bitterly i remember
in my first simplification class
i forgot BODMAS.

boys around me
solved gleefully
while my pencil
showed no will
to budge with the clock
bent on making me a laughing stock
before my peers.

it's such times in life
when devils raid
to come to your aid.

i gave a furtive look
to the notebook
of the boy next to me
put an equal to sign
and to the sum's next line
wrote nine.

what followed i would keep to mine.

Simplifying

I think the isolating medium -
(Pandemic’s global impact)
Has done the job for me;
Few demeaning ultimatums;
Calls returned, lunches met,
Malls paraded through
With nought of worth to do.

Oh, the benefits of saying in!
Throwing sins of wasteful time
Into the garbage bin of slime and time.
Everything brings inspiration.
Anything a motivation,
Open to inventiveness of one's creation
Which, in turn means making choices
Truer to an inner voice;
Not fiddling, waiting for some muse
To lift you from your busy-ness.

There is a principle I hold to:
Everything you wish to do
Will always be simplicity
But never easy.
That, my friend
Is, you could say, the end.


Simplifying 5.22.2021Circling Round Everything II; The Processes: Creative,Thinking,Meditative II; Arlene Nover Corwin

This is art of simplifying love.

If you have no friend,
You don't have to go to the club,
And get drunk with strangers.
Let's get drunk together.

If you have no time,
You don't have to talk to me for hours,
Just simply text me,
And tell you're okay.

If you have no money,
You don't have to buy me fancy food,
We can eat the instant noodle instead.
Or I can cook and eat by myself.

If you're bad at remembering,
You don't have to remember our anniversary date, nor my birthday.
Just remember me,
Or simply remember my name.

If you're not in love with me,
You can start learning it,
Or simply throw me away.
It's way more simple than faking love.

that daft, the overworded: implictiness of
                                                                         fakery,
                         what is implictness by relativism,
                     has no explicit
"conversation" / dialectics,
  expressed indirectly via
a dependency of variables...
      as some might say:
we have rules, we have social norms...
the form, ex-,
  either odd or even,
         with regards to reiterating
numbers into words...
              explicit:
             expressed direcrtly via
an independent set of invariations...
        considering that in psychiatric terms
a depression, cannot be gesticulated
as such, "fathomable",
      easily understood / categorised
when an existential focus takes hold
of the "problem"...
             almost all psychiatric diagnostic
terms are shut off from
performing a medical practice,
when stated by: existentialist constraints...
              past the french schools,
and into the feral land of the germans...
the english?
   with their heritage?
              easily at loss with regards to
giving explanations, adequate to
satiate the "sufferer" with a excuse,
or rather, a...
                             a justification.
                my fault at reading more kant
than hegel and not fathoming
any economic model-answer...
                                    just give me a blank
workable canvas,
   and i will give you a vocab that will
probably muddle a few grey-beards
of the sufi community of kabul...
             because i ******* have to mind
this virus, like i might mind
ensuring the bulgarian prostitutes
check themselves to a methodological
clarification of donning the rubber...
well, if there's an explicit ergo libra,
and if there's an implicit ergo libra,
to balance cogito never actually meeting
the sum balance of either argumentation...
       what a funny scenario!
               ergo appears in two forms:
   parallel, similis, consimilis (=),
                       or via-parallel, anti-similis,
                        contra-similis (≠)...
           because thinking rarely
manifests itself in being, but rather:
in beings...
                       the common thread?
deficiency!
                     most of the time
the factum: cogito = sum,
          is actually a fact of:
                          cogito ≠ sum...
which is why the cartesian libra of ergo
is so, confusing with regard to how
the two aspect of consciousness
as governed to "allow" a balance...
  in that they don't...
                    the fact of thought
as thought being the ideal,
never, or rarely, translates into an
ideal existence...
         of simply not-thinking
    but rather over-simplifying life
by a per se,
              of a lack of sensual distrust...
the (1,0), (0,1), (0,0), (1,1) binary
over-simplification
of the cartesian ergo that mediates
cogito and sum...
                  you can't allow yourself
three immediacies of the same fact
in the tri-medium of
variant substance expressions!
              the fact of existence
cannot be grapsed by a fact of thought,
in the same way that a "fact" of either
an explicit, or an implicit application
of the interchangeable of stated fact
can somehow find a balancing libra
                 artefact of a mythological
stature to simplify the argument!
                       i simply find the cartesian ergo
too simplifying,
                   the problem of cogito never attaining
the potential of a sum,
as well at the problem of the sum never
attaining the potential of a cogito!
                given that
in the simplest mathematical grammar
the ergo is either expressed as:
cogito = sum,
             or cogito ≠ sum...
                  is that ego + cogito = ego - sum?
        or is that ego x cogito ≠ ego ÷ sum?
             what's that's 4 to the power of 8
in terms of variations?
              put me against the mathematical
punctuation marks, past the colons,
semis and commas and write it out
in math...
                       to have added to thinking
is to have taken away from being...
  to have multiplied thinking, is to have
divided your being...
                ergo = (= / is), but also (≠ / isn't) -
to have divided your thinking,
  isn't to have multiplied your being...
              to have added to your being,
is to have subtracted from your thought...
         show me the rubric of
the existent variations!
         show me!
                             philosophy per se,
is something that the koran can never teach me,
and never will,
even if in the slightest it only attempted
to teach me how to sing...
                   i have my own labyrinth
to mind,      
   let alone the common citizen of Istambul.

You spoke to me with your
voice like Mia Farrow’s and
your eyes not at all like
trampolines. A tar twig
bobbed between your lips;
you spoke of self-destruction
and smoked your commas
and semi-colons. You asked me
questions with the least amount
of answers and the most amount
of space, like a widow’s home
adorned in compromise. The six
o’clock sun sprawled through.
You said I reminded you of how
we’re always treating people like
fractions, simplifying where we
should be unfurling equations.
I saw the dawn illuminate your
hiccups and your hesitations. I
took a kiss; I thought there’s
nothing more fleeting than
moments like this, but at least
you can’t run quickly with a
heart so full.

Sunrise nearing its death,
the end of today
complementing the beauty of a pen stroke,
harsh scratching alleviating indelible ideas
showing selves in hues painting our last moments
allowing me to trace timelines
in the contoured caresses
of this silent instrument played
to blend melody with beginnings,
each progression scaling further along
the passing hours left settling
to minutes from now,
purpose elaborated in contrasting
blues and oranges and purples
composing the elegance of utility,
colors not enough to excise the excesses
of depicting days in dimensions,
of simplifying it to degrees of time.
Laying alongside this current
to shape clouds
and animate constellations,
my faux-corpse stares again into
the memory held in galaxies
only glimpsed at twilight.
Sharp cuts of consonants
and vowels' smoothed corners
try to rid me of
stream of conscious thinking loosed,
the inner struggle hoping for reprieve
from that constant combative nature
of inward disagreement
and dialectic digression
deflecting the question of
what if we'd only spoke
instead of being lost
to foreign type-faces designed by
some soul never to see
the dying day my way.
If only we'd spoke,
I would have had the chance
to stumble on a goodbye.
Rather we are left
to flourishes of unfamiliar weapons
sitting askew on these pages,
the balance shifted due to
us degrading to another's personality,
and writing out those lines
we couldn't come to say.

You know that bowl that I carry around in my belly?
Too heavy for my frame, I've carried it precariously, trying not to spill.
I've used it to catch the steady drip that's been there since forever. I've used it to catch the rocks that I hurled up like a juggler (to find where I begin). You've taken it, and now you're swirling the contents, rinsing them with your own feelings, your own words (yourloveyourloveyourlove). All the garbage, the petty insecurities and fearsfearsfears, wash out and leave behind the heavier stones and metals that I've used to construct myself, contain myself.
The material of my foundation exposed, you continue to rhythmically, relentlessly reduce me to the shimmersilt at the bottom of the bowl.
Eroding.
Simplifying.
Until you're left with the specks of gold that you say define me.
The evidence of treasured trust that remains after I've allowed you to dump out my contents with gentle, sweeping motions.

I will ignore all concepts of adherence and maybe, just this once,
be blunt about my fear;

I’m a stuck oriole in a window.
I’m a pedestrian somewhere in VV Soliven underneath the pouring rain
with my parasol jammed, won’t spread out.
The petrichor from the ground rises and like dust,
I settle and cave in, like an unsuspecting dagger making its slow crawl
towards the back of the next face I see in this deadlock.

They say when you stick it to the man,
stick it good, and whatever beating or punishment may follow,
face it like a man.

but what is a man to do to the higher man
when he has his guts spread on the floor like an inkblot
from a shattered glass?
this working classman status isn’t for the weak,
and it sure isn’t for the brave either – what will become of the fools
sitting atop our heads when we have learned to outgrow them?

Sooner than it is later, I will go back to the pit like some soldier
cleaning his Lee-Enfield in the endless snow.
I will be faced by inbreds, imbeciles, rebels,
dilettantes, proletariats who have their necks leashed, their arms
puppeteered and their voices mellowed down by some defunct ventriloquism.
I will crank open the mailbox of my home and see that there
are notices: some from the bank, the loans, and the bills – all of them screaming
pecuniary, all of them bludgeoning soul.

If this is what a man has to deal with when he comes to
learn that life’s no downtown street promenade, then I’m willing
to slit the throat of the next child that’s giddy enough and filled with life
to search meaning through the bleared image in front of him.
I see high-stake rollers and proletariats, bigshots, and darling boys
roll down their car windows and flick the smoke out in the **** freeway

while I am here, watching myself slowly rot in the cubicle mirror next door
wary of my somber entrails. I think of a pub somewhere in Magallanes, and I dream
heavily when I am awake. The beaded body of the Hefeweizen is waiting for me
like a paramour, but I have to clock-punch my way out first before I can reach
some sort of truce: as long as I have myself sign these contracts, as far as my freedom is
concerned, what keeps the ball rolling for me might be something I would
despise as long as I breathe in this disgustingly thick air of deceit and consummation.
There is no life in here. All of us are dead.
Buying things we do not need, doing things we don’t want, fooling ourselves
in the complete process, marry wives and husbands and breed children
who will do the same in this cyclically deadening circus. My god is filled with
cotton and the streets scream ****** ****** against the spring.
There are enough violence in the thoroughfares to cast me back to my
home and coil, fraught with unrelenting demand.

There’s no other way to look at it rather than simplifying the equation.
Some do it for worth, that’s your tonic.
Some do it for fun, that’s your senseless beating.
Some do it because they have no other choice: they are not looking far enough.
As long as you have yourself beaten to slave-bone and driven mad with
downtime, then you have yourself laid down on a silver-platter catching
the swill of such riotous rigor: to be shaken out of sleep and shove
meat down your throat and thank the Gods for a wonderful day when all I see
outside are streets blackened to the teeth with distortion and the automobiles
like limbless children leaving no trace.

Some take the easiest way out, but I am not crazy enough to bring
myself to sanity. I have other caprices to go with.
This is enough a suicide than it is on the other side.
Whenever I look at my superior, I see nothing,
and whenever I gaze at the surrounding scenes I see people
sticking knives at each other when backs are turned.
I see people swallow everything that is given to them without
the slightest inch of askance: to complain is the inability to withstand
the current situation – but I am no fool to close my eyes.
I have still the guts to face everyday like some old friend, death, in my arms,
singing blues from the 1980s. When this is done,
I will go back to where it usually does not hurt: in the silence.

where no faces bid me hello – they do well in their own discomfiture,
and I do not wish to see them any longer.
where no automobiles tear the streets and cleave the moon farewell.
where there are no sparrows outside, where there are no laughing children,
where there are no hollow men and women greeting each other tenderly
and blighting each other safe in the resignation of some dull home.

if I am mad, then what does this make you? better? privileged?
I’ve had other people look deep into me like some deepwell without
water and they tell me, “there’s something about you, something about you.”
and when I turn my back to search for some sameness,
I figure there is nothing else to find but the same trapping fate in this
burning cylinder of a home.

Waking up and filling in shoes and dressing up for nothing,
earning money and throwing it all at our own expense,
buying thrills and wasting away as time lounges like a cat
at the foot of the Victorian. If there’s better enough a fall than this,
I will sign myself to have my bones broken, my ribs opened

to let go of my famished soul while all the others
keep themselves clean, putrefying themselves viscerally.

The mind
picked up an idea
from reading
to just relax
and vibrate with it
so the mind
since it likes to add
thought just relax
and harmonize with it
and then
just relax
and resonate with it
and I am in favor
of all these techniques
but it strikes me
that this additive nature
of the mind
creates too much
so what I have been doing
is simplifying.
I just harmonize
with everything.

And if I stop.
If I stop doing,
and working,
and perfecting,
and working,
and complicating,
and simplifying,
you're there.

Unconditional love.

This giant truth on my back.
That I carry and ignore-
simply:

Unconditional love.

You are.
Just are.
No to do:

But stop.
And breathe.
And believe.
And be.

Unconditional love.

the human body
has three hundred and fifty bones
when we are born
which fuse together
as we grow
to two hundred and six;
further simplifying
down to condensed calcium
and summated marrow,
growing our skeletons down
to simpler beings as we grow.
if only the human soul
was not the opposite;
******* into
spreading stardust
particles so quickly that
we cannot put a simplified
finger on exactly who we are.
black & gold.

What if the people in this room were the pages upon which we wrote: documented with our travels, or inscribed with our beliefs. Our stories, once secrets, become legible. We carry them in heart to heart conversations both trivial and deep. We brainstorm, helping each other write the missing parts and next chapters with our actions as much as our words. We read those around us in the quiet company of our thoughts- our dreams- sometimes loosing ourselves in the blank spaces left by those we once loved. We look up briefly from our reading with renewed perspectives, and we move. Our hands both reach for the same pen at once to rewrite the narrative, passing late-night notes to each other if only to keep ourselves woke. We don’t name what we’ve written, but we sign our names at the bottom and call it ours for the time being. We are impermanent. Still, we leave our marks like fingerprints on the pages of each other -  happy thoughts and revision comments color coded in the margins- our own jam session hidden between the lines we stay writing with no idea or expectation of how it will sound in the end. We utter mysteries and we’re misunderstood, simplifying our confusion into basic metaphors or parables, so that those who pick up where we leave off can understand them, or find some common ground; some shared chapter. We borrow pens and finish each others’ sentences as we collapse on the same endings. Our dialogue subsides into unspoken movement: into silent eyes reading. We are campfire surrounded by the stories we stay telling — that without, we'd be left to scratch the indiscernible signs of love on cave walls for only the darkness to forget.

i studied chemistry, i'm not going to write you poetry like someone who graduated university with a degree in creative writing or English literature, i told you, time and again... philosophers have a strain on them to become scientists, but scientists have a strain on them to become humanists... philosophy is the only medium that chemists, biologists or physicists can become remotely humanistic in expression... and even if they do! humanists don't like it! it's just the same repeat of: et tu, Brute?! no one wins... not if you want to escape this Tartarus and gain some respect for the universality of man in hell taking tea with Mussolini and pass from their realm... not otherwise you won't; and i'm way past Dada.

writing Brexit Smokescreen / Cromwell and the Parliamentarians
i just had a few equations in mind -
at bit like mathematics - only slyly different,
slyly i mean - not really sly -
self-evident from lack of encouraging it:
predating the instigators of existentialism we have Descartes,
and that predates Kant's influence,
in simple geometric rubric, invoking = meaning therefore,
but not necessarily continuing from - to sequence,
more as pinpointing a a chiral symbiosis overcome -
ending with Sartre - the concept of bad faith and
the prime negation, meaning the lost utility of thinking,
a lax, preserved organically with a demented expression -
so:

i think = i doubt                  thinking does not precipitate
                                                  into existence

since many who exist do not necessarily question / think
out their existence - they do not equate the mere act
of thought as the prior expression of existing -
and that's egotistical - many say necessary, i agree -

i doubt = i'll attempt denial* - which turns all cognitive aspects
of my being in unreasonable examples lessened,
less mind more heart -
which is a precursor of something greater in the diminished
sense of responsibility to come undervalued -
the constraint without a straitjacket -
and so after attempting denial away from doubting i
can't exactly think, since my heart is no longer wavering,
hence my mind can't be either - i am bound
by the omni pre: precursor, predestined,
given a script before acting etc. -

i deny = i'm not thinking - and so much is true,
instead of saying that denial = not thinking, it also means
i'm left with apologies, i'm therefore not a thinker
but an apologist - notably C.S. Lewis - meaning i
have a script readied - so that i fake not having a conscience -
me? i wants to sees a striptease dances of politicians
and silver-back ancient gorillas shaving -

then where's China when i start digging from
the point of i think? well, it remains in i think,
one cubic of atmosphere experiences a butterfly flap somewhere,
while one cubic of atmosphere experiences a hurricane,
or the quantum theory exclusively partaking electrons
solely - meaning i think doesn't exactly equate to
a proof of existence per se, well, it does, i think
is a proof of i am per se, given the two are acquainted
with solipsism and mundane question
of being serf-conscious: cartesian solipsism is i think = i am,
but at the same time i = thought ≠ being -
the unwritten bestseller, the uncontested 100 metre sprint
to be challenged, e.g. - but this is carstesian solipsism,
this like a deviation in religion is not an orthodoxy -
based on a presupposition that Descartes wouldn't have
minded the addition (of solipsism to explain) -
what's more pronounced is bound to the explanatory
pivot-reflection ipso facto rather than per se, minding
that we have i think to take care of - and that's one
of the two units of solipsism - the other being i am,
ipso facto or simply alter ergo - rephrasing in the
superimposable Chiral, unlike simple Nietzsche's sum ergo cogito:
but as in sum ipso infacto - cogitatio -

(i am, by the fact
in-itself - thought - meaning i exist by a fact in-itself
compared with all other facts that are bundled up within
replicas / phenomena - the being thought, a factual
reference above: i brushed my teeth in the morning
two days ago - a as in a medium of what's being emphasised
on distractive enterprises, twins of atheism α- -θέ - as one points
as something, the other always points at itself without
the thing pointed at by the other, affirmative orientation
including nothing, or the grey multitude of the urban throng
and a self-worth - with a de-affirmative orientation
and a passerby, including self-perpetuation in the cartesian
cinema) -  
                       I TRUST THE RUSSIANS TO LOVE
                       READING...
                       NEVER TRUST THE ENGLISH
                       TO READ... THEY CAN'T READ,
                       BECAUSE THEY DON'T ENJOY IT!

the one abstract trans-grammatical
association, requisite of moral explanations and deviations
from the placebo of solipsism as being an utter
non-interactive entity - crudely as with cogito ergo sum:
sum ipso facto... now thought isn't allowed to finish
that equation - hence the perplexity at criminals -
i am by the fact itself - whereby guilt passes from the reins
of the perpetrator to the instigator - the crude: think,
therefore be - so many failed deviations from over-simplifying
this; i never write about philosophy as if i know -
i say: thought the precursor of knowledge,
given the benefit of doubt, meaning a heart,
not thinking being the precursor of ignorance,
given the benefit of denial, meaning the genitalia -
so many mistake their thinking as what others
define thought to not be -
and v. v. so many mistake their being as what others
define being to be - most notably
the contemporaries of prior Socrates were said
to be idiots - given Plato and Aristotle - only
later they regarded the pre-Socratics are equally footed
to be called philosophers as the un-adventurous academics
of Athens.

We tend to separate monsters and men
Simplifying and beliving that such things can't happen again
But if we could only resurrect the dead
The sole answer would be "that's what we said"

We call abhorent acts of criminals "inhuman"
Thinking cruelty only comes from ******* men
But animals never threaten holocaust or world war
And even big brother was a child before

keep barking

what,
   mongrel?!

never to a chemist**

what, suddenly there is
no notion of a cognitive
mongrel, i.e. a bilingual breed
of man?

      i found that people
complained about having
a mixed-ethnic rooting,
never was the case translated into
the cognitive element of
vocab...

    you are allowed an ethno-allowance
"stipend" and be left off
the hook if your mother was
white, but your daddy was black,
but then it comes to
possessing two languages,
good luck Buck!

         akin to psychiatric disorders...
the pills don't work!
tell that to a chemist:
the **** was i doing all this time,
so running, cardiovascular
oxygen to the brain will solve
all the problems?

the last thing you want a chemist to hear
is: the only medicine is exercise...
i'm not saying it's perfect,
but to suggest that all pill taking
is bad makes the study of
chemistry: pointless...
might as well be studying
arachnophobia!
  if i actually did make it into
the profession i'd be as much hated as
a police officer...
  chemistry: bad...
make sure you wash your teeth with
cow dung extract,
and perfume yourself with
freshly plucked daffodils then!

    jobs retain a tinge of absolutism
because relativism doesn't exist between them,
the only relativism shared is
the relativistic fact that such jobs
exists, and can exist because
they are coexisting...
a bus driver coexists with
a cabbie because: e.g. e.g. i.e. a mechanical
means of travel...
                   psychiatry undermines
the benevolence of a chemist,
        by over-simplifying
the case-study of a cardiovascular trainer...
the **** is the point
running a treadmill without
generating energy?

               you can't suddenly explain
to a chemist:
your pill aren't worth popping!
well, that's one way of saying
the currently exploration
of the impotence of antibiotics...
    that worked...
                
              but what's the point of telling
a chemist to suddenly "dig the groove"
of divorcing himself from
synthesising synthetic mimics?
       - and instead analysing analytical
precursors?
                          
        a chemist is not going to suddenly
rephrase his quest
to agree to:
          a futility his own work -
      culminating in an effective
plagiarism of nature isolated...
    but then popularising biology
and physics reduces chemistry as
  being the Quasimodo of science,
a hunch-back ugly-face of endeavour...
a science crucified in terms
of modern ethic...
                
               once the only adventurous
branch of science,
   now the most ethically conducted
patron of rigour...
            it has truly become nothing
short of a farce...
          something worth being ridiculous,
but not inclined to be subject
of ridicule.

The deception of reality
Distorts and purports a dystopian image
Contrary to the utopia of our imaginations
This contradiction necessitates a division
And separation from the here and now
To the then and there versions
Of ourselves that depict and depreciate
In awareness of the real issues
That can move a generation to greatness;
To achieve the unachievable,
To tear down the corrupt walls
That constrain and obtain your identity
From the beautiful world around you
Simplifying your nature into a collective
Herd of obedient beasts
That never questions reality
Or its obscenities

Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass
and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion.
I shall forest rituals of sacrifice,

but without Catholicizing faces drawn
from dark Crusading and my exiling.
Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering
and holying days, the dew
coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass
at midnight and cooling air
arching constellations
and the mooning of the night: the cue
to lying for rest
by the small pool in this placing or
to strike, savaging at prey.

Owling as it does, darting as it does,
from a bed of branches, crying,
soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves
rustling for this night’s Nativity,
this one lifts its butterflying wings
like the soul’s silhouette
taken by an angeling force to heaven.
After owling, angeling, butterflying,
one must create Jesus as a verb.

Having witnessing these things,
limits are paining, as are knowings and doings.
The mouse must have been distracting
this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing:
sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering.

Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight,
Hairshirting is my Church after living here,
after travelling through East of Eden in daylight.
  
Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near
dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp
I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper

of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup
from my own despairing.

Always there more to God than pain.

Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing
this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying,  
I narrate my life’s kingdom.
Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence,
and re-Edening.

Simplifying
helps you reach
a solid ground,
and the blue sky
behind

Drawing patterns
of life,
with a tips of fingers,
mixing colors
on a palm,
without having a strength
for a firm grip
knowing things,
deliberately letting go

And, why asking
questions, when
everything is so simple?

Even the blue sky,
highlighting
all around
Just ask, simple
why?

When a girl loses her hope,
She becomes the most dangerous creature.
Fairytales and happy endings
Have lost their appeal.
'Mr Right' has been buried along with
All the other prince charming's from her childhood story books.
She visits him only in her dreams.
Boys with smooth tongues and gripping fingers trail after her.
Her bright smile and piercing glare
Spell the words: "enter if you dare"
She will laugh at all your jokes and burn your skin with her touch.
And her hands, oh they're so soft and gentle,
You don't even notice your arm is on fire.
Cheap compliments spill out of your mouth one after the other
And when she does not say thank you,
But instead chuckles to herself
You cannot help how enticed you are.
Every word she utters is
Daring you to come closer.
You see the way she's looking at you,
With those cumbersome doe-eyes
And you think you know what
She wants  
And you think you have what
She needs
And you could not be more wrong.
She knows exactly the right witty remark to make, how to bat her lashes just right and how to laugh with just the right combination of coquettish and cute.
Stupid boys always like to think they can save girls who in their minds are 'too adorable for their own good'. Stupid boys are always trying to make themselves gentlemen by simplifying a girl to being 'pretty'.
The hopeful little darlings will swallow all of these unsavoury sentiments and store them in their naïve little hearts.
But not this girl.
Beware of the girl with no hope left.
To her, this is a game that she cannot lose anymore.
To her, you are nothing but a pawn;
Replaceable
Invaluable
She is a luxuriant forest
drenched in gasoline
A beautiful disaster waiting to happen.
She is so deceiving, so alluring,
You simply must have a taste
And you may.
But take warning:
She will light up in flames,
devour your little boy soul
and burn both of your bodies
to the ******* ground.

you begat it all wrong with your genesis story: i don't think i'm hot ****, i doubt that i am, hot ****.

when i cite communism i don't imply:
a redistribution of wealth -
me? i'm happy with a good night's sleep...
i mean capitalism has lost the essence
of work -
         in that: there is no respect for labour...
such a trivial "thing"!
god... this sounds oh so awful -
      and in "career" one always ends up
sounding a crude as a lumberjack's echo
in a forest - chop chop - gunner on the tilt -
crude writing that comes when one has
ingested too much of foreign opinion,
via audio, and not via reading...
            i have to find myself apologising
for this outpouring -
       but then again sometimes the most
mundane "things" have to be said,
for *per se reasons, than for any vector
purpose culminating in a reached point (b)...
when people trivialise work is the worst
kind of times...
          when so many trivialise work by
contesting in karaoke sundays in england,
or "masterchef" kitchens on mondays
tuesdays through to fridays...
  how about honing in on the immediate
concerns, the near-breathing-aching-tomorrows
of these closest to you?
   how a father will complain to a son
that he made him too much lunch food:
what? it would be easier to complain had
there been too little, and that you didn't have
to throw excesses into the bin?
i had to outthink heidegger in his "fetish"
of dasein... it was too remote for me in
the end...
      and since i've never come across
a philosophy book that utilises grammatically
categorical words (e.g. noun, verb, adjective etc.)
i feel a veil has been lifted...
  the curtain of sleep -
and when i see how heidegger took to stressing
dasein: being "there" - i think of
journalism first, and how to excuse the world
and turn to hermitic ways,
  for there is a there, as there is also a "there",
i.e. there isn't any!
but that is much more an allocation of
counter-verbalising events -
      there's no talk of adrenaline when speaking
of a terrorist attack far far away,
       there's only the word: tragedy;
the terrorist is immediately felt,
but the post-scriptum is but a "loser" in
the descriptive allocations -
would you fancy facing this "loser" face to face?!
i envisioned heidegger's dasein to be
more procreative, more centred to
       a fickle coordinate of media attention...
   more the engaging "plotline"...
less a case of demanding aristotelian
post-etymological correction facility of nouns
i.e. calling things by their proper names -
and more engaging, always engaging,
even if by a centimetres' worth of engagement...
that old shambles of tornado in the west,
a butterfly in the east with equal event impressions
complimentary...
    of all places, my grandfather managed to
visit auschwitz three times, upon the third
he resigned from the encounter with the gas chambers,
but i somehow always seem to be trapped
in these barbwire confines, given that i've never
visited: romancing h. h. holmes earth...
    but i took to this **** philosopher like
a fish takes to water: the reason?
        defunct complexity of the prose
     in other writers...
                        notably aristotle;
i had to chop up history as some sort of
inheritance, that had to be kept for reasons
of posterity, rather than nostalgic romance:
for one, i hate history to be kept for
reasons of posterity,
   achilles or homer was not kept to this day
for reasons of posterity, they were kept
out romantic reasons...
      history as posterity belongs to scare children,
in the classroom...
      and nowhere else,
  but authentic history: desires no teacher
and no pupil...
           it just has the authenticity that becomes
ultra-history... myth!
   therefore my gateway to the ancient times
resides with heidegger's dasein
with? zusein -
         and yes, not being a native german speaker
i can understand the "mistake" of
this sort of "nuance" -
             again in inverted commas,
for lack of a better word, or a desire to open
a thesaurus (rex) -
           in auschwitz 2.0:
                     respect work, to be free -
it is this, in the concentrate form that's most
demanding: toward being -
     in a cubicle, in a tightly knit tartar patchwork
on a kilt...
     we're not going anywhere if
work, esp. manual labour is not respected,
or is frowned upon...
              when work becomes all software,
and little if no presence of work as hardware;
i guess that's one of the reasons
   i'm on comfortable terms with the supermarket
staff at my local...
  i go there so often, i'm so *******
predictable with my purchases i am almost like
the one ready to become part of
the flying dutchman ship... immersed in
my everyday recurrent predictability...
no qualms with the staff, just the frankly friendly
            'alright mate, how are you?'
'fine mate, how are you?'
    'oh, not bad.'
          'good good.'
i know i can be the most pompous ***** on
paper from time to time,
  but then my writing is one thing,
and i know there's an umbilical chord of segregation
between the hungry foetus of a blank page,
and me binging on pickled gherkins and
     raw herrings in a cream sauce with this
blah, as every over blah, turning into a blur
the moment i wake up the next day;
and in grammatical terms (i.e. categories) -
i have already given dasein a name (a noun)
in that i call it an offshoot of journalism -
whereas in the instance of zusein:
i invoke the notion of some act (i.e. a verb
dimension) - i.e. the acquisition of action
through non verbal involvement -
beyond the hier & the da...
        something that becomes a mongrel
of the two positions, to a non-relativistic
  compendium...
      and if we all assembled ourselves,
or simply had the ambitions of simple verse,
or complying to simplifying language
in order to "appear" simple -
well, what would happens to those of us
who wrote to attain complications -
and thereby remain the simple brutish folk
of easily understandable manners,
   and tactful hushes -
                and the awry grafts of hubris?
the worst enemy of staying awake is
the enemy of all of us: the simplified &
therefore overused craft of using language...
i am not writing a ******* lullaby!
       josé! pronto! yalla, imshi!,
i don't write for either children or for rhyme,
i have my reasons for this being
more than true...
        simple language is repugnant to me,
it just serves the purpose of itemising
the person who writes it as:
    well, **** me for trying to understand
that sort of writer for a year,
  i can sniff a rat with one line of verse,
neurotic, despotic,
      cleverly encrusted in homogeneity,
******, under-fed, just *******,
       language is there to be mishandled,
complicated, diversified, turned into
an amazonian cocoon,
                   something out the blue -
  something lost in space -
  opulent, high on fibre -
             i can't stomach reading works
that are nothing short of a geometric
precision & predictability of drawing
a circle, or a square...
  which is why, whenever i watch american
films i get bored...
   because i managed to integrate this
knack of seeing past the already recurrent
plotline predictability...
  so much for those "creative" writing courses.

for my darling jan*

I woke at 2.30am and left you sighing gently as you slept,
checked the trap but found only droppings on the floor
I set the trap again and hoped the rats would leave –
I would prefer not to **** anything.
The dog mawed and moaned at its fleas
rubbing against the rail on the back verandah,
it settled when I whished it back inside to sit
(my mouth made that wist noise, the one you know the dog will hear but won’t wake the sleeping).

I lay on the red couch in the study and read Ray Carver.
A return to Carver simplifying me. If not by sleep I was
comforted by his weave of innocence and knowledge.
Ray started writing poetry in the year I was born (1957),
I don’t know why I mention this, perhaps I feel him like a kindred
spirit and am warmed by even the slightest connection.

Between the living and the dead are the sleeping. However being at rest
is no excuse for ignorance. Ray is at rest - some 18 years.
His poems like me are alive and breathing.

The magpies begin their morning carol as I return to bed at dawn.
Your breath and skin have waited for me.
When we wake, I tell you,
I am grateful our poem continues.



MChallis © 2010/2014

why you gotta be so mean?
despite my hopeless creative knocking
dead air
is
dead air...
   just why you gotta be so mean?
   simplifying explanations
    to the point of
     a b s t r a c t i o n

The letters I never sent still sit and collect dust.
An novels worth of thoughts filled with you.
The time taken, conveying something not so easily read aloud.
If by the time I do send these letters your thought will still be present.
Sealed with the accordance that I imagined your lips before licking and sealing it shut.
Of course not every letter is of a serious tone.
There has to be some silliness somewhere.
Smiles scribbled to and from the end of the flap.
Letters nicely tucked, a hint of cologne still lingering about.
Words floating from one page to the next.
Hoping you see my face in every line in the letters I never sent.
Simplifying the significance of how much I thought of you.
Facing a blank sheet of paper soon to be filled.
Attempting a million and one ways to confess all the unique and special
things that make you, well.
You.
No one is you.
Remember that, as by the end of this letter I'll imagine placing my lips against your forehead.
That's enough for me.
As the letters I've never sent will soon become a novel devoted to the many times I've sat and thought of you

I hunger for your hands
Substituting what happens between them in living memory.
The intimacy of being that close.
Simplifying fragility.
It's natural that they'd become curious. Roaming about until they themselves feel comfortable.
That feeling in the center of your chest that makes you feel that you can do anything.
In A place of this size.
I long to be lost in the grasp of somewhere comfortable.
To wake up and see you exposed in a calm hush
Falling back asleep in complete comfort

Simplifying
helps you reach
a solid ground
and the blue sky
behind

Drawing patterns
of life,
with a tips of fingers,
mixing colors
on a palm,
without having a strength
for a firm grip
knowing things,
deliberately letting go

And, why asking
questions, when
everything is so simple?

Even the blue sky,
highlighting
all around
Just ask, simple
why?

I have been coddling you in swaddling cloth
Speaking while gently critiquing your lack of truth seeking
Holding half of my heart in so I can let you begin
To be better than what you see and believe
I have been daydreaming and scheming
With verses, stanzas, lines, and pages
Simplifying while truth lying
Taking a creative license to inspire  
Before the lighted fire expires within you
Making my milk sour in disappointment
Seeing days end and more tragedies begin
But still struggling to believe in the human
There is an acrid odor amongst us
A bitter taste that tightens the tongue
But I am not done
The light in me will see how splendid we can be
And in my poetry I will show you how to be
As beautiful as I know you can be

I’ve been told or maybe it was just implied
That this life is just a short ride
On a one way rocky road to the other side
And this shell is more hell then heaven
That day is a better time than night
That I am mostly wrong and they are mostly right
Those mighty moral men of higher ideals
But my coolly clouded kin have very little trouble compromising
Adopting and adjusting ancient beliefs to support their greed
Toying and destroying this environment in favor of the next
Simplifying and denying the beauty of the complex
I have been told that learning is burning me up
And I should accept what is because it is
Makes we want to cry what the ****
I’ve been jeered at when expressing truth
Yet, those who sneered and called me queer accepted said truth later on
So I am the inferior one uninformed until that masses catch on
Maybe they lied maybe they tried to accept but rejected it in fear
That now is here and tomorrow may not make it there
I have been told many things
how I should not be me you see
And that everyone else knows better how to live my life
I guess it’s funny how I do the same thing to others
But I am just as certain that I am right

to recite something
to let it be in your bones
to let it exist outside of yourself
to let it mulch to let it dwindle to let it begin
and to let it roll over
and to let it slip
and to let it die
and to let it roll around in a ditch
and to swim and scream and roundabout
and to control and to gag and to conquer
and to mistake and to make gate and to stand on the top of the curb
to be ahead of the game
to be moxy, merry, maybe just stay the same
imbicile working for a penny a day
while another man in the corner makes marmalade
I’m bouncing, happy, glamourous gratitude
going on around the stratosphere making my own career out of solitude
masked in a gag of reddened retina on display with buddah
large intensinal malfunction on the way towards the retina
the eye, the eye, the eye, the eye
and some may type as quickly as I
and I do dare to challenge them to a duel
as I will take them into the second round
away from it all, away from it all
and down the dark ages crawl, crawl, crawl
and make it work for others to do the draw, to do the draw, to do the draw
and make copies of music on top of another musical entrance music entrance music, entrance, music
make a case out of stereotypes and continue on your own way
inventive and invigorating and invested and afraid
loving and simplifying and hating the mystery
the beauty
the absolute majesty
keep me in check and keep me more for the moon
and I’ll go along to the race track with old hank
and swoon and swoon and swoon
ride the horses
on the way to nowhere
and they will glisten
in the evening sun
and lay out on their own
and lay out on their own
and become what has never been done
and become what has never been done
the ****** is full and perfect
and then the fall is back down
and laughter is part of the question
and it all goes down like that
boom, boom, boom boom
and then peace
easy thought process
a deep breath
growls
beautiful growls
and laughter

so when someone like paul joseph watson
begins to comment on depression....
that's when i go, slightly unhinged...
for someone who's never had the experience
the psychiatric act of regression:
implanting false memories in
the governance of psychoanalysis...
        that... that bugs the **** out of me...
michel de montaigne was a known
melancholic...
   whether it was him, or it wasn't him...
the observation resounds:
melancholics are the barometer of humor...
the NPS meme? that's funny...
but going after the depressed?
               curtailing yourself around
an explanation of...
   a social-byproduct?
         a lethargy originating from
a non-rigorous exercise
                           mentality?
no hamster on the wheel sort of *******?
oh i've been investigated
by the psychiatric community,
they even tested one post-graduate
psychiatry student on me...
            the drugs?
i don't have a problem with them...
sedated in body, active in mind...
           but having regression tested on me?
that ****** me off...
                a false alliance with
a forward-"thinking"...
     a critique centralized around...
somehow... not knowing how to use a language...
like i've been writing bad Chinese all
this time... coming from a, "fwend"...
who i remember... trembled before his father...
because he didn't remember
the alphabet...
                when he was scorned:
for not remembering the alphabetical
sequence...
               i'm starting to think...
sure... i get the humor... but... there is
no carte blanche on the table...
   which is why i steer away from taking
either side...
           it's become ugly,
    both sides of the "equation"...
neither side believes in
dialectics... shame... really...
      i didn't see a compromise on the horizon
to begin with...
            the English have simply moved
the concept of humor outside
the realms of what would be equated
into French as an Albert Camus novel...
the starter of the absurd,
before the main-course of existentialism...
because i find it hard...
that people have no idea about
an elevated status of lethargy...
    it's not like these people have grandparents...
who confuse old age lethargy with
hypochondria...
          and the general old age melancholy
of... ****... being old people with
grandparents... and seeing how their
grandparents... are not having children...
lethargy is the nuance
   bubbling under the consciousness of
a melancholic person...
                but ******* out of people
like that...
   it's just...
             too crass to even attempt the funny...
the English sensibility of good
humor is... dead...
      it's just crass, over-simplifying what
is, and what isn't, funny...
        i equate funny with:
some odd social interaction...
  but not a medical condition...
         a genuine medical conditions...
with people, "thinking" the solution to
an obscure lethargy that becomes
a cognitive / anatomical lethargy requires...
an invested typo of, humor...
so... what next? cancer, ha ha!
like that general statement behind
the lethargy of schizophrenia...
and lethargy is a word i'd put behind each
psychiatric diagnosis...
    the lethargic schizophrenic?
      unless bilingual: which already implies
a split-mind...
  well... he figured...
the world has gone mad...
let me step away, slow down, and watch
the circus... after all...
a madhouse conjured from a society,
requires, energetic engagement...
protests, slogans, hive chants...
    i can't keep up...
no chance in hell do i have the energy
to keep up with this amount of *******...
sure... i will be deemed senile...
like... schizophrenia isn't some sort
of abnormal, trans-mortal disease of
the brain that attacks aged brains
with its killer proteins akin to Alzheimer...
with all the useful idiots,
i guess i have to be the uncomfortable
"idiot"...
         see... i side with the "real" crazies...
the diagnosed as mad...
    i side with them...
because after a while...
                 they're like the wise turtles
of this world...
     sometimes you can't just...
treat a cognitive lethargy by being
prescribed a session in the gym...
    the mind counters the body...
after all...
  what was once a mind-body duality...
has become a mind-body dichotomy...
once psychology & psychiatry
established themselves,
as being taken seriously in the medical
branch of study...
  after the perfected anesthetic was
completed for dentistry...
and what is, psychiatry?
   psychology: with an injection of
pharmacology... nothing more...
nothing less...
       but please, please, ha ha...
                   i'm sympathetic to these
people's cries of woe...
      don't, just don't give me the simple
solutions... they're pseudo-scientific...
you've never seen a 79 old with
a lethargic hypochondria presuppose
   he's 20 year old melancholic...
            or rather:
because he's at the end of his tenure,
and is having regrets...
              it's not that i'm even "upset"...
but when you experience
the sort of lethargy that is depressive?
when you can't explain
   the exposure to the pentagram senses...
and can't conjure up a transcended
compendium of thought in the hexagram?
when you can't motivate
that sort of hierarchy of animation?
  when the pentagram exposure of
the senses, doesn't translate into
a hexagram of thought that subsequently
becomes motive to be?
   what the **** will going to the gym
to lift some weights ever do for you?!

I've been simplifying extradiction
To those of comatose bamboozling
Contradiction...

whatever the answer, i'm drinking wine straight from the bottle, having bitten into a few cubes of ice to cool the tongue-numbing red; and funny how, when one ethnic group deems to vermin, you turn to your own ethnicity, and conjure the royal attitude: hell, if i'm category vermin, i'll be king rat; perhaps that's what the accusing ethnic group always wanted, declassified man, reclassified as royal in the hierarchies of hidden rivers of the many kingdoms of anima... good to know one's premature in spotting a royal body of uninhibited suggestions, by now you mut have recofnised... what cogito? to prove the existence of god is about as much an amgibuity as to prove the existence of thought... given people behave without morals, the atheists aren't exatly hot-****, not worth the bother... these days atheists aren't really concerned with ontological ethics... or ethics as architecture for benign / the beginning (of) ontology... the only replica of atheisms is bound to the study of ethics... but by argument of conjuring either being or personality, will only arrive at the status quo of a personality cult... i'm not saying that atheism is a religion, but i'm also not saying that the current atheistic zeitgeist can achieve a solipstistic modus operandi; why seek a god to later disregard, when you can't find the narrative & the silence, & the dasein of the ever simplifying contentment within silence? of course i'm denying being content, in that whenever i laugh out-loud i'm being ridiculous in a verse of sarcasm... how could i not ever deny being content, while at the same time juggling an "ad infinitum's" worth of curiosity?*

when thinking becomes
talking,
to you find rhetoric -
and what could rhetorical
cognition ever become,
if not the fairy tale
of telepathy, or telekinesis?
where are those
who persuade people to
thought - to the either or
choice of a moral ought?