Shon Goku Setsu, cleanly translated
Means "The Wrath of the Raging Demon"
I happen to have one following me
And much like a corrupt politician, it's constantly schemin

Some days I awake with a spring in my step
Others I have to force myself up
Some days I want to drink all life has to offer
Some days I can't even lift up the cup

I'm sick of being miserable! I'm sick of writing about it!
DA-N IT DEMON I HAVE DREAMS TO CHASE DOWN AND GOALS TO ACCOMPLISH

"Shut up Nero! misery is all you know!"
This demon won't relent, directing me into channeling the Satsui No Hado

Ronald McDoland & cousin Kentucky
had Iraq: ji had ji had ji had e ha e ha e ha oh!
i told you about the heresy of war,
the Soviets are back, success rate
up 1000% from Afghanistan to be the next
Uzbekistan - well, less Mongol tsunami down that
alley; it's still heresy to do puppet upon the head
of former state with oligarch tyrants selling
us bone marrow as meat: Iraqis just said:
let's keep it kosher and local and less global
and less treadmill!

the orb's lost & found song from the dream album is
so hard to follow at first; i only came back for the psychopath
avenue theme tune: ah... ******* ready to depose
Saddam Hussein... but now ******* in their pants to send
soldiers into the land of crucifixions and be-headings?!
how strange the correlation between actual warring
fake pacifism, simulated warfare and excess
theories with atoms but incompetence with
the elements.

i watched democracy fail... the foxes stole nothing,
they stole nothing because they were sloppy!
i thought this while hanging the washing on the line today...
*******... puck-puck-yellow-yanks... larynx by larynx on the tiles...
let's paint it red! spare me Slob Bogdan Maso Kiev Itch...
ah, when it was all under wraps... oh but the western
media are so ******* vociferous for those shady
gamblers known as shareholders, no casino,
just a house in suburbia... wankers... football hooligan me
into acting when it comes to practice!

sho you'sh shoor you'sh want'sh to shoo your shon
to shwastika access on return? me tshinks sho...
Bex is a girl's name Rebecca, we hear more of Bex's
past than anyone's.*

Colonel Kentucky can shove that chicken drumstick
up his **** and sing me a lullaby about his
famous discovery of deep baked **** batter!
crumbs ahoy, aye aye captain, my
stratosphere of anally commanding the first-mate
into coherent motivational propaganda of:
women outside of war will treat the dogs of
howling and barking as companions -
the stresses invigorate... no second chances are given
to buy a ******* toaster or a chimpanzee,
both do tricks, it just depends which one does the trick
quicker - it takes more than just a homelessness
from the realm of the cube to see how many
is an insect although not in an atheistic strict sense
of expressing nihilism: man the disharmonious
swarm can hardly keep queen or king:
unless we all were ****** by the king and unless
we all ****** the queen: insects are strict Martians,
they have no time for concubines or horse races
of football matches, or other coliseum distractions:
unique insecticide of insects against individualism
that's thought in being human so fondly kept
with the pyramid as with a book of some obscure
philosopher championing wear & tear & tatters
looking more for a tailor than a god:
appearances must be kept, after all, so few of us are
prisoners in the bedding chamber of perfect
genetics of post-******, and the dumb neo-****
scapegoats along with Israel are kept being fed
cinnamon sticks laced with sailors' *****
that's nutmeg.
**** you not... ere come the clueless klaxon hakuna
matata bob dylan bums... like two police officers
in reverse of the stereotype: one plays the harmonica
(i.e. can read), another strums the guitar (i.e. can write) -
but we're missing the elephant's
molesters:                          we're missing four of the six,
that's enough for the tetragrammaton verb,
we have the trunk and the leg, that'll do us just fine:
we can just say it's a fire hydrant...

with my new regime i understood the blanket
of un-forgiveness of english teachers,
i exported the idea of haiku to the east and
received the notion of esnō - i said double that
up, thrice it, make the thrice square,
add a hundred ballerina twirls and create
a hurricane from the ensō; what did i
get on my return? hardly a butterfly effect,
i got stenotype, the beheading of
Anne Boleyn - quick like a marriage with a black
widow spider or a mantis: an orphanage on my back...
so many more sperms reach the pyramid end
than in mammals, but look at what the Darwinism
rainbow gave us to feel depressed about...
comparative existentialism to insects, arguments
against parasites... might as well argue about
eating and **** evaporating rather than the pleasure
of faeces squeezing through the **** muscles...
(if you had *******, i'd tell you about the pleasure
of *******, and not needing to bother women
to stretch a muscle that's hardly an oyster of skin,
keep the flowers in Eden of comparisons,
mine ain't beauty, yours' ain't either:
it ain't a flower, it's a seashell protein, thing, the end):
oh yeah, the boys and me were watching salmon
in the school, we were using index and middle fingers
to slingshot shoot the salmon buds to dumb down and
forget feminism and remember the village life...
ha ha... worked like steroids to those fake muscle-heads
when looking at gymnasts and scaffolders:
PUMPIN' IRON PIMPIN' MOLLUSCS!
what a hydrochloric-hydraulic combination to non-grammatical
coordination from (0, 0) to (20 kilometres west,
50 kilometres east) in comparison to an epic literature
output of Russian angst origin in epilepsy shadowed
over by the joy of gambling... i have drinking,
now imagine Halloween on Hawaii.

Your hair stripped of the colour that once was dark as night
Now reflects the years gone by as it's slowly turned to white

Those loving hands that held me and taught me right from wrong
No longer look the same they bend as each new day goes on

Your eyes which did once sparkle like emaralds of green
Look so tired and almost vacant a look I've never seen

Your posture is no longer ,upright standing tall
You move so slow ,I stand behind to catch you if you fall

Your voice a silent whisper
Your memory long but gone
But your heart of love it's never changed
Like a light it's always shon

So many years have passed us by
Now i can clearly see
How the roles have now reversed


You once looked after me

I'm here to show you patience
Tender loving care
Reflecting all that you have shown by always being there
I'm here to tell you thank you
Speaking from a grateful heart
I will be with you until the end
As you've been with me right from the start

Tá tú an réalt ag taitneamh
i mo domhan dorcha

nach bhfuil rud ar bith sa saol seo
Ní ba mhaith liom a dhéanamh ar do shon

Ba mhaith liom dul ar fud an domhain seo
Ba mhaith liom troid ar bith Demon
Má chiallaigh sé tú a choinneáil
ag mo thaobh.

Tá tú mo Shlánaitheoir
Mo shlánú
Mo bheannacht
Ní leor faoi cheilt a dhéanamh mar sin

Is breá liom tú Kaitlyn
le gach snáithín de mo á

Is breá liom tú

There’s a place on 12th and Hawthorne
and one on 12th and Morrison
I want to take you there
and talk about how I care.
we just have to pay the bus fare

it’s just on the 70…
no where near my Kennedy
we’ll walk a couple blocks
it could be more like five
that’s ok we’ll be at high dive

I hope we do see mo.
she’ll be playing sad love ballads.
if we end up seeing shon
we’ll think he’s the Foo fighters lad
then there could be dan.
he’s still trying to be a man.

we’ll walk a few blocks more
there’s an attraction here
it’s called roadside, dear.
we can have a few beers.

we’ll sit on a lovely swing
and I’ll talk about this thing
I want to take you there.
however I’m just too scared.

Say you'll remember me
Even on your darkest days
When you feel I'm drifting away

Say you'll always love me
Whilst I've ran to some place new
Your thoughts of me never blue

Promise me you'll wait
Until I've found myself;
Til I can be 'oneself'

Promise me you will not cry
Even though I'm in pain
Don't bring yourself to shame

I promised you I'd never leave
But now I'm gone
But it's because of you that my spirit shon

I will always love you
Just try to remember
I'll be back with you, every December
                                                       (K R W)

The skilled user of words, the wizard conjurer that provoke your thoughts.          
I ought to be  sentenced to death.    
For an enlightened mind such as mine for the crime of influencing young minds
You see the Government hate visionaries like me, so they call the disciplinary, to disrupt revolutionaries, COINTELPRO, look them up if you don’t know, for all you conspiracy theorist, I am the head of realist ****, shot calling
You might as well call me Shon the abolitionist.
When it comes to such a wicked being such as me, they call to question my thought for knowledge and I tell them
As the practitioner of hard knocks, my quest for power is almost pestilent; people say knowledge is power  
But what they don’t tell you, is power comes from applying the knowledge
To acknowledge the most dangerous man in the room isn’t the man with the gun nor the thirst for power
But the man in the shrouded darkness waiting to pounce, call me Rockefeller and Rothschild.
I am almost out of time but please forgive me, my mind sits in an higher dimension
My mentality is overpriced that’s why the naïve mind is as common as head lice
As I am the sole provider to the zeitgeist.

clothed in what the eye meets
her beauty shon through
the sun dies down at night
but does not replace the moon

pacific in her eyes
beauty in her smile
waiting for the right man
to walk her down the isle

twisted by her imagination
deep thoughts circulate her brain
enclosed by incubation
she could not escape the pain

clothed in what she wants,
tables turned, bridges burned
to except herself
she learned

She used to be whole,
She used to have
Galaxies inside
Her mind and soul.

You could have looked
Into her eyes
And watched the
Stars being born.

Her smile shon
Like the sun.
And her laughter could
Have cured the earth.

But then he came along.
He ignored the universe
Within her,
He covered her smile
Like the clouds cover
The sun on a rainy
Day.

And yet she didn't care.
She didn't care because
He was as wonderful
And as mysterious
As the deepest part
Of the ocean.

He gave her ripples
Of love,  when
She deserved tidal waves.

And instead of creating
Storms for her, he
Created storms to destroy
Her.

it slowly did.
He plucked every
Star out of her soul,
And her smile was
No longer a burning
Flame.

And so she wasn't filled
With galaxies anymore.
The dark matter had
Consumed her
And left her no more.

in the spring
and agave falling
with rain coming in..

my heart a mad thing
light a caste stone
all blue and
emerald green!

i remember the springs
lord in crete
in crete..

ii

when i was young
and awed by nearly
everything
the blasted beat..
my brain a fried egg..

i looked in the mirror
and stared
who the **** was that there..

the blasted heat
the autumn sun
and wind
and i was a beach
***..

in my winter hut
the day a paper´s cut
away fom a soft
blinding night..

iii

when i was young..

iv

small bamboo constructions
right bang next to the surf..
with some red wine..

thus illiminating
the rent man..
stars and the moon..

and phospherous..
i had my guitar
and sang a song..

v

when i was young..

vi
in crete
in spring
is breath taken

from sweet gods
lip..
ambrosia broken..

a flailed heart trip
the blossems and a load
of pure beauty..

in crete
in spring
i found me..

i observed others
do like wise..
they shon and carried on..

in spring
when i was young
played backgammon

and drank cognac
no problem
no problem...






vi

to sail the clipper
the crow´s nest quiver
s in the grey brine

gulls dip their
soaring smiles
lost in mine..

love in horizons
lost in prayer
late too shiver

eyes of god in
bathes my soul
one great river..!

v

one is tired of still wanting to know; one provides oneself only with cognitions and schooling.
                                            heidegger, ponderings iv, aphorism 66.

so much for dropping the ship's (mind's) anchor (the ego)
into the depths of psychology.
              can i give you an orientation of the edinburgh university
campus?
                  there were two... the sciences were on the outskirts,
mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology, zoology,
                                                                near the royal observatory.
so where were *philosophy and psychology placed?
in the centre of town... with all the other humanities...
                                                             history, english... whatever.
minding the above citation, i wonder: are the two stressed
                  disciplines the liberal faction of conservative science?
i prefer the word liberal than, say, the prefixes quasi- or pseudo-,
     now aphorism 72 is a beautiful tartan, patchwork, a knitting project

   the new "logic" is the logic of silence. but it is completely different
in essence and goal from a "logic of semblance".

                the needle in the thread: re-      -semblance:
                    resembling:    to turn semblance: the outward appearance
of something, when the reality is different...
      well...       talking can be a kind of mute button,
       in itself, a silence.           for whatever logic is used in talking,
         it can never actually be a coherent "logic", akin to
                                          the logic of "silence" - which is thought,
              and beyond the need for conversation / discourse / dialectics;
i.e. it's actually the oldest possible logic conjured -
                                  the pre-socratic philosophers knew this,
in line with:                        i know nothing... let's chat!
   just a minute, let me bring 2 litres of water, and perhaps a few beers,
                                               or maybe just the beers.

so what is this bothersome cloud of mosquitos, that aim at draining
breath, drinking too much blood to clear their "throats",
and argue the importance of: con-ver-say-shon?
      ****! where did τ (tau) and ι (iota) ******* to? mt. etna? tibet?

i will be rude, i was watching the news yesterday, and this thing
about prescribing 6 year olds a.d.h.d. medication came up...
      what a zombified kid... god almighty... what are these parents
doing? the kid's brain will only fully develop when he reaches
the zenith post-teenager years...
                      ah... matriarchy in full swing...
                                                     didn't learn to play,
   any woman he meets in later life will play the little ****** like
a violin... and he'll be like: if i were rich man, ya ba di di di di da...
  and didn't have to pay alimony, or child support.

A one hit wonder
A single rhyme all that he could create
History, a golden oldie, fossilized and lost in the muddy mires of mimic  

His yearn for praise waltzed over the staves
His strive for applause dropped black notes barre for barre

The rhythm of his heartbeat on percussion
Soul humming the melody
Blood and sweat running over his Martin acoustic's strings

He gave his best, he gave his all
Wonder, did you perhaps give too much?
The notes echo continually on my playlist
But his name fades with every tick of the clock

A bright white-hot flame
That shon too bright to last
Burned the remaining sheet music in the fire

'Where is he now?' I wonder
'Where is he now?'
Where are you now, Wonder?
Where are you now?

certain words just sound better in
my mutter'zunge...

  zakuć, zdać, zapomnieć...

i don't know how i came across
a band like lao che...
but i have...

       and each word in my native
shadow: is prickly,
   i ***** up my ears and...
expand the word
to more than just information,
meaning,
   it becomes a: sensation,
an emotional translation
that can occupy the time-frame
of at least 10 minutes
of... meditation...

rivet, pass, forget...
   the general tendency of
those subject to late pedagogy
of the system of schooling...

one of the few joys of having
integrated into an english
society,
  while retaining your given
tongue,
  you can "suddenly" turn
around, and lapse into admiration...

nation,
            becomes naród...
          the same emphasis
is shared with the germans:
                             geblüt...
but i like this word:

    czołg -
i could be listening to that song
by asian dub foundation
    tank...

            then i'd rewrite it phonetically
and it would almost look welsh:

                        chowg...

this whole elaborate linguistic
ˈnāSHən...
                              ə'h?
   how about nai-shon?
                    nay-shon?
                 inToned,
i figured just as much:
                    the american
variation
                    [ney-shuh n]
maybe next time:
   i'll write like so:
    inVoke...
                the burs'Ting
                                   of the Yoke...

but clearly Timing,
   but clearly TiTillaTing...
              no wonder i wrote everything
in lower-case,
   to observe the "holy ground"
of limiTing expectations...

N'AH-NOTION...
        nay-shoo-shoo'n;

we can play this game all day long,
i'm not planning to have
children,
   so these subject matters are
truly up my alley of
filling up the void of the passage
of time...
                   grammar ****
               turned pedantry "artist"...

somehow literacy came about
so easily,
everyone was given access to it,
but, some of us,
who would extract from the rules,
a higher tier of observation
had to be denigrated
    to the beginner's tier of
       application and experience...

i can't write emoji "language"
                to save my language -

that's what i love about the english
language,
    it has lingua franca
universal aspects,
   but then it is so ******* particular,
i have to use lewd language
at this point,
   simply because it's so ******
entertaining...

   on the one hand,
i speak a language that has orthographic
rules /
                         standards...
a language that can also
boast a clarity of syllables...
and on the other hand...
  i have a language
            that doesn't employ
any concern for orthography,
given it doesn't employ diacritical
standards...
   and some of its natives
are dyslexic...

               i'm not laughing
at the dyslexics,
   i'm laughing at the ontology of
the english language itself,
   it's so dandy sometimes...
i mean:
         it's like owning a computer
in the 1990s...
they never came with
an instruction manual...
           you had to self-learn
how to use it...
            even now:
there's no instruction manual...
power: word of mouth...
    
      like with facebook...
it was never advertised...
   until recently...
    so i learned about the site
via the word of mouth
of college students...
i thought it was legit.,
  so now i know that there
are two variats
of employing advertisement...
(a) expansion
   (b) collateral damage
             protection...
i bring facebook up,
because i'm don't have the willing
energy to occupy a spiderweb
of social media accounts...
reckless...
   sure...
               but outside of the anglophonic
sphere of things?
i mentioned minds and gab
to a greek guy who was visiting
Varshava,
   who asked to network...
well...
outside of the anglophonic theatre
of interactions on the internet?
  
            it's only the anglophonic
world, bubbled...
               TiTillaTing
                      (i know
          that there's a Y
    in there -
                            Ti-Ti-llaY-Ting)

english is such an idiosyncratic lanaguage,
sure, it's indebted to individualistically
minded individuals of the past,
    but there comes a time
when the language becomes
   a s.a.i.c. (simulated artificial intelligence
canvas) - for someone like me,
just another random ******
                         to discover and use...
            
mind you: i hear but one particular
word in my native western slavic,
   and that will last me about an hour's
worth of thinking about it,
and its translation,
   and how it can look
in competing phonetic encodings...
eh, the orthodox encoding
of spelling is but one tier,
of where this can lead me to.

- don't get me started about
the branching off of this language...
          customs and
    what isn't wrong about being
honest while drinking a bottle
of whiskey...
    there's always death
      or dementia aged 80
to look forward...
   waiting for death,
the antithesis of climbing a mountain?
i get goosebumps on my *****
every time i think about this
voyage,
   unlike some atheistic materialist...
that's just boring...
   and that doesn't imply
        a heaven, or a hell...
it just implies:
   what the dead know,
the living will only speculate about...
death, only very briefly,
    interferes with the day-to-day
of the living...
                the living are busy living,
the dead?
     well...
    how could a schizophrenic mind
be infiltrated by auditory
hallucinations?
   esp. when they are not
negative,
            are not worth considering
the shrapnel of one's former
                                              intact ego?

chancing to catch them while
you're young,
    and not subject to the scrutiny of old
age... and a general laziness
of the hands...
   with only one intention:
to alleviate the symptoms...
now... catch a premature case,
and a curious young mind?
    well... ****...
   you get a narrative akin to this!

In his retirement, the
Lone Ranger decided
to learn Choctaw the
language of Tonto.

To his shock & horror
he was to discover that
Kemo Sabe actually
meant " Kiss my *** ".

Last December, I had
a glitter card with a
Donkey, in Irish that
said, " Pog mo Shon ".

Seems to me that nearly
everyone has lost the
spirit, this year I got one,
abbreviated, " X M A S ".