what a ****-pile of ******* (petition rendered
on the hyphenated word compound
i wanted to correct- yeah, all the dudes can hide,
i tried the Oxford crew, but instead
i just got American  colonialism:
the part where you say: i said the funnier joke,
therefore i'm funnier,
TEAM U.S.A.! yeah! **** yeah! let's keep it as
just that... TEAM U.S.A. GO!
we're aiming for sushi right now...
and i love the fact that Green Day's
when September ends is a sidelining the 9/11,
ever you mind dialling 911...
oh, because i was the fascist, tell that to your mother
when baking bagels, ****...
i don't like the way poetry
tries to incubate violence as the non-existence of,
i hate that poetry is written by *******...
i ******* hate these goody-two-shoes more
than i'd care to think abut ******,
who will, given enough time,
become a fetish subject for historians when
we reach a historical threshold,
give it 1000 years he's be a mythological Barbarossa...
that's what i said about him not being
a unicorn.... give it 1000 years and he'll end up
being a hero, just before the
historians make a fetish out of them like they did
with Genghis Khan...
they'll talk about the autobahn before they
speak of the holocaust and constructing Israel,
which we are assured, by fake-socialists
taking on communism by sitting on a train floor...
if that guy Corbyn is a socialist then i'm Comrade
Mao... you never experienced socialism,
i hardly think you're able, like you
said that former feudal made communist
factions were predestined failures of capitalism...
i know you'll fail being communists,
the Chinese are in charge...
you, aren't, going, anywhere!
yeah, believe the socialist sitting on the train floor...
that ******* comes last...
and don't try that fascist tactic for me ti speak clean...
i'm not going to speak with the everyday citizens' speech
talking to the queen... no, i flap the tongue
you provide the wind and the winding,
schooling in over, so is shooing into lining up...
page 64 of Valis:
either knowledge through the sense organs and
is noun-categorised (some say called)
empirical knowledge, or it's arises within your head
and it's called a priori -
i don't see a problem? do you? well...
isn't a posteriori dismissive of empiricism?
to reach a posteriori knowledge you have to dismiss
empirical involvement... also to mind:
there are aren't any sense organs as such.... i'd like
to thin there are... but deaf people wouldn't consider
their ears to be organs, they're still using sign language
and continue living, neither are eyes organs
given Braille... Philip K. **** had more insight on Kant
high on amphetamines than Hegel ever did...
the basic implant? God... a few people
have escaped the a priori and a posteriori argument
for God, most were seduced by atheism
trying to relieve themselves of the argument being
argued let alone argued for a non-existence of such being,
arguing alone proved the argument to be fallacy riddled,
i.e. / as in: it was argued in the first place... for no reason...
i mean we're talking mutation:
how to mutate a priori hexagonal
               through the empirical medium pentagonal
into a posteriori hex once more...
                   the problem is searching for God in
the medium, the Cartesian substance,
the trial and error coin-flip, empiricism isn't about that,
empiricism is about the necessity of error,
i'm bothered about whether God was implanted
in us as necessarily, or whether he emerged to our
a priori mind from the medium of empiricism -
i call that a Darwinian fallacy, i don't think
the human brain can consolidate a harmonious
coexistence with self-belief and being a Buddhist...
the foremost concern is not whether:
god created man, or whether man created god...
we're talking whether the two ever coincided with
needing proof...
                               obviously not.
that part about being a Buddhist? that's shrapnel...
most of us have so much self-belief that we become
eager labourers, and hardly complain,
because the billionaires have ferrets for a haircut.
but as i said, the easiest, aphorism type of reading
Kant doesn't come from Nietzsche, it actually
comes from Philip K. **** in the bookValis...
empiricism was always going to be a watery product,
rigging scientific results, i mean lying about the results
would end up diluting a bottle of whiskey so it looked
like beer and tasted like a 20% voltage on the tongue
pallet: hardly numbing.
so the three tiers: one before, one intermediately,
and one after...
                           how a hexagon passes
through a pentagon and remains a hexagon...
or how a hexagon passes through a pentagon and ends
up a pentagon....
or how a pentagon passes through a pentagon
and ends up a hexagon...
                                             or more simply?
Bleep Beers... or Bibi (when you say b b and then add the
ee, umlaut arithmetic to double up on) -
no, i don't place my belief in the existence of god
from an a priori suggestion, as if i was to invent it...
to later discredit such a belief with a well argued augmentation
from the inheritance to later dispose of such an argument
in the charity shop of the a posteori stance...
that wouldn't excuse or explain the religious inheritance
of the Kippah or the Hijab...
who would be dumb enough to originate having to wear
a Hijab from not having experienced some sort
of necessity of divination? they would have had too experienced
something outer-worldly... god is too ridiculous to
be an a priori or an a posteriori concept...
but he's just ridiculously worthwhile the unifying
concept of phenomenology in that grand empirical theatre...
which means only one thing... our caving in and mining
god in the realm of the a priori is yet another
reality check -
                         summary:
i'm still bothered why not affiliating the hyphen to that
letter will make not meaningful reference, i.e.:
a-        (without)
                                   which means, a priori
(without a prior / without a beginning)
                       which means, a posteriori
           (without an after, without an end) -
it doesn't mean whether you have god as an implant,
whether you get rid of the implant
after experiencing the empirical medium,
you'll nonetheless experience the medium of the pentagon,
establish that sense-organs are not really organs,
because classifying something as an organic makes
life essentially a continuum, but blind men live long
after the eyes are gone...
                    i'm just saying that god as an idea
is hardly a worthy unit, which ideas are, concentrated
thoughts that cannot align themselves to either
telepathy or narration... they're immovable...
unshaken, undisturbed...
i'm just saying we're too intelligent to seek god
in the a priori realm or the a posteriori realm of things...
we were not actually ever going to find him
on the shores of Ireland or Florida...
it's not that ridiculous to find him on the Atlantic...
he's quantum physics after all, pocket presence...
isolated proof... never a collectivisation to enable
politicised coherence... it's a quantum experience,
a quantum experience that without atoms
gets so much stigmatisation as Judaism proves;
the mock-joke of Moses rummaging realities rather than
reality in the desert to the count of 40 years...
yeah... and later the idea of the multiverse...
that's not funny mate... it's horrid...
but there you are safe in democracy... but you're
used to reading the media outlets citing child abuse...
well... what are we missing? APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!
ENCORE!

Marooned within a span of finitude
We claim we are lost forever!
Our hearts beat violently inside our rib cages,
Trying to tell us truths that we brush off as myths.
We paint our houses and bodies with brilliant colours and darkest inks,
Hoping that it would make up for the ugliness we harbour!
We spin fantasies locked up in self-made prison cells,
Sidelining the hideous realities as not part of 'our story'...
We carry our vulnerabilities as a taboo,
(I, sadly, would not blame each one separately for it)
We have woven this illusion together with our cloudy minds.
If a bird could judge high from the sky
It would have made out the fragmentary lives we live in...
Inside a single fortress surrounded by high walls, yet violence if we traverse the margin between two rooms!
If and only if, we would have understood that it doesn't require too much a sacrifice to unite
That we can leave our homes simply plastered and our minds simply open.
Urged by a force to change, if only we had exposed ourselves to paint graffiti on that common wall that surrounds us,
Splashing ingenious shades of love and brotherhood,
Of a fluttering feeling of oneness and entanglement.
We would have laughed together, danced with glee and holding our hands together we would have escaped unto a better reality...
If only it was true, I wonder
How spectacular a place the world would have been !

You didn't learn from Reagan
You didn't learn from Dubya
And you will not learn from Trump
And his minions and what have you.
Instead, like  a drunken *****
You search for some magic pill
That we can take and instantly
Cure all our country’s various ills.

You let in a multiple bankrupter
Then call him economic genius.
You ignored all his many sins,
You labeled the villain mischievous.
You joined in on the scary throng
Of misguided and rented people who
Bought that the best candidate
With experience was totally wrong.

Picking the flashy sideshow MAN
With all his flash was just human
But there really was no intelligence
In sidelining a talented woman.
They made a tiny side issue
A hyper-important kind of thing
When all the RepublCAN’TS wanted
Was to hear the sound “KACHING”

The biggest tragedy in the tale
Remains what is happening to us
Because quietly and continuously
And without that much fuss
Republicrooks are pilfering
The rights that used to be yours
While you chant slogans and *****
And blame it all on Obama of course.

Beginning to think is beginning to be "undermined"
To take the final flight, away from light
Into the dark environs of one’s state of mind

Just a careful analysis of letdowns or mere trickeries of deceiving soul
What sets off the crisis is almost always unverifiable?

An act like this is decreed upon within the silence of the heart.
As if a great work of art.

Sidelining hopes for a better tomorrow,
the man prefers a fatal evasion

Powerless to realize the transcendent,
Incapable of exhuming the depth of experience

The man deify what crushes him,
depriving him forever from the divine existence
Sacrificing his intellect, the believer immerses within darkness
In his failure, the believer finds triumph

The prime seat in its own colour decked with gems,
The scepter at the right and the scroll at the left,
The carpet in the front and the beauties at the back,
The whole of the seat, surrounded by minions,
Under the roof of luxury and manipulation:
Airplanes across nations; military fascination;
Self-styled profile; Cakewalk attires;
No cost hospitals; sheathed in ‘Black Cats’;
Floating in dream cars; pocketful currency;
Illegality against law; Cosmetic actors;
Pen in the right hand, eraser in the left hand;
Lying against truth; falsifying reality;
Kicking the ignorant citizens with empty schemes;
Fanaticism against patriotism;
Skilled in Disguise Show; Crafty-minded in bargaining;
Sellers and vendors of nations’ legitimacy;
Eating the simple pie of the poor, hugging the corporates;
Terrorizing the supporters of nations;
Dwindling the economy of nations;
Building weapons and Bio tools;
Tarnishing the reality with paradoxical episodes;
Bullet trains through the veins of the ignorant citizens;
Building aristocratic bonds among infamous showcases;
Sidelining the needs of the needy; amassing wealth for families;
Of all deeds of negativity, there is one left,
And that is self-justification of all deeds,
For the seat of Power in its own colour decked with gems,
The scepter at the right and the scroll at the left,
The carpet in the front and the beauties at the back,
The whole of the seat, surrounded by minions,
Under the roof of luxury and manipulation.
So I sought and seek Power.

i can usually feel it coming,
a bit like watching a glass being filled
with the usual contenders for my mind...
but at the same time,
i write from within the prompt
of memory...
   this bulgarian *******
with a tattoo on he shoulder blade...
and her words:
- you haven't changed!
and then she enters a realm of tears...
and i just have to stop doing
what i'm going, and think to myself:
what change is there to speak of?

to write poetry, is narrate: proper -
in the proper sense of the term
that is... to somehow become
         the central figure in the story...
       for numbing the current affairs
of narrators...
how predictable with their
she said* / he said "events" -
         that generic style of inviting
characters...
    isn't that the basis of "good literature"?
that the narrator is mundane,
and that the characters are peacock supreme?
well...
               strip away the fluidity of
literary fluidity within the mundane:
god is very much like this -
      he narrates like a boring sog...
but then exfoliates with the bards akin
to shakespeare -
                 to finally rest
among the poets -
      and yes: rhyming is cheap poetry,
to stress rhyme
   is like reading a tabloid newsopaper!

poets require no need for puppets...
     they move via the chasms of
historical figures, unable to express
a will of confiscation -
of all the literary mediums,
all high school students are put-off
the art, because it is under a surgical
scalpel of investigation!
            it's borderline with the schooling
of linguistic precision...
        i can't see as to why there is no
guarding motto for poetic expression -
             a string of words that can
protect it from certain enemies it seems
to have conjured to defy and redefine it
as a useless art form:

    or one that can be at least treated
with contempt,
disdain,       ridicule.

poetry is, after all: a constantly revived
theory of written tongue -
short, sweet, i gather, esp. given the oriental
haiku: barren for a year,
                 succinct for under a minute:
surely we can add this to the times:
years, days, hours, minutes, syllables, seconds...
are we not implied in realm of
        the space-time parabolla to say so?

poets become anemic when trying to conjure
characters,
   the he said / she said architecture of a novel,
what with the anti-irish / anti-polish
loss of immediately talking,
   not abusing the ditto markings "
   but instead implying the swift winds
   (a conversation in ulysses looks like this,
  jimmy and paddy talking respectively):
- toad's a two day bargain.
- aye! and a claim tow two weeks
                       of *****!
- aye!
    poets don't really need puppets,
          the poetic "narrative" is always
necessarily non-descriptive -
             do we really describe within the framework
of: a matter of fact?
   no! the landscape is always a view
of a metaphor!
                        but poets are
puritan narrators... in that:
        it's very hard to conjure up characters...
the self-invited fascination with
  the barren-wasteland of fictional narrators
is what pushes us...
        no, it's no longer a concern
for song...
                          as to be sung
given the exfoliation of black (classical) jazz
and white (classical) classical -
               not so much the pivoting
on a word, but merely psyche...
                  ars poetica est ars narratio:
mind you,
   a cohesive narratives takes time to
be established into something akin
to the bros. grimm, or a h. c. andersen -

why wouldn't stephenie meyer
cite the poet-general moses in her first
book twilight from the book of genesis?

we're a multitude of narrators -
  only because poets cannot conjure
the bland narrator -
  and the supra-human characters!

i can't become a bland scribbler of
the descriptive method, i can't play chess
or draft puppets within a bland
narrative...
            that's ******* excruciating!
i'd rather run a marathon!
  and believe me: i have been wondering
about this for a long time: give or take
10 years (and counting) -
  
i simply can't forsake my mono-presence
(alone), and become some omnipotent
omnipresent (etc.) ******:
i can entertain a self-voyeurism,
but to invent characters i can manage
like puppets, or chess pieces?
     i have an ****** inability to perform
such feats!

let's just say: i an entertain the idea of
missing characters and plots -
   but i can't entertain the idea of a nullifyingly
boring narrator
   that requires prompts for character
study, ending with a mouth piece
and the need to state a:          he / she said.

no narrator ever becomes self-conscious
either...
               not like this they don't:
to me fictional literature is nothing but an
exfoliation of the bardic tradition -
beyond the obvious mouths and limbs
of the theatre...
   and why wouldn't i be critical?
            of the entire content of a novel,
how much is actually worth a cinematic /
memorable application of, regarding
the digested content?
            
                           i'll be kind: i'd say a third;

and this has bothered me:
   what is the worth of narration
           in literature of imposed fiction?

funny that, sidelining the question:
there is more truth in fiction than in
real life...
     people will always believe in fiction
than in what a heinrich harrer
wrote about his seven years in tibet -
maybe that's why poetry is so vilivied
and how poetry is only read by
poets...
                    maybe real life truly is
so mundane, that for nature to fill the vacuum
of the everyday mediocre,
poetry had to be born?

              hard time explaining homer though;
i hardly think that life in that aeon
was boring...
      only that:
  as life moved us to the present -
we have the exact mirror before us -
  that mediocre times, breed mediocre poetry...

in summary?

                         i rather see poetry as a mirror -
          upon the blank slate of a self-imposing-defeat,
with my words: like contortions of my face -
   telling me, of beauty, disgust...
              fear...
                              and ******* on lemons.

Singe me song, serenade me
Don't bring me flowers though, I don't like plucked flowers
Let it be, just let it bloom
Inspire me, be my muse
Looking for a muse, aren’t we all?

I've been without it for some time now
Oh, when I say time, I say three decades
That many years to meet my muse
It's been a long time coming

Now let me savour you
butter scotch smooth
Allured, ofcourse I am
Drawn to you, yes
Sidelining priorities, yes

The sweet distraction, you are, to deafen the noise around
The onslaught of the 'Rush', the Inflation, the confusion, the instability
Expectations and constant ask of 'When do you leave
to breathe in the air of the outside and seek greener pasture?’

Looking to the far of island to find their lost goals, aren’t we all?
I think I've made a decision too, with the little yes that I said
With no substance in my heart to support my resolution

Distraction, yes you are, to medicate the overwhelming,
And an appetite to procrastinating mind and an aimlessness soul

I keep the trading sleep with exhaustion
And the drunken haze

The musings though, however strong in the moment
Runs out leaving you with the bare minimum to fuel through
Frozen
Leaving me unable to move an inch
Stumbling and crumbling
With not much to hold
Its only me to lift myself up

All the time and effort given to all kinds,
Why now show some kindness to myself  
It’s been a long time coming to be my own muse
This is to me, the muse I was always looking for.

part of me always acknowledges
the fact of:
        i never really noticed
"the" architecture -
    or whatever was northern
american looking "back" at the "old"
continent...
              what do europeans owe
the north americans?
     apart from bombast and
                    cruxes of demanding
pornographic importance?
                             sidelining impotence?
            apricots?
can i be the first to say that i:
can't be bothered by the cockalorum -
of a continent morphing
into an island...
                            sure as ****,
the north americans invented
the serial killer...
  sure as **** we owe the north
americans the serial killer...
               and if that's about it:
  my my, am i not glad to recite an
adieu, and... bon fortuna:
   gut vermögen -
                     sláinte!                              skål!

Introduced to a sport
Watching from the aisles
All time greats
Accomplished great feats

Wanting to emulate
Dreams to translate
Started to play
Future in front lay

National Champion the coach
Thought the basics and approach
Attended the sessions
The road to hell
Is paved with good intentions

Enrolled at the club
In the local neighborhood
Coaching sessions complimented
With hours long practice sessions

Involved as a player
8 years at a stretch
Never let a day pass
Practice or coaching class
Without my attendance marked
Interest in the Sport
Gave me that record

Coach a legend
Of the older generation
Had a lot to offer
In the form of orientation

Practice at the club
Simultaneously with the help
Fellow players of the same caliber
Were mentally made of the same fiber

The sport was booming
In the school I was studying
The Vice Principal was coaching
A great team was in the making

Upset that I was training
Rejecting the mentoring
That he was offering
In spite of me undergoing my schooling
Began the process of sidelining

Did the scoring
Entire week with rounds progressing
Unaware that it was degrading
By the best Umpire award rewarding
My career as a player was near ending

Played every tournament progress non existent
Game remained stagnant
Winning one round extravagant

Years in circuit
No results to show
Loss in the 1st round
Became a rule of the thumb

Every loss confidence reduced
The very thing I hoped the game induced
Years later left me confused
Season after season
No results produced

Learning and practice
Always remained a novice
Loosing matches a practice
After the loss
Getting back home the only focus

A joke amongst players
Different clubs and layers
Beaten on the table
Reflected what I was capable

No excuse for Loosing
No one even suggesting
Rubbers & wood for changing
All alone left there hanging

Not able to win
Almost became a sin
Same results repeating
Got me thinking

Those who were playing
At my outcome laughing
Time to leave the shoes hanging
Where my thinking was heading

Blind without my glasses
Taking them away
Before my matches
Even after refree announces
Pleading with them
Made it torturous

No value added
Self only saddened
By what has happened
Even in dreams had not fathomed

In a dead end
Results remained consistent
Had shown no improvement
On the table faced the punishment

Hurt by the experience
That would last a lifetime
Said goodbye to the game
Life never remained same

Not naturally talented
Only to be made fun at
Work not giving results
Only thing to look forward
At the Seasons matches
Was being removed of my glasses

Attitude to win lacking
Skill totally not backing
Daily getting beaten
Why was I continuing

Time taken for a match
Less than time taken to travel
Nothing more insulting
Than the above statistic

Not suited for the game
Finally knowledge came
It's a game for winners
Not for a regular first round looser

Loving the game
Deeply and passionately
Playing the game
Daily and diligently
Lack of results
Put me in a quandary
Spent years hoping
The result would turn out differently
What did I do wrong
I ask myself daily