Days drift away, mind ease the pain
The rains wash away, passion still remains
I think of her smile and the lips as they purse
How I want to feel her skin between my tips
It gets worse
Because there's no privacy in life
No place we can go
The desire for romanticism, blown away by my ego
So my mind runs wild
Does she compare me to others
or do I not have her desire
Does she mean when she says 'I love you'
Or am I simply hallucinating
Whens she dreams, is it of me
because it's her when I do

In fact it's her when I don't
and it's here where I confess
that every waking moment I am thinking of her ***
I know that she might see this
and that it's too personal to be public
But I take leafs from her book
Stylistically, confessional release
Removed from zones of comfort
but I can't rhyme
I tried a few times

I try too to be a feminist, and to respect every boundary
But truth is, I want to let loose sometimes
Take her, make her mine
Show her that her body is perfect in my eyes
Use my body, pin her down
Make her head spin around
Learn every spot of pleasure
On her body, in her mind

Wishful thinking maybe
She'll never call me baby
That's a good thing maybe
Pet names are lame and lazy

She has more important things to worry about
Not my over stimulated testosterone fantasies
Of how I want to tear away her-
That would be crass, so I won't say it
Instead I'll load up her favourite song and play it
or open up her pictures, touch myself and-
Again I can't help myself
I hope she never reads this ****
Because it's truly my most personal composite
Every word I write, I'm hating it
So for that reason I'll end this bit

'ello little ones with spinning tantrums
join us for roundabout logic with spattering snare drum hits
little is known but all else is shown
greed is implied when famine runs itself dry
feathered hat is also worn quite stylistically

when a painter has it down
when the motions are riveting and somewhat gruesome
the painter laughs heartily with bottom line basics
these basics aren't whatever
they are whenever, correction! excuse me

so don't jump down from your tree yet
so don't tarnish jupiter's rings beforehand
that is saturn in disguise
a method of consumption that is a bit better from time to tick tack

jelly is on my bread tonight
is it off of yours then?
I would count on it if it wasn't my best answer
I would forget without you if I could
but I never do

spinach and sausage mix well
query them further for a hot dog roll with seeds
of the sesame variety
what do you find but bitter taste?
a dessert
inklings of sweetness
and edges of filth

The down of the gown of the dawn of some gone day,
A ray day that has downed and dawned at sunset,
They have diabolically colonized our divine state,
Belligerently gang ****** our stupendous democracy at will,
The demonic bloodthirsty ******* barbarians,
Declaring a violent war which no one wants to fight,
A losing warring war of one against all.


Impetuously slaughtering our defenseless defenders at will,
Turning the blue-clad fierce hunters to the fierce hunted,
The hunted that are being haunted,
Hounded and hunted by the hunted,
Converting every corner into the hunters’ hunted ground,
The church and the charge office,
The home and the street,
The here and the there.


Who will protect our “toy gun” wielding protectors,
Protect our trigger-shy protectors from the cunning detractors,
As one by one they are won one by one,
One by one by the one that is supposed to be won,
The defenders of our slate state,
The defenders of our democratic democracy,
The defenseless defenders of the defenseless.


They have been plunged under siege,
As every one of them personifies some certain demise,
Every one of them is just some subterfuge death in waiting,
Some truculent death just waiting to happen,
Bust, rust and dust in the waiting,
Stylistically stylistic starving yawning mobile graves,
Prey of their own prey,
The ultimate fray prey.

As day in day out they live the life of a cigarette,
On one side they are smoking,
On the other, they are being smoked,
Any attempt to fight back is regarded criminal of the worst order,
Police brutality,
We forsake them, they forsake them, the law forsakes them,
Who will defend the mighty defenders?

Metamorphose me
into stylistically arranged
harmonies,
leaping off
the paper plane musical scores,
soaring away
like a child's imagination.

i'll just say what it is, quiet frankly a beautiful
elaboration - for maxims are shake-shocks -
i'd call all proverbs or maxims Blitzkrieg annals -
well, something of that sort, once said:
a flash of genius, but then years of squabbling,
before someone emerges with what the maxim
requires: an elaboration - one of plain, simple
understanding - but of course, after the elaboration,
someone must second the elaborated understanding,
and put the genie back into the lamp,
and oddly enough, write a poem - the twist is,
the secondant must too elaborate on the elaboration,
as way to deviate and start a new subject matter.
this has been the case with what i picked up
a few minutes ago, Kierkegaard's Christian discourses,
the care of lowliness: do not worry about what
you will wear - the pagans seek all these things.
i for one know this to be very true -
once in a while i travel into London for opera and
ballet - i put on my standard outfit for the
occasion - so i basically do not look like a ***:
brown trousers, navy jacket, navy shoes,
light purple shirt - a typical grey area in a crowd -
and already upon stepping into the crowd,
that vast sea, i feel like i just temped into an
ant-mound, a colony of itchiness - in fact i used
to wear clothes in variation - no... well, let's just
say i'd get airs of contempt walking down
the golden-plated streets of civilisation -
where enough chewing gum patches create a horde
of concrete dalmatians -
but that's beside the point, that passage is ingenious
in its simplicity, Kierkegaard is a rarity in
philosophy, he writes like a novelist, there's an
actual narration in his works - he can almost
remind me of Rousseau (rue sow, said) -
i don't the concrete ideas (both are completely different)
i just me stylistically - Kierkegaard as such
is uncomplicated to have a firm footing in systematisation -
like i once said: systematisation is not
so much dishonesty, as a military approach to
language: a strict (limited) competence of language
(vocabulary) - and the incessant Holtwitzer* /
Howitzer style of bombarding a key concept, revising it,
coming at it from a different angle - but refining
certain concepts, instilled with what i already mentioned:
a strict competence of language / systematisation:
limiting the vocabulary; Kierkegaard epitomises the
Heraclitus river - it flows and flows - never minding
the whirlpool of the anti-claustrophobic fathers:
who's works are just that: all of them comfortable fitting
into a suitcase. ah crap, digression over,
mind you, it's not easy finding google whacks - it takes
a decent imagination to misspell a word to get the billions
reduced to 1: apparently there's a website dedicated to
them... well, that's a 2nd in my diary.
anyway (hopefully for the last time) - the comparison
of the bird and the lowly man, the two are unlike each other,
one has it easy, the other has a beginning in which
he sets out to be a lowly man, or to not be of such
disposition... the bird already is, what it is, so
the bird has it easy - the man faces a hardship of
the optical illusion, kindly provided by Vogue et al.:
he composites this with the bird's ontology as
pure animate - singing for its own delight,
the bird's death by impatience should it ponder itself
as being a bird, rather than as being-in-itself -
so there's the bird, pure animate presiding over its
ontology and not allowing hesitation or anything...
where am i getting at?
                                       the javelin throw,
the discuss throw, the baseball throw, gymnastics -
and Noah's ark: and the philosophical concepts
went up to the ark, two by two of their respective pairing:
existence & essence, subjectivity & objectivity,
good & evil... and of course animate & inanimate (objects),
for this is crucial for me... there's no thought
attached to the above stated activities, there is man's
respective animal-like representation - intuition and
gamblers luck remain in the head,
no boxer in a boxing ring can actually be said to be thinking,
too many chemical reactions are taking place,
and these athletes are not exactly chemically minded to
talk about the next more... that's the animate side
of man's ontology - the bird on the wheat shaft singing -
pure and simple... which brings me to consider
the following object that i have in my hand (head,
but never mind, i took it out and it's in my hand now) -
the inanimate nature of man... the buildings around us,
the garden fences... thought was derived from
us having the shadow duality with being animate,
we have instilled in us an inanimate nature,
from which thought is derived from - along with all
that comes with it: telescopes, hammers, autism,
solipsism (self-conscious autism), syringes, l.s.d.;
i set out to find out how we conceived thinking in
the first place - apart from the cliche duality contained
within: good v. evil or beyond that... well, beyond
that there's this... i could find no reason to imply that
man has only one nature in this pair going up to
Noah's ark... this stretches into the common misunderstanding
in the western world in the realm of medicine,
or as i like to call it: the Cartesian dark ages...
whereby a mental health issue is treated on the basis
that we are only animate beings, which, to my understanding
translates as: you have a puppet inside yer 'ed
and one of your strings snapped, mate... that's
what i don't understand... why is it that western medicine
conceived this idea that our nature is only animate,
and that we have to have a respective dynamic in
our mind to comply with the body's animate nature?
this is where the inanimate nature of our inner
life comes in, where thinking is derived from -
otherwise there would be no ****** good reason to
sit under a ***(h)i tree like a plonker for days,
would there? hey! probe all those words in the Asian
languages - dhal! probe! buddha! probe! probe them
all, wake up the h in each and every single word,
then start probing the y and the w in European languages!
boom! out pops a variation of n.e.w.s. of
Jewish mysticism.

i realised soon enough, that with each new poem, i am abstracting myself, Kant would claim some transcendental (dentistry's epitome of detachment from the repetitiveness of the task ahead, surely a canvas worthy of perfecting the actions) method, a circumstance of an elevation ahead, a necessarily involved eventuality of an obstacle to obstruct Belgium, i.e. a plateau, a flatland... transcending doesn't necessarily invoke abstracting, by transcending you can imagine something akin to god - by abstracting you can only conspire to throw a curtain over your self - well, to put it in close proximity: transcending you invoke the necessity of god / abstracting you invoke the non-necessity of the self - by transcending you have increments, even if Newtonian (infinitesimal, calculus, Leibniz) and other measurements of change, but when it comes to abstracting you don't have a clear path toward a methodology, hence the poetic expression being adequate, a spontaneity; with each new poem i am abstracting, digging in a coal mine of nothing, revolutionising the big bang, indeed poetry's weakness is to suggest that on the Cartesian pivot, too much rests on the side of 'i am', in that poets claim high revenue by exploiting this side of the equation - to boot very little is given leverage on the 'i think' side of the juggling act... poets claim too much and think too little, but at least their claims have a standard, a standard that's invoked is having possession of a heart (the whirlpool) that gives each and every one of us a lost tractacus (tract, route, a dragging, the lost history, atomic history, atomist representation of history that's etymology - the origin of words - pre-history, onomatopoeias, the end; well... if you're going to belittle me with a ******* monkey, i might as well sing Ol' McDonald had a farm, e ah e ah oh) - oh right, you want a linear representation with clear use of conjunctions: the alternative of historical investigation, debating whether the treaty of Versailles constipated Weimar Germany to the extent of having world war two precipitate is investigated with hindsight / too late hunches - etymology is a type of history, the history of words, origins in spontaneity or onomatopoeia / mimic? good question... i don't know, and i will certainly not s  p  e  l  l it out for you, on your own... chop chop.

i really am abstracting myself, i'm not even bothered
by Kant's methodology of transcendental concerns,
for me abstraction is a poly-geometric invocation,
too many vectors, x, y, z's, pentagons, hexagons, whatever,
transcending to me is simply a parabola reduced to
a dy/dx - a straight line - forget Kant, he'd nodding off
after reading Hume (who ran stark naked in Edinburgh,
not necessarily true) -
what i came across, stylistically speaking:
i have the second volume of the Critique near me,
and *why i'm not a painter by Frank O'Hara...
the pronoun usage... philosophers are performing this
juggling act with pronouns, like would be kings...
poets have stripped themselves to the nakedness of
the first person pronoun, philosophers in turn have
put this pronoun (i) in inverted commas (if you're
into existentialism and ****), but philosophers are
mimicking kings, for example when a mother of
a labourer constructing the palace of Versailles died
unfortunately by a falling brick Louis XIV didn't become
self-conscious, because he pounced back at the woman
with the words: 'is she addressing us?', it's
like this weird schizophrenic analogue, kings and
philosophers juggle pronouns, in that they usually write
within a realm of plurality, as many people, read any
philosophy book from the Enlightenment and you'll
enter a simulation of schizophrenia - they really do juggle
the pronouns, it's like they're instilled with fighting
the Socratic daemon who constantly poured honey liquor
into the grandpa's ear on a bench in Athens -
i mean, i could throw in an extract from the Critique
to prove my point, but i'll be lazy and let you do
all the legwork, of going into a library and finding
the book in question, and the example as stated...
if you're lucky enough to have a library that actually
possesses such heretical works against the status quo.

Stylistically stagnant  
Repetitive lines
Heavy ****
Hollow minds

Broken hearts
Hard times
Growing up
Never fine

****** Wrists
Empty bottles
Night stand
Open Bibles

Pray hard
No answer
**** religion
God's cancer

Born alone
Die alone
Heaven calls
Coming home

thankfully i'm working from a standpoint of: once a chemist, now some sort of shaman - the people missed the pre-Socratics, the child-like people of Aristotelian maxim: it begins with awe, and is peppered with countless mistakes, to be precise: mistakes feed awe, accuracy feeds an economic use of, the mundane suggestion that nothing really changes and we're eating sushi salmon when it ought to be smoked and accented with whiskey; the people missed the pre-Socratics so much that they invented a new post-Socratic shaman, and the guy has everything going for him, youth... child-like ethical teachings - and i guess it's easier to worship something dangling on a crucifix than it is worshipping something enthroned - makes it easier to kneel, seeing the thing of worship likewise in agony - perfect timing mind you, the historian Josephus, unearthing of the Nag Hammadi library in Egypt... and those ****** Greeks! they invented it i swear to god, what fisherman or thief was literate in those days? literacy meant power, these are strong-men of the plough, they wouldn't have a capacity to read, or a need to... fair enough, he's given me a subject, but not necessarily the doctrine about how he died on the crux and i can do ****... you see any Christians about? in America an aunt sued her nephew because he stepped on her big toe... i can't sue whomever i know i should because i don't have the dough for some ****** lawyer... but at least my family don't have to be bewildered about my would-be sudden death aged 21, 9 years later, going strong, but i can... it's called enforced practice of - no baptism no confirmation can do that... oddly enough, Christianity is one of the most bureaucratic religions known to man, so bureaucratic that there's nothing spiritual about it - or you have Islam and its variation of iconoclasm - grammaclasm - no wonder the Greeks wrote the new testament, they missed the pres of Socrates, they couldn't quite figure out what was necessary from Plato... i don't either - even Alfred Jarry mocked Plato - the dry dialogue style, or no style at all, content for sure, but stylistically? not much; and to be honest, only Bukowski's later works, the posthumous publications are the best, Post Office is overrated while Factotum is, actually, a gem.

so from there - i know why i didn't like Sartre
dittoing the pronoun i or elaborated to coincide with
psychology's ego - although it doesn't make sense -
given: original source, someone actually concrete said
something and was quoted, hence 'he said it',
but with the English linear dittoing fashion statement
it's a sort of plagiarism, as in: "he said it", implying what?
agreement or simply theft?
Kant started the project - but instead he italicised -
and in honesty that's relevant, since he doesn't
cite David Hume anywhere, he's battling
the Loch Ness monster the best he can,
he's focusing on his *identity - to be influential rather
than influenced, which is why i don't understand
Sartre's dittoing out the ego, as if he just cut off his
arm and is bemused by the severed hand waving
back at him - unless of course he's doing the Pontius Pilate
bit of washing his hands clean from any responsibility,
as part of his pillar of counter-Cartesian association
with furthering thought into being, not via doubt
of his predecessor, but via denial (he uses the word
negation) - good faith former, bad faith latter, and he does
mention bad faith, although he doesn't identify denial
with bad faith, nor doubt with good faith - but at least
he gives us something to work with, given the two extremes;
prior to that Doubting Thomas was on the racks,
and they thought doubting was bad, it's good, to be honest,
it means you can experience a full range of emotions -
and by Koranic standards it's not quiet the categorical
punishment of un- / non-, and why would you punish
quasi- or pseudo-, everyone enjoys acting in some respect,
a safe environment to see a simulation of some mental deviation.
it's that i don't understand why the translation of
being & nothingness uses the inverse-citation and requires
it to be a unit - this might be due to the fact that it's
~ (approximate), i.e. instead of "ego" and the notion of any
acknowledgement of responsibility in ethical matters,
adding to the fact that there are influences cited, those that
came prior, Husserl for one, or Kafka... it's this
point of the culmination of what's not exactly original,
but passed down, a genetics of sorts, philosophically minded
genetics - passing down influences rather than ******
features and susceptibility to certain diseases -
i'd prefer to note myself in that sort of framework as ~ego
(god, i hate using this as some concept, written down it's
just a facade of tying shoelaces) - but obviously in the english
language
                                                ­             "           "           "    "        "
       "
                       the original purpose of the ditto was sidetracked,
it's not necessarily proper - you end up with some wacky
quantum physics **** when you encounter in literature
notation of dialogue, or internal v. external monologue
like so: "'so i was wondering'" - who or what says anything
when you write it like that?! Irish standard, Polish standard,
pub scene, Bob and Jimmy:
- aye.
-aye.
                                                 end of story! "aye," he said
                              or 'aye,' he said - boom boom job done.
this could rattle my nuts throughout this whole evening,
but it won't -
scene in a supermarket, a **** plump girl's buying
two ready meals and 6 mini-crates of Budweiser -
on offer, in the Metro, coupons, so obviously they're free -
boy behind her has a bottle of nekken-ekken and Scotch -
girl picks up the mini-crates (ok, bundles, packs,
whatever, stop this microscopic misnomer abuse,
it ruins the flow, i'm not telling you to imagine it)
and the two ready meals, one falls off, boy helps her
and puts the ready meal next to the other on the packs
of beer... nothing special, Lazarus is in China by now,
girl walks off, boy buys his ****,
boy walks out the supermarket, girl gets in her car,
boy gets stopped in the drive-through alley, girl
opens her car window, hollers out -
- you want a pack of beers?
- huh?
- yeah, a pack of beers, i figured you helped me out
   i might as well give you a pack.
- oh... sure, why not.
(rummaging in the car)
- here's two... and here's another two.
- bless you, good night.
it's moments like this, the England of my boyhood dreams
i remember; 22 years into my life here and i'm
still gagging to hear an English rose moan -
and that's the god honest truth.

Women on the march was the story of the weekend. And so it was with perfect timing that 23 years after he diversified into designing for women, Sir Paul Smith included clothes for women on his Paris catwalk during menswear fashion week for the first time. The designer has scrapped his slot showing womenswear during London fashion week in favour of a blockbuster Paris show in which clothes for both genders are shown together.

There is an industry-wide trend toward unisex catwalks, but the move felt organic for Paul Smith, whose womenswear has its roots in men’s tailoring. First on the catwalk was a woman in a trousersuit in the black-and-green check of Black Watch tartan, alongside a man wearing a tailored coat in the same fabric over beige trousers.

Backstage, the designer said putting the show together has reminded him why he started designing for women in the first place. “Grace Coddington and Liz Tilberis, all these incredible women, were dressing supermodels like Linda Evangelista in my clothes for men,” he recalled.

But one of the secrets of Paul Smith’s cheery, straight-talking brand is that it is more sophisticated than it lets on. The womenswear on the catwalk was not simply borrowed-from-the-boys, but fine-tuned for the female body. The attitude and fabrics are taken from menswear, but the tailoring – a higher and more defined waist, a longer jacket, a strong shoulder – is calibrated to flatter the female form.

A dandy aesthetic running through the men’s velvet suits and fitted waistcoats was adapted for women with colourful Fair Isle-knit sweater dresses, and silk blouses with a painterly feather print.

The show was staged under the glass roof of the grand École Des Beaux-Arts, just a few streets from where Sir Paul Smith staged his very first fashion show in a friend’s apartment on the rue de Vaugirard, that time to an audience of 35 people, with friends as models and a soundtrack he had compiled on a cassette.

But it was very British, not just stylistically but in the emphasis on British-made fabrics – in many cases modern, lightweight versions of fabrics Smith first used in the 1970s. The brightly coloured feathers, which appeared on men’s suit linings as well as silk womenswear, were inspired by an illustrated 18th-century book of British birds.

In the face of the unstoppable rise of a sports aesthetic in menswear, Smith remains a staunch defender of the suit. “People think that suits are stuffy, or that you can’t move in them,” he said backstage. “But it’s not true.” Soft, narrow suits were styled for life outside the office, worn with trainers and with poloneck knits.

The Paul Smith show was followed by Kenzo, also showing men’s and women’s collections together for the first time. In London, Burberry and Vivienne Westwood have both recently merged their collections for men and women. The trend for unisex catwalks, which is driven both by the rise of a genderless, sports-influenced aesthetic and a social media appetite for catwalks that are newsworthy moments, appears unstoppable.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

I take it that a spray of Sun occults your face,
like watching in a squalid cinema, something a slapstick would
conjure a stylistically dumb image, or the prattle of
bunkum hubbub drowning loudspeakers in plazas.
You know there is a part of you that goes missing
  every time you hear me pass carefully under the care
  of toppled light, and there is a part of me that engages
the dark in this straining mutiny. This is such a troubled time
on the hardline; a martinet on the other cheapened end
of a totaled horizon hollering at gentrified space, eyes sternly
fixed on the mattress, conspicuous in urbane manner, something
shadows bade with hands, lifts up all the ragamuffin days:
   to capture you in such moment, such oneness, of no complication,
like a clean Yamazaki on the house, or a metropolitan district
   augured with rubicund crisscrosses, streets sidereal in measures,
an aggressive ******* at the end of the curb, the spanked curve
   of the mordant asphalt, and the rise of body heat from yesterday’s swelter;
  something only I could have thought of in white thighs of little ladies
    and peering birds for collarbones: look at this, maddened, retaining
    nothing but age.

HOW TO WRITE A LOVE POEM

You can do it, anyone can write a love poem. First, decide you want to do it, then get something to write on, pencil or computer, and begin. Do it anytime, anywhere, whenever you have a few minutes to contemplate. View the ability to do so as a treat, for it will be fun to navigate emotion via words, akin perhaps to working a crossword puzzle as you fish for just that word or turn of phrase that gives meaning. It is challenging and exciting to find that rhyme that works.  It helps to have a strong vocabulary, but just knowing the language is all you really need. Some of the greatest poems ever created are utterly simple in the language used.
Metaphors and similes are always welcome additions to poems and utilize onomatopoeia, alliteration and assonance whenever possible. Using these tools delights the eyes and ears.
Put your mind at ease and enjoy and appreciate having the time and ability to create and think about life’s most precious gift. Start with a phrase or thought that has come to mind upon which you’d like to expand. (I have a collection of these I call upon when I’m looking for inspiration.) Focus on the what, why and how of love and its meaning to you. You can write about your feelings for someone you know or with whom you are in a relationship. Or, perhaps, you will be writing in a fictional context drawing from your own experience or from hopes and dreams. Is there someone you miss, or to whom you wish to be closer?  It helps to have someone to think about, but it’s not necessary.
There is no formula for a love poem, it can be free verse, a sonnet, or one of a myriad of rhyme schemes. When I write, I just start writing and words and rhymes just flow. It’s somewhat like riding a bicycle. It’s not that hard to learn, you can go faster and faster in any direction you want. The more you write, the easier it becomes stylistically,  
There are many kinds of romantic love:  those of longing for or missing someone special, and the contented, satisfying type when it’s really going well, among other variations. You’ll never be at a loss for inspiration. I get ideas from the newspaper, comments in conversation, and much of the time, out of thin air. So many times I’ll write a first line, not knowing where the poem will go, and lines come, one after the another, as if on a scavenger hunt. Then, voila, I have a perfectly formed little verse that is just right, at least to my eyes.
Writing has a salutary, therapeutic effect. Grappling with words and emotions in the context of love is invigorating contemplation which can assist in resolving thorny, important issues facing the poet. The problem may not be solved, but perhaps it may be defined. This is your opportunity to get back at a someone who hurt you in a failed romance. You’ll feel better after doing so and no one will ever have to know you really feel or how you were so hurt. When you do share your poems with others and loved ones, you’ll be gratified at the reaction and the recipient will be thrilled to have been the object of such affection.
Write for yourself, satisfy yourself first.  Poems are personal and can remain private forever, so don’t worry about being embarrassed about what you write. Get it down.  You don’t have to show it to anybody. However, once created, maybe you will want to. Love is about sharing, devotion, friendship. Writing poetry has gotten me through much sadness, given me goals, and been endlessly pleasing to my psyche over the years.
Be spare in your writing, don’t use any unnecessary words. There is elegance in simplicity.  It is in the editing that the poem truly comes alive. Doing a good polish is to eat the icing on the cake.
Once you start writing poetry, you will never stop. It’s addicting and just a great way to use time wisely. You will amaze yourself with what comes out of your mind and heart. It’s a process, writing, and will exercise your mind and bring much pleasure.  
Start today.

a sentient being
hyperaware of his emotions
with flawless discernment

a heart so strikingly alluring
seemingly comprised of
gorgeous sleek sparkling ice

...but once melted
underneath, it is revealed:
a gorgeous fire blazes
radiating such warmth
and pure intentions
you would be a fool to think him cold

his exterior:
so breathtaking
seemingly unreal

rare stylistically
unapolegetically
himself

basically
bexey.

there's something magical about days like today,
esp. if it's sunny: gloriously sunny and it's
gloriously sunny in England, or - rather -
just outside the realm of London and Westminster:
somewhere in Essex - in a gloriously sunny
England -

                    waking up at 8am sharp: saying good
morning to someone who probably understands
you - who gets annoyed when you drink too much
from time to time: but nonetheless someone who
cooks dinners, the house chores, makes lunches
for her husband and if necessary: the decorating
and heavy duty work in the garden: ground work:
digging up stubborn roots planting new trees
tending to trees in general: ensuring there are no
strange parasites stalling the trees from producing
fruit... the pneumatic drill: concrete: leftover shrapnel
for the basis of drainage:
    then two tonnes of earth and some new lawn... etc.

waking up at 8am: going downstairs -
drinking a bottle of cherry kefir -
                   going back up: laying in bed for
half an hour: then another half an hour laying
on a cold wooden floor...
   listening to music and reading...
first Spinoza's chapter 3: on the vocation of the Hebrews
and whether the prophetic gift was peculiar to them
from the theological-political treatise:

never failing to resonate with the clarity of
the writing: even though it might have been written
in 1670...

then getting up, shuffling around the house wondering:
well, there isn't much to do -
not for now... two people need to be involved
in further curating the eucalyptus tree
since one person needs to be doing the curating
while the other has to be standing at the base
of the ladder to ensure a firmer base...

(now insert a break of character,
  now insert the nitty-gritty details of absolute
concentration on the words read)

what to do... ooh... the kefir starts working its magic
on the digestive system: taking Plato's
Theaetetus to the throne room... sitting on the throne
of thrones and taking a most glorious dump
doughnut conker... a first edition mind you:
as translated by Robin Waterfield (1987) -

how Plato is not so much a bore like Nietzsche thought
but just simply funny: for there to be any dialogue
for there is never really a dialogue to begin with
but more like Socrates talking to his demon
      (whether it was a hallucinated creature
or otherwise that "6th sense" of the daimonion)
or perhaps his demon talking back -
whichever... that there's hardly any disagreement -
an imploded dialectic -
       that Plato: stylistically is less boring but more funny
that if you take out Socrates...
  you reach the conclusions of Alfred Jarry in
   that book exploits & opinions of dr. faustroll
pataphysician

from the section in question: knowledge and belief...
puzzles about false belief
knowing and not knowing
    being and not being...

without Socrates - as Theaetetus alone the replies
are as follows:
- certainly
- absolutely
- no
- of course not, Socrates
- clearly
- no, that would be entirely wrong
- perceiving. what else could i call it?
- i have to
- that's right
- no
- evidently not Socrates. it is perfectly clear now
that knowledge is different from perception
- that's called thinking Socrates, i suppose

and it goes like that and it goes like that on repeat:
but there are breaks...
some sweet-bits where dialogue might even be
established:

- well, i can't say that it's thinking as a whole,
since the beliefs that are formed can be false; but perhaps
true belief is knowledge: i'll try this answer.
if, as the argument progresses, it turns out to be wrong
and we find ourselves in the same position that we
did just now, then we'll try another idea...

i've taken off a mask i put on at the beginning...
now: if i were writing in my native tongue:
there would be no pronoun issue... since: when a ******
speaks: he rarely utters his own pronoun...
because he is aware of being the person speaking
or the person thinking...
pronouns are a non-starter argument:
whether grammatically or ideologically...

and Plato isn't a bore like Nietzsche thought...
he's not a bore but you do need to have an essay...
within a book... you always require an essay
by an academic when reading Plato:
   the schematic of reading Plato works like this:
you first read the essay... then you read the "dialogue"...
and then you jump backwards and forwards...
that's how you read Plato: you don't read Plato per se...
you read the accompanying essay related to a specific
text of Plato's...
no one reads Plato for Plato... one reads Plato
for the interpretation of Plato...
unlike Aristotle: one reads Aristotle for Aristotle...
there's no point making your own mind up
   about Plato... since he's too inquisitive and doesn't
really riddle you with anything firm:
everything is still questionable in the mind of western
man... everything is question worthy...

if you break a dialogue down to talk of letters?!
seriously? S & O... and no further S...
together they are the first syllables of my name...
does anyone who knows the syllables know
the two letters independent of each other?
clarification: independent of the syllable itself?

you can't read Plato for Plato...
   he's a philosophical mutant... he's forever changing...
that's what happens when you keep
a text in such high esteem and for so long...
now... you turn around from Plato and read
some journalism... wow! like: ooh... that's *******
tragic: red is red... blue is blue...
so much narrative-certainty...
                
that days such as this are very much counter
   to Lou Reed's perfect day...
     whereby two other songs compete for the sunshine
the shins: new slang vs. sjöblom: brand new life...
or at least prince's raspberry beret...
because it's sunny you feel like falling in love
with a girl...

because how would a song like: spent it with you:
who?! me myself and i?

- and as you look into the distance at a very limited
horizon of the tops of trees of Bower Wood
you look at the sky: i should have become a painter...
simply because: well if Edward Hopper wanted
to paint light and shadows in rooms of lonely people
you start getting an itch saying:
all i ever wanted was to paint clouds on clouds

a cumulus on a canvas of altostratus
   and some cirrostratus
    or perhaps those behemoths that are
the cumulonimbus...
  hell... i think i would spend a second life (if i had one)
just painting clouds...
or cauliflowers...
     men and painting: because life could be simpler
like that... last time i heard: hands are very difficult
to draw... i can't suppose clouds are any different...

- because i'm most certainly going to do what
i planned... or didn't... whichever...
on a whim... that Walter Sickert exhibition at the Tate
Britain) which is just a few peddle peddle motions
past the house of Parliament is calling me...
from Romford, by bicycle? 2 hours...
it would take me just as long if i used public transport...
because then i'd have to walk from Westminster
toward the gallery...
    
  but then i'd miss all that build up from Essex
(the green belt separating the extension of London
toward Chadwell Heath from Romford)...
and with weather like this...
hell... what was the last exhibition i was at?
oh... right... from Russia... also at Tate Britain...
that's when i was wandering the streets of London
smoking marijuana and figuring out:
kind of pointless getting a second degree in history...
at UCL... the prices went up from circa £1000
to circa £3000... and for what?
6 hours of lessons in the week?
    so i dropped out after a year and progressed toward:
madness and then creativity...

i don't understand how people with interesting
lives... boxers... rock climbers... explorers...
politicians... finally muster enough idleness to sit
down and write an autobiography:
a retrospective autobiography...
it's like the second erosion of memory:
the first erosion of memory being instigated by
pedagogy... 1 + 1 = 2...
selective history dates...
knowing where Mongolia is on the map:
but never visiting Mongolia...

like the argument against big government:
local knowledge... like i know that the best Turkish
lavash bread you can get is en route to Mile End:
after leaving Ilford: between Ilford and Manor Park...
on Romford Road... on the 86 bus route...
the best lavash bread...
for that recipe that's better than any kebab
or fish and chips... refika's kitchen:

i would have never guessed that rosemary works
so well with beef...
what does she call it? bashed beef?
hammered beef...
   so few ingredients: as the saying goes: less is more...
off the top of my head...
rosemary... garlic... black (whole) peppercorns...
sea salt... chillies...white wine vinegar (to cure the meat,
which is only marinated for 15 minutes)
olive oil... cheese... cheddar is more poignant
than any mozzarella types (amore! amore!)

or rather... you could hide that exclamation mark...
how? ha ha...
    amoré (but it's itchy: simultaneously...
because you want to drop the upside-down "iota")
you want to scream like Lucifer falling head first...
you're going to regret my ejection from
your autocracy of heaven!
wait for our demonic democracy down below,
just you wait!

- and no... i was never a big Blake fan...
i'm not a fan of rhymes either...
lyricism: stuff you can sing?
Aud Lang Syne is a tier above anything by Shakespeare...
but rhyming: that's constipated poetry...
ask Horace... ancients Romans didn't rhyme...
they also didn't treat language as
squares:

-ed                      -ed-

the dead
    who ate
what was said
with a missing head

-ed                        Eddie...

the Iron Maiden mascot... ha ha! i'm in love
already: and i think i'm thinking about
Khedra... i must be...
i'm going to cycle to see an exhibition of a man
accused or insinuated as being
Jack the Ripper by some female novelist:
fetishist...
    on the throne of thrones i needed to relax
the "remnants": so?
photographs of Kendra Lust... because i'm all the way
into that older woman types...
but it was just a prompt...
a tight dress... some revelation of the flesh
concerning the: problem...
with mermaids... invert the mermaids...
i'm stressing... replace the lower part of a woman
with fish-details... or replace the top part of
a woman: likewise: with fish-details...
hmm... that's tough... those legs... that ***...

but i found myself looking at the tiles in the bathroom:
conjuring from memory a picture she sent me...
full-blossom lips...
wearing glasses...
and the *** we had... ******* nymphomaniac...
i wouldn't slap myself with a banana across
my face... i'd sooner punch myself...
then again: the idea of straightening bananas sounds
a bit like: remoulding apples into pears...

ah man... when money is left on the table:
straight up...
   i couldn't: i possibly couldn't go through
the ordeal of date-bluffing... i'm not a donkey
and a ****** is not a carrot...
i love making myself laugh... that's the best
laughter... because it originates in thought...
and not in the imagination of the other...
   it's spontaneous combustion: metaphorically...
and almost literally...

and now: to enjoy this day:
prior to it taking form, as i've written about it.