1975 Art Institute is tactic for Odysseus to put off dealing with real world also investigate range of visual techniques gay instructor fruitlessly endeavors to ****** him he enjoys several affairs with beautiful girls yet Bayli haunts him main building of school is connected behind Art Institute of Chicago Odysseus spends lots of time looking at paintings Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks” Gustave Caillebotte’s “Paris Street Rainy Day” Ivan Albright’s “Portrait of Dorian Gray” Jackson *******’s “Greyed Rainbow” Georgia O’Keeffe’s “Black Cross New Mexico” Francis Bacon’s “Figure with Meat” Pablo Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist” Balthus’s “Solitaire” Claude Monet’s “Stacks of Wheat” Paul Cezanne’s “The Bathers” Vincent Van Gogh’s “Self-Portrait” Edouard Manet’s “The Mocking of Christ” Henri Toulouse-Lautrec’s “At the Moulin Rouge” Robert Rauschenberg’s “Photograph” Mary Cassatt’s “The Child’s Bath” Peter Blume’s “The Rock” Ed Paschke’s “Mid America” Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” Jasper John’s “Near the Lagoon” and John Singer Sargent James McNeill Whistler Diego Rivera Marsden Hartley Thomas Eakins Winslow Homer his 2nd year at Art Institute involves student teaching during day then at night working as waiter at Ivanhoe Restaurant and Theater gay managers teach him to make Caesar salad tableside and other flamboyant tasks wait staff are all gay men once more Odysseus experiences bias from homosexual regime he is assigned restaurant’s slowest sections it bothers him the way some gay men venomously condescend women and their bodies Odysseus loves women especially their bodies he thinks about how much easier his life would be if he was gay in 1976 the art world is managed by gay curators gay art dealers he wonders if he could be gay yet not realize it can a person be gay but not attracted to one’s own ***? Ivanhoe hires variety of night club acts one night he watches Tom Waits perform on piano in lounge Odysseus feels inspired in 1977 he graduates with teacher’s certification he considers all the sacrifices teachers make and humiliating salaries they put up with he does not want to teach candidly he feels he has nothing yet to teach teaching degree was Mom’s idea Odysseus wants to learn grow paint after Art Institute he flip-flops between styles his artwork suffers from too much schooling and scholastic practice it takes years to find his own voice he has tendency to be self-effacing put himself down often he will declare what do i know? i’m just a stupid painter one topic artists do not like talking about is their failures how much money they cost creation requires resource paint and canvas can be expensive how much money is spent on harebrained ideas that never pan out? most artists resort to cheap or used materials few can afford their dreams he gets job selling encyclopedias that job lasts about 5 weeks then he finds job selling posters at framing store on Broadway between Barry and Wellington Salvador Dali Escher Claude Monet prints are the rage his manager accuse him of lacking initiative being spacey after several months he gets laid off he finds job waiting tables during lunch shift at busy downtown restaurant other waiters are mostly old men from Europe they play cards with each other in between shifts teach Odysseus how to carry 6 hot plates on one arm and 2 in his other hand the job is hectic but money is good experience educates differently than books and college a university degree cannot teach what working in the real world confronts people learn most when they are nobodies he reads Sartre’s “Being And Nothingness” he wants to discover who he is by finding out who he is not often he rides bicycle along lakefront taking different routes sometimes following behind an anonymous bicyclist possibly to come across new way he does not know or to marvel at another person’s interest

truth is this life is too difficult for me the violence hatred turf wars tribalism laws judgments practices rules permits history i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world i’m sorry am i repeating myself i apologize i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world god please protect teach me strength courage fairness compassion wisdom love i’m not prepared emotionally to withstand the realities of this world not equipped psychologically to deal with the stresses of this world

buy divinity purchase devotion earn reward points own 4 bedroom loft with roof garden deck porch pool parking in paradise’s gated community pay for exclusive membership into sainthood become part of inner circle influence determine fate destiny of everything step up to the plate sign on the line immortalize yourself feel the privileges of eternal holiness i’m living inside a nightmare inside a nightmare inside a nightmare hello? i am dizzy in my own self-deceptions lost in my own self-deceptions alone in my own self-deceptions there was a time once but that time is gone there was a place once but that place has vanished there was a life once but that life is spent remember when things were different truth is i’m weak skittish anxious alienated paranoid scared to death pagan idiot stop

breath deeply push stale air out imagine kinder more respectful loving world please god do your stuff angels throw your weight around clean up this mess planets align stars shine ancient spirits raise your voices magic work there are words when spoken can change everything words rooted to spiritual nerves if voiced in  particular order secret passwords capable of setting off persuasions in the mind threads to the heart if a person can figure out which words what order tone of voice rate of pronunciation time of day then that person can summon powers of the supernatural Isis goddess of celestial sway of words whisper secret earth water fire air reveal your alchemy winter spring summer autumn teach about passages patterns sublime eastern western sun fickle moody moon unveil your heavenly equation north south east west  beat the drums blow winds show the path to healing path of the heart blood dirt hair *** bare the mystery of your trance dance the ghost dance sacred woman with ovaries cycles flow smell beautiful girl eyes sweetness strange awkward skinny scruffy boy great bear spirit bird jumping fish wise turtle where are you why is there no one to back me? jean paul sartre what was your last thought before you died? was it nausea? nothingness? or a wish?

long before the Greeks started applying diacritical stresses to their letters, the English should have applied them, following their European counterparts in the use of the Latin α-β sabbatical - but of course, they wouldn't, the English poker hand had a royal flush compared with the Greek pair of tens - the reigning delusion given the British Empire? we are the Romans reincarnate - sure, it worked to produce us the Canadian, the American and the Australian accents - but they really, really have to dress-up for the occasion - it just won't do leaving the alphabet naked without stresses that invoke a spirit of universal pronunciations, leaving it a mongolian steppe instead, a wild-west you might add, adding to the social hierarchies established when the hierarchy rests with someone seeing the invisible standards of elocution in that numerous number of examples ready on hand... this is a second English Revision, the first one was economic with Marx... this is another altogether different revision... to appropriate English into what other European nations have done prior... of course, not appropriating the stresses to the fall of the Roman Empire gave them the delusion as successors of the power established - but only for so long... they're not looking over at America with admiration anymore... they're wondering: what the hell is going on?! but i deem this project a half-failure in waiting - given that establishing a universal pronunciation system will not work miracles - Silesian Polish is one example in the making, but if you at least add necessary invocations to stress certain letters, you wouldn't write poetry using the word blah from time to time - it's still bewildering in the Copernican sense that English, out of all the European languages hasn't bothered to wear a cravat of acute vowel or a belt's worth of umlaut - straight out of Eden these people are, stark naked in the moonlight - obviously because of this lack of addition the power balance rests with them, but the English know that they were once occupied by Romans, the Americans can have the naked Latin... the English aren't so sure as to why not join the exercise of additional-revision... the polygamy of accents wouldn't disappear - but the orthographic revisions would aid the less concerned with saying certain words right... but then again, it might be too late, given that because no diacritics were ever ascribed to how the English encoded sounds leveraging toward a poly-phonetic-diversity on these isles alone (let alone North America and Australia) - adding stresses to these 26 popes will have no effect at all... but still! why did the Greeks decide to add stress and eloquence and the reincarnate delusional Romans didn't follow Greek suite?! one thing is for sure... start adding them... and acronym English / ugly English will disappear - people simply need quickly-identifiable stresses, they want linguistic calculus, to ably differentiate and integrate.

after your required reading - *what did i miss?!
with the classics - you look at your contemporaries
and become slightly peeved off -
what ontology can't explain is the instinct
criticising the coal-miners of words -
you rarely see awe when the obscure nugget
of some precious metal is chiselled out -
like the αρκενστoνε - but tmesis will not be
akin to a precious stone (tmēsis - why did the Greeks
insert necessary diacritics and the Anglophiles
were so lazy reducing Aphrodite to Prostodite?
it means e.g. ex-*******-aggeration of something) -
with such a paradise some of us become
coal-miners of words, precious vocalisations -
20 carat with that ontology of yours;
poetry ought to make philosophers like heroes
of Homer's day - give the battlefields shifted to
libraries rather than pecking menus of crows
in muddy Ypres - after reading the book reviews
comparing Saturday reviews with Sunday reviews
i get the picture - it's not a beauty, it's just there -
money is not the dirt people speak of hoping for
a win on the lottery and an escape -
money invoked a necessary loss of tribalism -
of excess labour when no labour in what area was
prescribed earning was necessary -
offices hoovered like hospitals, but then hospitals
incubating super-bugs, resistant to antibiotics ***** -
a baby held captive in a cupboard -
since Hippocrates' times sadism crept in -
people are so sane they perform it automatically without
knowing - until their time comes;
every time i read Bukowski i feel i'm at home,
the latter Bukowski, the posthumous writings -
i too wish i wrote with the sensibility of philosophers,
limited vocabulary, the so called systematic approach -
they simply said: 100 words, written to the volume of
1000 pages - systematisation in philosophy involves
a limitation on vocabulary - they want to see how
far their stressed limit of vocabulary eats away at
the potential sigma of potential - poets on the other hand
rarely systematise - they'd rather jump in with
as many words as possible, and leave anyone reading
their word bewildered, because their vocabulary is
not drilled in, it's not perfected, it almost looks like
a prosthetic limb - the moment when you see a dictionary
in action, the odd word from them all, breaking
the fluidity of a poem that could have been a waterfall -
there are plenty of dictionary moments in almost all
poetry - there's no ticking clock event in them, there's
pause, reflection, revision.
for me this poem started in thinking how ridiculous
using certain words can be - Roman Empire, pseudo-Christ -
i mean, in poetry at least, such words and compounds
look ridiculous in poetry, there's no dogmatism in poetry
to allow such words a serious use - esp. when
compared with what philosophy practices -
a systematisation / containment of a particular vocabulary,
stretched to its limit, dismissive of synonyms of words -
(variations of particulars), i.e. the founding principle
of establishing universal meanings to words:
on that rainbow canvas: red is red, blue is blue,
green is green... all together they're white / mirage of paper
and sclera - the so called invisible -
systematisation in philosophy is a rejection of multiple
meanings of words (deviating 2nd through to 6th meanings
for lying / ambiguity) - and limitation of what can be expressed
with a border on tongue - after all borders exist in
landmasses and in seas -
yet i still don't think poetry is all about music -
those days are long gone - poetry started nibbling at
philosophy - they are heroes to me, i mean, Francis Bacon
died after trying to invent a refrigerator (hypothermia -
hyper-thermal? perhaps a variant of hippo or the trait
of the lizard - the lizard disease - below thermal acceptability
for mammal, true indeed) -
yet after reading the crunch (2), mahler, sometimes even
putting a nickel into a parking meter feels good-,
and esp. am i the only one who suffers thus? i just
think of C. G. Jung - i don't know why - that little
book of his i have: the undiscovered self -
i really don't know what there is to discover -
when you start writing you never actually think from
the beginning that you have it in you -
you never do! it's a lazy beast, writing is -
even a poem a day can be a welcome presence -
for me it was never something undiscovered,
discovering that i started to smoke cigarettes aged
21 after being so anti-cigarettes coming from clubbing
stinking of tobacco - the self i discovered was a bit like
a portrait of Dorian Grey (great book by the way,
better than an adaptation on screen) - that self i didn't
expect - although less ****** and definitely less
fetish spandex clubs - i don't know why i'd mingle
the abstract simplicity opening doors and corridors
to walk on that poetry is (however mutilated due to
a lack of respectable technique like some English teacher
telling you to coordinate yourself with metaphor, pun
or imagery vectors - modern painters can paint
******* and their expression is still art, but when it
comes to poetry... everyone suddenly needs old
Chaucer dungeons or Shakespeare with whip to tell
you it's poetry - a ******* black square on canvas isn't
Raphael!) - i just realised that it's not about discovery -
this is going to sound ridiculous, but it's how it goes,
i don't attack too much significance in examples as these,
i know the meaning of such example, but the meaning
is shallow due to the peddle-stool that C. G. Jung
ascribed the compound: the undiscovered self -
with poetry it's always the inner self that introverts
and shuts up when the world never bothers -
the crucial moment comes when that basic unit of life
(of course, vary it with existence or reality and the matrix,
whatever) reacts to a world it can no longer understand -
poetry then enters the realm of the individual,
the undiscovered self is found, once a healthy individual
weighing 75kg, now a drunkard at 115kg and somehow
still content (the invisibility shroud from back in school,
as with Plato: 18 through to 21 - beauty is a short-lived
tyranny - and 3 years is enough) - and the self begins
digging, and digging and digging (yes, i know, it's
how pronouns interact with each other, the ~self is never
self said - old Germanic - the telegram technique -
self said that self would - funny how all psychiatric theory
or psychology is so ****** obsessed with pronouns and
no other category of words - that's where the sharks swim
sniffing out a drop of blood from a cubic mile of sea water) -
and by digging there is no actual stasis of an undiscovered
self - there's only the continuum of perpetuated inner
and more inner; but what is discovered is not what
is necessarily categorised as zenith, an undiscovered potential,
for that's motivational speech - that little book is
about motivational talk, therapy to craft an illusion of
self-assurance... never mind... after reading
the book reviews from Sunday, most notably the biography
of Philip K. ****... i found that English is a language most
beautiful, but also a language most dismissive -
as with the late acceptance of existentialism -
the slow nibbling at the walls of English utilitarianism -
for that could only be an English product of thought -
and the results? well, teenage suicides and too much
pill-dropping to cure depression: nothing that hurts.
it was hanging in the air, like a guillotine blade -
too much faith in English sensibility and that bloodied
doctrine that utilitarianism is, it's not about big words
these days, when behind those big words there are crude
actions - talk about really inventing a blanket to cover
the crude actions behind what was said in variation of
the supposed vaccine program to make people immune toward
crude actions.

i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.

Form is emptiness
Emptiness is form

1. Sunyata (Emptiness) is the profound meaning of the Mahayana Teaching.

Two thousand five hundred years ago, the Buddha was able to realise "emptiness" (s. sunyata). By doing so he freed himself from unsatisfactoriness (s. dukkha). From the standpoint of enlightenment, sunyata is the reality of all worldly existences (s. dharma). It is the realisation of Bodhi — Prajna. From the standpoint of liberation, sunyata is the skilful means that disentangle oneself from defilement and unsatisfactoriness. The realisation of sunyata leads one to no attachment and clinging. It is the skilful means towards enlightenment and also the fruit of enlightenment.

There are two ways for us to understand this concept of sunyata in the Mahayana context. One way is to try to understand the explanation about its true nature. The other way is the realisation through practice. What we are going to discuss now is about its true nature.

Mahayana teachings have always considered that the understanding of sunyata is an attainment which is extremely difficult and extraordinarily profound.

For example, in the Prajna Sutra it says "That which is profound, has sunyata and non-attachment as its significance. No form nor deeds, no rising nor falling, are its implications."

Again in the Dvadasanikaya Sastra (composed by Nagarjuna, translated to Chinese by Kumarajiva A.D. 408) it says: "The greatest wisdom is the so-called sunyata."

This sunyata, no creation, calmness and extinction (s. nirvana) is of a profound significance in the Mahayana teachings. Why do we see it as the most profound teaching? This is because there is no worldly knowledge, be it general studies, science or philosophy, that can lead to the attainment of the state of sunyata. The only path to its realisation is via the supreme wisdom of an impassionate and discriminating mind. It is beyond the common worldly understanding.

2. The Significance of Sunyata and Cessation

The Buddha always used the terms void, no rising and falling, calmness and extinction to explain the profound meaning of sunyata and cessation. The teachings of the Buddha that were described in words are generally common to worldly understandings. If one interprets the teachings superficially from the words and languages used, one will only gain worldly knowledge and not the deeper implication of the teachings. The teachings of the Buddha have their supra-mundane contexts that are beyond the worldly knowledge.

For example, sunyata and the state of nirvana where there is no rising nor falling, are interpreted by most people as a state of non-existence and gloom. They fail to realise that quite the opposite, sunyata is of substantial and positive significance.

The sutras often use the word "great void" to explain the significance of sunyata. In general, we understand the "great void" as something that contains absolutely nothing. However, from a Buddhist perspective, the nature of the "great void" implies something which does not obstruct other things, in which all matters perform their own functions. Materials are form, which by their nature, imply obstruction. The special characteristic of the "great void" is non-obstruction. The "great void" therefore, does not serve as an obstacle to them. Since the "great void" exhibits no obstructive tendencies, it serves as the foundation for matter to function. In other words, if there was no "great void" nor characteristic of non-obstruction, it would be impossible for the material world to exist and function.

The "great void" is not separated from the material world. The latter depends on the former. We can state that the profound significance of sunyata and the nature of sunyata in Buddhism highlights the "great void’s" non-obstructive nature.

Sunyata does not imply the "great void". Instead, it is the foundation of all phenomena (form and mind). It is the true nature of all phenomena, and it is the basic principle of all existence. In other words, if the universe’s existence was not empty nor impermanent, then all resulting phenomena could not have arisen due to the co-existence of various causes and there would be no rising nor falling. The nature of sunyata is of positive significance!

Calmness and extinction are the opposite of rising and falling. They are another way to express that there is no rising and falling. Rising and falling are the common characteristics of worldly existence. All phenomena are always in the cycle of rising and falling. However, most people concentrate on living (rising). They think that the universe and life are the reality of a continuous existence.

Buddhism on the other hand, promotes the value of a continuous cessation (falling). This cessation does not imply that it ceases to exist altogether. Instead, it is just a state in the continuous process of phenomena. In this material world, or what we may call this "state of existence", everything eventually ceases to exist. Cessation is definitely the home of all existences. Since cessation is the calm state of existence and the eventual refuge of all phenomena, it is also the foundation for all activities and functions.

The Amitabha Buddha who was, and is, revered and praised by Buddhists around the world, radiates indefinite light and life from this "state of cessation". This state is a continuous process of calmness. It will be the eventual refuge for us all. If we think carefully about the definitions of calmness and extinction, then we can deduce that they are the true natural end-points of rising and falling. The true nature of the cycle of rising and falling is calmness and extinction. Because of this nature, all chaos and conflicts in the state of rising and falling will eventually cease. This is attainable by the realisation of prajna.

3. Contemplating the Implications of Sunyata and Stillness (Nirvana) by Observing Worldly Phenomena

All existences exhibit void-nature and nirvana-nature. These natures are the reality of all existence. To realise the truth, we have to contemplate and observe our worldly existence. We cannot realise the former without observing the latter. Consider this Heart Sutra extract, "Only when Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva practised the deep course of wisdom of Prajna Paramita did he come to realise that the five skandhas (aggregates, and material and mental objects) were void."

Profound wisdom leads us to the realisation that all existences are of void-nature. The sutras demonstrate that the profound principle can be understood by contemplating and observing the five skandhas. We cannot realise the truth by seeking something beyond the material and mental world. The Buddha, using his perfect wisdom, observed worldly existence from various implications and aspects, and came to understand all existences.

In summary, there are three paths to this observation:

a) We should observe the preceding state and the current state of conditions. i.e., Observation according to the concept of time.

b) We should observe existences according to their interrelationships. i.e., Observation via the concept of space (either two or three-dimensions).

c) We should observe the true nature of all myriad beings. This is like observing the worldly existences of a point, a line and an area. Those with supreme wisdom understand the true nature of all worldly existences by observing vertically the relationships between the preceding and current conditions, and horizontally the interrelationships. Then we can understand the true meaning of void-nature and nirvana-nature.

3.1 By observing the preceding-stage and the current-stage conditions, we can verify the Law of Impermanence of all worldly existences. All existences, be they material or mental, be they the material world, or the physical or mental states of sentient beings, are subject to continuous change.

The world may have certain states of beings where they stay static or are in equilibrium on a temporary basis (for example hibernation). But when we observe them with supreme wisdom, we will find that not only do they keep changing on a yearly basis, but also that this change applies to even every briefest moment. After the current state of conditions have ceased to exist, the newly-formed state materialises. This is the state of rising and falling. The rising and falling of each small moment reveals that all existences are ever-moving and ever-changing.

Conventional scholars have a very good explanation of these ever-changing worldly conditions. However they, including the practitioners of dharma, try to make sense of the reality from the ever-changing worldly existences. That is, they are fooled by the material existences and are not able to understand the deeper truth of all existences.

Only those with the supreme wisdom of the Buddha and Mahabodhisattvas realise and understand that all existences are illusions. They understand that existences are not real from the observation of the flow of changing existences. The numerous illusionary existences may well be diverse and confusing, arising and decaying. But when we look into their true nature, we will find them void and of nirvana-nature.

On the other hand, since all existences are of nirvana-nature, they appear from the perspective of time, to be ever-changing. They never stay the same even for the briefest moment. Impermanence implies existences do not have a permanent entity. This is another implication of the nature of sunyata and stillness.

3.2 From observations of existence via inter-relationships, we can conclude that nothing is independent of the Law of Causation, and that everything is without ego. For example, the Buddha explains that the individual sentient being is composed of physical, physiological and psychological phenomena. The so called ego is a deluded illusion which does not exist in reality. Its existence depends on the combination of both physical and mental factors. It is a union of organic phenomena. Thus we call it the empirical ego. It is a mistake to cling to it as an infatuated ego.

The Indian concept of the supreme spirit implies someone who rules. The spirit is the ruler who is independent of is self-dependent and all causes. In other words, the spirit is the one who is free from all primary and secondary causes (for physical and mental aspects). The spirit is the one who has the soul of his own body and mind. This is the ego or supreme spirit that the theologists cling to. From their view point, the only way to avoid physical and mental decay is to be self-determined and self-sovereign. In this way, the supreme being can stay permanent in the cycle of reincarnation, and return to the absolute reality by liberating himself from life and death.

But from the profound contemplation and wisdom of the Buddha and Mahabodhisattvas, we know there is no such reality. Instead, egolessness (non-self) is the only path to understand the reality of the deluded life. All existences are subject to the Law of Causes and Conditions. These include the smallest particles, the relationship between the particles, the planets, and the relationship between them, up to and including the whole universe! From the smallest particles to the biggest matter, there exists no absolute independent identity.

Egolessness (non-self) implies the void characteristics of all existence. Egolessness (non-self) signifies the non-existence of permanent identity for self and existence (Dharma). Sunyata stresses the voidness characteristic of self and existence (Dharma). Sunyata and egolessness possess similar attributes. As we have discussed before, we can observe the profound significance of sunyata from the perspective of inter-dependent relationships. Considering dharma-nature and the condition of nirvana, all existences are immaterial and of a void-nature. Then we see each existence as independent of each other. But then we cannot find any material that does exist independent of everything else. So egolessness also implies void-nature!

3.3 From the observation of all existences, we can infer the theory of nirvana and the complete cessation of all phenomena. From the viewpoint of phenomena, all existences are so different from each other, that they may contradict each other. They are so chaotic. In reality, their existence is illusionary and arises from conditional causation. They seem to exist on one hand, and yet do not exist on the other. They seem to be united, but yet they are so different to one another. They seem to exist and yet they do cease! Ultimately everything will return to harmony and complete calmness. This is the nature of all existence. It is the final resting place for all. If we can understand this reality and remove our illusions, we can find this state of harmony and complete calmness.

All our contradictions, impediments and confusion will be converted to equanimity. Free from illusion, complete calmness will be the result of attaining nirvana. The Buddha emphasised the significance of this attainment and encouraged the direct and profound contemplation on void-nature. He said, "Since there is no absolute self-nature thus every existence exhibits void-nature. Because it is void, there is no rising nor falling. Since there is no rising nor falling, thus everything was originally in complete calmness. Its self-nature is nirvana."

From the viewpoint of time and space, we can surmise that all existences are impermanent, all existences have no permanent self, and nirvana is the result of the cessation of all existences - the Three Universal Characteristics. But there are not three different truths. Instead, they are the characteristics of the only absolute truth and the ultimate reality. This is the explanation of Dharma-nature and the condition of nirvana. The three characteristics are the one characteristic, and vice versa!

We may cultivate our meditation, contemplating the impersonality of all existences. This will lead us to enlightenment via the path of voidness. Contemplating nirvana and complete calmness leads to enlightenment by the path of immaterial form. Contemplating the impermanence of all existences, leads us to enlightenment by the path of inactivity (no desire).

The Three Universal Characteristics are the other implications of Dharma-nature and nirvana. The paths to enlightenment are also the same cause of absolute reality. All of them return to the Dharma-nature and the condition of nirvana. In short, the teachings of the Buddha start from the observation and contemplation of all worldly phenomena. They are like thousands of streams of water competing with each other, and flowing from the top of the mountains to the bottom. Eventually, all of them return to the ocean of voidness and nirvana.

4. Sunyata and Cessation is the Truth (Nature) of All Existences.

All existences that are recognised by worldly understanding, whether materially, spiritually or intellectually, have always been misunderstood by us. We cling to them as real, physically existing and permanent. Actually, they are only unreal names.

The more precise meaning of the term "unreal name" is "assumption" or "hypothesis". It is an empirical name. It is formed by the combination of various causes and effects. (These include the effects of mental consciousness.) It does not exist by itself. Everything exists relatively. Thus, what is the ultimate truth? If we investigate existence further, we realise that all existences are empty. This is the fundamental characteristic and reality of all existence. It is ultimate and absolute. But we should not think that empty means nothing. It implies the disentanglement from the worldly misunderstanding of the existence of self, identity, and the realisation of the absolute.

In the Sutras and Abhidharma, the worldly understandings are sometimes referred to as all phenomena (Dharma). Sunyata is referred to as "Dharma-nature", and hence there is a distinction between "phenomena" and "Dhamma-nature". However, this is only an expedient explanation that helps us to realise the truth of sunyata through the phenomena of all existences.

We should not think that "existence" and "nature"; or the "phenomena of Dharma" and "Dharma-nature" are something contradictory. They are just concepts needed to understand the implication of sunyata.

We may analyse the exp

because i reduced my language to encode onomatopoeia, and because i didn't allow stresses to be pronounced on letters for the appropriate expressions of deviating local accents (instead concentrating on the snail slogans of organic produce, local, ******): to contrast the inherited Latin encoding system - i used aesthetic encoding to such an extent that i gave birth to dyslexia, or to put simply: over-spelling... i deviated from the other inheritors of the Latin alphabet without stressing certain sounds, hence i conquered the world, and subsequently giving up Hong Kong, became the ****-hole of the world, with 5 year old children being accused of ****** exploitation in the newspapers... i didn't follow the continental drift toward evolving Latin, yet i immersed myself in Darwinism, to preach the doctrine of the evolution of forms, the square remained a square, the circle a circle... the monkey suddenly became a man... and since i preached the universality of man, i was wedged in too many particulars in how i said things to be... which is why i believed in America and decided to exit Project Europe... which is why i became the F. D. Roosevelt island of hopes, isolationism being the cure, sure, everyone is employed, but on 0 hour contracts... which is why someone with enough oil in their head came among and said: Sa-id! we need a hyphen over a letter rather than keep it as a wavering compound awaiting the Oxford nod of approval... it's a shame when you care for the aesthetics, but never provide a system of directness, as in always providing a system of indirectness - meaning there's no mathematics involved in lettering - no stress - all the stress gets turned into exploiting forms that don't nudge into coerced trapeziums of disintegration, means you work more than the 9 to 5 prescription... all because you exploited children during the Victorian age, and left the young of our present age to premature ailments that only old people should succumb to... you can't be Romans just like that! too may oceans, not enough seas... you need to add stresses to the letter you are sorta borrowing rather than plundering, be like the Germans, the French, the Poles, invite the aesthetic scientists to desecrate the temples of Runes... but at the same time plunder the encoding with accents, to simply say: we're above, no matter the success of trade your empire provides... we say it chisel, you say it chive... we build, you cook, the end. but keeping it in naked diacritic lack will expose weaknesses in the physical realm of use when silenced... English needs to stress itself with this phonetic encoding if it's to survive at all... but it's too late for that, i fear... there are too many particular instances of its eccentricity that come as pride a minute from now, and as a landfill site the minute after... they are paying for keeping with the Latin alphabet unabashed to continue without mathematical stresses of saying things... but the times of George V and the empire are long gone... it's just that, or the fact that they don't know what their weakness is... since they battle stresses of phonetic encoding with political egoism on a populist scaling.*

i congest myself on the feline onomatopoeia, between a roar
and a meow - between the matured tree
and the bonsai replica i tend to do my quasi-cartesian thinking -
i don't really have an ego to verb together
things with a pristine causality akin to exercise equalling
perspiration - thought has no verb attachment -
no motivational speech to boot -
being is the same -
i simply concentrated on the exponential
existence of nouns -
like anyone with too much information
i find keeping a respectable investment in
nouns to be the source of my misery -
with such a high number of nouns and a pauper's
share of verbs i will obviously become a slacker
in the former category, as in the latter -
instinctively like a cat, speaking the universal
sound that i silence and then rewrite in
the onomatopoeia form i hardly think and hardly
am, a cat... i just have too many nouns to
take care of, most of which i'd only use
slouched with a book before going to sleep,
and never actually using in my everyday speech,
it's back to the garden of Eden and the fruit of
temptation: aiming for a high propane vocabulary
is like Adam given the fruit, gets a vocabulary
of a chemist, but ends up being a plumber...
no one checks this ****, ever!
i get the part of "we're in this together",
but mediating all our specialisations in a democratic way
will only create more tangents and the trigonometric
tan(gens) graphs of solipsism - offshoots and
somehow always "dark graphs" (σκότογραφυ) -
oddly enough, making the acute omicron into a u
never allowed the upsilon an endeavour into Y (macron
i) with any diacritic, other than the hint in capital
of the mentioned lower-case encoding.
what the **** was i saying? i'm astounded at the
fact that i lost the fluidity, not what i was saying per se,
it seem the per se fluidity got blocked and i had
to reopen the Pandora box yet again... let me have
a while to guess where the narrative should realign
without the reverse of fictional characters as extensions
of the narrator - i.e. poetry's synonym of characters
is personae, meaning that poetry has personae
and fictional prose has characters... the fictional
prose narrator tries to piece a space together with many
characters he's conscious of as inventing...
the poet narrator tries to piece a person together with many
personae he's not conscious of, atypically a schizoid
symptom... or not... ... ... ... ... ... oh right...
the balance of nouns and verbs in the Cartesian sense
of exercise and perspiration, or the fact that Serena Williams
never breaks a sweat... love those thighs...
she never asks for a towel to rub her hands or face dry...
she must be doping with the Russians...
too many nouns surrounding us,
i feel like a proton surrounded by what i thought
was the limit (electrons), but no! oh no! there are
quarks, neutrinos, and ******* violins!
whirling whirlwind strings and chopsticks -
which translated into Chinese just means Chopping Suede Sue;
hey! i got a bell ding-**** knocking on wood just now...
funny how poetry can do that... knock on wood
you end up hearing a seashell tide break open
the coral restrictions with a tsunami gnash on earthly goods.

Sitting here, alone at home
wondering what i am going to do with my life...
unemployed...
watching cartoons to pass the time
free my mind of the stresses
but they never go away
unemployed
hoping for that call
that email, even a text message
that says I am good enough, I am worthy
to not be
unemployed
searching the internet
all day long
hoping someone will hear this song
unemployed
bored, boredom, boring
unemployed
nothing to talk about
because nothing happens
unemployed
maybe i will change myself
change my heart, change my mind
i am so sick of being
unemployed
but maybe
maybe instead of indeed.com
i will try okcupid.com
maybe someone
some special lady out there
will not want to leave me so
unemployed
but who knows because i keep chasing the same dead ends
unemployed

Dear Poet Friends, this poem was composed as a tribute and praise
to the Creator of heaven and earth way back in the year 2008, & was posted on ‘Poemhunter.com’. The Creator’s handiwork has inspired Poets, Artists, and Humans alike since the dawn of our
civilisation, and shall continue to do so for our future generations! Hope you like this poetic composition. I will be grateful if you comment only after having read the entire poem.  Thanks, - Raj

VISIONS OF THE VAST BLUE EMPYREAN
                * BY RAJ NANDY*

       '’The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
        The sky proclaim His divine handiwork!’’
                                                   - Psalm of David.

(I)
The SKY is a multidimensional manifestation of God's
creation,
A translucent blue canopy above all and one.
The sky has inspired humans for centuries to aspire
and dream, -
To seek His blessings and guidance from above;
And shall continue to do so for centuries to come!
The sky beckons and lures with its mystical spell;
Making humans with leaping aspirations to try out
and reach, -
Those frontiers where the sky is the unlimited limit of
all our hopes, aspirations and dreams!
The sky, lush, luring, luminous, and sweet, -
Invites, entice, and fills us with a sense of wonder!
How God-like in appearance, and almost human in
its expressions!
The sky has remained as a silent witness to the birth
of our planet,
Since God created the firmament and the heavens,
before creating the Earth.
The sky, a silent spectator since eons past,
Shall continue to see the fading away of old stars;
And formation of baby galaxies in a cosmic drama of
His creation,
Lying beyond the comprehension of Mankind!
While we try to delve His secrets with our space probes,
Which we can neither fully comprehend nor unravel;
And shall only continue to wonder and marvel!

(II)
The blue sky continues to inspire and even melts,
While its blue translucence silently seep into the
Poet's heart,
As he sits to reflect and shape his thoughts,
And the vast expanse of the ethereal sky,
Stretching his mind with future dreams and
visions!
While the azure blue begins to flow through his
veins, and gets transmitted through his pen, -
To convey his exalted thoughts and deepest feelings,
in poetic lines and verse, -
Which becomes the Poet's sole mission.
And at night when the Poet meditates, he catches a
falling star,
And writes a poem on it and keeps it in his pocket, -
Saving it for a rainy day!
And during the silence of the night, when the hours
grow dark and deep,
And the sky gently droops and drips;
The poet wakes up to write, and writes to sleep!

(III)
The sky flows on to the canvas of the Painter,
As he tries to depict its varied complexions and moods,
With his limited colours, shades and hues,
Flashing and spilling his canvas with touches of tints
and tones,
To captivate the capricious, transient and fanciful moods,
which the sky adorns!
The deep blue empyrean is at times blissful and sublime,
Changing from a radiant, opulent, and iridescent, -
To threatening, cruel, and violent;
Both devastating and destructive as the sweeping
tornado or a hurricane!
Yet when God decides to paint the Aurora Borealis those
magical Northern Lights, -
Those glowing diaphanous curtains of waving, swirling
streamers of lights,
With its red, green, blue, violet, and luminescent spell-
binding shades;
How can any artist foolishly dare to compete or replicate
His celestial art?
For the Auroras are a reflection of His live real time
handiwork, -
Which shall never diminish or fade!

(IV)
The crystal blue arch of heaven, a glorious canopy
cover over our head,
Blesses us with the much needed shade;
From the tormenting and scorching rays of the
relentless Summer's sun.
With its varying layers of passing clouds, -
As the sun completes its diurnal rounds!
Those high cheerful cirrus and cirro-stratus clouds
of the Winter sky,
The meditating alto-cumulus and alto-stratus clouds
of medium heights;
And those upward swelling, ambitious clouds of
cumulonimbus, -
Carrying the thunder bolts and lightning of the great
Zeus do confound us!
And finally those low sheets of stratus clouds of the
rumbling monsoon sky;
Bringing incessant rain and lightning darts, -
Flashing like a whip lash across the sky and the earth!
With the speed of sound always lagging behind that
of light, -
Thus thunder bolts always follow those blinding flashing
darts of dazzling blue lights!
While the good Earth absorbs it all like some suffering
soul,
And forever regenerates itself to transcend its
tormenting plight!

(V)
The clouds floating like fluffy wool of cotton and
the downs of white goose feathers,
Adds dimensions, visual depth, definition and a sense
of perception;
For the human mind to behold and meditate, -
Those vast measureless depths of the infinite space!
The clouds with its varying forms and shapes,
At times like the ice cream cones with vanilla
tops and wisps of cream;
Keep floating across the cerulean blue, forming
and melting, -
From one nothingness into another,  below the
arched vault of the heavens!
And at times the clouds coalesce to dissipate as
gentle rain,
With rhythmic beats, or follow some wild musical note,
Lashing against the earth like a dancer in trance!
While it brings down the cool aqua, the very elixir of
life to earth.

(VI)
The sky is held captive by its own void of eternal
silence.
As nature's mirror, it reflects and also shows us a
glimpse of the infinite!
While the night sky by itself exhibits a wondrous
sight,
With the sentinel stars shining like a living hymn
written in light!
And the ebony treasure vault of heavens hold the
sparkling and glittering countless gems;
Of pearls of lily white, rubies with red sheen,
And galaxies shimmering like hyacinth of purple
light!
The sky envelopes the earth all around in an elusive
embrace of unconsummated love!
But each night, in hope and expectations the Sky
adorns itself, -
With diamond necklace and pearls of milky white,
Woven round its dark black flowing stresses;
Casting longing looks towards the beloved Earth,
To whom she is attracted from her very birth!

(VII)
The sky despite its wide range of colourful
spectrum and moods,
Forever retains its pristine colour of azure blue,
behind its gray and somber clouds.
Each morning the sky presents us with a clean
blue slate,
Where nothing ever remains written or etched!
Inspiring humans to make a new beginning,
Before time runs out and it becomes too late!
Yet the sky never forgets to reflect the arched
rainbow over its brow,
Once the thunder clouds and storms dissipate!
Keeping our hopes and aspirations forever alive;
And impelling us to strive in all our endeavours
and to excel!

(VIII)
The sky remains as a revelation of God's immaculate
handiwork.
The blue welkin, God's treasure trove, with its
capricious moods,
Sometimes furious, sometimes iridescent, but by nature
divinely sublime!
The sky a recurrence of happenings, with its speckled dance, -
Of colours, cadence, and of light and shade,
Giving us a taste, smell and feel of eternity, -
Which appears as real, though illusory and ephemeral!
Transcending all our scientific formulas, speculations
and intricate *******-up logic;
Since many mystical and unknown energy forms exist in
our sky and space,
Beyond the realms of Quantum Physics , String Theory,
the Higgs Field and Relativity!  * ( see Notes below)
And forces can even be made to emanate from the human
mind and soul and to transcend, -
To blend with those vibrations in the celestial spheres of
the Divine!

(IX)
The sky shall forever remain a source of exhilaration
and exhortation for mankind, -
And as an exaltation of God's divine and lofty thoughts!
The sky also remains as our ultimate frontier, -
Stretching the dimensions of human consciousness,
Till our consciousness learns to merge with the Divine;
To become one and to blend, under the blue vault of
our blissful Empyrean!
                                                       -  by RAJ NANDY, NEW DELHI

(*NOTES: The five different versions of the String Theories know as the 'The M- Theory' of Quantum Physics, which tries to explain the origin of all things through the vibrations of nano strings. The latest discovery of the Higgs Field, which is said to add mass to subatomic particles; are our humble and insufficient efforts to understand God’s mysterious creation of the universe and space!)
      (ALL COPY RIGHT ARE WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY)

Awaking blithe each morning,
with eyes upon the World,
I wonder, are we mourning
with ebon flags unfurled –
or are they but a warning,
some draped like snakes and curled,
stray stars and stripes adorning,
sent from the netherworld.

I wander through the garden
with nothing on my mind
and say 'I beg your pardon'
alarmed at what I find
as winds begin to harden
and fate begins to grind.

Confused, I watch my neighbours,
they're wide-eyed, unafraid
to halt all useful labours
and join the death brigade;
the ritters rattle sabres,
the frail and fragile fade,
morticians tap on tabors,
the potentates parade.

The military blesses
(in tunics somewhat browned)
its crimson-stained successes,
hell bent and heaven bound.
Such scenes no more distress us:
a ****** battleground,
dissevered heads with tresses
and arms and legs abound;
the fourth estate suppresses
the heaps of bodies  found
(collateral excesses
discarded in a mound).

Society regresses,
now living by the sword,
with torture and its stresses
upon a waterboard;
a captive kid confesses,
his innocence ignored -
fallacious facts and guesses,
the guts of justice gored!

With canting vindication
a big brass bully brags
(with pearls of perspiration
and swollen tongue that gags)
of third world  subjugation
for gelt and oily swags,
of human rights' castration,
and on and on it drags.

The manifold migration
of refugees in rags
while searching for salvation
soon finds compassion lags;
uprooted populations
are fleeing from their flags
else dying of starvation
as naked hunger nags.

With trump cards politicking,
two little hands (all thumbs)
may send the Mad Dog siccing.
Insane! All sense succumbs.

Atomic timepiece ticking
until the Reaper comes
as Geiger counters clicking
drown out the droning drums.

Cast out for not conforming,
I wander day by day
to find the earth deforming
as nature wastes away,
with bees no longer swarming
(expunged with garden spray)
and ocean depths transforming
(neath plastic overlay).

With CO2 performing
the climate's led astray,
the atmosphere's been warming,
the grasses ashen gray,
eternal tempest storming
while permafrosts decay,
and ozone holes are forming
in deadly disarray.

The people profiteering
descend a slip'ry *****
destroying, never fearing        
of running out of rope;
instead they sit back sneering
“our wealth’s your only hope”.

Yes, Armageddon's nearing,
it's doubtful that we'll cope,
for Evolution's jeering,
she's scanned our horoscope:
we'll soon be disappearing
with whale and antelope.


           Epitaph

The multitudes were jumbled,
some milling ’round the mall,
while politicians bumbled
when bracing for the brawl.

The World around us rumbled,
our backs against the wall,
as bombs were tossed and tumbled
across our broken ball.

My kneecaps creaked and crumbled
but I, too proud to crawl,
took but a step and stumbled  
yet found no place to fall.

And no one heard me grumble
although I tried to call,
or maybe I just mumbled,
as strength began to pall.

Well now the World’s been humbled
I seek an urban sprawl,
but since the feuds were fumbled
there’s nothing left at all.

How do you decide?
Decide what to do,
What the future holds for you?
I don’t understand, one goal,
One goal that somehow
Supersedes them all.

How do you choose?
When passion flows through you,
For not just one, nor two,
But many life paths, careers,
It all means something to you?

I feel lost, thinking of the future.
I’m floating by, trying to find,
Something that could spark
More than mere interest,
Something that could captivate,
Hypnotize me for long enough.

Because you see, I flit from one
Passion to the next, one minute
I am drawing, the next sewing,
The next it’s animals I love,
Or how about teaching children?

And I sit here empty, not sure
Which path to take, which goal
To make, to work towards,
Because right now, I’m in
The inbetween, no job,
Not in school, what do I do?

But the reality is, I’m trying to find
That one magic passion,
That somehow works with my
Disable body, since almost everything,
I find it all exhausting.
And my mind is spinning circles,
A dog chasing its tail.

Why can’t I do it all?
Why can’t I just enjoy life, enjoy
All of the things it brings,
And take my time, because I’m
So tired, of trying to figure it all out.
Tired of planning, I’ve never been
Too good at planning, when there’s
So many things occupying my mind,
So many things that I desire.

But even then, even then, if I could find
A goal to work towards, a dream job
For right now, well that takes work
And it takes time, because it
Turns out it’s all a ladder that
We all have to climb and being disabled,
Well I feel left behind, not sure
How to move forward when
I also have to go up, and going
Up has always been so draining.

I must work now, to somehow
Get somewhere I would rather be,
But what do you do when most jobs
Require me to be on my feet,
With my level of experience,
And education, limiting me?
It’s like I have to hurt myself
In order to hopefully some day,
Live a better life, I guess that’s why
So many say, ‘suffer now, and
You’ll get your reward later’

I tried university, tried college,
But you see, being disabled,
Has made them  difficult for me.
At least, in the ways that I was pursuing.
And now I’m stuck, trying to find my way,
How to get out of this rut, this mess,
All around me while being limited
By my own body, when I’m so used
To trying so hard to keep up
With the rest of them, charging
At how much money they can earn.

Money, it always comes back to money.
And money stresses me out,
Makes me more sick, gives me more
Pain that I would ever like to be in.
Well, apparently, money is
Supposed to be the solution.

Not so easy when the job market is crap,
I didn’t come from money, so I had to
Start off with nothing, and make my own way.
But where do you start, when
All your ‘now’ prospects seem
Rather lackluster and all you can do
Is prepare for a future.

Strange to think that we’re told to
Live each and every day like
It’s the last one we may ever live,
When we have to spend our beginnings
Stuck in preparing, deciding, and striving
For a future, so hard to make,
When all you started with was
A journal to write in.

I just want to live now,
I want to live everyday,
I want to spend more time
Cultivating all this passion inside
Of me, it’s bursting inside of me.

But there’s this rut, this anxiety,
This fear, of having to build a life,
No, a career. So that I can live
In the future, instead of now,
So that hopefully, we can get by,
Scrape by, by the skins of our teeth.

Tired of working crap jobs,
That I don’t really like, where we’re
Unappreciated, and paid to barely live.
Overworked, underpaid, I’m in so much pain.
My body, can’t stand in this pain,
But that’s all I can do is stand.
In pain, at a cash register,
Or making drinks, no consideration,
Of the struggle it is of being disabled.

Because we all have to able.
Able to stand, to push, to work
Your ***** off, until there’s nothing left,
You’ve given all you’ve got, and then
Some. Soul *******, career bent,
Work too hard, to fit in.
You got to be a workaholic to fit in.

Well I can’t keep up with that pace,
And I see it wearing people thin,
People that have more strength,
More drive than I ever did.
How are we supposed to live,
When you have to work to live,
And, in turn, live to work.
It’s extremely exhausting.

All of this jumbles inside me,
I can’t breathe, can’t decide,
How I’m supposed to live my life
When everything screams
On all sides, that I’m supposed to be
Running, supposed to be rushing,
And that all seems so wrong.

I just want to live a life that has meaning.
Something meaningful to me, that I can
Actually enjoy each moment as it passes
Us all by, I don’t want to rush life
Before it all ends, I’m so tired
Of trying to run in this ‘rat race’
It’s not a race, I need a slower pace.
I demand a slower place.
No more running, no more racing,
It’s time to live in the now,
No fear.

Hmm I've only got a
few likes today hmm maybe
my writings not good

Why am I even
writing what's it's all about
What's the point , I only feel

anxious now , deep breaths
Now I feel silly why did
I write that , oh jeez

heart beating feel sick!!
Then my self doubt passes and
I'm back to lovely

place again! Self doubt
sure can grip me making me
feel really down! But you

see writing helps dig
through negativity , am
I a poet or not

Maybe , I'm not sure
But I'm much more too , I'm a
wife a mum a sister

a friend. I've wrote my
heart out for five years now non
stop to be honest

But now I'm in such
a lovely place of content
I'm living happy

Of course I still get
life stresses hit me and yeah
I get negative

But one thing I can
always rely on is my
passion for writing

It helps mentally
to keep me strong and focus
May it come from my

heart or mind or once
in awhile I like to write
stories , fun fun fun :)

I'm slowing down now
Gone and got myself married :)))
Tis so wonderful

Children are growing
up fast , there leading there own
life's more every day

So I'm finding new
hobbies to keep me active
Life changes happen

But to write , will be  
in me always , tis part of me
it's just there always

So to all who love to
write have fun dry those tears up
Find your happy place :))

.via ghana: i iz welcome the haiku poetic extractionz of the maxim: full-on potentiality of - few words maximum effortz! one wishes to almost die from feng shui minimalism! chinese geomancy and european chiromancy (reading balzac et al.) - but the sigh poetic of pepsi max effort iz wot iz the breaking of the camel bonk and backß... last time i heard from a kenyan bartender... all the timber comes from ghana... as does the wheat from ukraine and the salt from poland... coal is always "elsewhere"... or no coal... wind... the wind comes from: far far away... beyond the language of the seven vowels...

it took much of an effort to have to overcome
a reading of Stendhal...
esp. when you find him in your teens..
almost impossible...

it's enough to visit a brothel:
once a year... perhaps skipping a year...
and there's enough body,
and skin, and warmth...
to contrast... what i'm yet to read about...
otherwise have read, i.e.:

2010s through the 2020 summary...
lucy holden now 29...
sexting, dating apps, bisexual flings
flatmates with benefits...
millenial serial dater...

all the details are already known...
mine? that strip-clup in athens on a whim
with two strippers either arm
burrowing my face solving the mole
in their cleavage...
the goodmayes borthel with the romanians
that said a very bulgarian word, once...

and who can ever forget
the south african cocoon ****-accusation
of: not unde the bed-sheets and please
oil up rather than dry-******* me...
or the thai surprise picked up
in a park and that a little bit of heavyweight
beer and some jazz and a garden shed will allow...
the number of times i've had ***...
well... what are fingers for?

the black girl with a coccyx like an iron maiden
attempting to tattoo itself onto my pelvis...
2nd time round?
i heard she had a child and his daddy
would be bringing him home the morning to come...
and this other black woman,
oh i mean: full detail - woman...
two children sleeping on the bed...
get dragged off...
thrown to the bed...
and i'm there to **** an imitation ******
of... a tight fold of legs...

it's not exactly **** but even with that:
i'm not a best fitter...
so tell her: it's not going to happen...
we pretend to sleep or at least i do...
when this afro-fur-ball with a plucking sound
of a smooch is standing at the end of the bird...
he's naked i'm naked everyone's naked
i pick him up like i pick up maine *****
and lay him on my chest...
i can't allow a river of fingers through
his afro tangles... so i pat them down...
and he falls asleep...

***... oh no ***** word about it monsieur!
just this *******...
oh but i'm glad that some girl nearing
her 30s has made up her mind up...
only recently i've heard that my mother was
attempting to woo a married man
who was part of the Solidary movement
and probably waiting for a greencard...
i heard this... from my grandmother...

i'm still pampering on the sly for
a Mary Antoinette...
Ilona was wrong... i wouldn't become
a child strapped to a hellhole of a teenager's bedroom...
i'd become a leech hybrid...
as along as i have enough excuses
to return for "the word"... and never rap it...
i'm fine fine... best be on my optimal behaviour...
to never find myself in a baptists' church choir...

- there's also a quick fix procedure...
the match of the day is watched
with the mascots on screen...
the ben-hur's not making it to
prophetic status... yes the bread...
yes the circus... and all those cul de sac...
soap operas of parking scenes...

and there's always language...
best expressed when drunk...
never sober because is what delves into
the formality of: dear sir / madam,
kind regards...

the day when i stopped combing my fair
and peered at the beard...
uncombed hair: almost reminds
me of donning a pineapple on it...
an ancient buddhist balancing act...
like performing the act of gravity...
without copernican mathematics...
as simple as finding the CENTER on
a bicycle... or like finding
buoyancy in a swimming pool...
perhaps i am more water than flesh...
but i'm also a fraction of fat...

i can float on water if i can find
the balance... i don't need to play
the drunkard treading water surviving
to stay afloat.... i... relax...
then i float.... or bob-on-the-surface
teasing an unexpected shark-bite-attack...
although: swimming in a sea
is not my thing...
i very much appreciate seeing
the bottom i can dive down toward
and touch... the chernobyl stink of chlorine...
is almost a parisian perfumery...

heat breeds diseases it breeds...
insects...
i abhor the heat...
the zenith of winter is yet,
is yet to arrive... and for the help of god:
i can't arrive at... writing sober...
should "poo'etry" ever be written sober
to begin with?
i mind: that i don't mind...

i can find 8pm and 9pm quite:
which implores you to not quit - curb colt...
i was making a sponge apple stuffing
roulade...
after having made some biscuit
with brown sugar and diadems of hazelnuts...
and prior to some sausage rolls...
three fillings...
cranberries with some peppers and
chillies...
fennel seeds with apple...
and the third... the third...
i don't quiet remember...

my head was exploding with a brain being
towed and all was:
i am yet to grieve a passing,
a tax of death...
i am yet to be left half imbecile and half
of any other texas hold-up poker game...
i'm wishing for...
that quarter of a million of a bet
i placed on:
one team wins...
but both have to score...
ergo... catching a mosquito by the testciles
donning boxing gloves chance...
2 - 1 etc. victories...

i don't want to blame women...
the last one i was serious about...
she's on her 3rd marriage or whatever...
and i'm still in woad: in deep blue
coinciding with...
god's roulette...

as a testiment of man...
there's the ambition to find: the void...
to find nothing...
and from that... find the thinking thing...
res vanus: the emptiness
that can be fathomed with more or less
thinking, than a yawn's presence...
because...
descartes doesn't really exact ontological,
whatever...
i can't be and be:
when i churn out a day-dream and
a day-dream is all that is...

thankfuly i have nothing to "work"
with... most women only have boredom to begin
with....
at exactly 20 minutes to 1am...
i'm not so sure...
a mother can say: you stink...
then you go and buy something from
a convenience store...
and the cashier stresses how fresh you smell...
that's quiet something...
a woman likes the way to smell to her...
in between doing these *******
tribunals of sweating over
apple roulades...

and Stendhal... it's only my mother...
i just have to gnash my teeth
and apply the burden of sober...
this canvas... no other...
i drink for the 1 hour pleasure
of disorientation...
a shot in the head in some Ukranian
prison...
stiched to the next to be executed...
chikatilo...
i'm not exactly fond of the company...
but i'm pretty sure...
kurt cobain... and his shotgun antics...

and how the prolonged death appeal
of Christine Chubbuck lasted much longer...
Kafka said it right:
a stab at the heart...
**** colt and boyo... don't aim for the head!
that's how Ukranian convicts die...
shot in the back of the head...
in a cell... never in the open...
it's not like the brain delves into
the automated unconscious of the pump
that's the heart... how do you think
the urban myth of the cockroach that lived
for 2 weeks more was born?
the head didn't have a mouth to ingest
food with...

shot in the back of the head is an execution
that, done in an Ukranian prison cell...
is pretty much all of Dante not visiting
either heaven or a hell...
but two weeks with... in the presence
of death... the body starving...
that magic finger-pointing exercise
of seeing death in movies?

well thank god they did a movie about
Christine Chubbuck's (rage against the machine):
bullet in the 'ed!
i was lied to, no matter...
i'm here to hush and sweep the leftovers...
because why would you march
a man into a prison cell...
shoot him in the head and close the door
and wait... because no: in the open...
with a chance for rabid dogs to feast on...
in the darkened night just shy of Kiev
would ever matter...

Christine Chubbuck was left dying on
life-support machines after her half-high Kiev
attempt to pop the balloon...
psych- myth of the brain as source
of the sigma soul...
my left toe has more soul than this
rubric forever explained as forever to be explored
goose-fat sponge...
come to think of it...
after a haemorrhage that no one believes
beside me, some neurologist and a dementia
riddled grandfather who easily forgot...

what's this brain this brain this nought?!
**** it... kamikaze cockroach!
as ever oh but always so much when
someone has to mention...
has to mention: with no exacting details
of fancy...

also called the drought period when pakistani
gangs are up in Leeds and i'm strapped
to the outlier Loon'don culture:
as ever playing the obedient schizoid...
because that's, just fair game...
centuries behind what the youth
of Denmark have to offer...
the mutterzunge and the l'inglese of:
any future of tourism with Jack's flag...

heavy influences stemming from
st. andrew and all the worth of wordworth
with a tinge of punk...
but never a baron of lexicon coming from
just shy of 4 hours away from
the lisp of masovian warsaw...

what could possibly be wrong?
how about... stemming it down to the root
of... sober people and the lacklustre of
when writing: under no influence at all...
apparently "now" the high moral ground!
the sobers usher in the words
that we are abide by when the football hooligans
their casual Tuesday mundane,
their casual Tuesday mundane custard
splodge of oats in regurgitation...

i can almost but not quiet...
imagine myself being the cameo in this dear diary
of these "free" women of the western world...
give me a feral black woman pulling
two kids from her bed in order
to imitate a ****** by folding her legs to
pretend...

it's still a bullet in the back of the head
for some, minor or major
andrei "cain" chikatilo -
no... with a full crop of cranium of hair...
and a grandmother that says...
well... how busy your chin hairs are...
that you are able to lodge a pencil in there
and it doesn't fall out...
hair here and all other hair elsewhere...
chest and... where the antioch identifier
of achilles ought to be of a six in sixes
packaged...

since who is buddha... or a christ when...
an thích quang duc "oops" happens...
the people will never leave their unison...
their get-together "happening"...
but what's to be celebrated should...
the crucifix be turned into that "other"
torture ordeal of being: piked...
crucifixion the tsunami wave of history...
when one can expect the fate
of being piked by the more imaginative
sorts?
if only the antichrist was gay
and was sentenced to levitate on a pike...
passion and ecstasy via
the Walhalla doing ****... again:
sorry if the pike missed the **** baptism
of ecstasy... and instead aimed
at ripping apart the flesh and bone at:
whatever pivot was made available
to work from reverse ingestion:
beginning with the pelvis...

i'm just tired and cooking and shooing
shadows for the past month and i know that it's
just an exaggerate lounge period...
and all i want is an added arm...
and the serenity leg to take the step to return to...
footsteps... with a bulging echo to command...

it needs to be stressed that these women were black...
i call them ivory beauties of chocolate come
quicksilver moon glistening...
i can't remember... no... "you're" right...
i never managed to **** anything
of an ethno-centric "perspective"...
i'd be arrested for that...
as if starting a hitlerjungen movement or
some other random "****"...

i'd package myself with a mexican strapped into
alcatraz...
the Louis of the Aztecs and some
long lost St. Juan of the Mayans...
leash me... Russian or Prussian or...
what's that third otherwise power of influence
that this body was allowed to morph into?

perhaps i once was allowed to control these words...
but that's how drinking goes...
it's a homocodie when you **** someone
when under the influence of alcohol when driving
a car...
this is a sort of homocide...
i trully gave my hands away to the devil...
and the brain: oh forget that old fabble of a pickle...
what's in brine was always supposed
to be in brine and pickled...

- and what were the chances of me becoming
a sentimental drunk... listening to some
crowded house - weather with you?
the la's - the la's... no... not merely the 1990s
epitome of h'american tourism lodged in london
of myth... as any ******... that myth translated
itself into paris... there she goes...
i mean the whole album...

whale! whale! a beached whale!
Grindadráp...
and some want to go on the Hajj...
and die in a human stampede at the Mecca...
but... well... some want to...
of all of Europe...
Venice, Paris, Rome, Athens,
Amsterdam, perhaps Edinburgh
(wink-wink nudge-nudge)...
Barcelona...
or... Grindadráp of the Faroe Islands...

capture a polyphony in language that is hardly
ever going to be much more
than a chance to... to do that...
shove three fingers into your gob...
expect an elevated volume of sounds...
call the hounds! a mile away!
i was never allowed to learn that
whistling "trick"...
perhaps that's why i never managed
to play the trombone or the clarinet...
the ****-poor leftover guitar...
which is as much as having to read
braille!

reality: i live in england but i'm a ******...
i haven't ****** an english girl...
or a ****** girl...
i was close! a ****** girl licked my face
like a cow, once...
chin, lips, nose and forehead...
i was actually waiting for e.t. when that
happened...
the pakistanis have all the english girls...
sorry... it's sad...
but... the australia...
the fwench... the russian...
it's a decent rubric...
crude... nuanced...
so is buying fwesh meat at the butchers...
the perfect crime is less severe...
fiddling with a tombstone...
then towing it for 2 miles...
to bury the remains of your cat...
after your neighbour "accidently" killed him
when you were away...
and of course they deny it...

after all... i live in a society...
innocent until proven guilty...
said jimmy saville...
it's not the old... european "misunderstanding"..
of guilty until proven innocent...
if not a real story of Tomasz Komenda...
there's the Shawshank Redemption...
or there's... the Count de Monte Cristo...

if all are innocent until proven guilty...
what's that? the genesis story never happens...
it's hardly a moral deterent...
isn't it? people will do as any aleister crowley
would command them to do:
do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law;
this is a naive presupposition of
fudge-packed jurisprudence...
what should have been egg-whites..
it merely some sugar dissolved in water...

statistical counts aside...
i would be more inclined to... fear...
being held guilty... to then be allowed "innocence"...
that to being held innocent...
to then be forced as a doubly-culprit!
how does the double jeopardy paradox arise...
from the high pillar of: innocent until
proven guilty?!
law is at one's own leisure...
should all be bound to an innocence...
revisions of the biblical metaphor...

if we can all be innocent...
wouldn't we at least all fathom an innocent
attempt to break some law?
for a matter of: testing the waters?
even if innocent until proven guilty is true...
there's no narrative of redemption...
why is it that the shawshank redemption
is such a popular movie?
since it adopts the continental motiff of:
guilty... until proven innocent...
it offers... redemption...
it's a popular movie because it's unfair
for the basis of a single individual...
not some amassing of victims of a jimmy saville
recount... that have... none... zilch...
no redemption!
their redemption: ist tod!

because if i were to be found guilty...
with no chance of defence...
i would exercise a double-think in relation to this...
rather than exercise this leisure into
grieving the orwellian zeitgeist monstrosity of
but the one novel...

i'm not convinced of the english model...
this... innocent until proven guilty...
this pontius pilate argument...
i'm not for it! this sinking to the core of my heart
and hopefuly, prevents me from a heartbeat...
perhaps so fewer examples of
the #metoo would come to the fore...
if... one were not so easily allowed
a ststus of innocence...
perhaps... guilty until proven innocent...
doesn't allow...
so readily accessed accusations...
perhaps this modern, english model of
jurisprudence...
is missing a medieval lisp?

as law abiding as would suggest...
i would be much more deterred from inacting
a grievance should i be found guilty...
without a benefit of a doubt of a jury...
than if i were to be given the a priori: innocent
status...

i don't like this: england and greenwich in tow
is the bellybutton of the world
demand of... all else is less than we...
no... did i come from Algiers?!
what has Algiers to do with it and Leeds
shouldn't?!

at least that's how a man sobers up...
while still drinking...
he might focus on sober demands...
of topics that only drunks should speak of...
and since neither of the two meet...

because i have stood as a witness
in a court...
and i was given a photograph to...
"compare" having identified him in a mugshot...
the photograph i was shown still
had a date imprinted on it...
and this was the ******* argument...
the photograph was years old...
i identified the culprit in the police mugshot...
but the case was "won"... for no apparent reason...
the witness said: i...
this photograph is years old...
i can grow a beard and hippy attire in a year's time...
of course i was the witness that said:
note down the registration plate
of the car this camel-jockey jumped out of
and grabbed m'ah fwends mobile...

i've seen how: innocent until proven guilty works...
i'm not conviced...
i can't be... there's something instinctual preventing
me from adhering to this english...
jurisprudent sensbility...
it's hardly a ******* charles dickens novel...
if it were... and i greatly underestimated
charles dickens... no... really...
i shouldn't have read any of dostoyevsky...
i should have read charlie ****'oh'ends...
believe me when i say that is hould have...
since... heidegger's ponderings VII - XI
will retain their shelf-status as... the book most
probably unread...

such is the sobering process...
am i, in no way, allowed to sacrifice my 'ed
on the premise that: innocent until
proven guilty is the right categorial imperstive
to buckle on... since...
the anglophonic world buckles on it...
like a spectacular breakdance feat of
a penguin on steroids...
doing the diving header tsunami
of chore: the crowd goes wild!
it's no operatic applause and being
"superficially" reminded as to how...
find your proper seat...
before the castrato peacock does his
singing bit...
apparently finding one's seat
when it's never going to be a maggot-pit
at a slipknot concert is all that's
about to happen...

come by the butcher's and let's attempt
in finding you some oysters
among the volume of red boisterous...
to replica your genital parts
and sordid caviar letfovers...

perhaps i could be angry...
but la ilah illa blah'lah...
i am... halway bound between
being simulation circumcised
and being castrated...
i never which is which...
notably, given...
circumcised men are not allowed
the impetus of taking up
web-cam Susan on promise of...
also pleasing themselves
without wanting to earn some money...

it's a real problem though:
innocent until proven guilty versus
guilty until proven innocent...
relish...
the english indiosyncratic
wishing they were scandinavian iceland...
no... honey too sweet tooth bear...
this is not how the GMP affair that exends
with its genesis in the jimmy saville affair
looks like...
this quest for: apparently "superior"
is not going to work on me...
kin of a kind-of luvvie dubby...
bon voyage!

the entire continent is listening...
individualistic rights...
innocent until proven guilty...
the more i reiterate these words...
the more i sober up...
because i can't see how...
i am: a thief...
until i am proved to be... a thief...
by having performed the act
of thieving...
or not even an "after"...

sorry... please expose your divine
rational intelligence and tell me
via a reiteration that 2 + 2 = 4...

i am not a thief,
but i am a thief...
only if the act of stealing is proved...
and if "the" act of stealing is not proved...
i'm way more than a thief...
i'm a thief with a baby driver!
this anglican logic *****...
if innocent until proven guilty...
is to sustain the individual flourishing...
i'd rather make theatre of the original,
biblical deterrent...
a queen of this sort of popish claims
and her duaghters of yorkshire because...
the pawns of justitia...

conventionality of continetal thinking...
there's not even a "what if" or
"it would be better" should... allow,
extended into:
guilty until proven innocent...
rather than... innocent until proven guilty...

i sometimes find myself chattering...
in the cold...
but i'm not chewing anything...
i'm pretending to pivot the piano on a ghost...
being played as some per se magician's
excavation of: whatever time...
thus it was spent...

i call it chattering chopin...
bite marks available... like the multitude
of signature most willing to be...
allocated a collection foreseeable...

the would the artichokes of arabia...
or the fennel roasted roots of Italy...
there's something to be had of a woman
sporting the "cherokee" leopard-skin prints
on something that's...
90% cotton and 10% lycra?!

and the reason why i visited a brothel
in the past ten years was because?
if i want to play poker...
i'll play poker...
easy ***? it's not so easy in the act
and you want to find a kiss and...
she tells you: it's against the laws
of this sort of nunnery...
but you still manage to slurp a lip or two
of a shy pluck of the tulips of the sea...
or however this thing that
language is works...
if it's not going to be a hammer and nail...
forever... this "excuse" to allow nothing
more than YA novels...
metaphors and... pedantry of elswhere
from punctuation?

herioglyphic assumptions of :) emoji?
wink barrel baron! oi!
non-responsive...
black also implies: ivory beauty...
i started to admire their teeth...
since mine were always going to be
custard yellow death grin...
like bone to the rot...

no... i'm pretty sure tonight ends
here; now;
the prodigy - destroy...
given how... keith flint...
and that horse... and it was never a tale
of the stormy badger...
and how the fox is my aid and will
never make it to...
transcend the red coat hunting parties...
because... just because.

Barbiturate is one of the few drugs capable of killing you painlessly, so of course the state has banned it. Instead we get paracetamol, a ****** over-the-counter painkiller that leaves you in pain for up to five days while your liver and kidneys shut down. Suicide prevention is a ******* joke. Secular appropriations of Christian values that assume life is worthwhile, whether you desire it or not. It’s long been known that rates of suicide rose dramatically with the birth of modernity—techno-scientific paradise for the middle-class which stresses efficiency over existence. New forms of automation, the human body disciplined into repetitious acts, the partitioning of workspaces so that no single worker could operate the whole—so that any worker could be fired and replaced with the minimum amount of training necessary for capital to continue circulating. The body is individualised, scrutinised, and punished by rich kids playing panopticon, so that any mass agitation is coerced into silence through the threat of destitution.

Slitting your wrists barely succeeds and more likely than not leaves you with tendon and muscle damage. Catalytic converters in cars now convert carbon monoxide into harmless CO2 and H2O. Drowning is one of the most painful ways to die. You cannot escape. The state places helpline numbers around suicide spots to treat life after the fact, rather than at the source of suffering. Vocal band-aids, ****** ******* aphorisms that seek to revert you back into a happy state-serving commodity. Things will get better. Life is worth living. Think positive. Alienation is omnipresent. Neoliberal discourse requires you to be subservient to the greater system of capital and the easiest way towards this is the instilment of comfort, of pleasant nullity, the circumscription of emotional capacity and reflectivity. Suicidal thoughts are abnormal, because life is worth living. Eat your packaged food item and watch Netflix.

For a drop into water to be fatal, it has to be 250 feet. Try to aim for your head to maximise brain injury. The most prominent suicide spot around here has a drop of 100 feet. They cordoned it off anyway. Your life doesn’t belong to you. The first time I tried to suicide my mother asked ‘why would you do that?’ as if it was the dumbest thing in the world. The second time, the doctor looked at me in an exasperated manner and prescribed me lots of drugs. Geettt bettterrrr. Nobody cares about you, they simply want you to return to normal. Normality as in serving your parents, serving your friends, serving the state, and serving the market. Normality as in not questioning social norms and institutions. Normality as in get a stable job (i.e. compete against other workers in an exploitative, undemocratic system that values and inculcates self-serving desires), get married (preferably to someone of the opposite *** who is middle-class and imbibes European culture), get pregnant/get someone pregnant (but only once or twice, because anyone who has more children than that is backwards), invest in housing (those students and lower-class families need to learn how the world works; really, it’s a benefit to take their money), watch sports (to instil national pride in your children; no son, we didn’t colonise the Pacific Islands, keep watching the man with the wooden stick hit *****), eat out every week (preferably exotic restaurants), go see the world (preferably exotic locations, so you can be served by exotic people, take in exotic sights, then leave without considering where any of your money has gone to, whether any of it has reached the slums, whether the beach you lay on is accessible to the people living there, or whether it has been privatised by the tourist firm so that only rich tourists like yourself can lie on it), join a club (those capitalists were innocent, it was the indigenous folk that were making a ruckus over the new golf course; it’s not like we’ve been colonising their land and culture for the past three centuries), donate to charity (but never any charity desiring systemic change; that’s crazy), consume, always consume (keeps the economy going; why question the desire for infinite growth in a world with limited land, resources and markets?), replace your phone every year (those poor workers in Asia need our help), repeat to the point of nausea.

The most successful method to suicide is a shotgun to the head; high calibre, slug rounds. Of course, with all these methods, the chance of failing may leave you disfigured, paralysed, mentally disabled or physically crippled (spinal damage, broken limbs, failed organs), with no guarantee that your family, or even your state, will allow for euthanasia. After all, the popular discourse paints suicide as selfish—an irony, considering liberalism places the self first and society second. It is viewed as sinful regardless of context—deontologically detached from anomie, alienation, material deprivation, social pressures, psychological affectations, any cause or structure. Life is worth living. This ignores that the subject is situated in existence. The subject moves through existence to live. Life, then, is the totality of the subject’s interactions. It cannot be universalised into a single state or judgement that merges all subjectivities into a catch-all worthiness. Worth is dependent of the subject.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe I just want everyone to **** themselves, because the world is ****** and the majority of people are ******* it worse. Most people think being nice makes them good. They turn blind to the systems of oppression they partake in. A while ago my mother was asking if I’d heard about the mass suicides happening at Foxconn, the largest electronics manufacturer in the world. This year she showed me her new iPhone. I don’t ******* understand. I don’t understand how people can be outraged at humanity abuses, yet do ******* nothing to help or change their ways. Yes, market solutions are ******* ****, but these commodities are still coming from somewhere, and while capitalism is in place, our money is still flowing back. I don’t understand how people can be concerned about ecological issues, then pour dishwashing liquid down the sink every night, dissolving the gills, eyes, and organs of fish in rivers and oceans. I don’t understand a ******* thing. I feel physically sick most days. I can barely function outside of university, because engaging with real people, in real systems, just reminds me of how careless, worthless, and disgusting they are. When I first turned vegan, my dad simply said plants are living too. Well no ******* **** dad, why didn’t you ask me my reason for turning vegan, rather than simply repeating the dumb **** everyone else says? If you were stuck on a desert island. Well I’m ******* not. I’m stuck on this **** world filled with nice people who don’t give a **** about anything. I’m stuck every week walking the same roads, to the same university, where I become more and more distanced from reality through abstract philosophical theories that no one else cares about. I’m stuck walking through the supermarket every week, to purchase overpriced commodities produced by transnational corporations I don’t support, but nonetheless have to buy to survive. What alternatives I buy are mocked because it's so funny being ethical in our day and age. Because it’s so much more normal eating pies, and drinking beer, and treating women like objects, and affirming nationalistic sentiments of white supremacy, and making fun of ethnic minorities while they’re incarcerated, and beaten, and killed. All lives matter, the liberal conservatives cry out, while doing ******* nothing to help any cause. I don’t understand this world, and I have no desire to be in it if this is all there is.

i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.

During my Childhood.
a New Hampshire father of twin boys named Joe taught me that friendship, love, and respect,
meant wrestling.
He was a burly man
with glasses and a salt and pepper beard
Who loved guitar hero, dunkin' doughnuts and Motorcycles.
One day joking to his adult friends I heard:
"I'm a lesbian trapped in a mans body"

Now, Joe did not mean this the way
we think of it in this community.
He was not transgendered.
probablly didn't even know they exist.
He was simply saying.
"I have an attraction to girls who will never love me, because I have a *****,
and Isn't that tragic enough for a punchline?"
Though a young boy,
I identified with that.

In middle school, the media convinced me
that gay boys were getting all the ladies.
So I needed everyone to know I was gay.
that way, they'd be my friends,
and get naked in front of me.
It worked.
However, I still could not get a girlfriend.
And I did not want a boyfriend.
because again, It was all a 10 year old me's
Con just to see girls undress.

A year or two goes by
being gay
To get a girlfriend.
when on the television:
I see Tila Tequila.
A bisexual Bachelorette reality Show.

Wait! I said to my mother.
"I CAN LIKE BOTH?"
"Sure you can! I do.
This one time, aunt spider and I"
"Mom! That's enough."

So in my living room,
Surrounded by fold-out tables
And chicken parmesisan
I pronounced myself bisexual.

I had the best of both worlds! I could watch girls undress, AND have a girlfriend.
This was not relevant however, for a while.
As I still had not developed social skills.

Enter highschool awkward bisexual boy.
I'd never actually been attracted to a man before...
But I wasn't ruling it out.
zero percent of the woman I fell for seemed to like men,
Or more accurately, me.
I was resonating closer to the
"Lesbian trapped in a mans body"
line then ever before.
I probablly asked out every female senior, every girl I grew up with.
every girl who looked at me, to go on a date.
All to be turned down.
Except one.
I entered college with a monogamous Long-term relationship raising A beautiful Nerd girl's daughter.
Seemed like I had it made.
Young parents.
Both bisexual.
Together we flushed out Every kink and curvature of what pleasured us.
Then two years later.
My grandmother died,
I lost my job of four years,
She left me,
taking our daughter with her.
Devastated, I turned to the most destructive of known vices.
Tinder.

I went on first and last date after parking lot hookup after rooftop romance with these girls.
Writing poetry all the while to document my stresses.
I was no longer "A lesbian trapped in a mans body."
If anything, I was a lesbian
Thriving! In a mans body.

This came up at a party once
We were playing rockband when I said it.
A woman spoke up:
"You're devalueing the phrase for transgendered woman who use it!
It's dissrepectfull."
When I tried to explain myself:
That it helped me rationalize
years of rejection
laugh at my own failure.
Build the foundation
for my optimistic attitude
By saying it's not me.
I just like lesbians.
it made my failures a predictable Punchline.

But I was weak.
They convinced me.
I stopped identifying as
"A lesbian thriving in a mans body."
from then on, I was a man.

Years have passed and I've given a lot of love to a lot of people.
Learned a lot about my preferences
Sexually, romantically, personally.

At the momment:
I am a:
Hetero flexible
Polyamorous
Male.

But deep down I know.
Even though I'll never say it.
Because it isn't really true.
Or maybe because it's offensive.
Or maybe because i'm scared.
I'll always be a lesbian
Thriving as a man.

why do they write about what's essential... well... ~essential... there's no universal proof of it, or the exhibition of a certain use of the currency of words... the elevated vocabulary... currency... they're at the mercy of a lion, a fox and a lamb compost heap of bone... they write as if the things they're longing for are essential... they're not... they were never meant to be experienced with democratic uniformity, no man is born equal, hence the dream of democracy... the dream of democracy was born from the obvious tradition of inequality... democracy is what stunted the agile strong man from bringing home the bacon, a critique of Christianity is nothing compared to a critique of democracy... how avidly we spectate in affairs of sports where one beats another in a sprint of a boxing match, and then comes this crucifix whining about equality... if Christianity is Platonism for the people... then Democracy is Platonism for the powerful.

either entertainment or no attainment, make a choice! democracy is belittling me post-Victorian with omni-education - they want me
to write an *X when i should be writing my name,
why am i suspicious of democracy?
at least in the alternative you have one, clear, target,
in this ****-hole you have too many to aim at,
and i'm sure, dead certain that we're not selling
nappies in Westminster with all the bold speeches,
is that Mr. Blair trying to wriggle out being compared
to a former Mr., Milosevitch (Milošević: Meelohshevitch)?
there goes the linguistic alphabet,
use the placebo language that doesn't use accent stresses
and apply the languages that do, up yours upside down
omega! /ˈhəʊpfʊl/ v. hopeful, e.g. there;
it was a bountiful night, walking home trying to
find a place that sold the Saturday edition of the times,
didn't find one, stopped in a street,
a house without curtains, plain sight view,
like in the old days, one television per street,
after extra time, Germany v Italy in the quarter-finals,
watched the entire penalty shootout from a street
looking into a stranger's house... the old way of
watching television, the feeling? better than HD,
or flat-screen, whatever quality is to be minded,
Œzil missed, Schweinsteiger too....
now image the lost influence on me by a television,
i didn't eagerly sit till the match ended,
took a few beers for a walk, watched the shootout
like a mid-20th century person, through
a neighbour's / stranger's window -
and all this world around me, happening,
and yet in the vicinity... nothing... a pigeon *******
in flight, a dog barked, a car was parked,
a family photo was taken... even with all this
faking of global unity via the internet and the television...
the world is still largely minute, i know
that globalisation allowed astrophysicists and
darwinists (anti-historians) make bold claims
of the encapsulated individual -
an average ape shaved on an grain of sand
orbiting an average star - our ancestors the cavemen
and the flint - **** me, chicken oven baked in an
hour, egg boiled in 5 minutes for a runny yoke,
a marathon: Radcliffe's 2:17:42 (almost like citing
the bible) - you want me to be conscious of
what came prior so many years ago?! this is *******
ridiculous, it only means we're speeding up -
and the crowning zenith prize of our scientific inquiry
is crippling old age everyone seems to be afraid of...
**** yeah! we are speeding up, having this arm's reach
into prehistory isn't slowing us down,
not with 24 / 7 underground of New York,
"christ's" critique of the Sabbath in full swing...
it's a clear and utter barricaded proof of a burn-out,
imagine having the routine of a 9 to 5p.m. when
all the major tasks at hand were mediocre by comparison
to fishermen or coal-miners... what then?
burn-out... the first critique of Marxism didn't work...
the second one will, and it will be silent, less warring,
less prone to national agendas and borrowings from
Hinduism... there is a second Marxist critique coming,
but it will turn out to be a masochism for those that
didn't embrace the first critique - as a way to embrace
the invigoration of the category of species rather than
the individual - we now have a species inside a species:
individuals - not necessarily true to the point,
the stresses of biology were perfectly suited to communism,
the stresses of physics are perfectly suited to capitalism,
Oppenheimer: now i've become death, the destroyer
of worlds - given enough 'heimers and we will not necessarily
need atom bombs, just a carbon footprint and a few
selfies on the beeches of Goa, Morocco or elsewhere.

why did i ever go out on a friday night?
drinks with "friends" and hitting the essex
club "scene" -
well - no much of a scene -
there was never the music you'd want to listen
to: come friday or saturday -
even mid-week when all the rock kids
were "hanging out" -
what would be chances of being your own d.j. -
catching something really new...
POIZON - church is poizon -
cool mom - something between a crossbreed
of cage the elephants and nirvana on blew -
3rd view - moi -
but i used to: and i remember that gehenna of
a sobering walk - alone after a night out -
like some furious son of sam -
when youth still had the adrenaline with it
and a sense of anger ******* around with
disillusionment -

those were the friday nights: bon jovi highlights
and long hair and milking a somewhat androgynous
look - sometimes the mascara would come out...
those were the days of having milk skin
and a proper shave -
the long hair and the waistcoast and cravat: semi-,

the lonesome story before i met my beard:
fwyday mordaithceirch -
i actually have a name for it...
i forgot what's already the designated
whittle pecker mr. pritchard of the down down:
below...

oh, oh so what...
rough friday nights in my youth -
on the clubbing "scene" -
and always that moral hangover when it came
to drinking with others -
ever since i started drinking by myself:
i forgot the mirror and that bucket
of warm water beside my bed to put my hand
in before going to sleep...
once or twice the company was worth the drink -
but most of the time you only kept
such company: because you were drinking -
drinking was never an afterthought -

now... i like drinking alone -
at least i can keep fact-checking the company
and the odd vocab peacock taking to the catwalk
of a ruminating free-fall tongue waggle
and rummage - the needle in the haystack
adventure - or... the ******* bucket
of deshelled oysters...

there have been some awful friday nights -
but: seeing how i started to give my beard
a welsh name borrowed from a willem dafoe
novel - and how it simply became pointless
to wake the dead with the angry tantrums
of youth: and how i seem to have
forgotten where my 20s "went" -
somehow rooted in: da-sein and how
i "wasted" 2 years on one book by kant -
2 years on one book by heidegger -
and: how i didn't have the time to "catch-up"
on the greek classics -

oh these island dwelling people -
i try to imagine them not being a seafaring:
and their messiah / superiority complex -
with their breakfast that could hardly
be digested come the hour of noon -
or no messiah / superiority complex -
the traffic: indeed - works like clockword...
from left to right...
sidenote: what of fahrenheit and
the feet and inches - stones and pounds?
ounces?
the metric of: baseline 0 here,
baseline 00 over there...

no... Michele Campanella piano solo take
on wagner's das rheingelt: entry of the gods into
valhalla - it's hardly anemic -
it's... the last leaf of autumn falling -
because the crescendo has already happened...
a befitting closure...

the superior island folk and their...
hyphens and germanic loan words -
how almost all names in chemistry are still
in their germanic: intact form of: no hyphen:
broken leg or broken arm...

woodwinds... perhaps... the violins providing
the humming of birds:
chirp chirp: no chirping -
and of course the horn - but the horns never
as prominent as those drank from...

something has happened today -
but i am... left without having any english
sensibility / egalitarianism -
somehow i always equate egalitarianism with
the english - the islanders -
a firework went off in the background -
mr. sloth awoke mrs. slouch after 3 years
for a firecracker celebration...

because who would want to be ruled
over by unelected: chocolatiers...
esp. after their trial run in the Congo -
but i have certainly had worse friday nights...

it can't exactly get much worse than...
say... listening to the siegfried idyll...
multitasking: drinking a cider, smoking a cigarette,
balancing act of folded leg sat on
perched on a windowsill solving a no. 11,289
sudoku from the 27th jan. 2020...
otherwise prior to:
imagine my disbelief at the pleasure -

with numbers to somehow escape thinking in words:
no grand arithmetic linear gymnastics -
of the end result -
certainly no logical statements -
just a whirlwind of numbers complimenting
these few words...
and what a fine friday night it has become:

the pizza was made - god save me from the perfume
of yeast... or checking on the rising dough
from time to time -
the leftover yeast gave me the opportunity
to bake an imitation sourdough crust pretty-as-a-picture
loaf that: would make any mushroom blush
and shy away from unfolding into an umbrella pose...
or a Y... curling outward-inward into an upsilon Υ...

because how could i forget the pleasure of
sifting through numbers?
by the time i attempted puzzle no. 11,290
i had to write a "map"

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
2)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

come to think of it... where's a subscript?
if i'm going to use 1, 2, 3...
to tier the allocation of squares...
tennis and sudoku...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles -
and how many judges and ball boys / girls?
sudoku - a puzzle of 10 squares - perhaps...
if i'll use tiers 1, 2, 3: a1, b2, c3...
what if... sudoku invoked letters rather than
numbers?

much later... oh believe me...
this is the antithesis of knausgård
writing about using googlemaps...
        
           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

it's still a schematic - the narrative is yet
to begin... otherwise...
there's nothing smart about this...
i have tired eyes sometimes:
i succumb and have to allow myself
to no acid-bath these eyes in words...

esp. since i speak so rarely -
imagine... in england and i spear
the bare minimum of english -
i can: i have to: i will - when being prompted -
but i can't remember the last time
i had an honest: informal exchange
of letters... lapped up by the glutton
tongue... i looked and looked
and with my silence i can attest:
there's a speech-impediment -
a stutter that's not born from nervousness...
but... an allusion to a "stoic" through
my lack of conversation...

at least on paper i can exfoliate -
enough cider and enoug whiskey and i'm all
sparrow McDermott!
ugh... the devolved scots and the likewise
welsh... devolved nations...
only this aspect of Brexit is... well...
imagine the "evolved" status of post-Yugoslavia...
Kosovo...
this is the only aspect of an otherwise:
fair enough that's... well...
if you lived for 3 years among the scots...
you'd get to appreciate them...
this is the only aspect of this whole affair
i will ever appreciate...
i would pour blood and **** into
the Welsh continuing their...
preservation of the iaith...
forever and the more - i would love to see
scotland start to dig trenches and
forget trainspotting gaelic -
parading like ponces and humpty dumpteys
with "harkccents"... glasgewian bull-runnings...
cousins aye and wee -

a thing of beauty: a thing of union...
but this... they were bullied in brussels...
they came back and started to bully the scots...
if you have lived -
the betas of cardiff - but they tongue: remains!
look far back and wales would encompass
cornwall -
ignorant i of a 26 year "servitude" on these isles...
quiz me on outside of London:
no point...
perhaps i too would wish for the lost
theta in Dublin - towing: to t'ink...
as any sanskrit H-surd does matter...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

but if i will replace... the side tiers of numbers...
the numbers in the puzzle will have to become
letters - greek... probably iota, epsilon and upper-case
gamma...

the bullied have returned from the palance
of the chocalatiers and: back to their old ways
of bullying the rest of these island folk...
because: it's infantile for me imagine
a resurrection of the crown (poland)
and the grand duchy of lithuania -
the commonwealth -
but somehow the united kingdom is not
fated to become the next yugoslavia -

i can confirm - up in edinburgh i was
confirmed by having the hat of Knox having
scalped me -
never is always metaphor: vaguely -
as in literally - in these quasi-paragraphs...
so it's not... infantile to even "think" that
the british empire can be revived?
zee window-licker spezials of
cross-breed h'americana postcards sent?
i nibble to attempt a joke...

oh i can bulldozer this whole narrative...
turn into a berserker -
i've saved enough money to deal
with the label loser...
all it will take is me having drunk enough -
sightseeing the slums of london's east end
and then hitting the brothel:
like an iron-head... to the pillow
and the ***** of a *******...

because i have had worse friday nights...
terrible company...
if i were not a michel de montaigne or a knausgård:
me me me, me me, me me me me,
write enough of that and:
to meme to grafitti... or to...
why are there no diacritical markers in
the english language worthy of recognition?
why would i...
rhoi fy **** y Cymraeg enw?
give my beard a welsh name?
and why is that not a cedilla C but a ******* K?
why not... Çumraeg?

on foreign shores i have made it adamant that...
this sense of foreigness does not
peppermint my presence with hopes to:
add to - an integration -
just borrow what the local have made: left-overs...
and work with that...

(insert snigger) - the neu-vikings of
northumberland...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

this really does have a linear narrative...
here goes...
3(c1), 9(c3), 1(c1), 2(c3), 2(c1), 2(a1), 9(a3), 8(c3),
4(c3), 8(c2), 8(a2), 5(b2), 7(c2), 3(b2), 3(b3), 8(b3),
7(c1), 5(c1), 7(b3), 5(c3), 1(c3), 6(c3), 1(c2), 3(c2),
9(c2), 9(b2), 6(b1), 6(b2), 6(b3), 2(b3), 2(b2), 1(b2),
1(b1), 9(b1), 9(a1), 8(b1), 8(a1), 5(b1), 7(b1), 7(a1)...

and then a "gamble" in the narrative...
the (7a2 and the 5a2 - interchange)....
it's a pleasure - not a chore -
5  9  4
2  8  7
3  6  1
8  1  9
6  4  3
7  5  2 - this line... what if it was 5  7  2?
1  2  5
4  7  6
9  3  8
if i want to solve this puzzle - i will solve it
and not read a tabloid article /
whatever the hell has become of youtube...
my diamond jukebox...

otherwise the "narrative" continued from
7a2 and the 5a2 interchange:
7(3a), 4(a3), 4(a2), 6(a1), 4(a1), 5(a1), 5(a3),
1(a3), 1(a1), 3(a1), 3(a2), 6(a2)... end result?

           a             b             c
      5   9   4   6   8   1   2   3   7  
1)   2   8   7   3   5   9   6   1   4
      3   6   1   2   7   4   5   8   9
      8   1   9   5   4   3   7   6   2
2)   6   4   3   7   1   2   9   5   8
      7   5   2   9   6   8   3   4   1
      1   2   5   8   3   7   4   9   6
3)   4   7   6   1   9   5   8   2   3
      9   3   8   4   2   6   1   7   5

because i can imagine this not being:
the most difficult Finnish sudoku...
i can almost imagine this puzzle
to be in greek...
where: 1ι, 2ζ, 3ε, 4χ, 5Σ, 6δ, 7Γ, 8β, 9ρ...

in the background all i hear is:
corvus corax' la i mbealtaine...
the greek version of the japanese puzzle...

           a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   6   8   ι   ζ   ε   7  
1)   ζ   8   7   ε   Σ   9   6   ι   χ
      ε   6   ι   ζ   7   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   7   6   ζ
2)   6   χ   ε   7   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      7   Σ   ζ   9   6   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   7   χ   9   6
3)   χ   7   6   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   6   ι   7   Σ

half-way... i just wanted to "selfie" what
will become of this... i no longer write: i paint...

            a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   δ   8   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   8   Γ   ε   Σ   9   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      Γ   Σ   ζ   9   δ   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   Γ   χ   9   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

going... going... gone...

            a             b             c
      Σ   ρ   χ   δ   β   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   β   Γ   ε   Σ   ρ   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   β   ρ
      β   ι   ρ   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   ρ   Σ   β
      Γ   Σ   ζ   ρ   δ   β   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   β   ε   Γ   χ   ρ   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   ρ   Σ   β   ζ   ε
      ρ   ε   β   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

i don't mind a people being right...
but the overt-gloating...
without having to work around the sort
of paranoia associated with:
how the russians are not allowed to glutton
themselves on gloating -
because they are always made
to feel suspcious - the russians can't gloat
like most of the anglo- speaking world...
always suspect: russophobia evil genuises...
tip-toeing goliaths - less the blundering
fudge-packers of "global ****"...
and i kissed a boy and i liked it...
my genitals started shrinking
and my *** started to exfoliate with:
welcome all! welcome all hard and on!
and that tongue in my mouth always helps...
but imagine my surprise when
i started to navigate my hands
but the reply came:
timbuktu and mt. kilimanjaro will not be found
attached to this sort of torso...
wrong dog, wrong tree...

some things really do require numbers...
i once had a mathematics teacher in high school
bemoan the origin of modern numbers
and how we once: upon a time used these letters...
but did our arithmetic with visual aids
akin to the abacus... because...
you'd have to "read braille" when counting...
to differentiate the already: lettered numbers
and the letters being letters -
and all arithmetic functions
were "spoken of" but never depicted...
i.e. there was no VII + III = X...
there was no XV - XI = IV...
eh?! arithmetic was cat-intuitive...
not spoken of - done by either the visual
aid of fingers when haggling
in a market place -
or by the abacus aid in a bureucratic office!

i said this was the most perfect friday night...
what did i have to offer?
no clickbait title - some gems of wording
in between?
the patient reader - as ever - most rewarded -

but... oh my god... the sensation of
changing the bed sheets...
it's friday night and you're... changing your bed sheets...
and they are more crisp and clean
than any political event that the journalist leeches
are milking -
and you do it with a saving private ryan precision -
you will sleep in this bed: well into
11am of a today to come...
believe me: that you will...

- in that i am still walking among the germanic people -
if the germans will sing a: bretonisher marsch...
then the two peoples are alligned by
their sentiment for the crow as their godhead:
alles menschen totem...
what could possibly make me feel welcome?
french grammar is polish grammar...
matin de printemps - poranek wiosny -
spring morning in reverse in germanic...
how many more examples would i ever wish
to give?

there was a moment in my life where...
i realised my faults... i should have read
the Pickwick Papers... anything by C. Dickens to be sure...
instead came Stendhal, Voltaire, Balzac...
because if you said to me...
BBC radio 4... the archers...
and... thomas hardy: madding crowd?
you'd accuse me of being ignorant of:
London is a bustling cosmopolitan in-waiting
from the busy-body industrial proto-Beijing
it was of 100 years ago?    
the French had cosmopolitan intellectualism
100 years prior to the english...
100 years later and it's still not much...
is anyone about to cite me william hazlitt?!

the trouble with the english is that they hold dear
to that one old 19th century idea -
this waiting for: awaiting a revival of darwinism...
the "blatantly" obvious needs a resurgence!
because a michael faraday must most surely
be forgotten!
how many times will this already painful reality
need to be emphasised once more:
intellectually - via a darwinism?
no one stresses the copernican "upside-down"...
or what is copernican "west" up in space?
how does acknowledging the sphere
of the earth - ease you reading a flat map -
moving from point A to point B?

earlier this week - for once in my life i was
ashamed of what i wrote -
so i wrote for scribli per se: scribbles for
scribbles themselves -
the darwinian germanic folk who say:
alles von afrika...
how the hebrews debased themselves
in both aushwitz and breaking their bones
on the emoji hieroglyphs -
alles von afrika: ja... so sicher... so wahr!

ask any slavic person among the germanic
peoples...
where from? wir (ar) sind lesen und schreiben
"afrika": i.e. Indu...
if the african challenged the hebrews
with... "the best they had": egyptian emojis...
why would i not stress my birth
with pseudo cedilla Ş / इ... ☦ -
this indo-european is not... at home with
these african-germanoids...
pseudos and quasi -
these chocolate frenzied busy-buddies!

from the caucasian and further still from
that whittle sub-corinthian quote: continent...
somehow, "somehow" this part of this story
is read: south to north... always a grand
marker missing when the people went
east, squinted... learned skeleton existence,
atoms... and the frenzy of letters:
owls and ******* **** flinging beetles
back in the north eastern tip of
africa: in that egyptian haemorrhage of "idea"...

i assure myself... perhaps the form came from
africa... but sure as **** the tongue only arrived
in the lap of the Dalai Lama...
as did the "thinking" and the music
across prior to the Mongol's curiosity
over the tundra of Siberia...
something had to be placed on a loan...
and coming back to the cradle and the crux
had to happen like so...
not this current: ergo: so...
quickened and: what news from Damascus?!

first impressions count...
i made my bed... it's newly washed...
as crisp as falling onto a bed a prawn crackers...
without the crumbs' itch...
like listening to some german:
juggernaut... this will do... i can fall asleep
with this: grab hören zu der winderhall...
mehr flöte - weniger violinekratzen!
schlechtdeutsche? alle deutsche ist gut deutsche...
erwarten etwas isländisch zu sein
gesprochen insel von insel: auf diese inseln?!

to make a crisp bed of freshly washed sheets...
to sleep in them alone...
given the grammar is not that far removed...
are the french even remotely translated
as a germanic "sort of" people?
"they" or "we" share the same grammar...
and there are celtic freedoms that would
never be allowed to exfoliate under
strict anglo-ßaß obligations...

oh sure! great people! steam engine: choo-choo!
newton et al...
shakespeare: when they taught us shakespeare
they should have taught us bernard shaw...
when they forced jane eyre down our throats
we should have been reading
the pickwick papers...
the music will remain german -
because as much as vaughan williams...
holst and händel were "were" english...
esp. latter with his umlaut that spread over
toward i-and-j...

why wouldn't you **** at the pillar of the empire:
a past most assured - dust, books and moths...
like hell will i come to correct my ways
to state the: pish-poor Elgar... this poo'em too...
himmel... sky...
leerenhimmel - empty sky -
nein sonne während der tag:
das englischnebel: bedeckthimmel...
nein mond während der nacht...
nur so...

i of the lesser men of this world duly bow
my presence before the altar of the higher men
of these isles...
and hope and pray that their wisdom
will not bestow upon them any major calamity...
with not irony or ridicule i wish upon
these peoples... the right sort of oars
to turn this rooted island
into the people's imagined langboot...

there are only one british people a people
who will pursue to gloat having been
conquered by the romans...
being raided by the vikings...
integrating the anglo-ßaß...
a second viking coming via the Normans...
the push-over remains of the celts...
that somehow translated itself into
the: empire...
ideal: to compensate...
the islamic fervor for the... resurrected
caliphate...
jokes about the dritte ***** and the vierte *****...
that's pretty much the precursor jokes
surrounding: ein zweite ***** -
auf welche die sonne nimmer setzt -
ever wonder how that translates with the increased
cases of insomnia?!

again: bad german is better than
no german.

Caedmon's Hymn: a Modern English Translation of the Old English (Anglo-Saxon) Poem

"Cædmon's Hymn" was composed sometime between 658 and 680 AD and appears to be the oldest extant poem in the English language. Information follows the poem for anyone who’s interested.

Cædmon's Hymn (circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Humbly we honor heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the Measurer's might and his mind-plans,
the goals of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established earth's fearful foundations.
Then he, the First Scop, hoisted heaven as a roof
for the sons of men: Holy Creator,
mankind's great Maker! Then he, the Ever-Living Lord,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty!



Bede's Death Song (circa 731 AD)
ancient Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Facing Death, that inescapable journey,
who can be wiser than he
who reflects, while breath yet remains,
on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,
since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way
after his death-day.



Translator's Notes: "Cædmon's Hymn" is one of the oldest surviving examples of Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse. By way of illustration, in the first line I have capitalized the repeating sounds:

Humbly Now we HoNour HeaveN-kiNGDom's GuarDiaN

In defense of my interpretation that Caedmon may have regarded God as a fellow Poet-Creator, please let me point out that the original poem employs the words scop and haleg scepen. Anglo-Saxon poets were called scops. The term haleg scepen seems to mean something like "Holy Poet" or "Holy Creator/Maker" because poets were considered to be creators and makers. Also the verb tīadæ has been said to mean something like "creatively adorned." So I don't think it's that much of a stretch to suggest that a Christian poet may have seen his small act of creation as an imitation of the far greater acts of creation of his Heavenly Father.

As in the original poem, each line of my translation has a caesura: a brief pause denoted by extra white space (which may not show up in some browsers). In each line, there are repeated vowel/consonant sounds. This alliteration gives alliterative verse its name. The original poem is also accentual verse, in that each line has four strong stresses, and the less-stressed syllables are not counted as they are in most other forms of English meter (such as iambic pentameter). My translation is not completely faithful to the original rules. For instance, I have employed a considerable amount of internal alliteration (which gives me more flexibility in the words I can employ). And some of my lines contain more than four stresses, although I think there are still four dominant stresses per line. For instance, in the first line: HONour, HEAVen, KINGdom's GUARDian. In the second line: MEASurer’s, MIGHT, MIND-PLANS. And so on. I don't think the technique is all-important. The main questions are whether the meaning is clear, and whether the words please the ear. Only you, the reader, can decide that, and you don't need a high-falutin' critic to tell you what you like!

I believe the poem is "biblical" in its vision of creation. According to the Bible, the earth was set on an immovable foundation by the hand of God. (Little did the ancient writers know that the earth is actually a spinning globe whizzing through space at phenomenal speeds!) We see this foundation in line four. Next, in line five, we see the hand of God creating the heavens above, where according to the Bible he then set the sun, moon and stars in place. (The ancient writers again got things wrong, saying that the earth existed first, in darkness, and that the sun, moon and stars were created later; we now know that the earth's heavier elements were created in the hearts of stars, so the stars existed long before the earth. The writers of Genesis even said that plants grew before the sun was formed, but of course they had never heard of photosynthesis.) The poem's last line sounds a bit more Germanic or Norse to me, since Middle Earth is a concept we hear in tales of Odin and Thor (and later in the works of J. R. R. Tolkien). But that makes sense because when Saint Augustine of Canterbury became the first Christian missionary to evangelize native Britons, I believe it was the policy of the Roman Catholic Church to incorporate local beliefs into the practice of Christianity. For instance, because sun gods were worshiped in Rome, the Sabbath day became Sun-day, and the birth of Christ became December the 25th (the day the winter sun is "resurrected" and the days begin to lengthen, heralding spring). So in northern climes we should expect to see some "fusion" of Norse and Germanic myths with Christianity. For instance, there was never a mention of "hell" in the Hebrew Bible; the Hebrew language did not even have a word that meant "hell" at the time the books of the Old Testament were written. The closest Hebrew word, Sheol, clearly means "the grave" and everyone went there when they died, good and bad. The Greek word Hades also means the grave, and likewise everyone went there when they died. Hades had heavenly regions like the Elysian Fields and Blessed Isles and thus was obviously not hell! "Hell" is a Norse term. If this subject interests you―for instance if someone has said you are in danger of "hell" and need to be "saved" from it―you many want to read my simple, logical proof that There Is No Hell in the Bible.

Keywords/Tags: Caedmon, Hymn, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, translation, God, religion, religious, praise, worship, oldest poem, first poem, Bede

big bang? i just call it the: reassertion of φνς; big bang? the bing bang? scientists are creative and artists are prone to rigour? what an "unexpectedly" unoriginal definition to draft the genesis... bangs in vacuum?! that tree falling in the forest trick that only women seem to answer? i'm literally having a limp-**** moment with someone telling me: it began with a big bang! wow (łał)! amazing! you predicted a sound, excavating it from a vacuum, where, apparently, you can't hear one!

most of the time it's like dry laugh, perpetuated by a: ha ha... but then someone becomes drunk and gives the scales to further the impromptu, managing a: ha ha ha ha... ah ha ha ha ha... equivalent to: chasing a fly out of a room... catch the ****** by their *****! catch the ****** by the *****! unlike chasing a mouse... which is fun... more fun than a stampede in mecca for sure... you get to build a labyrinth... you get to catch the little ******... dangle him by its tail for a selfie... then you walk into the corridor of the apartment building you're living in... and what does the mouse do? so traumatißed by the lack of mouse-traps... what does he do? commits himself to suicide... jumps off the stairs into the abyss of paved concrete, and i'm like: i built this theme-park for you, and the best thing you can do is jump to your immediate death? is there another universe handy? i'm not quiet ready to deal with this one seriously.

that's for the intro, but try to incorporate the concept
of *polyphony in writing,
they'll think you're mad... rightly so, most people
love the concept of the paragraph,
just like they love donning eyeglasses -
and they love the linear concept, that "reveals"
a story...
                    they love that ****, give them rotten
cabbage and tomatoes and send them to
the shakespeare globe... to get a proper critique
if the theatre performance turns sour...
         grows fungii and what not.

oh i had a suitcase of verbiage with me...
      but the writing bit is really working on me
to necessitate a fathomable break from... "composition".

etymological pointers nonetheless:
    slav               and e?
   not really, not when you speak the language...
am i ethno-centric? i probably am,
you sort of have to be... comes with the package...
or the: shindig?
                               oh look... i know slang.
anyway...
                            around here i'm the only one laughing,
it's not an idiotic laugh that stresses: nothing or
nowhere...
                   it's the times supplement article:
the new narcissism (harriet walker reports)...
and i can't stop laughing...
   because it includes: taking selfies by the mona lisa
and by the gates of auschwitz...
                and then the n.p.d. complex (narcissistic
personality disoder)...
            and i can't stop laughing...
and i'm thinking: what's wrong with these people?
oh, right... the per se... (giggle)...
                           they're like su dokus you
abandon because you can't relax when solving them...
stray dogs and ****...
                      you whaa'?                  dunno.
i'm actually afraid of people that advertise missing
cats... how horrible do you have to be to
make a cat                       stray?
                             the ****'s wrong with you?
cats are counter-intuitively clingy... there's no leash
on them, and there's no walkies... but how abusive
or just dumb-boring (do you have to be)
                     to make a cat become stray / missing?

... (pending, ding-along-ah-****)...

"artists" made the mistake like philosophers...
                     they think poetry ought to be visual...
they already have the polyphony spectrum there,
the ******* rainbow... and then they think poetry
is all about imitating geometry: cohesion, rigidness...
bunch of ***** in all honesty...
                   Bach invented polyphony, we're going to
talk about it like we might talk about digression...
layering... it's also a geological term for: oh... looky looky
at this piece of sediment!
                     i don't think poets should mingle with
painters, to be honest: i wish they were an
apartheid apart...
                     poetry isn't a visual art-form... based on
the concept of the φνς (that's hebrew for:
hiding your vowels, like the romans imitated
adding stresses to letters)                           ooh! fancy!
is writing 50 years behind painting? (w. burroughs quote)...
don't know... is writing a century behind
                                     musical composition?
that's more likely than writing competing with
painters... why did poets cling to painters in the first place?
φoνoς... you're not painting a picture...
                   oh ******* o'hara, and you tenure
as regent of an art gallery: get hit and die by a beachball.

variants:
in the west the etymology of slav = +e
      well... unless you speak the tongue you can say:
                 zdrowie na budowie - buda! psie / pśιe!
there really is an etymological variant to the anglophone
understanding of stating the noun, indicative...
                but i need to bring the greek iota into the picture...
i.e. it's naked, it has no diacritical marks attached to it...
i.e. ι                      so... now...
lesson no. 1:          slav, in mother tongue   słowianiń -
iota variant?                            słowiańιn   (lazily, just słowianin)
   etymologically speaking, i.e. derived from what?
word... the slavs call it:          słowo.
   literally.
                      germanic peoples of north america can
be so obnoxious that it really does suit them...
    but who the **** would want to marry their women?
probably muslims... and breed a bunch of inbreds,
household peasant people,
                        orangutan down syndrome people;
gonna **** your granny pete?

oh right...

    lesson no. 2:
   i can't stop laughing at this grammatical transgression...
you really have to transcribe the transgender concept...
      ...
           as might have been expected: laughter can really
exhaust you... what i didn't know was:
           to the point where you are lullabied to sleep -
fully dressed - to only find yourself getting up in
the morning: pouring yourself the remains of the ***,
sticking your head out the window and seeing
spring in full swing: two sparrows getting it on...
                                       but gender neutral pronouns?
what, like it?
                                oh hey, here comes cousin it -
huh? i swear the point of pronouns, or at least
the categorical basis for a word to be a pronoun is
to stress a gender of the speaker -
                                        the argument for gender
neutral pronouns: let me put it in analogue form -
you see on the news, daesh destroying ancient
roman temples in syria...
                            world heritage sites protected
by international law... what this transgender movement
is doing to the english language? looks pretty
similar to me (in non relative terms) -
                     but it's sure as **** in being some form
of desecration... it can't be anything else...
the problem would be staggering if appropriated in
poland... where gender feeds into verbs...
                                   if this movement is an isolated
indicdent, that is,isolated in that it's an anglophone
phenomenon (thailand? well... they got into the groove
and didn't perform a real ****** on their sprechen) -
just an example of how gender is incorporated in
the western slavic language...

i.e.
         podniósł (masculine - [he] picked it up...
    the thing being picked up is not specified)

   podniosła    (feminine - [she picked it up...
      ""      "      "           "       "    "    "          ")

could have just written ditto, anyway:
                   but also notice the beautiful orthographic
transition - it's almost a ******* representation
with the acute o (ó = u, well: orthography is not
exactly grammar, but like grammar: it's an aesthetic) -
      pod-nio(h)-sla(h)            - i'm lazy, american
linguistic studies use this form of notation -
                    evidently i'm expecting some puritan who
actually studies phonetic encoding to come up to
me and tell me: no no... it's like so:
                the point is, a transgender movement could
never pick up in the western slavic language:
     well, because a gender specified pronoun
permeates to other words that aren't in the pronoun
category... i.e. as the above - verb category -
                        obviously the above two example are
what they are in terms of gender, but they're
also a past participle attached to them... past tense -
but we are talking about pronouns, aren't we?
   so that has to be incorporated into the example -
evidently a *****-nilly pure verb of the above two is
gender neutral, but it has nothing to do with pronouns.
- like i already said once before:
                compared with german? english is shrapnel.

i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.

My doctor told me to find a more healthy way to release my stress.
She said that taking two hours to fall asleep every night was rather unhealthy.
So, she told me to come home and to write about the things that relax me.
Here we are.

Every day a thousand things run through my mind. I can't breathe because school sits on my shoulders. My job crushes me slowly and my family physically causes me pain. But through so many foggy images I can see you through them all.
I can reach out and almost touch you even when I am alone in my room and I cannot get up because the panic has literally crushed me.
You are there in the simplest way.
The few moments in my life when I think the only way out is to let the weight of the world crush me entirely I can feel you.
The times that everything is in pieces and I am vulnerable and on the floor of my bedroom sobbing, you happen to walk in.
You physically pick me up and you carry me to safety.
A bath and you will bathe me and you will hold me and I will collapse and you will support me.
You carry me to my bed and put on a vinyl and a candle and you clean my room because it being ***** stresses me out.
You turn the lights off and the fans on and you consume me in your warmth.
You kiss the demons away and you strip off the suffocating clothing on me.
You make love to me and you wipe away terrible tears and you drench me in your love.
The seconds become minutes and minutes are now hours and you spend what is almost days with me in my bed wrapping your body around mine.
I cannot breathe still but now it is the best kind of breathlessness. The kind that happens when you see heaven in the eyes of a human and your life is paused while you try to remember how it all happened.
I am crushed still but now with the weight of your love.
But there is no pain. None. Only the most beautiful feeling my small body has ever felt.
And in the moments of bedroom bliss I am free. I am free of those things that eat at me and those thoughts that stress me to tears.
With you I am free.

given the history, all our predecessors held dear,
given the history,

well... i'm starting to think that utilising
italics meant an enumeration,
meaning that utilising italics
gave us non-differentiated stresses everywhere
and on each letter

by that i mean: people italicised entire words to
leave the stresses of individual letters to a continued monopoly,
italicised words meant not adding the acuteness of
stressed correspondance (post-code) to a letter, like é added to e...
it's running out, the monopoly of literacy - but the last
Bastille is on diacritical marks - è, or i ate it / cut it short,
walked from the movie theatre before it ended,
when i collage - ah! ****! found the erzett! ʒ -
the ß of minding a borrowing of ř! in that poem of mine...
woodland bořki - to replace the rz sound akin to ż -
i was looking in the wrong place, looking to stitch
in a plagiarism from Czech - but there it is, the equivalent
of schafres S (ß), the schafres R (ʒ); ha!
to simply change the aesthetic, and i have:
woodland boʒki.

see Communism rising its ugly head with the intelligentsia
once again? ***** pepper shaker shaker, prep talk moan shake
once more... never believe socialist utilitarianism,
the English are the masters of that... never believe it though...
the English, by definition? the utilitarianism bit is correct,
but they also follow the carrot bit of the stick... the carrot
is evidently the capitalistic motto: a Caribbean cruise.

but what this poem really means?
i really feel like punching someone in the face,
preferences like with Middle Eastern
appearances, while Sodomising
western values of politically coerced into
democratic robots... it really feels like that...
wanting to punch someone in the face,
and oddly enough it feels good just thinking
about it rather than actually doing it -

the universality of the Cartesian phrase -
non-factual, never factual, never to be factual,
the Iranian volleyball team taunting
the Polish volleyball team,
if a terrorist attack happens in Poland,
i'd be surprised if piglets fly further than plumbs,
and we get French braids on beards rather than
the hair plantation - of the lowest caste
i obviously emigrated -
i had some intelligence to shine through,
to a degree agreeable more or less,
remember i'm working on fame from
the basis of myth (a marathon) as in endurance,
rather than on the basis of being photogenic
(which i'm not) and the short-lived held breath
100 metres... the Olympics is really a barometer
of life otherwise... the Iranians are really fond
of getting braided beard from Poland...
i guess the English are too impolitely politely nice...
Thesaurus Rex would solve a all rhyming clues
with its catalogue of synonyms -
also... i'm a poet, critics of poetry in English
know jack-**** from Jack the Ripper...
i did't steal the language, i merely epitomised it
differently, you merely wrote an analogous epitaph
that was so ******* boring everyone applauded
when you spoke it the sake at a funeral
as you spoke it on a Bar Mitzvah... oddly enough
western society is lactose intolerant the year round,
but when someone dies the fondue set is out,
everything orange including the Essex
suntan is out and oiled to a greasy joke
that only gets a pig's grunting worth of encore.
it's odd, but the best way to write poetry without
English teachers telling you left is left
is by imagining someone being punched in the face,
bleeding nose squished cherry -
it's the violence that we're not allowed that we're told
about about our ancestors who freely exercised,
it's harsh... you're tingling with the anticipated wait for
expressing it, in the end you're turned into an atom
bomb of passive aggressiveness;
a bleeding nose squished cherry - even so, you want more,
more, more, you want the actual ferocity of the act,
not some cinema ****** of passiveness...
there are thieves around us, ghosts, not real thieves
wanting your belongings of handbags,
i mean the real sinister thieves... in one generation
the people of Empire and colonialism were turned
into the people of Globalisation and brothels...
well the brothels bit is currently debated whether
slaves ought to experience paid pleasure,
or whether slaves should just serve warm macaroons
for bourgeoisie opinions to be debated a Tartar stakes,
i.e. never really leaving the saloons of Gucci skirts
and the cancan dance of indivisible politics.

1.) tizzop introduced gangsta poetry february 2021
     no man ever before created a poetry genre alike
     gangsta poetry, robust melting *** of languages
     and ethnicities, as it reflects the united states

2.) the idols of gangsta poetry are rooted in the
      underworld, blacks, hispanics, italo- and irish-
      americans, asians, arabs, germans, kurds,
      yugos, albanians, afghans, northern-africans...

3.) multilingual are the core, heart and soul of
     a gangsta poem: glockz, rubix cubies, 31er
     salam, jebeš igru, habibis, brüder, fo' sho':
     rapid months, frozen silverfruit, whole ones

4.) every letter of gangsta poetry becomes the
     side effects of our brand's real-life greed and fury
      mourning the end of beloved baby mommas
      deaths caused by strayed bullets that vamoose

5.) gangsta poetry aims to be published among
      all ethnic communities of the 50 united states
      deadline 08/16/21 stresses american willpower
      gangsta poetry scandalously hits us's curriculas

6.) each of the 194 remaining countries is urged
     to promote and govern gangsta poetry for
     the neglected, weighted with glacial contempt
     these males and females discover their kind in us

7.) tizzop established a saying: "treat every being  
     with an open mind, but fight back, baby, if anyone
     disrespects you, the gps, or our hangarounds"
     at war, we remember our families before we blast

8.) bar none, each gangsta poet is free to connect
      affiliate and distribute with and for the gp's
      brothas and sistas -- gps create examples of
      social diversity and historical dimensions

9.) female gangsta poets are a quarter of us
      some keep it gal, united sisterhood, astute flow
      in memory of leery leyla, chalondra, kateyy,
      mountainbird, ivanka cociç, ashima abraham

10.) genderfree, gangsta poets are chosen
        undertakings composed by thugs & artists
        the spirit of a few meets strife of hood speech
        gp evolved from a movement to an own identity

11.) restrictions do not apply for written creation
        strategic outgrowth and unshaken cash flow
        gp embraces brainy ones, and our soldiers
        narrators in conspiracy, art nouveau trips

12.) gangsta poetry admires the following people:
        jeezy, killa cam, toni der assi, iron sal, dmx
        anton chigurh, sigmund freud, rashid stoogie
        larry hoover, elliot york hp, kevin of allpoetry

13.) taktloss, luis fonsi, blockmonsta, all bolivian
        and peruvian farmers, te amamos, our brothers
        187 strassenbande, senion mogilevich, nirvana
        john murphy, dem dudes alpha hotel frankfurt

14.) much love to all global units, poets, thieves
        traffic architects, hackers, true skippos
        german bakeries, all-black betting shops
        jews from brighton beach, hispanic halos

15.) benny da bandit, tony tarantula, gambino, brate
        hamza al-mighty, fat **** frank, jens, das brain
        fred merciless, familia escorpio, ruben and levi
        ali firefists, kimbo slice, scarface, oleksiy, dejan

16.) daim, loomit, dns 1up, **** my **** crew
        berlin kreuzberg 36ers, playboys hannover
        yard bird 1955, taki 183 n.y.c., basquiat, level
        dbl ffm-skychildren, bomber, city mission
    
17.) gangsta poetry overwhelmingly shaped by
       our ancestors who boosted the poetry of ages
       train bombers, rappers, trappers, taggers, cutters
       we descent from them, honor their names

18.) gangsta poets die for poems that struck
        gps, fans and critics in a possessive way
        limits of real talk and boasting are in flux
        trance batters the face of reason, at dusk


                                          *


Once upon a time at March 22nd, 2021
Kreuzberg SO 36, Berlin, Germany...
Dedicated to all Gangsta Poets Worldwide

Heaven and hell yeah, disciples outpace seconds
Greetings from Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic City

A dis abled man doesn't do a good job because they are teasing



You see disabled man just bludgers, and if any pretty young
Lady starts working to help them, they play with their hair
And quite often really annoys them, and it is not just because
They are playing with their hair, no they don't know squat
About how to get out there and actually work
Well, they will work, but in small lots and also
They will take days off to go to see parades
And then look at all the workers, saying
You stupid little ******, little fool
You are trying too ****** hard to teach us how to work
And you are making us laugh so hard
Of course whether he would say that, no one knows
Cause he is disabled, he doesn't really know any better
He thinks he is being cool with us
The best thing to do is have a lot of fun
And not get in the bosses way, at any time
Especially if the boss yells at them, or gets sick of them
Instead of keeping around them like them like a bad smell
Like the disabled man usually does, and let me tell you
He can display signs of anger and it often interferes with
Their work, and after that the disabled man
Will crack himself laughing if anybody was getting yelled at by the boss
Like he is in primary school, you know the way kids act when
You get in trouble with the teacher
The disabled man does work, but you know
Often they show limitations and also they are too disabled
To know why things happen, and I start to think, that
The reason why liberals hate disabled people
Is they can be angry little *****
When they ****** think they're right
The dis abled man will work but they still will act
Like a kid, when they are either told to clean up
Or go over the job again, because they are trying to tease
Yes,  dis abled men have no work ethics, still like school atmosphere, and
A disabled man doesn't do a good job because they are teasing


Sent from my iPhone

much of the time Nietzsche was wrong,
in that claiming systematisation in philosophy
is a form of dishonesty,
perhaps, but for people having to wake up
to an alarm clock at 7 a.m. for several years
there's hardly any dishonesty to think about,
no long lost dream...
what bothers me is the supreme (apologies
for the adjective) usage of maxims in
the English speaking world - they're everywhere,
it's almost parallel processing of the maxim
and an advert snail (slogan), Achilles did
indeed lose in Zeno's paradox (fair enough
it was a tortoise and not a snail... but i
did mention slogan)...
English society hardly reads, hence it stresses
maxims, extracted from texts like it stresses
advert slogans... plenty of soul-mates about...
it doesn't read, hence it pressure to pretend it reads
by the process of regurgitation...
but it doesn't regurgitate what's necessary:
a unique interpretation, heretical, it just regurgitates
****, maxims... i find great dishonesty in the maxim,
it's a flimsy truth that attracts no bothersome
experience, observationally speaking... it's true,
but it's hardly experienced... that's the greater dishonesty
Nietzsche claimed paired-against systematisation;
any number of maxims can disorientate a man,
systematisation places him in a cohort,
in that great summer of 1961... re (i.e. repeat)...
in that great summer of 2005... re (  "        "     )...
English society doesn't read because it's saturated by
the virus of advertisement... the iconoclasm of
fonts, the swirly and curly coca cola insignia...
the proof that it doesn't read is the French work ethic...
and the fact that it's too eager to regurgitate maxims...
it's basically stating a philosophical bulimia,
although a bulimia of having eaten an anorexic's
daily allowance of a malteser and a lettuce leaf,
puking out more acidic saliva than the content of
what the oesophagus just constricted down like
a boa into the lake of Hades know as λιμνη ασιδωρ;
grapes of wrath? more like sour grapes, or simply
gooseberries. honest, they don't read, they just
maximise what's intended when it isn't intended,
they have no narrative, and if they do, they narrate
with images like some obscure rekindling of
Egyptology from the Suez clan of those ******* Africans
who built graves so high that it took the Eiffel tower to obscure
them. so no, Nietzsche was wrong about systematisation
being dishonest... what is dishonest is his excessive
maximisation, overly utilising maxims, truths that
very few will experience given the σ paradox
in practical saying: no plumber can or will experience
**** or skydiving, horse riding, **** ***...
i.e. the totality of all possible experiences... hence the
by-product of the σ paradox is the observer,
who utters many truths but experiences only a fraction,
a dividing summation, as in Nietzsche's case,
a descent into madness - σ of course refers to the mathematical
understanding of anti-phonetic encoding: sum of, total.

Negativity is nothing more than lack of assurance and doubt
This is what this lesson in helping you to work out
It means take negativity and build into positivity
Think on Negativity being only a set back in how one feels
Usually, Negativity comes from Negativity given
It surrounds people that project Negativity because of circumstances that happened in one’s life
They are the one’s that always sees negativity, but never work in seeing life as positivity
You must look beyond your depressed thoughts, and suggest positivity
That negativity causes people to not succeed
Negativity becomes like a forbidden flood needing to reseed
A person is focusing on someone else’s feed
But negativity has no place face to face
In fact, it’s all a waste
The energy that one stresses on negativity, could be utilized on constructive positivity
Negativity is a barrier like a detour, but you are only staying in one place
No movement in a hopeful pace
If you say today, the response would be tomorrow
But what one is saying, they are drowning on sorrow
Negativity is mental, but one must move into motivational
Motivational is the action that will start you on your way
Negative people now should be your getaway
This is your lesson for today
Go and achieve in every way
Live on every day

so i sit here
with a hole in my foot
with a hole in my head
with a hole in this book
with the hole in her eyes
when she gave me that look
with the hole in my face
when i saw what he took
the hole in my heart
i still don't know the crook
paper is just too easy to tear
and you think i'm easy
when you see i've been shook
i think i need a hook

now there's a hole in my stomach
and it's feeling tight and queezy as she ties
me up in knots of my poor esophagus
her knuckles white from squeezing
i breathing like a snake trying to shed
the desert sun is hot so
please lift this mask up off my head
i try to offer a white flag
but she kills me instead
cause she doesn't like the things
that she can't understand

and so she holds her fists like
they have holes in them
holds me like there are holes in me
cavities of ample opportunity
for punishment and further tearing, no tears,
none of this teething willful jeer
i'll split and rewire, i don't need old fears

i am only tired at best
the pieces did not defy gravity
they fell right out of my ****** chest
but landing is a skill you see
tear me apart for free and be my guest
ripping down the wallpaper
wrestling with the messes of stresses
no one will unremember
looking for the emotions
you desperately want to render
but while i'm still soft
i'm no longer tender
so remember when you enter that
no matter what the temper of the sender
or persuasion of the vendor
i will not surrender
to all these social mind benders

there is a hole in my flag
my blood is an involuntary badge
no more flags, white stains
too easily

the world is too bright.
i am blinded by false smiles and laughs strained to reach that falsetto note.
that preconceived notion that paradise of the land brings paradise of the mind.
sand is still sand, and water is still water,
less we quantify their quality by purity and color.
sand is still sand and water is still water,
and i am still me.

the world is too bright,
so i filter it into sepia tones gentler to the mind's eye and swim to where the water meets the clouds.
i am drowning,
but not from the ocean's relentless caresses,
but from the world's relentless stresses:
beauty that is measured and calculated,
saturated with standards that burn like the sun and are as intangible as its rays,
a paradise built on sand as quick as it is to judge.    

so i swim to where the water meets the clouds.
where the water is still water,
and i am still me.

it’s been foggy for the past two days,
i blamed fireworks on halloween
rather than guy fawkes’ celebration to
burn the magna carta... i still prefer the beltane
festival of burning rubber skin tires of pensioners
extending for a plastic surgeon’s career;
it was foggy these two past years,
i can almost start an art movement or set-up an art school
ensuring all paintings are painted with fog-overtones,
as i blow cigarette smoke into the air...
but this is the zenith of autumn,
the earth has started to breathe, the muddy field soil
has started to turn into mush, to mush,
it’s begging the plughole sepias of a hectare into easing into
moisture so the boots land a footprint into flemish tired in the trenches
for the toilet plop...i’ll dismember onomatopoeia spelling
and retrace the origins of dyslexia... i will!
insert this anti-intellectualism of england laughing at the words
sartre and *****... piston... etc.,
then become content with en masse surveillance.. everyone’s happy!
win win situation!
he he he... giggles for rounds of ***** shots and double-glazing...
keep the van gogh canvases... we need pristine voyeurism sights
across the street and never bothering to chip in to the gallery funds.
it’s autumn at its zenith with two foggy nests of the moon exposed
and i’m forcing cigarette smoke into the air to match up...
i’ve heard news that a lady psychologist and a professor are interested
in my works... back home in poland,
they are announcing a secret reading of my work
in the underground chambers of a church in szewna, akin me to a gombrowicz,
i’m about to become a merchant of poetry.... here’s cinnamon for words,
here’s chilli for specified terms that tingle the tongue.
back home i can reclaim this misunderstanding of all necessary jokes
in england...
so this article comes along... stresses the difference between england and france...
the difference?
in england: a. i’m trying to write a book... b. how much money did you get upfront?
typical of bank of england signatures being given with a safe investment...
in france? a. i’m writing a book... b. what’s it about?
that’s europe, cross-continental, with the isolationism of england
like the isolationism of england if f.d.r. was the prime minister
and everyone spoke gaelic, so there...
frogs are princes... with such cares the article mentioned...
it mentioned rousseau as the joker card of blames
for the french revolution...
well i know that scientist is a misnomer of intellectual,
after all, the scientist is the man with a ruler and centimetre
and the intellectual doesn’t bother to count up the centimetres
of welsh words... but a scientist is hardly a cobbler...
so i give darwin... the english intellectual exploit surfacing as
the modus operandi of the holocaust...
‘it’s almost like a darwinian pact,’ said faust,
'i peered into the monkey and knew of the trouble it would translate,
this collective categorical translation that didn’t say:
orangutan is chinese and chimpanzee is greek, the gorilla is italian...
how the hell could we have evolved from the monkey
if there is no single species of monkey, we’re already as diverse
as the ****** monkeys! so a chimpanzee ****** a gorilla
and the first humanoid was spawned?' ******* you english colonial
******* and your limb-for-limb relativity, oh wait...
i’m writing in english... now isn’t that paradoxical...
but the f.d.r. akin isolationism craves for artists that not only perform
with their backup cognitive singers, i.e. song writers...
(like the song by vanessa paradis - joe le taxi -
being almost like ellie goulding's on my mind)...
how did it all become defaced with karaoke and a prenuptial of fame...
i just want the original rolling stones... i don’t want people turned
into adverts... i don’t want artists turned into slogan pushers...
i rather keep the kites of drugs.... i can’t do this... my heart’s broken,
but that's because the audience that's being sold
the art is too young to respect the go-along practice of drug use with the arts.

I’ve O’D’d on Glucosamine Sulphate, so much I’m mentally scarred.
It’s escalated now I’m 70… I’ve mainlined on my Senior Railcard…
I bow down to the Norse God Voltarol… He eases all my pains…
and there’s Deep Heat, Germaloids, even Anusol for the other stresses and strains.

The wondrous Winter Fuel Allowance! That’s what lights our lamp these dark days - ahh, those twilight hours!
But after the logs, it’s not Leccy or Gas we crave? No! We buy ***** with ours…
the Whisky, Gin, *****, Wine, a drop of Brandy too. It all helps us numb the cold
whilst memories of happier times gone by - brighten up this ****** growing old.

Supplements, sterols, statins, aspirin, beta blockers… All the heart meds - life’s a battle.
In the 60s it was *** and Drugs and Rock ’n’ Roll… Now there’s less *** and a lot more rattle!
****** fails to make it now - “no more”, after the last time - she said!
These days the only thing it does is stop me rolling out of bed!

The bus pass lets me roam the world… from John O’Groats to Land’s End.
But these days I travel locally Southwick, Lancing, Steyning; oh yeh and a cousin in far Gravesend.
Further afield; abroad perhaps? Well no…Back then it was Newhaven for the Continent.
But now I’m over 70, well, it’ll just be Worthing for the INCONTINENT!

And… did I say? Not that I was ever in the habit of measuring it you understand - or straightening out the kinks
I’m pretty sure that these days - and ’no’ it’s NOT just the cold… but, your once adequate **** - it shrinks!

I'm sorry...Your *******! It ain't so long!

Now that things have calmed down,
I think of you less.

I fear the feelings
and words and poems
and feelings and emotions
and songs
were brought on by the rush of moments,

Nothing more than sweet escapes with consequences,
stress-relievers that came with their own stresses.

Poetry un-messes messes
Poetry de-stresses stresses
Rhyme and reason suggestes guesses
But words' meanings' mean with messy message.

Every Fall
before you
know
the furies
furiously
begin
to blow
colder
stronger
winds begin
to bite
as the stresses
of our lives
begin to
put up a bigger
fight.

Going away are
the warmer
more relaxed
bright Summer days
as the oncoming
furies
blow
in more
stressful ways.

Let the annual
“colder”
make you
wiser
make you
bolder
not befall upon your
nerves
like a burden on your
shoulder.

Do not let the
stresses of
everyday’s worries
get blown out
of proportion
as time ceaselessly
hurries
we can quickly become
careless
blocking our own
awareness
in the “darker”
in the “colder”
of The Furies.

~Miguel

I hate it when my parents fight
they have been doing it my whole life
Sometimes their arguments don't even make sense
I personally think they get off by fighting
If that is true
I don't understand why people do that
I hate fighting
The very idea of it
stresses me out to the point my stomach feels like
it is in flames
No one seems to care how much the drama stresses me out
How am I supposed to show my face for family fun
when I am dreading the social interaction
I don't want to be uncomfortable around my parents
yet I am sometimes
I could ignore how I feel
but that would cause me to emotionally shut down
Which in turn awakens the constant chaos that already corrupts my mind
I feel like I can't breathe now

Let him miss you
Let him roll over in the morning to find you gone, your absence filling the empty side of the bed like a flood
He will drown before he even wakes up
Let him know what it's like to have the sheets to himself when his hands reach out and find too much space to grab, a vacant imprint of you still on the mattress
Let him crave the hold of your body against his, laying down, molded together in unison
Let him miss the crook of your neck and how his face fit perfectly in it like a hollowed shell
Let him miss your skin and his own announcement of its softness
Let him miss how fingers would run swiftly along the folds and creases
Let him miss the tracing of your veins that led him home, a purple and blue reminder of familiarity
Let him miss your legs folding between his while sleeping
Let him miss your breath in his ear
Let him miss your words blanketing around his fears and his stresses, how your language was the only kind capable of calming
Let him miss your comfort like a Midwest winter without a fireplace to lay in front of, like below zero temperatures with a broken furnace in charge of heating the air
Let him feel his heart leave his chest when he thinks he sees you at the store, at a concert, bar, restaurant, all of the places he knows you aren't
He will look for you anyway
Let his lips mumble your memory with every shot of whisky that meets them
Let him taste you with each cigarette he smokes with the intention of forgetting
Let him hear your voicemail when he calls you at 3 am
Let him leave his drunken words to a mailbox you will never check
Let him say your name in his sleep
Let him wonder where you are tonight
Let him feel your ache in every muscle, every bone, every limb
Let him wonder if you're aching too
But don't give him the satisfaction of knowing you are

Don't tell him you are splitting like the red sea, your heart spilling as it parts
Don't let him know you are near freezing to death without palms to protect you from the cold, how this December was one for the records
You will look back and wonder how you ever managed to survive
Don't let him know that getting up and out of bed is a ropes course you are still trying to complete
Don't let him know that every bit of ink made permanent on your body is too much reminder to look at, that the words are growing with unwanted by the second
Don't let him know that tonight you are too far from the sun to expand
You are shrinking from the darkness and you don't know how to let the light back in
Don't let him believe that your smile is anything but a portfolio of happiness
Don’t let him know that your laugh is merely a symphony crafted from regret
Don't let him know that he is the ringing in your ear that refuses to go away like a migraine, bringing blurry vision and a pain in the back of your head
Don’t let him know you still crave him like a bad addiction, the withdrawal being the worst it’s ever been
Do not let him know if you miss him
Do not let him know you do
There is no purpose in missing what never made you whole
You are enough human without another to need you
If he misses you tonight, let him
If you miss him tonight, don't.