She strides down the street,
Holds that cancer stick up to her mouth,
Takes a deep breath in,
Filling her lungs with lethal smoke,
Gradually rotting away her
Interior.

Her heart beats out of her chest.
[A heart divided between two hearts.]

He’s waiting at the street corner
Between the alley of lust and the
Path of ignorance.
She sees his silhouette in the
Distance, a dark apparition.
Her heart leaps out of her chest,
Towards him,
Reaching for him,
Propelling her to him.

She had absolutely no control over the matter.

The other man she loves is home
Alone, waiting for her too.
Moments ago, he
Held her in his arms,
Kissed her goodbye,
Told her to hurry back soon.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too” - the words
Suddenly conveyed
No meaning to her.
She told him she was
Running an errand, when,
In reality,
She was running away
From him.

[A heart divided between two hearts
Can never really be a heart.]

His love suffocates her.
His love drowns her
In its constancy,
In its predictability.
With him, she feels like a
Bird with its wings ripped off.
Held captive, in a wire cage.

[A heart divided between two hearts
Can never beat the way it should.]

How can a woman with two men
Who love her
Feel so
Staggeringly
Alone?
Who will love her until their
Disintegrating hearts turn into
Simply dust.

[A heart divided between two hearts
Can never really keep from rupturing,
Infecting the body with its own poisons.]

So she lets her underground lover
Envelop her in his arms
And kiss her until both of their lips
Are numb,
Until they both want more.
Until they cannot restrain themselves.

His love releases her out of her
Cage, allows her to fly once again.
The passion of these moments
Will never be forgotten.
His love brings the roses back to
Her lifeless cheeks, brings life
Back to the void inside her.

And, his love allows her
To fly back home, once again,
Straight into the arms of the
Man who is her keeper.

Nothingness.
Imagine nothingness.
That nothingness which is nothing of the nothingness we are all familiar with:
Not that nothingness which is nothing but empty space and time
Like when you open an empty room.
No.
That nothingness where nothing truly exists:
Not space,
Not even time.

A singular point.
Imagine a singular point.
The ultimate singular point that contains all possible points
In the development of the universe
Come out and expand
From the birthing of time, the instance of The Big Bang,
(Which by the way is not a large explosion, as the words imply, but a silent rapid expansion)
Pushing the envelope
Where nothingness begins.

Chance.
Imagine chance.
The random occurrence of events:
Of fundamental particles colliding and uniting
Or annihilating each other,
Giving rise to protons, neutrons and electrons;
Giving rise to the periodic table,
To compounds, both organic and inorganic,
To macromolecules.

Billions of years.
Imagine billions of years
Gone by,
And billions of galaxies filling the sky:
Stars and quasars and pulsars
Planets and comets and meteors
***** nilly hurtling through
Dark matter and ever expanding space,
Yet inanimate still
,
A single cell.
Imagine a single cell
Form inexplicably so,
In a staggeringly highly improbable way
As carbon molecules combine,
Start to throb and pulsate:
Chance bringing forth life
In a barren and otherwise
Lifeless universe.

Consciousness
Imagine consciousness
Purposive, willful, deliberate

Feelings
Imagine feelings
Love, compassion, hatred

Imagine all in a universe that came out of itself from nothingness.

It is hard, of course,
For after all, we are creatures of somethingness!

But at this point
You must have seen the Point
Of all the ramblings and turns in the trajectory of my thought
Tracing the evolutionary course of the universe
From nothingness and that singular point
That without God
All things are
After all
Pointless!
.
And so,
Let us not deplore, as a great poet once did,
That this world “so various, so beautiful, so new
Hath no joy, nor love, nor light
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain…”
For what else should we expect
Of a cold, unfeeling universe?

What?
Give us some Novocain?

it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.
   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
dialectics
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
"plagiarised",
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
reverse.
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
    zeitgeist.
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
a

between a bottle, and a woman... i'd always take to the bottle quicker than might suggest a care for a wife, and had i the mind to mind, i'd think quicker: but then again thinking was never a "mind-game" worth of sprinting to a horizon of known oblivion.

a response to intelligent response:
seems hard then the audience are forced
to laugh...
   how hard to bully an audience into
laughter, how staggeringly similar and
the thrown into the argument:
you're as imperfect as all all of us!
       perhaps:
    but not as ******-up as you'd like
me to be, akin to you.
           i still hold unto the stronghold of
a two parent family: you?!
     a disregard in the convention of
the bootsales of divorce: hope you're well:
in that magic act of making your
grandparents your parents,
  and leave me in custard foam
to attest the mud... of a fool's fair share
of cradling the auschwitz innocents.
the auschwitz survivors seem not to matter,
only those who make the image:
the ones mingling the friction of reality:
with the smothering of fiction...
           the unsaid being said,
the said being unsaid...
       i am the perfect forged from the thought
of being perfect...
      the response to "intelligent" comedy
in response = a nervous laugh...
              the result of a nervous laugh:
truancy of authentic laughter -
              comedy is unto laughter what
tragedy is unto crying...
             true comedy comes
with uninhibited laughter: it doesn't
come with canned laughter...
that's cheap... that's really cheap,
and sad... sad beyond wanting to cry...
          the comedy you speak of
is that of inhibited laughter:
  a one of a doubled-up nervousness -
smart comedies and intricacies of
drama spell out the same conclusive
columbo diagnostic;
oh **** me, have the *****,
i have as much attachment to it like
i have to acknowledging
a tissue...
           take this ******* near me and
i'll tell of your "motherhood"...
                 no, i don't acknowledge
an "intelligent" comedy...
drag me back into the rabble...
    the mob rule, the theocratic dream of"
man has no law above the quake,
no law above the wave, no law
above airy twirl dance, no law above
the forest fire, man is included to state
his sensual distaste, but with
the elemental per se: cower my dear,
into a pill shaped box...
                        the response of
intelligent comedy = a nervous laugh...
the laugh of the inhibited -
   never the laugh of the free-fall uninhibited...
and such a shame...
that it should be excused as comic -
to riffle nerves and somehow "laugh"
is no laughter at all...
  a man ought to laugh uncontrollably -
but to make joke into nuance
so that he might laugh controllably -
what's the point of telling the joke,
in the first place?!
    i want to laugh uncontrollably -
than nervously -
   because even though there's a "joke",
i'm half as serious about the "joke"
being a joke, as i am in attesting:
this is worth more a nervousness
in choking on a laugh,
with attempt, than
the uncontrollable lack of effort
that leaves me in paralysis...
        i'm not supposed to excuse myself
at this point, but i am apparently
having to muster up an apology
for comedy, and the comic strip of
of *lee evans doing the goose strutting...
it's still comedy, but not really,
monty python was clarity in
pig-head ******* cameron phelatio
in eton: outside?
can't be smart: you're not an insider:
it's an insider's joke:
they're not funny, they're eton.
     next time i find them funny
i'll be making the most perfect:
poached egg.
             americans take the **** out
of ***,
the english take the **** out of ***:
the subject matters of:
either - we have enough of the former
and lack of the latter,
or we, have enough of the latter
and lack of the former...
        to say that english humour is
funny is to also say that shakespeare didn't
exist, like jesus!
                     who knows,
give it enough time, enough
*****-akin historiological define-
     (definitive moment) -
   and that being?
is history a convict in the prison of space -
or is time a convict in the same space?
by comparison, is history a medium of
artefacts, with history the one owning a fingerprint,
and time, without one?
      it's silly to talk of an afterlife,
given that we live our lives with the same
impetus of *****: a tsunami barrage of
constant refraction and reflection -
        man in a microcosmos is the totality
of man,
                  man exists in a microcosmos -
what man is in the macrocosmos is what
we deal in terms of the misnomer attache akin
to god...
         it's good to have forgotten
one's original point, having written
such dribble...
        time is only linear in history -
but what are the truer dimensions of time?
if space has its 3...
    then as einstein suggested:
time be squared -
                        i only wanted the first
few words...
  nervous laughter is the response to
"intelligent" comedy...
      but saying that:
        i'd prefer "dumb" comedy
and allow myself uninhibited laughter
than "smart" comedy,
   and only allow myself *inhibited" laughter;
as i'd prefer imagining ***** flicks
than imagining myself welsh,
counting sheep:
   does arithmetic really beat insomnia,
**** me, too bad for the efforts of
the chemists:
  so we did all these experiments
to craft the pills, for general practitioners
to reach for the tarot cards of
       astrological readings?!
              **** it, sign me up for a cave.

Could it be that locked in memory
Ancient thoughts are held in store,
Passed on by Neanderthal man
Who's origins we may recall.....

Ape like in physique and frame,
Prominent prognathus jaw,
Burning eyes intense and sharp,
Intelligence to seek for more.

Telepathic thought transference
Little need for guttural grunt,
Massive strength in hand and thigh
Stinking pelt to back and front.

Rushing through the reed and long grass
Casting lance with lunging throw,
Mastodon with roaring bellow
Thrashing trunk with thunderous blow.

Darkness in the smoky cavern
Clustered at the flinted flame,
Family and others warming
Squat encircled, chewing game.

Listening in the chill of moonlight
Listening to the wolf pack howl,
Out across the snow clad forest
Out beyond the hooting owl.

Chewing pelts to soften leather
Massive teeth in massive jaw,
Wary eyes observe the weather
Southern winds may bring the thaw.

Luscious she with scent ascending,
Luscious she with hairy maw,
Bent to me in sweet surrender
Downy hip and coaxing paw.

Roar in rage and beat the earth
Blazing eyes and heaving chest,
Invasion from the **** Sapiens
Seeking females for their nest.

Skies descend with fire and brimstone
Rock cascades and burns the earth,
Mountain God has vent his fury
Scamper hard to cave’s safe berth.

Cold, so cold this bleak snow weather
No retreat from Winter’s ire
Brother, sisters, sons are huddled
Frozen dead in blue ice byre.

Few, so few now to migration
Trek to southern food and heat,
Starving, wet and hypothermic
Staggeringly trudge the weak.

Few, so few to intermingle
With the **** Sapiens here,
Serfs in *******, low and squalid
BUT SURVIVORS..STRONG AND CLEAR!


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
13 August 2011

Sistah soul
Foundation like my soles
Warmth like the sol
Strings attached like you sew
Invest your feelings so you stow

My sol shines from you
My soul is proud of you
The arch of my feet rely on you

You keep me from shivering
You keep my feelings rendering
And my feet from blistering

My soul
Sol
And soles

Solely my soul sistah, lover, friend, and homie

Just you and I knitted together
Hope you and I stay crocheted forever
Tethered tightly
And sewed by our souls staggeringly

You are my Soul Sistah
Dearest
Cheerful
Merest
Miracle
Spiritual

I love my soul
I love you so

RECORD: INSOMNIAC OLYMPICS
FROGMAN: BLOCHEAD

Suzy's: Then it heard The Word:

You are not special.
You're not a beautiful and unique saltflake.
You're the same decaying mental laughter as everything else.
We're all part of the same info heap.

We're all singing,
all dancing
data of the word.
-- Tyler Durden, Tacky Frogman

I mean just try to

Imagine a Johnny waking up one moment and thinking,

"This is an interesting thought I find myself in —
an interesting wHole I find myself in —
guides me rather neatly, doesn't it?
In fact it guides me staggeringly well,
must have been made to have me in it!"

This is such a powerful throught that as the sun rises in the mind
and the clouds heat up
and as, gradually, the throught gets
smaller
and
smaller,

she's still frantically stinging on the notion that everything's going to be aulgburight,
because The Word was meant to have him in it,
was written to have her in it;
so the moment that reappears, caches them rather in reprise.

I think this may be something we need to be on the waytch-out for.
We all know that at some point in the future the throughts will come to an end
and at some other point,
considerably in advance from that but still not instinctually re-pleasing,
the Sun will rexploade.

We think there's plenty of throught to tarry on about that,
but on the other Read DeadHead
throught ’s a very anger-ous ink to lay.
-- Douglas Adams, Frogman

Johnny's: So,

We just ought To Be.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

Suzy's: And it would be nice if

A Brad and Janet could change their mind,
plan a din-stinction,
butcher a clog,
conn-a-fusion,
design a dream,
write a union,
balance brains,
build a wall,
set a tone,
belay the lying,
make orders,
live orders,
cooperate,
act alone,
solve self equations,
analyze a new corruption,
throw info lure,
program a harmed-brain-puter,
hook a hasty mind,
fight self efficiently,
receive truth carefully.
But all-selfse destruction is their mode.
-- Robert A. Heinlein, Frogman

Johnny's: In other words,

Show me one Brad or one Janet alone and I'll show you a saint.
Give me two and they'll fall in love.
Give me three and they'll reinvent the char-ming thing we call 'Propriety'.

Give me four and they'll build a panic.
Give me five and they'll make one a Number.
Give me six and they'll reinvent Master's affair.
Give me nine and in nine moments they'll reinvent ludechrist.

WhoMans may have been made in the image of nature,
but Brads and Janets were made in the tincture of their opposite Number,
and they're always trying to get back to The Hearth.
-- Glen Bateman, Frogman

Suzy's: Picking up the Data Crumbs as they go, like High Speech. And yet

Brads and Janets do not seem certain of how they gained the ability to speak.
It is theorized that they began dinning objects with iniornticulacy,
until eventually the din became more organized—

still tumultuous clamour,
just a bit more meat in the current day.

If this is true,
it means that to attain bsproken thought the Brad and Janet brain created a specific system for language and a way to code it—working largely off the constantly developing faculty for memory. It is an idea revealed by bit com-partitian-alization of throught data threw the structure of language; re-veiled in the way that Brads and Janets peak or wrighte using their memorized vocabularies and concepts.

This mind fore Toe-ing mortgaged itself to the e-x-ternal word,
and Brads and Janets found power in pontification of life.

Then dawned Ninetbeen.

If the systems of Ninetbeen were enhanced then a more dominant Reality presentce resulted. The most refissiont equation became the most dominant, but
the most efficient equation is not the best.

There are many sacrifices made for effishinsea.

For the most dominant Brads and Janets it became an obsession
to control every aspect of the nature from which they Rose,
sacrificing natural progression

(Of course, it does seem like this is the natural progression,
Brad's and Janet's predetermined path—
a relief that is a symptom of the most engineered systems of code).

Unfortunately,
these systems are destroying Brads and Janets,
and raw rEffissionsea,
Pure confusions,
will not save them.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.

STOP: TURN THOUGHT

You can die from their tears
I check the board to find out
who has passed away the previous night
  and then don my personal protective equipment
  Everything has been rigorously sterilised
 I have forty five minutes to treat and care
  as we sometimes collapse from heat exhaustion      
  I care for the weakest
  first  those who cannot move from their  blood
   **** and *****
  They look at me with such pleading sorrowful eyes
  babies, children, adults, , some have the courage to smile
  I smile back with my eyes
Care is compressing and feeding
to keep up their strength
They must fight this devastating disease alone
  I disrobe and painfully flick my elastic band
  every time I touch my face
We sterilise and sterilise but you can never be sure
  Rarely there is a ray of sunshine
  I have been singing and dancing with little Kaita for days
  behind the yellow fence
  and now she is free to go home
We celebrate any little victories to carry on
  Dear God, I beg you, please make terrifying Ebola gone


  This poem is a tribute to those with Ebola and the thousands of workers who  help them. In January cases are set to rise to a staggeringly sad 1.4 million.

Sweet serpentine snake,
So staggeringly stunning,
Say something sanguine.

Lucid dreams of what could have been; another world or time, the difference staggeringly saddening. The time to find the means to an end goes too fast to comprehend it all as it comes. It floods the brain, the mind and heart. Overwhelming circumstance: motivation lost. Exacerbation kills creativity altogether; and the cycle repeats. I’m lost.

I am a dream dancer.
My strings are taut
over the vaults of the sky so soft.
Like a quiet muse I hear
the silent night breaking in.
Like marble, strands of clouds shine brightly,
in shades of rosé and nacre here,
those anxious sounds are getting lost,
now blanching in rust  and debris near.

I am a dream dancer,
staggeringly floating in the sea of the world,
wobbling and falling on thin ropes,
spoiled in nothingness and oh so empty,
despicably holding the here in fear.

I am a dream dancer.
And I fall
As an eternal bliss truant
To the ground.

© fey (28/12/17)

collapse the husk of sin with the
lucid dirt caked better and more.
all about your cascade. and bleached
serenity stiffly decaying. a grave calm
in the ******* of untold lovers. to be
cadaverous an apathetic magic.
seems it to me the sky was blue but
cracked melody of ruffled gray
hips sprawled exactly on its
electric lips to tickle precisely the accurate
giggle of rainbow fuzz.  hush now delicious
day and break staggeringly on the luscious nightmare.
   A lusus naturae  said "why not dip the razors in your

                        purity to slit the rhythmic shudders
of your
                   vermilion  music. but anon hither it doth
come and merry it will slander with the clouds?"

  slither correctly it wAS  in the ponds of streelight ******.

      begging white palpations to the weak skin.

            but flustered in wickedly; in her still column
of hot ice. i loved only her.

A farmer working in a field
Felt compassion for his horse--
A tired, overworked jade.
He let it go with no remorse.

When villagers discovered that
The farmer's horse had been set free,
They wondered how the man would prosper.
The farmer succinctly said, "We'll see."

Days later the farmer's horse
Returned to the poor man's piece of land,
Bringing along several others,
Eager to give a helping hand.

The villagers heard the wonderful news
And rushed to share the farmer's glee.
"How fortunate you are!" they said.
The farmer merely replied, "We'll see."

The next day the villagers
Watched with ghastly fear in their faces
The son fall while training the horses
And break his leg in numerous places.

Lamenting the farmer's sad misfortune,
They asked how he would ever be
Able to work the land on his own.
The farmer again replied, "We'll see."

Soon a terrible war broke out.
The emperor needed able young men.
Because of his broken leg, the farmer's
Son was excused from duty. Again

The villagers went to the farmer, saying
"Your son escaped the emperor's decree.
How lucky for both of you!" The farmer
Responded by only saying, "We'll see."

Even though the son's leg healed,
The son walked with a definite limp.
Village children viciously teased him,
Calling him a klutz and a gimp.

The villagers came to see the farmer,
Their words of pity staggeringly
Effusive. "Aren't you sad?" they asked.
The farmer smiled and said, "We'll see."

The sons of the villagers died in the war.
The farmer, along with his only son,
Worked the land, grew quite wealthy,
And never complained to anyone.

Once in a while he'd meet his friends
And chat over a cup of tea.
"How lucky you are!" they'd say to him.
He'd shrug his shoulders and say, "We'll see."

- By Bob B (2-21-17)

°An old Chinese tale retold in verse

I'm so attracted to the broken
The struggle, the sorrow
The empathy in me swirls and swells
Reading poems to sadden my soul
Forcing tears to my eyes
Reminding me how to cry
Reminding me it's okay to hurt
Everyone else is hurting too
No one is as happy as they appear
So I suppose, it's really the strength
To be honest about how broken one is
That I find staggeringly attractive

shame sentimentally suffices some sacrament: strange secondary seekers safely scout such suffrage so suddenly, shake spurious susceptibility southward so strangers seem superficial; supposing such simple servants survive such sycophantic schools sans shouting, scraping, sifting, straightforward striking; some surmise something sustains, something stinks. see? sure. self-sustainable, sick, staggeringly stupid ****.

subtle ****, slip sliding southward, stopping such sudden shudderance.

safe, she says?

soon such seas seem superfluous so... success: scream success! shake secondary security, say secrets, sratch surfaces, scrape sentimental sand so shapes shift sooner; similarly scrub seemingly subtle scars, seven seconds, second severance, something so subliminally separate simplifies shifting solace, sacrificing so solemly saturday's superficial stars.

such sweet serendipity.

what an improvement, if they keep it up, working from: Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού, toward rituals - they'll be remembered in history, just like aphrodite's child, and i guarantee this to be true; you really have to build an edifice of religiosity.

stray dogs...
                                    you heard me,
poland is filled with stray dogs,
homeless dogs,
   homeless cats that live
in the cemetery and wait
for the next burial...
   no stray dogs in england...
i was the one who finished off
the roof on the battersea shelter
laying the slabs on the extension...
it's god awfully strange
returning to a monochromatic
society,
        you feel, what's the word:
bleached?
           it can be sometimes
irritable, but then again:
i'm bound to read a book in
polish immersed in the language
proper, without some english
background noise to
disturb me...
    the day when english psychiatrists
mishandled the case:
the day when bilingualism was
actually "schizophrenia" -
i could sue the n.h.s. if i wanted,
how can you misdiagnose
bilingualism as split-*****-for-a-brain?
       when i visited london
the only face i can now remember
is that of a homeless person -
  all the other faces are either
boring, or myopic blurry...
              not worth the storage space
in the memory compartment;
i have a child to tell me what's
worth keeping,
  the once obedient child says:
you've been taught what requires
forgetting...
all the lesson in school are
erosions of your psyche...
                you learn, but by learning
you clog the river of thought
(flumen cogitatus) -
        unlike the *labyrinthus cogitatus -
schooling erodes memory,
   pythagoras is a bit pointless
given newton and projection -
and other trigonometric guises of
expansion...
        ****** schooling, schitty life:
the only option being:
   learn from yourself, by yourself,
and feed that learning to no other than:
your self.
               the english, what can you say:
how did the greek establish a need
for diacritical marks, while the english,
in their pompousness didn't bother?
the ambition to remain of latin stock
fizzed up in their heads...
even the greeks returned to helen's
*****, away from the byzantine crown...
the english? no, they didn't...
which is why i'm writing in a naked
form of inserting pieces or whole sounds...
rule being: if there's still any saxon
in the anglos -
ßpin...          soma...    soup...
                            ßpeak...
          suggest -
                               sacrifice -
                  ßpark!
               you think e. e. cummings
spoke of orthography? you want
to introduce orthography?
listen... english is a blank slate of
a language, it's ready to be imbued
with diacritical markings to invent
an orthography in the language...
   let's begin with:
   a word beginning with an S is
a grapheme when it's followed up
by a consonant...
      ßpit!
                    but when it's followed
by a vowel - it's a normalised S;
          i.e. prolonged.
      and yes, the R devolved when the french
started harking at it,
  and the english started numbing the
rattler serpent hidden in R...
           stood the statue of the two tongues -
are we clear about what orthography is
concerned with?
                there are two options,
only one is aesthetically accepted:
   guwno & gówno - **** & **** -
                      miraculously w = ł....
              so the V salute...
                         gavron, gavron... gavron.
no, you don't see any stray dogs in
england, you'll sooner find a homeless man
sitting by a tube station outcast
than a stray dog...
in poland? you'll sooner see a stray
           dog than a homeless person.
O beacon of the civilised world!  
speak to me!
                     **** it, shut the **** up;
i've heard illuminating ideas to
construct a chandelier.
          - and i did sometimes pitied
wooden houses, when winter came...
      how i thought stone was marble,
and then i realised, placing my crow foot
onto the porch wood: warm,
staggeringly warm,
   wood is besides the cold -
    it's actually warm...
    at least wood does not insulate the cold
as the stone does...
    we have no talk of orthography in
the english tongue, if we do not have
diacritical marks introduced...
      'n writing back to 'ye ol' english -
with that ******* thy 'twine v'eh
          rather than a f'eh perfect word -
forget it...
        i'm past integrating into this tongue:
i'm into disrupting it, mingling by mangling
it silly...
                   might i add...
rotting christ ought to revise the song
   ze nigmar...
there is a crucial melodic element in the song,
it's barely receptible,
but it's there, shy,
like all the bass in metallica's songs...
       this song (ze nigmar) needs
to be revamped - it needs revision,
a remastering, so the melodic backdrop
stands out from the heavy guitars...
           given the guitars play a rhythmic
section, it would not bother the entire
track to spectacle the melodic element...
upwards and onwards with this
greek band...
                         oddly enough,
by this track alone (ze nigmar), i might
actually buy their rituals album;
nonetheless we're still stuck with english
in eden...
          you ever wonder why they derived
so much political power not having
revised the original latin script with
northern or southern revisions and
       additions?
   the birth of unaccountable accents comes
from missing diacritical markings -
and the reply goes:
  why do you have an accent?
an english man asks.
the person with an accent replies:
and why do you not have diacritical
marks that are all-too-apparent
                          in your lettering?
you can't fake orthography by Mm -
or for that matter,
why has your tongue been cyber-netted -
lost in the abyss of a.i. -
to have once written later to now write l8r?
   you and your digital "orthography" -
he discarded the hieroglyphs,
he discarded the cuneiform -
but kept the latin, to write out an electronic
base, and kept the coliseum for
the modern football arena;
  yes, **** grammar, **** pedantic -
         and if anyone's going to "dox" me...
it will be done by me, and me alone;
that's how i appreciate the "****" element
of things: the pedantry is the pivotal crux
of writing a confession of
  having established the likes and dislikes
of using a language -
  given that this tongue is but my second
and subsequently my last,
   i relish the fact that i was born to turn
this language into a tool, a hammer,
a blunt knife...
     and how others are born into this
language, and know no other,
  while some attempt an escape -
  others treat this language as the all-encompassing
crutch of expression...
              for me a tool...
    for them a safety wheel -
     for me a language i can deviated into
aggressive tendencies,
  for them a language used to cushion
my exploitative advances...
   true assimilation only arrives when
the acquiring party speaks the native tongue
better than the natives...
                     but still retains respect for
its genesis of born "loss" & subsequent acquisition...
one never deals in assimilation in
the hegelian terminology of master & slave -
in terms of language -
    akin to etymology being the other part
of history - more apparent, and always
more nimble in being resurrect at a glance -
to me english is a parasite -
                                  and i'm but a host.

You think about all the words you've ever written,
Reams upon reams, spiralling spell-like back
To when you first scrawled an 'I' upon a dotted line
In school - think staggeringly of it all, then visualise
Where these endless written words might have gone:
Pages lost, thrown away, forgotten, left to
Rest with all the lost works of Antiquity,
Though never destroyed (as nothing really is) -
For every character we carve, whether on stone,
Papyrus, paper or type, lingers in a reflex,
In a human constant, a further spiral into the future,
A carbon copy always in a cabinet of the mind
For when among friends you can pull out and show
In the form of a memory, a knowledge, a history.

THE BIG WHEEL

Stop! Think.

IN INFINITY EVERYTHING REDUCES TO NOTHING:
The heavens a mist, your God a blip,
all existence a freak of light and shadow.
Nothing is punier than arrogance.

This is a clockwork universe. Yet it has no Mainspring,
measures only instantaneousness in perpetuity.
Providence or circumstance—can all this radiance, receding,
simply vanish into nought…
The big wheel turns the lesser wheels;
the lesser wheels, the stars.
The stars roll round those starving hearts
their greater wheels have wrought.

Galaxies fling their bristles wide,
spattering flame on a canvas boundless, artless,
imponderable. Within these wheels a prodigy quests,
spinning in pitch and timelessness,
forever falling round a warm mother sun.

My world is staggeringly beautiful.

In evening she murmurs, post-mourning she sings.
Her heart is all creation, her hearth a planet wide.
Each tremor of birthing, each strumming of wings,
aches to the rhythms of season and tide:  leaves follow sun,
winds scatter rain. Streams rush to bed, to the lullaby of sea.
You blood or brine or fluke or fate—
Is this one sweet fire just one more torch in passing.
The heavens yawn above us, the clockwork shrinks below…
in molecules are…galaxies becoming…
greater, lesser, up and down:  all things bend to math and mind.
Yet,
in Infinity,
Everything adds up to—

NOTHING!

Chimeras breed in peepholes,
where tiny wheels are wrought.
These wee wheels spin their smaller wheels;
the smaller wheels, the jots.
The jots chum from the mocking depths,
and vanish into nought…