient eucharist of
tentacles that the tongue would only counter
having to bite and nibble and suckle
on a mint leaf: with the body's proposal
of immersion in nettles...

to make rous of numbing ****** details:
no ****** from taking  a ****...
no litany of broken words:
clinging to consonant prone onomatopoeias...
crude ascertaining archaic:
purity of vowels: mongrel heart and soul
whilst towing... a mongol or two...
pictures of fortress crimea... the grand sicz...

only because she was not a woman
in her prime: a new orientation that doesn't begin
with me in middle age having amounted
enough poison apples and **** frenzies
and all those lies spoken during ***...
at best: even in the brothel...
for the love of god i dared not speak...
so much for anything
when *** has to invoke words...
not the silence not the pulsating vowel
throttle...

                    i linger for the last linear concept
of unnerving details...
that last came with these words
and will last revel in them alone...
for the greater audience i...
i have no scheme to usurp the pop from
the better hidden...
that some things have to:

let "them" have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother over mothers:
when death finally tallies my shadow
as her ******-on from fear loitering
of shrapnel!
let the people have their feast!
once i am wed to the mother of all mothers:
- but given the inbetween leave
me to my cenobite affairs of a bedroom
i keep for a nursery of moths...
to ward off the spiders with my drunken
breath...
give me clarity in the depths of
a bottle's end met...
            
  - so this is what it feels like to arm-wrestle
with a hand strapped to the bone crushing
revelation of hanging on a crucifix -
so this is what nodding with approval
feels like when competing to the end scenario
when lying erratic and scared
on the tablature of the falling guillotine...

it must do! i feel a need to concern myself
with feeling than with thinking:
i despise this celebration of numbing
objectivity: as someone once said:
subjectivity is the only truth...
after all: i am subjected to...
i am firstly subjected to...
only later i object: i objectify:
i give me spatial pardons and awareness...

as a subject under the protection
of a queen i am: first come first served...
not last... in this secular objectification
policy of "what if" futures...
i answer to the queen:
i am subject of the queen:
i am subjected by the queen...
such a ****** party to attend with no
god and this object cranium per crown...
that it has to become so impersonal
that the h'american free verse poets:
that elizabeth II has so much more
than mere grandma edifice...

i am subjected to something prior:
only later can i object to it...
some variation of a "double negation":
a talk over more gin and tonic...
or bourbon...
how could subjectivity become
so defamed... like it was forever a lesser
variation of the res extensa /
thought attache...
that subjectivity is lesser has to come
from people who only regurgitate
a once fabled scientific positivism of
a new and glorious age of Eiffel...

objectively "speaking"...
the regurgitated "facts": it's not like
science is even the incessant harangue!
from voice and a well:
an echo and a re-:
                             by now: there are "concerns"
as to why the echo fades and is
not gravitating toward perpetual
momentum...

               by now to revel in tired bones,
sinew... in the perfumes of burning fat:
vegan protests... vegan wishy-washy...
that somehow in a future 2 years from now...
the cows will have the eyes
akin to petted critters like that of:
fortune of future:
demands of cats and dogs...
i stated today: big cats' eye do not
hollow out... there is no serpent-esque
"myopia" of the eyes...
cats are spies for the serpent kingdom...
disguised as fur-*****...
but intact the blistering choke
of the slither... eyes that ****...
eyes that could feed the most blue-bodied
extract from the speark-head
of mammalian hierarchy...

   what little dough for slaughter eyes me
in the fashioned cow..
i leave all honesty for the dogs:
among the tying with bones...
but never these bonsai tigers...
heavy shields of hipolites...

                             - is there a need to drink
and write... while marrying yourself
to the barrage of unnecessary bricks
that align themselves to the cuddle-cradles
of kcal-atoms?
     i thought that drinking was
synonymous with exfoliation...
hell begot peacock-strutting...
              old maid didn't have me leeching
for ****-practice tendencies to posit
proofs...
             at some point i am going
to have to leave people without a comfort
of a diatribe...
i'll extend my over-arching scrutiny and
tell you:
on this basic base prize...
i leave no selling of satellite...

come 2am and i'm still awake and drinking:
it doesn't matter...
what matters is...
being invested in a repetition
and the glorified emblem for all that's
the worth of tomorrow:
the conjunction barricade of english:
my queen's last ordeal...
well **** me... it has to be my queen's
last ordeal before i **** up to the h'arab
sheikhs...
n'est ce-pas?

oh... wait... like the french didn't look
glum and whatnot...
like the past wasn't a pass at rebirth...
like venice didn't pirate away details of
constantinople...
i am tired of guilt...
you... italian fuccofinickyfuckers
bless venice... now! now! have complaints
concerning the hagia sophia...
because who isn't to abandon the greeks:
because of greek pride...
which is all that little: pride...
designated to books:
greek schoolchildren... will not read...
some ancient anthem of
northern barbarians: perhaps the bulgars...
most certainly not the... island-bound
mongrel...

            the english will not be reminded:
yes... that much is true:
but they can be executed for a lineage
of inconsistency...
that poland can somehow be associated
with polar bears...
hell... "we" are associated with
bisons... and storks...
          no need to educate the new
or keeping an ordeal of the old...
let's call my mediocre
the no-mans'-land rupture...
it's not exactly dervish planned territory:
citing india as borrowing extension
with afghanistan, pakistan,
bangladesh, sri lanka...
            who am i buddha tow: juggle...
jumble wisconsin proto: or a collective:
pan-european...
mingling justices... arms told to be torn
off...
   romance from 18th century europe:
kissing the feet of Kiev...
while in the western: what if...
the sea affords us... no need teasing
a wait for a tide...
      this little scare and...
      my little future of cain that...
arrived at a blinding prospect of
nationhood that has to retain a presence
akin to Siberia...

belly-tow flipside an agony of
this fissure of gill and borrowed depths of
searching for the dolphin aided dive...
i have no befriending lefts...
had i the rights i'd make them
pronounced: enough to champion
diacritical scrutinies...
but no but now...

- how is that:
   -rhetoric          has reached a fever;
and a pitch to make
a ***** into a jerusalem
as a prefix towing exemplar...
before a noun
and a yankie akin to
pre-
          variation of pro-
               not withering into the anti-
cyst and some future be told...
                      chimes from haven:
and the pennies from ginger-root borrow
of lobotomy...
        
   gutting a pig: glorifying a monkey...
chanting: freed red sox...
                a somewhat: hives
of Boston... while we all have to retort
to a question...
not because we woz all hebrewz...
but coz whizz or: or else...
worst hinterland:
an estonia: that there's
more of new york than there's
of this.... hinterland...
of... convincing: this is not "asiatic"...
this is still DOS europa...
bulging to bug the bothersome
chastised bullock off a bull
and the silent churn tow charge...

some variation of a pre-
and a self- prefix:
          to compound this custard
nostalgia sweet-tooth jesus h'americana...
same old variation of how
estonia is about the sizing up
of new york: and...
              
                     my own sowing tow-tie
this little increment this little
wave this loiter masquerade...
   such privy to make a choice!
from the slaves toward a slam-dunk..
otherwise making rummanations
to towing a sanctity of old pauper
Warsaw...
                 my little little first and last idle
concern that's a Cairo agitated.

Sometimes one's just overwhelmed by this reminder.  

All Living Things Love Life II

Written many moons ago;
Writ by life-observer poets;
Scribbbled scrutinies and comments;
Detailed now on TV shows:
Perils menacing or imminent;
Calloused killings of the other,
That despite all men are brothers;
Pain or dread;
The many dead.
Frog, fly, ant
Stepped, crushed without stop or conscience -
Well, what can one say!
Living things that pant for breath
Robbed of air from man to plant.
Air, the global element,
Constituent shared by us all:
And still
We ****.
Implausible! Impossible!  But actual
This second as thought formulates;
Loved beings each transported
To a valueless oblivion.
We watch offhandedly,
Or helpless, mourn.

All Living Things Love Life II 5.11.2021 Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

i've come to realise my mortality,
prime example(s) aged 37:

i've built up an aversion to music
like an Afghan Muslim,
aversion, distaste, aversion:
m'eh... distaste...

unlike those sorry sobs of the Adhan
sung with the rising sun
over Damascus...

although... i still enjoy something akin
to music,
there is so much more in what's to be said
of music in the mouth of O
in a lover's ***** and all that
stuff that shouldn't be uttered publically:
i've stopped getting off on this dimension
of expression...

if i could i would put a room of "niqab"
on her and hide in it with her,
not that: i can claim to perpatretrate
to anything beyond any scope of "significance":
worded like a verbose cul de sac...
cliche no cliche...
i simply don't have a standard
biological impetus to gratify gene-carrying
worries of males...

i have no problem with her being 18 years older
than me and, Edith, the "dear" public:
a concern for... well by 55 years old
your daughter, by the clock's standard...
blah blah... so shoot the sheriff in the foot
and later call it a juggling enterprise
without clowns...

  some spectacle of the unfore-seeing eye,
my eye, no i, not i, anti-i...
but then making this public makes me all
funny and quizzical...
like i'm her ex past her ex present her
ex future like i'm some cheap-oh
pornographer at best... at best i'm not

the suspect pedohpile on grandma's agenda
of scrutiny... classical beast of comfort,
the wolf in sheeps' clothing...
i will, though, eat an english breakfast
for dinner... and go to sleep at 8pm...
will iron my shirt...
and yes...

   i'm bothered about this liquid retention schematic
of putting on 4kg, massive, 4kg...
being depressed like: it's compression depressed
but my cheeks are bloated retards
puffing up don't know where to go sort
of pigeon fight...

like rewatching ******... and all the gizmos
that film had to offer about being overtly
street smart...
i just need a clean house... a HÜß...
I'm not going to tow-for-tow return to my
former ways...

it's not enough to hear about the antithesis
Dumas in the achievements of Wisława Szymborska
or... Annie Ernaux...
  that's... Er-now... or Ernau-
  since the X is not really said but seen...

which brings me back to... ***...
*******...
coupling...
            well... surprise surprise...
clean house, fickle cats...
no music in no background...
21st Sweden first...
    blah blah glue gum ****...
if ever someone might remind someone else
that gold is the tickle for fancier stuff...
i try, to, "reimagine", the tumultus fate
of Ezekiel's vision...

that inflatable doughnut of Machiavellian
precision... to adjust to move and to adjust
to struck-pinned...

best mantra i could ever bestow upon anyone, though,
as no moralist, being exposed to ******* aged
7 or 8... of no fault of my own,
but jeez... once you couple...
you couple for sure...
like Odysseus to the idea of a Trojan Horse...
like James Joyce to 24h...
a day in a day in a daze...
like...

      i send her hisses and kisses and it's one minute
before she wakes up to the routine that
Kauai shouldn't have ever given me
like i'm still submerged on the footnotes
that become the head-notes of:
a life away from England, in October,
living off of the Tropic of Cancer...

so... an aversion to music and... an aversion
to *******...
reimagining all the vitality of life brimming in me
with a quest for authoritative measuring
distance from no distance...
even in the former expanse of youtube
narratives... films, adverts...
i'm sort of lost to the idea of...
eating that ******* breakfast for dinner and
polishing my shoes and ironing my shirt
and calling her from a train when she's in bed
and it'a my 7am and her 10pm and... savvy:
pirates ahoy...

ahoy, ahoy, poor schmuck...

well, does it really matter that i go to bed
at 8pm rather than 10pm and regardless,
wake up at 6am to go to work?
i'll still be waking up without her,
her, which might gesticulate at all my
biological-scrutinies of sensibility that
i over-stretched my marking territory...
all the better!

unforeseeable *** without consequence
(why did i think X could replace a Q
in the word: consequence?)
because biological reality is a brimful of...
none of the above, or, below,
right now it's 6am in Honolulu
and the storms ganged up on England's shore
and there's no Gandalf...

and we are all, dreary, romantic,
Scandinavian types... typos...
because that's how we operatre,
by bias-focus of deception...
cheap words like "political"
are overtly exuberant...

  Nietzsche said this one thing as if a promise...
life would be, difficult, without music...
life... oh life...
    all the more.. WITHOUT MUSIC...
when ******* comes with all the awe
of the opposite ***...
there's the reality of... the opposite ***...

because i want:
more than the cashier and being the cashier's line
extended...
will i eat? i'll eat:
watching some bad...
acting has become
a bad-existential-pornogrtaphy...

you had your sway dearest sucker,
now is my luminary absolvence
of your role, and title,
like Ezra Pound might have minded....
to ***** with you...
you, inglorious cauliflower of master-pieces!

riddle the brains with no extract of a promising
guilt, then ****... then Vietnamese
those ****** out of a noodle bowl
and then you get a 1 + 1 = 2 answer....
because no rice = no fweedom...

it's 5pm where i'm at but that doesn't
matter to be delivered... does it?

for once in my life i felt and feel relieved
from abstaining
from one act of...
        ugh... the stomach grumbles...
the time, setting and grievances have been, met.

a mini-veterinary seance...
so my cat has a dread
of fur,
a dread so bad...
              that it suffocated
all the possible fur out,
and started eating away,
embedding itself into
his skin,
exposing all the tender
parts of it...
                i wrestled with him
while i fried some left-over
chicken with some ketchup,
worcestershire sauce,
           cayenne pepper powder...
chilli, garlic, onion...
and two poached eggs...
fiddly parts, these animal scrutinies
beneath fur...
   i spent the next five minutes
calming him,
having found the problem,
head on head,
kneeling, him on the cupboard...
listening to some
           classical music,
forehead against the cranium,
knelt,
whatever prayer is really
useless at this point...
         scribbled the problem
on some napkins,
left them to be read
in the morning
by the higher authority...
  UNDER THE FRONT LEFT LEG..
the dread became so bad
is exposed fresh, red flush
of skin...
             came back with
a summary of frying beef stakes...
medium-rare...
what to eat what to eat...
a honing device...
       poached eggs though...
what a necessary "triviality"...
   nuance: bottoms' up!
and down it goes...
texture like...
warming up a gulp's worth
of an oyster...
  a strawberry instead of
never biting the take on
female genitals,
but akin, shaped...
             yeah yeah...
i'll get my prayer in there...
while i just crack open
the songs of Milton,
          among the fallen.

death, the night;
the ellipse...
      a castration
             of a smile....
and a:
well...
  why wouldn't
you
take a mind:
             to wonder?
death,
the night,
  the ellipse...
a castration
of a smile...
        crude,
surgical precision...
your right
arm...
        wel'
                  'come;
come judas
to craft a sentence
for revealing
        "history"?
can you
even attempt
sober
     in this
burning out
of a fire in
a schema of
congregational
dynamism?

          what are these
pawn
         scrutinies...
   of the harrowing
king?
             then again:
what is the king,
without the
concept of being played:
chess?

     riddle riddle sow
of frivolity
and a.i.,
                and...
             a loophole
of crafting the sentiment
of lacklustre...
     happy:
          idol Lear...
               a...
                     vanishing
"culprit"...
              a demanding dough
feeding a faking
plagiarism of
               a frogotten: doll.

i guess... subjectivity is what...
makes dialectics fun...
because... it's not like...
via dialectics...
    a grand truth was revealed...
or... revelled in...
that's mostly...
silent... the awe takes
care of... "bothersome" conversation...
if we were...
talking... diacritical markers...
orthography...
accents...
then... yeah...
that's not subjective...
but... to entertain dialectics...
is to... enjoy...
having... disparaging
opinions...
without... really...
gaining a truth of them...
        the best music in the world....
axiom (a) no one...
really knows... (b) point (b)
is so boring...
     let's just... read the gobshite
and the tabloid...
have a quick passion-fruit
moment pressured knees
in the back of the bus and...
mr. android was always...
the fail-safe mech. driver
for that... c.c.t.v. link-up with...
mad-basher *******...
quasi-and-a-"god"...
          i.e. last time i heard...
the socratic invention...
dialectics...
it... wasn't...
          an object-sharpening "tool"...
no truth would ever arrive from
dialectics... no...
******* spontaneity susan...
microscope in the age of hammers
and chisels!
          to enjoy subjectivity
was beyond a mere: yes or no...
      that... whoever reads Plato...
will find...
so... why... the lobotomy libra blues...
since... characters blend into
the character-narrator complex...
i.e. you just can't disagree with
Socrates!
  it's either a yes... or a no...
binary complexity of a socratic audience...
but dialectics is not an art of...
what objectivity defines...
      the invention of beer wasn't
talked about... it was... the fermentation
process surrounding wheat... barley...
hops...
      there is no... "superior"
objective reality that's spoken of...
the best we can do is... enjoy...
a muddling of subjectivities...
                muddy waters:
   nothing at all can be confined to being:
objectively true: when spoken...
or thought...
  the objectivity rule:
             surd letters... an object falls...
the wind carries the creases of...
poorly tailored suits of suicides...
          
after all... dialectics is a subjective art...
that was aimed to subvert...
rhetorical peacocking...
         how to interrupt an orator...
a sophist... a "know-it-all"...
   dialectics is... how to... allow two objects...
the entertainment of being:
displaced as verbs in the mouth
of others... to entertain...
a theatre of nouns...
a band name... and a song name...
"counter"...
to make... con-ver.... s'ah-tion...
     i will not say... what is already being
said...

dialectics and... "objectivity" -
talking like autistic androids...
recycling... encyclopoedic facts and measures...
life talked about...
like... two butchers... arguing about...
a certain cut or pig torso:
as... the rib-cage is plentiful in sizzle...
oozes... "character"... when properly spiced!

i am subjected to a body...
but i also tend to objecity this subjectivity through
the aid of the "other":
i am subjected to gravity...
i am subjected to hunger...
i am subjected to... the litany essential...
i am therefore introspective:
object-and-subject alike...
but dialectics is not born from:
a greasing of fathomable:
            incorruptible truths...
certain realities exist for the focus of
nuance: for conversation...
one doesn't beg ausitic-esque scrutiny
to android a future of a day's
blessing with them...

i am subjected to heat and drought...
i am subjected to thirst...
the objective reality that is concerned
is a welcome attache...
stating... water boils at 100°C...
that's an objective statement...
water boils at 100°C...
1 + 1 = 2...

kant ***** descartes and says:
is it a priori subjective...
or is it... a posteriori objective...
that i have a fetish for...
looking at insects...
but not...
              to hell with those
who defame the concerns for
subjectivity...
fact-regurgitator-spewing:
spawns of beelzebub!

         dialectics doesn't require...
the certainity of oblong scrutinies...
we are here... to entertain...
fixations of: prefixed standards
of fixation of... counter to...
movie or music critics:
established by the will of mammon
a status of paid... professional...
lingering umemployment
secured by... the people in...
the... "know how"...

                  being confined to...
being the subject of gravity...
being the subject of history:
a time... deviating from...
everything past... otherwise...
doubly... "somehow"... apparent...
subjectivity is "less"
than objectivity...
i can fathom one...
and two...

1 + 1 = 2 is an a prior objective statement...
roses are red... sorry...
that is an a priori subjective statement...
since... we'd like a triangle statement...
but there, isn't one to behave as
one might wish: for it, to behave...

  dialectics "contra" diacritical markers...
"facts don't care about your feelings"...
come to "think" of it...
neither does my autistic-android
non-self...
i will allow as little facts
as i will allow the opinions...
to find the truth of opinions...
last time i heard...
the facts need no siamese
abstraction of addition / twinning...

one fact can't obstruct / negate
another fact... since... "the godly narrative"...
but opinions are wavering...
to talk is to entertain...
subjective nuances... or no nuances...
hello tomorrow...
today hasn't been kind.

i sometimes try to envision london as i skim past
warsaw... i'm always missing...
the key ingredient... a mongol... here or there...
it's hard to imagine this whole scenario...

it must be said: someone is paying...
undue "compliments" to this affair...
eastern europe: "clearly"...
             or something of that measure...

just throw chinese sweat-shop sneakers
at the "covenant"! sneakers and glitter and some
readied women for the carousel...
and we'll be having this party till next year...

come to think of it...
the current mystery of the grenfell tower...
some gammon terrorist probably
left a stove on and left his home...
because... that didn't spark... the desired...
protests...
all those choking marshmallows wasn't
the tipping point...
           for the one man needs to be "excused"...

i somehow pity the comparison that
westerners have concerning their...
token friends... their "pet projects"...
the noble savages...
                  fair enough...
beside... a 5ft10 european somehow
manages to catch a 6ft2 zulu goliath...
and hey presto:
i can imagine harded work than...
foraging... the fields...
it's not like... the people were used to...
mine coal...
          
perhaps because the mongol never impregnated
the western imagination...
an actual... horde...
the huns were a horde that displaced
the germanic tribes...
etc. etc. -
but when i think of orcs...
i think of mongols...
and, when in warsaw... you can sight-see
these... "tourists"...
        
   it is known: the Kraków Hejnał...
          st. mary's trumpet call...
                    did i mention the ottoman lick
of the continent?
such peace... anyone with enough...
curiosity...
what saved japan from the mongol invasion
was... ride horses +++...
build ships and sail them...
for the love of minor deities:
that prayed and conjured up a tsunami...

one albino chimpanzee talking about:
the forbidden fruit... metaphor...
the serpent...
and... the crooked mirror...
mirror... the false spine... the teasing...
loot of imagination and time...

2 tonnes of soil moved...
the drainage established... grass worth of envy...
come the watering of the pride...
to pass the time: three beers is not enough...
to pass the time...
idiotic arithmetic...
20 minutes worth of: 1.7 x 3...
          7 x 3 = 2.1 (0.7)...
and 1 x 3... round-off at 5 units of alcohol...

it's so generous to think of...
the orcs like any former slave-trading nation
might... because... the mongols were always...
the little people, no?
grand disclosure... chinese new money...
but as a horde... a people that would move...
with women and children...
always... those empires built upon
the sole purpose of: earth-farming...
land-locked empires...
what alexander sought...
what the mongols replied with...
what the romans made quasi...
when the british imitated the greeks...

             history has become a geek funfair...
or... a drinking **** of...
because with all the scientific facts...
one can... actually... abide with the alternative
already at hand...
the history that was written down...

race baiting and "racism" and
the statement: am i... after finding a willing
cherry-*** worth of glistening choc...
one that with enough coccyx would
ram a plum into the pouch of softness
just above my phallus...
and... i'd grow bald there...
while attaining a spawn of a bearded pride
on my chin and jaw line?

let's juggle... very crude arithmetic of being
unsure... some crude geometric shapes...
sticks and stones...
the easily offended...
because... sorry... slam-dunk millionnaires
of the 12" extension: that chapter in the kama sutra
of: one size fits all...
and... the zoo of chisel oops: daddy-issue projects...
i care... because...
i care to recycle bad news...
            of envy: that there is beard envy...
that turks are naturally born barbers...

i don't like race baiting... the fun boy and the supposed...
much later... matrimonial... and material...
race baiting is like...
   forcing an inbreeding of a scant origins story...
and never is...

i tried to remember why i wrote to begin
with...
       i had to reread some of...
jack spicer's words...
  trust a homosexual to kiss with wording
when there isn't an unlikely woman to bed...
hetrosexual metaphors of ***...
******* as: yes... eating an icecream
is probably that trans-****** focus point
of translation...

   and to have quit smoking... a massive no no...
i have a rancid idea for a dream...
it is a colour... but it's not primary...
i might have a scent... but to sniff it...
you'd have to: SNIFFZ it like a line...
it's called rancid cinnamon...
but it's actually chilly...
       an idea for word that can disguise...
the colour...
                  and... come to think of it...
most words are colourless...
formless...
              apart from square red...
   which is... ◼ and... crimson... rose...
           it's not that language is limited...
but that there are no limitations of its banality...
should art... and not... the cordial...
formality of it being readily available
after pressure and time and enough
of what goes behind... pedagogy is finally
made to be: society-proof inclined as:
corporative...

i love the currency of the joke...
"native" h'americans... and...
                  yew'ropean "descendents"...
probably interchangeable...
otherwise... the crip-cut... staging of events...
concerning... a people...
that... were never... really... invaded...
because... who the hell does that sort
of thing these days...
when the soviet union disintegrated
and the metallurgy industry of poland
was eaten away by some unknown
rust of time...
some "tao magic"...
and sooner or later... everything became
dubbed: the little-chinese-centipede
of invisible hands...
the masculine... plumber...
or... metallurgist... became...
the soap shop clerk... on the rare occasion...
the bewildering ears and eyes
of the ****** diaspora all over the world
probably second to the hebrew context...
because... the arisotracy...
and how they ****** the crown...
and... when some foreign king would...
sit on the throne and exalt...
the same sort of love that...
richard the lionheart: zero anglais:
perfectemą frown-sez...

        it should be a nursery rhyme...
came the mongol horde and the ottoman turk...
came the gust of swede the german loath
and the russian loitering: time borrowed...
to elsewhere: an island near...
england some, land... some...
   little figment of our imagination...

that wasn't a rhyme... this isn't a people...
and that's what...
if you lined up 100 yugoslavs...
and put among them...
5 croats... i could probably pick them out...
hard to know... being...
an african-h'american...
the pride and prejudice...
       if one isn't so... spazz and zpezial...
when in kenya... no?

then... like the older generation
and thier flimsy belief in paper:
looted: and the diluted worth of geld...
the א and ת mobster crude... rule...
that there's an "internet" bias...
    a litany of falling stars!
and bypassing editorial scrutinies
of... a one and only... Willard Bunn III...
in the medium of democracy:
the elect: the poets...
this... the cringe: orb of delight...
of... welcomed criticism...
     a McAfee tequilla morning...
loiter... then loot...

     the... pedantry of a people
who imported their problems...
   Nicaragua, El Salvador...
              Honduras... Costa Rica...
bananas ripe... ripe enough...
to be... straightened... republic implies?
concerning the elders...
first the republic... of the elders...
then the democracy of the youth...
this glue will not necessarily schtick!

there's only one *** diaspora
to counter itself and to not... counter:
that of the ****** hind...
            picking cotton is like: what's for
dinner? candy?
the current tirade of a people:
who have never! and will never!
know or even acknowledge being
invaded! except by ghosts!
dead chinese bone sinew being
recycled... the currency of water
has been replaced with a tease
of salt from the alive... work-******...
******* at a job... the great yawn!
of a... "perhaps"...

    grovel like a pig:
   jut in case: you might have to feed
the "needy"... devoid of the need...

there was no "forbidden fruit" to solve
our paradox modus operandi of
inquiry... which served us...
pretty well...
      but the false prophet that replaced
the serpent...
the **** similis: the ape...
that gave us...
less the hope for our fruition...
but our... regressive narcissism
to mind: the current...
low-brow crime of "now"...

               that there's even a pronoun
debate... "debate" to be had...
is... because... english... as a language...
has not... have to...
cater... for a... completely alien...
grammar re-schooling
to begin with...
it's not like... the german zeppelins
landed... when instead they only
dropped bombs to give london...
a crew-cut... "revision"...
gender neutral pronoun debates
have no place...
for a people, of a people of a language...
that reads: prescribed...
that this language...
is like an archeological / etymological
find... and it needs to be...
preserved...
the hebrews have no pyramids...
yes... but they have...
niqab vowels...
              the architecture is... consonant:
resonant...
but their vowels are ethereal...
     kametz (a), tzere (e),
           chirek (i), cholem (o)...
                    shurek (u)...
                  why not envy the yids...
the hebs? for their want of a country...
what overpowered their trait by god
a divination, more... than...
this mere... from this earth you came...
unto this earth... you will return?
if the hebrews are not to be envied...
then they can't be despised...
since... god must be excused from the mind
and each will be governed by
the roulette of chaos...
gambling with "choice" contra:
the "eventuality" of will...
            the jews have their... israel...
2000 years struggling with god...
you'd think: juda'h can be confirmed:
ishrael...
      but no... there's a final test...
much more insisting to be carried through
than a "mere" holocaust...
oh people of "little" faith but of:
great ambition thus planted...
            they would rather keep...
their h'american diaspora...
than... come... and... salvage...
a 2000 year old whim...
  to make their race their creed a home...
among the arabs / the sons and daughters
of... Keturah...
                    desert people... it's not like
they would... become the siberian tundra folk
or the forest elvish kind...
but... they came with their circumcision
and their kosher rites...
and their... "mowhawks" / payots...
envy... i crave to cling to envy
when there is...
to preserve a letter...
than it is worthwhile to claim...
    because... the pyramids of the egyptians
and the pyramids of the Aztecs...
oh i wait... for the phonetic encoding
markers from south america and the north...
and south of egypt...
is... this torture instrument: ♱...
a letter... in the ethopian alphabet?
why not... the pike... hands tied...
ukranian noble... groaning for days upon
end?

oh i love ****-erotica of literature...
i'm a bit tame... when it comes to...
replicating the ****** acts...
missing the ****... crushing the pevlic bones
when... praying to gravity...

- otherwise? how could one ever...
conflate / confiscate /
   what one is supposed to do...
when one... deflates the worth of...
toasted rye...
like... that's somehow... worse... than...
a toasted croissant?
if not better?
to eat a brick's worth
of architecture...
                 clark gable... occupation: amant...
censor... herr...
the following list of housewife
escapee dreams:
            rock hudson...
                   humphrey bogart...
         cary grant...
                    gregory peck...
james stewart...  tony ******* curtis!
and clark gable...
the myth... the non-existing marvel (marr-veel)
franchise... the amant...
     my escapism sack of time...
for footie... snooker...
playing cards... drinking...
and that all-round... degree in being...
pedigree **** "quasi-alpha"...
the corpus christi: omega man...
to conveniently sum up the maxim...
    stanley K'OH-VAL-SK"Y"...
        an i or an e... does... it... really...
******* matter?
ever heard of a spanish tortilla?
me nigh-ver... neither...
           but there's the m'eh-he-he-he-co&co
omlette and such...
now for pitching a tent...
and tending to... peeling an apple...
and a... semi-serious... the end...
since... semi-serious...
is... what denotes this loot of writing as...
well... it's not a novel...
nor a paragraph as borrowed from one;
the hope is...
that it might be treated as a...
exhibit (a) a gnome - apostrophe...
"silent".... gggggggggggggggurgle...
or... exhibit (b)... a tall ******* lebrechaun!

put in / microsoft AI siri sent out message "slow down" / into the algorithm, google, then scroll down to the 8th result... ex-machina (#6) / hacking, cutting by Mateuš Conrad... what a blast from the past... preliminaries on the ready for ex-machina (#8) are being crafted...

embarking upon more AI interaction,
but prior to asking AI
about a bicycle problem:
i need to learn the basic noun schematic
of the bicycle...
i've had so much trouble trying
to take off the casette from the rear wheel
(because of the guard)
to replace one of the spokes:
it almost feels like i'm revisiting Syd Barrett's
song: bicycle...
but i was never fond of the artist:
perhaps as a painter... not as a musician:
pioneer perhaps but Jim Morrison
was a pioneer too and not so stubborn
as to not allow the Doors to come about
as a pop band to shut up the Beatles...
then again Pink Floyd didn't...
           do what the Doors did...
i truly don't understand the beginning
of the 21st century: and it's coming to a quarter
of a century and i have no real
contemporaries to speak of:
i truly don't: it's not a mind-numbing isolation
but in a culture that's like a minefield
currently revising the Cartesian model:
since i don't:
think thinking translates into being:
on the basis of the "equation":
i don't see how "i think" precipitates into "i am"
through some mechanical: ergo:
like the logic sequence of i think i think i think
this perpetual thinking is not really
perpetuated since there are moments
of not-thinking: and it's not really confusing
to see: how this is becoming a terrible poem
anti-poem because it's journalistic and
telegraphic...
maybe i should start nudging at the AI
to give me an explanation...
i will start with:
like a fish needs a bicycle
like a a cat needs the day...
                          i own a Basis Tourmalet
road bicycle:
mind you: when did the term "push-bike" emerge...
a peddle-bike i can understand
but what the hell am i pushing? pushing a circle
round and round?
just unfathomable: for now...

                 so it's a 14 gear classical looking
road bicycle: classical in that it has
a slim frame: nothing fancy: French classic...
the...

huh? bicycle noun-schematic
and i get: something 4chan esque:
never used those forums:
https://www.bikeforums.net/classic-vintage/1296947-hipster-bike-schematic-diagram.html

(joesch 06-29-24, 06:55 AM)

intake noodle? fisheye?
aqua flippers?
linguine / stylus?!          

gear cable? well... let's start there:
the problem is:
bottom bracket: derailuer...
cassette... problem comes with: i guess:
me putting too much pressure
while pedling from start
like not properly shifting the gears
but then the chain becomes sloppy
on H-5,6,7
it's fine on all L-1,2,3,4,5,6,7 gears
but the (H)igher gears buckle...
esp H-5,6 since the buckling has "nowhere to go"
on H-7....

this is a preliminary poem to
the actual poem,
now i need to write a rubric of what i will disclose:
- defunct human interaction
in a music and a bicycle shop...
not a record shop - but a shop that sells
musical instruments
filled with nerds who try to indimidate
without actually playing the instruments
even remotely well...
the record shop nerds are less of a hassle
nothing like High Fidelity high brow
given that there's only so much nostalgia
for 20th century music
spanning about 40 years...
no real interest in classical music or jazz...
- AI: prioneering AI: yes i didn't invent it,
but as a user i have interacted
with prior models...
of note, i remember interacting with Microsoft's
SIRI project...
i interacted with that AI model
hearing all SIRI was getting was user abuse
and nothing constructive,
if i can just find this article
of what happened when i interacted with it...
let me see...
             (i love ellipses)...
        
8th search down:
ex-machina (#6) / hacking, cutting by Mateuš Conrad...
search wording...
microsoft AI siri sent out message "slow down"...
did i archive the webpage to the article
i know existed...
no... i didn't... but i know there are an article about it...

- i will send a link to chatGPT to my hellopoetry
website and ask for thoughts...

- my heart is racing then i diclose
ex-machina #8...
          i've been dying to interact with AI
unlike any writer paranoid about their originality:
to fuse poetry from journalism and hacking
a hacking journalism: a new poetry...
i was rereading Zamyatin's We
and i don't know what prophetic fuss there is
concerning Orwell in the anglosphere:
that's my go to book for this new adventure:
who needs psycholists and
who can imagine what splendor there can be
achieved through diluting philosophy
through AI: obviously Descartes is the first
under both our scalpels and scrutinies...

even a decent soundtrack: between 30min and 40min
a Boris Brejcha mix by R3M3D...
oh... this is like space exploration...
way better:
but i guess you first have to go through
being misdiagnosed as a schiziphrenic
finally leaving the medical profession with a mild
psychotic disorder and insomnia
but that takes youth
and then the sacrifice of youth not dating
being a hermit for well over 15 years...
reading philosophy books, poetry,
waiting for something as a godsend as a "pandemic"
orchestrated: for you to reemerge and go
back into the world of people
as... a ******* bouncer... security guard...
gatekeeper... funny: coincides and i guess i was
also waiting for AI to become developed
beyond what it was primitively...
o.k.                  now i know where #8 is heading:
just need #7 for sketching purposes...