Look, at that cup of coffee
Standing there
Without the fear of getting cold
The sun heats it up before a singel degree
Even starts to think about leaving

Look, look at that mountain
Standing there
Stronger than any hous or tree
Never like the ice afraid of breaking down

Look, look at time
Always moving forward
Giving people hard times
Never letting them have a single second back

Look, look at that kindergarten teacher
Teaching kids things he knows
Things he knows that he knows
Never afraid to be outsmarted

Look, look at that child
pretending better than anybody else
Turning nothing into play
Degrees into creatures
Mountains into needed friends
Time into the the enemy
And the teachers into outdated non fiction
Because she knows
Fiction is her home.

replying freud...

   what do women want?

to act as if they're "confused"...

and to be honest?

   i can't be bothered with
this question,

    i haven't even asked it proper,
and i'm already lethargic
about it...

   why do women reveal so little
of their nature?

   i guess playing with barbie dolls
really served us to become
puppets in their grip...

what a boring question!
   who asks that sort of quetion
and can't see the obvious truth?

noble page! pour me another drink!
sure thing, don quixote...
     and why wouldn't man
find much more in "madness"
as he might find in a "woman"?

  to be honest, i did prefer buying
en vogue's singel when
the prodigy's album
    music for the jilted generation
came out...
                  
     ha... so long ago that's it's
untrue...
          even though i take to make
imprints on the sand with my feet,
i am nothing short of the sea,
revising the presence with
  being the schrödinger metaphor
existent outside the realm
of box, radioactivity, and cats...

i am the sea...

     sum aequor, etiam sum flumen,
              per se qua: cogito...

i am the sea, and i am the river,
   as being: being in itself - thought.

  i am the sea in being, but i am also
a river, as being: thought...

women are not "confused" -
   men know this,
and to break away from the supposed
"confusion" crafted abstraction,
  to allow woman her natural state
of existence,
  but at the same time to break away
from her...
   crafting chess, crafting puppeteering...

i lost the ambition of wanting
to know certain things,
to me i find them exhausting...
i don't like lies to begin with...
   and it's so exhausting listening to
a woman who writes her life into
the grave of fiction, without actually
producing a novel...

(ego) sum aequor, (ego) sum flumen,
(ego) sum: labyrinthus.

for if woman has the heart
to weave her fiction over reality,
      man has his mind to do likewise...
woman in stasis:
              within the ratio of
                                    man in flux;
"irony": influx.

           there is no ontological worth
investigating woman,
for akin to kierkegaard's god,
the never-changing god...

                 woman is a tiresome
ontological endeavour, akin to god...
for neither change,
   for both are a home with,
or without a basilica, a home within a home,
or a home without a basis for
permanent residing spheres of interests...
   man impregnates the woman
for continuum...
   as he goes the idea of a god
by ******* his thought, into "nothing":

       icarus cogito ad res "nihil"...

but i wonder... where do moment of
"prohibited" thought wonder into?
            where do moments where thought
does not exact the coordinates
based around a god (0, 0 , 0) wonder toward?

           luckily, toward things of
spontaneous interests...
     like a feral animal suddenly jolted into
its full sensual enthropy,
   such that we too,
become seemingly woken within
the waking hours, bound to an ingeneous path
of revelation and originality...

beyond the **** sapiens, there's the reversal
of the transgender movement...

     **** in flux -
        femina in stasis.
                          
                         with my feet impressed
upon this earth,
   i see no other gate of entry,
            but the many gates of departure.

Dark skies, howling winds. The bottom of the clouds are going to drop on this worm summer evening. If I could see the sun it would be setting. The corn stocks in rows swaying like solders anxious for battle. Standing tall over my head, their leaves dance in the wind. Moisture is thick in the air, thunder roles over head. A singel raindrop falls on my check then the clods let it all go. It's like looking threw fog. Only seconds ago I was dry, now it's like I jumped in the river. Now standing alone in the corn filld looking up at the dark clouds.

Since I was born you have been with me dead

Blonde silky entity on top of my head


At social gatherings you outshine me with flare

Maidens only have eyes for you, ohhh how they stare


Princes and heroes like you too

mistake us both for Rapunzel they do


Visions of destroying you with a sharp horrible blade appeared

The ghost of Samson then told me every singel thread to spare
  

A gift a blessing a present so fair

A burden a curse my Cross to bear

I am the man beneath the hair

The end