.    like cardinal Leto remarked, having received news from Versailles... why is it always the ******* French?

perhaps in a less crude manner,
drinking wine,
while eating raw fruits -

  always a bad combination...
no *****, no meat?
   bad idea... wine, and raw fruit
akin to strawberries?
    irritable bowel movements...

- and that's because Einstein
didn't discover the concept of
gravity, in the format of: sideways?
in the form of orbits?
   expansive waves...
   that allowed for the elliptical interpretation?
like the old
              argument:
      (heliocentric) oval...
             contra the (geocentric) circular
"concern" for...
   whatever is up / down
            sideways in
      the Copernican terminology...
because there was ever a "shape"
concerning the universe,
  and not a medium,
            an extraction for the metaphor
for water,
   gas, liquid, solid...
              and the fourth aspect
of ancient elements:
   its existence in a vacuous "space"?

- but i can't fathom the French at this point...
once upon a time...
one Frenchman equated the motivation
for a "summa summarum"
    to be bound with a thinking,
and a curiosity...

            the current fashion of Latin
abbreviations...
   this... cogito ergo sum?
   it's nonsense...
    speak it long enough...
   and you'll find yourself inclined
to suppose that cogitans per se:
is a motivation, an impetus to exist...
yet... so much of thought it "wasted"
or, rather, to craft an impetus to
"doubt", within the confines of fiction...
but the motivation has lost its
origin within the confines of doubt,
and has been replaced by
the Freudian unconscious,
   a serialized phobia fest... notably
including a, clown...

originally, thought (per se) was
a secondary motivational outlet
that precipitated into being...
    first came... doubt...
   but... these days?
               doubt is a conspiracy theory,
no longer an emotional thrill
to prop-up thinking...
   and we have the French existentialists
to thank for this...
for they subverted their own
idea...

             negation has replaced doubt
as the origin, and motivation
for thinking...
        yet... this sort of "thinking",
has made, its materialization, so, so...
obscene...
    i can hardly find it surprising while
i took to propping two worthwhile
economic outlets...
   prostitution (since they will spend
the money i give them...
on things... i wouldn't even care
for propping up)...

    and... alcohol (scotch whiskey,
russian standard *****...
    shveedish cider...
                     german beer)...

but how can you even claim an existence,
if...
       there is no thrill...
of what is the secular expression of faith:
i.e. doubt?
  how can you replace doubt -
a motivation for thinking, materialized
into being... with negation?
  jean-paul Sartre attempted this inversion -

doubt has been replaced with negation
in his system...
             it's like that cliche of an English
1960s ***-joke / ***-like...
       this... frivolity over a blatant lie...
a lie so... bogus...
    so ineffectual in translating a hidden truth
that... you allow it...
   to care for the cheap comic aspect
of the execution...

but how can the French suddenly
feign to disbelieve their secularism -
   resorting to the antithesis,
namely:

  original

  doubt motivates thinking,
  which subsequently motivates
   being within the confines of reason,
or rather, reasonableness...

20th century existentialists

negation "motifs" thinking,
   which subsequently motifs
"being" within the freedom of non-reason,
or rather, unreasonableness...

   and by negation,
   i don't mean the atomic conceived softening
blow...
   akin to: dis-ease...
    i.e. (as i explained it to one old man
in a park, walking his dog):
  a negation, or ease... a denial of...

how can the Cartesian model work,
when the 20th century French existentialists
began with the presupposition:

   i deny, i think, therefore i exist?
where is the original thrill of
the secular aspect of faith, within the boundaries
of doubt?
              gone... vanished!
****! a **** on the London tube,
during the rush hour,
  during the heatwave
                of the past month!

                   perhaps this only comes
as a method of assimilating an increased population,
within the confines of the Taoist maxim:
the best way to aid the world,
is to forget the world, and let the world
forget about you...

             perhaps... the Andy Warhol 15 minutes
analogy...
      that in order to encompass the individual,
the world, and the individual within it...
   the approach had to change
from the original, exciting, exploration
genesis of thought, bound to the genesis
of doubt...
             having to be replaced by
a genesis of denial...
      the second tier of a secular society...
    the zeitgeist of Herr Censor...
to filter through what we see so often,
faces, bodies...
  but would be much more comfortable
having been bound to Plato's cave,
         of complete shadow theater...

perhaps... but the original tier of
secular societies' alternative to church prescribed
articles of faith...
                     to have replaced
the thrill of doubt...
      with this... Byzantine pillar of denial
as motivational groundwork for
thinking impetus
   that becomes an article of being?
am i the only one to see the frustration,
how, people abhor their being,
being founded upon an act of denial,
rather than an act of doubt?

     the once thrilling maybe (gnostic):
   has become the stale, "i don't know"
    (agnostic) - as if... people can't tell you
whether zebras have stripes!
   where there was once an article
of secular faith (doubt) -
   now?
                        there's not even that!

p.s.
  there has to be a much needed new mantra,
all publicity: is bad publicity -
unless of course you're riding that
fame juggernaut and are paying
for your all-inclusive status akin
   to madonna: since fame dies off
and you, none-the-less invest in the momentum...

one day where i drink a bottle of wine,
half a liter of whiskey,
   and i'm apparently not "screaming" in
my sleep from the heat,
the whole, "apparently", as i retorted:
at 5:15am? i was alseep! i was asleep!
how can i stop screaming in my sleep
like a banshee:
the sleeper and the blind man both see
eye to eye regarding the future to come...

one day without engaging in internet
content: of my own accord,
next day? this... this... lethargy builds
up in me... i end up thinking:
i can't do this any more,
this insomnia culture globalism of
24h news reels is tirying me,
i pick up the sunday newspaper
which i found to be respecteable...
the sunday times,
  i peer into the magazines...
toxic masculinity,
    desire: what three women want...
i'm bored...
well more tired than bored,
bored-tired...
                 what women want:
what an exhausting question...
**** fantasy, beta-male provideer...
yada-yada-yada...
                    
    the only relaxing aspect of the day
(apart from the shade) is watching
england beat india in the cricket...
i always loved cricket sport terminology:
50 overs... innings...
wickets... 6 throws of the ball in an over...
the rest? i'm no atlas...
i don't like the world crashing in on
me with all its problems...
not because i don't have the right
advice to give,
but i remember the most modern secular
motto about giving advice borrowed
from Athos of the creation of alexandre dumas:

the best advice? to not give advice...
you cannot be held accountable
for giving bad advice: and people complaining,
or good advice and leaving
people in your sphere of influence...
asking for more - non verbatim... of course...

second categorical imperative?
tao...
              the best way you can help
the world: is to forget the world,
and let the world forget you...

                        you only need two absolute
maxim vectors to orientate yourself
in this world,
a third is nice, but: it can be kept loose...
at least two on a tight leash...

but one night spent drinking,
not writing anything:
and i am... spent!

                            the boogieman of england's
persistent complaints...
the muslims are not integrating,
the english: we should give them more
ground...
           o.k., o.k.... joe peshi in the role
leo getz in lethal weapon II...
            i too had to integrate!
i said: like **** if you think i'll give up
my native tongue when spoken in private...
you're not getting it...
i'll spreschen ihre zunge, no problem,
i'll even write you pwetty free verses to boot!
but, guess what?
  i will not force you to eat my
sauerkraut, my schnitzels,
                           my smoked sausages,
my raw herrings etc.,
                      integration does not work
within the confines of: pampering to a people
expected to meet you half-way...
what happened when the polonaise attempted
to meet the english half-way?
brexit...
oh come on guv'... is there a ******* tram
echoing its way out of my eye
when you peer into it while i attach
an index finger to the bottom lid to give
you a clearer picture?
           25 years in england: no englush girlfriend:
i guess all the english girls just love, just love love
being ***** by 9 pakistanis
daubed in gasoline...
                   hey: they **** thrill...

i'm tired of the weakness of the english,
the humpty-dumpty nature they are imposing,
self-cencorship,
    appeasing, like neville chamberlain...
bringing back the munich agreement...
not on a piece of paper,
instead... waving a scrap of a toilet roll...
so the english could wipe their own *****
on the promises of the germans...
if this really hurts the northern monkies...
guess how much it hurts the sourthern fairies...
(well... fairy, is a designated region surrounding
devon, bristol, hardly a ******* fairy in essex)...

   why am i foreigner and i share
the same nausea of the natives,
                     exhausted by the narratives?
i guess the english didn't like the polonaise:
but the polonaise are to blame...
came here with a list of benefits they could claim:
without having even lived 5 years among
the natives... housing benefits, child benefits...
believe me: the polonaise are the only
people in the world that hate each other...
to the extent of citing bitter criticisms...
whenever i pass through warsaw to see my grandparents
i am gripped with a sickness:
this homogeneity is too much for me...
shove me back into the east end of London...
too much of the same genetic material...
and that's when the language i am keeping
(seemingly for vanity reasons) fizzles out
into your basic encounter and that basic reminder
that circa 40 million speak it too,
better or worse, but they speak it...

of all the festivals? download...
                                   i wish...
    glastonbury?       not my thing...
kylie? i'll concede: slow? live, with instruments,
rather than the studio original...
wasn't that a cover of
   bowie's fashion?
                  sure as hell sounded similar...
but i heard the cure were playing...
so while writing my father's invoice
i made myself a paperclip bracelet...
   i figured... "let's just pretend to be there"...
and no, the 1980s weren't that bad when
it comes to music,
not now, by comparison...
the cure's kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (1987)
release?
one of those rare albums you can
listen to akin to reading a book...

                       but there's still that persisting
exhaustion... i came from under communism,
from under the iron curtain,
but at least there was the economic aspect
of communism involved...

   only today i watched the story
of the terrible inversion of english jursprudence,
i.e.: guilty until proven innocent...
the 1975 case of the silesian vampire...
an innocent man was hanged...
the original vampire?
    smashed his wive's head in,
then his childrens', then he set himself
on fire...
              then again: the tragedy of those
rare cases of being presumed guilty
rather than innocent...
then the reverse: presumed innocent rather
than guilty and getting away with it,
through the parody of death
and the non existent god...

   there could not be anything more exhausting
than communism without a communist
economic model...
this current state of affairs in the west:
cultural marxism and the yet to be discovered
antithesis of cultural darwinism...

i'll use the cartesian chirality for a moment:
sum ergo cogito...
i don't like using political terms...
but... liberal (classical) - i don't even know
what sort of thinking goes into the label -
in the east? the liberals are exhausted
by a resurgent nationalism within
   the newly acquired capitalist system...
in the west? the liberals are exhausted
by an insurgent communism within
an ageing capitalist system...

         on a side: seriously, why even bother
engaging in any sort of "public intellectual"
debates when the public are only
discussing two books: 1984 and brave new world...
**** it, might as well talk to a camel jockey
who only own and rides the waves of
time in this world only using one...
muhammad...
   whom Khadija **** Khuwaylid
would probably whip into his young
respectable shape...

                  and this is how Ezra Pound comes
into rememberance:
usura... at least the muslims do not
play into the game of usury:
of interest... borrow a quid,
pay back £2.33...
            that's the only way you can
gain respect of the muslims:
if they truly were the money lenders
of this world: which they aren't...
unless a newly blessed...

   among the philistines and the proselytes...
england is such a tiresome project,
even on the outskirts of London...
i'm being dragged down by this intervention
of marxism: on a whim,
on a whimsical projection...
of "adding" values...
            
           communism would have worked...
in exceptional circumstances...
poland... circa 1945 - 1990...
syria: the current year...
  to whatever year is demanded...
exceptional as in: war torn...
where was the marshall plan
   for poland, when there was one
for sweden (neutral) and switzerland
(also neutral)?!
        black youths bothered about
the summer holidays,
having to live in council flats,
  concrete goliaths...
           want to know what it feels like
when entire cities are like council
estates,
with only pockets of remaining
   free-standing houses among
overshadowing council flats?
                                    nee bother...
sure... in a country where:
the house is the castle and there's a labyrinth
of castles constituting outer suburbia...
balconies... that's what the soviet
models had... balconies...
where women could grow flowers...
concrete staccato gardens in the sky...
the blocks of flats in england
didn't have balconies (sky gardens,
          esp. the early ones, massive fault)...
i spent one summer reading
bertnard russell's history of western philosophy...
lying in my grandparent's balcony,
in the shade...
watching passerbys among
          the barking dogs of the neighbours...

one day, one ******* day!
   and i'm already exhausted from the castrato
english narrative...
pandering to the people you expected
to integrate...
  no! you're not changing your standards...
your standards are perfectly reasonable!
i'm tired of the english pandering
to the sort of people who, will, not,
integrate!
               i integrated in a way
of respecting both the english culture,
as well as hiding / preserving my own...
why don't i just do the following:
   pisać po polsku?
                      like some czesław miłosz?

ah... good point... at what point
is the standard of integration appreciated?
when nothing is preserved?
surely integration is supposed to
accommodate some variation
of preservation?
     i might add: that's a fine line...
preserve all? no integration...
preserve some? integration...
                    preserve none? no integration...
food is a cheap target to example
with...
                   it's a low hanging fruit...
given that even i find indian cuisine
   the most superior in the world...
food is a cheap target concerning integration...
but the niqab?
  when the local english authorities
are employing face-recognition
technology and when testing it...
are forcing people to uncover their faces,
subsequently arresting them out of protest...
but not the women wearing the niqab...
out of? out of what?
   a secular society shouldn't be allowed
to discriminate against any religion...
it should discriminate against: all religions!

                isn't that what the secular ideology
is all about? the... softcore version
of soviet atheism?
        secularism of the west (miltary-industrial
complex)...
"vs." soviet atheism of the east
  (scientific-industrial complex)...
           i'm still so ******* tired
               of this bogus trap of "necessary"
                       commentary.

has anyone said anything to the LGBT movement that,
ahem, it is also a pronoun? i can't believe people are
getting dragged into:
                a. not only being taught
a secondary vocabulary that's "political", well, let's just
say democratically fascist - but that
b. a theological argument
based solely in the pronoun category is pointless -
i know point b. isn't really big,
or relevant, and to think
that St. Thomas' gospel once rejected
by the Church came back and
reigned in so much havoc that
it could have sparked the Syrian
civil war, and in general:
well... better edit Jesus from the bible...
at first it was the imitation of
the Kippah and the Tonsure -
in between the peacock and the pig,
religion resides - how you juggle
that field is up to you...
i tend you approach it as: well, whatever.
but this is really the best to be alive,
you can laugh in the night like you'd
never imagine laughing before -
i mean - who the hell would think
it wise to attack someone who sees
grammar use and wonders: but that's
also a pronoun, the changed Freudian
that (scalpel probing utility), later
popularised as it - or the complete
objectification of unit, aliases involve:
thought, self, personality, character, etc. -
well it's catching on like a ******* virus,
this unearthed grail of the Egyptian
desert - yes, they did travel to Egypt,
and look what came back...
perfectly fits Josephus' account of things,
which is literally two sentences
including the words: Mt. of Olives insurrection
deposit - i'm literally showing the easier
way out... most people took it too literally...
the existence of demons turned allegorical
altogether, but the existence of the words
inscribed as: make the outer the inner,
and the male the female: just shows you a lack
of both grammatical knowledge, and
poetic knowledge - the literal approach throws
you into the maggot pit of bullock -
and that's how it's going to say...
people took it too literally, that's the first
wave... taken as a sign of guilt from
a colonial past - they call the Visegrad
the new goose-stepping surgeons of thought,
this idea of a free and open society
has no boots on the ground in Anglophile
society - they fake being arrogant by
being courteous - being courteous is a sublime
version of feeling one owns a moral
superiority, which one doesn't...
and can you actually imagine yourself
being dragged through the filth of a discussion
concern pronouns? learn to build up a
subconscious of pure grammar association...
the unconscious, who Jung discovered
to be a hive you can't control,
i once suggested the idea that the collective
unconscious would resemble a society
where plumbers didn't know they were plumbers,
and no one knew what they were doing,
but incorporating the individual i see
the point of finally rationalising the individual
via the collective toward the unconscious -
the great free ***** debate -
primarily though, the particular use of language
will never reach a universal use of language
that isn't fragmented into a pseudo-arithmetic
of grammar - but it would do you a greater
good to endorse and implant grammar spectacle
to see past the fluidity of casual language use,
i.e. spot the ****** debate and say: hyphen!
down the middle! it! after all, we were children
once, and we played the game: you're it!
and ensure there's laconic appropriation while
people become forceful addicts of the flesh
to provide the weight to the categorised words
due to their change, and you're all airy fairy
with just the worded explanation,
still with the required genitalia and 2 billion Chinese;
but it's true though, look how horrified
the church is... the old geezers are not getting it,
they left the Egyptian shepherd unleash hell
on both Christianity and Islam...
the revision of the kippah was the monkish
tonsure - but this bit about ***-changes?
once again, blow-bubbles-through-your-lips
by motorising them and move your index finger
up and down... hey presto! a mongolian harmonica -
i can't believe so much intelligence was wasted,
and so much incorporated, and so much lost,
over a piece of skin that wasn't even categorised
as cartilage - it's a joke, right?
well, if it ain't, why the **** am i laughing?
if you learn grammatical categorisation of words,
you learn the insulating method of using language,
if whatever is offensive, becomes inoffensive,
someone will spend a whole life arguing the
transition from she                   into                 he,
with the haircuts and other adjustments,
while you'll be there, calling it neither he or she
(the end and the original result), but call
the individual accepting the transition by
the act of transition - incorporating the past
and the future via the transition period,
it! that's the laws of grammar, grammar in
psychological terms is the subconscious:
Freud tapped into the unconscious with dreams,
i managed to censor dreaming and sleep,
hence i tapped into the subconscious by
exposing grammar as, well, yeah: subverted language:
or language submerged by universal laws -
               in context you can understand
everything i write, in content? probably not -
again the boiling point is not 100°C - it's
universals and particulars - that's the 100°C of language -
via the thesaurus you get similar d.n.a. strands
(i just hallucinated a smiling face, but not too vivid) -
i.e. via synonyms and worded cleansing of antonyms
   off the respective suggestion as zenith-conundrum
                                                                               of Socrates:
       if something is universal it's evolved or translated
   into context - the context? using the alphabet and
words... (time references to coordination aren't necessary,
   well, something has to be unanimously expressed
  even if via dyslexia) -
                    what's particular is what's rigid in terms
of evolutionary adaptation - verbiage, i know!
   inescapable! what should i do? gauge my eyes out?!
again, dittoed paraphrase, shortened self-plagiarism:
     if something is particular it's independent or non-reciprocatory
  within boundaries of context-out-of-context: content,
   which means a b c d e f g... but arranged to a self-proclaimed
deviation (let's call prefixing the self- to a word provides
    the whole mechanism of deviating non-universal
automation, mildly put: eccentricity) -
                  in summary, you ever wonder what's
related between the list of phobias such as arachnophobia
and xenophobia? apparently the term Islamophobia
was translated into Greek as: god is one, and Muhammad
is his test subject... the sum of all little fears -
         oddly enough phobias are spontaneous and are
rarely instilled, they're lightning strikes...
i see a big spider, i recoil - it's not a permanent setting -
i stand on a ladder 3 metres off the ground, sure:
acrophobia -                    i sit in a crowded tube train,
yet again: claustrophobia - but these phobias are
a sort of antidote to the maxim: the thing to fear is
fear itself... phobias are reflex reactions to being conscious,
how people managed to translate them into reflections
is beyond me... i happen to come across phobias
all the time... but in a reflexive way: a ****, a spontaneity
surrounding them... there's nothing to be reflective about...
it's not even a phobia when i tell you a similar
reaction: suburban street at night, beer, cigarette,
walking, eyes not concentrating on anything...
~suddenly two women sitting on a low cement fence
in front of their houses startles me... the immediate
reaction is a nervous shock... who the **** would
think of that as being a phobia worthy a category?
no one. which is why i don't understand
the concept of Islamophobia... it's weird...
i don't get the same nervous sudden **** of seeing
something that isn't supposed to be there
when i walk down Oxford street and see a Burqa-clad
woman... whoever invented this word,
had a really ****** time at school and transcended
all laws of etymological construction:
i.e. on basis of really claustrophobic syllable constructs,
Islam is way beyond syllables, it's a noun,
as if the suffix / affix phobia - or little fear,
no, not sigma fear, fractional fear.

She wanders with a ponderance
of an unfulfilling existence .
It's like she missed the instance
when life was handing out
purpose. She became subverted
by her own thoughts.
Self-image contorted
like spaghetti noodles or dreadlocks.
The simplicity of existing has become brutal.
She keeps the gold within
vaulted like Fort Knox.
That protection is like an island
preventing her journey's beginning.

We are the things that get swept under
rugs. A ***** mass that the world strives to keep
hidden. Flecks of skin and strands of hair. Toe nails. Trapped
in the carpet with the bodies of the bugs
of which we have been bitten.

Gaze not upon our swollen parts;
inflamed. Your eyes will entice us to spread
rashes. The forbidden always in our thoughts
like stubborn mattress stains.

We are the things that live in closed
closets. Tearing at the threads meant to keep you
sheathed. Disembodied torsos on wiry hooks. Scarves. Chewing
holes through the garments with worn-out teeth.

Chills will let you know we're near
as you toss and turn in bed. We are the shadows that
watch you while you sleep. Our goal is to fill you with fear.
Your soul is ours to reap.

They are silent and beautiful,
gorgeous in in the white halo,
cemented in a beautiful terrazzo,
baring the names of fallen soldiers,
the European soldiers that fell in Wars;
second and first and the heinous silent wars,
i hope this  is why they have a proverb; white sepulchre,
only baring the white dead, only chiefs but no dead Indian.

Common wealth graveyards are all over in Africa,
in India , panama , Latin America and europe,
the active fronts in which the allies fought ******,
they are beautifully placed in silently posh areas,
in langata when in Nairobi, in Mbaraki when in Mombasa,
in Matisi  when in Kenya, In Namusungui when in Lodwar,
They bear horizontal silence with white names engraved
on their beautiful face shouting the glory of European empires,
which provoked the evil sense in the heart of the king's horseman
in Kenya, in the city of Nairobi, to steal the graveyard lands,
he made them his urban home with an uppish courtyard,
for him the dead white neighbours are better than in-corruption.

I walk around the commonwealth graveyards,
in the all quarters of erstwhile British empire,
looking for the names of African soldiers ,
who died in thousands fighting for the queen
the royal bloodied woman of England;Elizabeth,
Looking for the sons of Ethiopia who stood with
the second duce Benito son of Mussolini,
fighting for ******,for Shintos in the European war,
i have seen no name of any African,
I have not seen Wandabwa wa masibo,
who was conscripted into the first world war,
Along with his father Biket wa Khayongo,
Biket back after seven years in 1918,
carrying Wandabwa's Belt,
Wandabwa died in the field,
Where was he buried, he is nowhere
Not anywhere among the soldiers in cemeteries,
I have not seen Nasong'o wa Khayongo,
who was conscripted in 1940,
to fight against ******,
he was conscripted on his nuptial evening,
even before he had had the first ***,
with his new wife, he went  away crying,
he never came back, his name is  nowhere in the  graves
the commonwealth graves that bare names of the fallen,
Fallen soldiers, but they all bare white names in the black world.

you come to Africa, Kenya, Nigeria, Malagasy,Egypt,
whatever the geographies of Africa, and you keep keen,
you hear someone  is called Mr. Keya, or Madam Keya,
or you come to Bungoma county of Kenya,
you meet a man  that is of the circumcision age group,
Known as Bakikwameti Keya, Bakinyikewi Musolini,
Keya is  subverted sound for Kings african rivals; KAR
the African sound for  KAR is Keya,
in reference to mass conscription of Africans
into the  KAR, to fight ******,
A child born during that time is Keya,
A man circumcised during  the time
is in the age group of Keya,
A simple lesson in regard to our people,
taken away to fight the colonial power
and left to died and rot away in the bush
with a simple courtesy for ceremonial burial,
that come along with the death of soldiers,
who passed away in the battle field.

All lies diminish me ---

As a card carrying member of the human race,
I consider it a disgrace,
when truth is subverted,
truth is diverted,
puts a frown on my face,
puts me in a bad place,
when truth is perverted in any way.

Lies weaken the laws of modern man--

If it's a shell game of opinion while avoiding fact,
modern society might as well take a giant step back.
To the plague days,
to the guillotine ways,
when might was right,
carry a big stick.
I dont want to go back to that.

Each lie told damages the soul ---

Are we here on earth to be false to each other,
to con with words or sister and brother? 
 To smother or dignity,  
break it and fake it,
knowing wrong from right but go ahead and forsake it?
I think no.

And the outcome of lying---

When those you trusted lie,
but don't  get busted - cry.  
Consider it the day truth died. 
 And down with the ship of truth goes honesty
       respect,
              rules,
                    civilization will fall.  
Tears to lend, prayers to send, 
lies will be the beginning, the middle, the end.
  Lies will be the death of us all.

. i come from a very stubborn lot of people, and by coming from a very stubborn (rathert plain ignorant) lot of people, i can tell you that what's currently happening to the fabled anglo-saxons... it's not akin to an austrian subversion of the germans, or the georgian subversion of the russians... there's a difference between being subverted, and being coerced.

i never understood it from the get-go...
now...
   of all the ingenius peoples...
there's a... blocked toilet...
or... as i see it:
                      a media boost...
   obviously the media would receive
boosted ratings
from the ramblings-on
   from that brothel of a house
                     of representatives...
no, no, they'll tell you...
the vote was never ******...
   even with these parliamentary votes
in the recent days...
  
  let's just look
at... "democracy"...

division no. 355
ayes: 315
noes: 235
                        Σ = 550 (13/03/19)

division no. 356
ayes: 314
noes: 276
                         Σ = 590 (13/03/19)

Σ = the no. of voters!

endless no. of examples...
of how... "democracy" works...
shadow veto "circumstances"...
this is... "democracy"...

the agora is... suspect...
the voting agora is always
suspect...
     no wonder...
         i forget the mainstream
scrutiny of the most pointless
votes...
  like that one,
with a majority of, 4.

see... i never understood
"brexit"...
   only because...
the English never lost their
currency...
what sort of otherwise
better proof,
do you need,
for a national sovereignty,
autonomy...
   if... you never gave up
your national currency?
  sorry... you'll have to
reiterate that argument...

you want to prove to be able
to regain...
   what... you already have?
this was a seriously charlie
chaplin moment on
behalf of the Brits...
all the other members...
who joined the union,
but retained their national
currency,
already knew,
or at least subconsciously
predicated the original,
intent & ambition
of the sly helmuts...

               the little mussolinis
are attempting to jump
the sinking ship...
of the vierte *****...
             as we speak...
see... what's confusing about
the british quest for
autonomy...
   you already had it...
by keeping the pound...
anyone spends a euro
in england without a currency
exchange?
             yes, no?

the paranoid peoples have all
kept their currency...
what once were imaginary
shackles, have become:
very literal shackles...

division no. 359
ayes: 321 (tellers: nick smith,
    bambos charalambous
   - of the latter... is that a sort of
dr. faustroll character?)
noes: 278 (tellers: jeremy quin,
         mr alister jack -
of the latter, why does he get a mr
prior to his name?)

question accordingly agreed to.

                   Σ = 599 (13/03/19)

resolved, that this house rejects
the United Kingdom leaving
the European Union without
a withdrawal agreement and
a framework for the future relationship.

i'm guessing: another "special"
one, akin to keeping an ostrich focus
in the sand,
or the h'american constipated ***
of its own.

division no. 354
ayes: 242 (tellers: andrew stephenson, iain stewart)
noes: 391 (tellers: thangam debbonaire, nic dakin)
                        Σ = 633 (12/03/19)

so... this... "democracy"
        is, a "democracy" within...
   maintining a focus on...
ensuring that there is no fixed no.
of voters...
   thereby ensuring that
whatever majority needs to be
achieved, is achieved...
      by the "lost voters",
                    by shadow vetos...
if only we knew the true sigma...
of the parliamentary elect...
  
e.g. division no. 354 contra
    division no. 355...
Σ = 633 (12/03/19)
     Σ = 550 (13/03/19)...
we're talking about
83 parliamentary elect
"disappeared",
turned into ******* mushrooms
over a single night!
while around 17+million
decided over the brexit referendum...

vote: with a gun pressed
against your head...
i could understand that...

   some call it
the: there's no other alternative...
i call it a jackson *******...
or some vague spaghetti dish...
but sure...
it makes sense...
it always did...
the political class
promised the media moguls
a slot of 2 years of persistent
coverage...
   a safety-net of "hot topic"...

      there was never really
a brexit to begin with...
             the italians are poseurs...
do they have the lira?
no, i guess they don't...
           so... why are they posturing
for what the germans forgot...
oh... right...
not as eloquent as the austrians...
ma-ma-machievelli...
     i'm pitying the brits...
   for one reason alone...
    they were never seemingly
subverted...
              they had their currency,
they already know what
political language is like:
overtly-nuanced...
   and that's beside even
employing something as elaborate
as a metaphor...
   politics is its own animal
that decides to be either
caged, or roaming freely...
             what sort of exit
was to be expected,
   when...
               no one exchanged
the currency of the proper
european union, on these isles...
                 to begin with?!
well yeah! limbo m'ah fwend!

           it was always a: "union"...
on paper, or... word-of-mouth...
   there is no ******* collapse
of this vierte *****...
      if england was planning
to exit the european union,
yeah, there would be a collapse
of the union...
   but what sort of collapse
is the world expecting...
given that england has its own
currency,
   and the european union
                    has its own currency?
these youtube internet pundits
are just as bad as the mainstream
media pundits they rally against.

Shriek of humanity
The cries of innocence
Ahh yes, this song
You don’t hear it?
Tell me, what does she sound like?
The Symphony of string and percussion
The pounding of her heart like tip tap of water
Nearly empty
Thinning strings as she wails with the violin
Angry, Yearning for an audience
Harmonizing the dissonance she is struck with
It’s almost beautiful
Chaos that is in tune with the hearts of men
A song for you
A mimic of you
Muffled by the mirrors we build
Allowing only the slightest murmurs
A mere echo of their subverted lives
We can’t face the music
Fearing that we’d see our blemishes
Our faces crept away for centuries
A false lifestyle
In a carnival of plastic mirrors

Everyday the world is asking
New questions keep arising
Many still left unanswered
One day in your life, she’ll run out of breath
The silence will choke you
You’re loosing something
You’re not yourself
No longer spoon fed by her patience
But you’re still filthy rich
Yet something’s still missing
Maybe then you’ll be curious
What could be playing in that song?

How can we find out?

There is a void outside my window.
Pitch cascading into itself.
No. I am mistaken.
It is just night.
Someone was knocking on my door at some point.
Nipah. Nipah.
Nevermind.
A curious hollow groan runs through the house.
Perhaps a tap is being turned.
Hiss.
A moth catches in a stream. Wet dust clambers for existence, affirmed in the moment of death.
Sometimes it escapes.
There is a glow.
A streetlamp lights up the void, strong enough to reveal a small part of the world, but too weak to remove the grain. The noise of existence.
Blood rushes through vessels. Neurons fire.
Silence is merely the body experiencing itself. The self subverted into the other.
Oh. I have slept through the day.
A train rumbles in the distance, sonorous and bleak.
A bird cries out into the void.
Nothing responds.
A miasma blankets the city.
The choke of lack.

We have let go of our frantic lust
for the shiny metal in the Sacramento hills.
It was hard for my grandfather,
in coming west on horse and with wagon,
dragging a family across the pimpled skin
of the young land, to help John Sutter
build his new empire.
He then found that his dream of good land
for ranching was subverted with easy gold.

Grandfather’s first home on the bank of the river:
a tule hut, or grass hut, left behind by
Mi-wuk Indians, who wandered with
the elk and circulated with the
wonderment of passing stars;
no regard for what shined beneath them.

It’s in the luring poems and the stories that the
old California adventure comes back to us.
No one longer builds much with grass,
and cannot so easily pick out fortunes
by following the earth’s deep cracks.

Some would walk away from jobs and cities,
bulging packs strapped on shoulders,
and head up through the openings
and narrowings of the valleys,
and into the foothills of the Sierras.
Camp beside ****** trout holes
and dip into the riffled water
at the edge of perfect green mirrors:
to find what is precious and become
free from the cycle of the frantic lust.

Queen to Osiris
Gleaming Iris
Goddess’s’ power
Took all the pieces
To put her lover
Back together
Under the cover
Of Ra’s radiance
Feminine power
Birthing history
So how is her story
Stolen and forgotten
Name subverted
By sons she never gave birth to
Nations under another religion
Violence
Silencing the feminine mystique
Shrouding beauty and wisdom
Beyond black veils
Of bullets and ****** bodies
Instead of concealing their sickness
Behind the Muslim Religion
They should take another name
Like crazy murdering *******

too much interference
has been extensively run
by those who hold
the kingmaker's gun

as a consequence
of this kind of thing
the democratic process
is under a clouded ring

the flow of votes
which were meant
for the out in front candidate
got subverted somewhere
in the ballot box's victory pate

foreign countries meddling
with other country's domestic autonomy
so the results of elections
will satisfy their sovereignty

transgressors are employing
their technics from nations far away
to determine who'll wear
a crowning array

/ and there's me, sitting silently, fiddling with my beard, attempting to craft a trumpet by twisting the tip of it into a "zenith"... i'm sure there are many more useful things i could be doing... but then again: having subverted any interest in the world cup can keep you guessing... please please: can the croats lose, so i can see the english and french rekindle their 100 year war "friendship"?

there's always a first,
    notably with a message

   this video is unavailable
with Restricted Mode enabled.
    to view this video,
you will need to disable
Restrcited Mode,

   why would i even bother
enabling a Restricted Mode
concerning
   a video like

    loose canon: mystique
by lindsay ellis?

   i like the sound of her voice -
i mean -
     ****, better than watching
*******...
  
this is probably the first video
i've encountered
   that i: i didn't even enable
Restricted Mode

                             to begin with!

how do i disable,
   what i didn't, in the first place,
                                enable?!

it's a chick talking for crying
out-loud!
           what's wrong with a girl
talking (wait, what?
  girl is not a sexist slur because
i might "think"
    she's not mature?
                       can i just use
                           it to imply: cute?)

apparently no...
              brick's a brick type of scenario,
i have to somehow
succumb to the niqab curtain
                of "western" values?

thanks for allowing me a peek...
                        ******* tantalißing!

to also add:
       can't get any better than listening
to an anthropologist
            like ayidin paladin talk...

but even i know that my use of
the youtube algorithm
                     has, of lately, succumbed
to an exhaustion of
my "predictability":

                     so many fewer
connecting avenues of a music allowance...

mind you...
   i spotted a future harmonia
(pump *****) would be player
    on a warsaw tram...
     who wasn't a prof. gypsy stereotype...

i have to samsung appliances,
a dated laptop and a tablet...
internet connectivity
  "problems": the tablet acquires it,
the laptop doesn't...

i go to the box room and check
the reuter: three green lights...
   so this is a meta-problem?
pick up the she-cat
   and take to using scissors,
cutting out botanical
                      attaché-sez
    from the furr...

       the internet connection problem
solves itself....
    
  róże europy -
  kości czerwone, kości czarne

plays in the background:
i remember why i didn't take up
martial arts,
   instead taking to cycling
after being
kicked in the testicles
  and no one was invested
into making authentic law
obligations...

   apparently there are some,
who don't mind paying charon:
instead wrestling with
                 cerberus...
that limited comparison with a hydra...

really?
   that's why i spent bewildered by
schizophrenic internet connections of
a samsung products deviating from
the "grid"?
  making snippets of furr from
a she-cat silently infuriated by
botanical insurrections of:
                "passing on the seeds"?
why reconnecting my laptop access
to the grid?
           giving the router a 20 second
nap away from over-heating?

   there actually is a:
                   in between narrative...
fiddling with a belt buckle
(already detached from the actual
belt)
   with a pair of scissors
                unscrewing two bolts...
1st attempt: into the base
of the metal,
  2nd attempt:
     out of the sleeve...

              and then...
  coming from a parental construct
of exercising metallurgy:
  not having inherited it
  (due to a dying town) -

   that scent of iron, or any
kind of metal (for, "that" reason)
   rubbed off onto me...

i already made the leather into
something more than
lizard-boots,
      "arming" myself in
the pretty-piglet abstract
                 of a boxing glove,
   of the belt wrapped like a tefillin...

but the buckle "closure"?
   had to fiddle with the screws
in it
   with a pair of scissors,
intimidating
                         a screwdriver!

philosophy with a hammer,
genesis-circa nietzsche?
               hammer and the nail...
there's the second "face"
of the hammer...
   the face that easily pulls out
the nail...
          
find me a screwdriver as
synonym of scissors
                           to confess to a *****?

Rush Transcript. May include inaccuracies.

Andrea Marsino: We're here today with "     " to talk about his recent best-seller, The Orchestra, which has swept bookshelves across the nation in recent weeks. A stunning display of literary craftsmanship, the book has generated a whirlwind of dialogue in all sorts of settings, from University coffee shops to local dive bars, and even, we're told, in the Pentagon. Tell us "     ", did you have any expectation at all of this kind of reaction?

"     ": Never in a million years would I have thought that I could stir up such a...a hornet's nest really. Sure it's a kind of inflammatory piece of fiction, but I never thought it'd result in so much backlash.

Andrea: Talk about unintended consequences right? How did the idea first come to you?

"         ": Well it didn't just pop into my head fully formed one day. I guess it first started to take shape at a bus station in Florida. I had just been kicked out of my Dad's house and was moving to another part of the state, so naturally I was a bit, I don't know, out of sorts. I was waiting for the connecting bus and was smoking a cigarette to **** the time and just sort've fell into conversation with this black kid who was also waiting for a connection. This was in I think May of 2013, so the situation really hadn't started to fall part yet, but the cracks were definitely showing. And that's what we were talking about, just the overall sense of things not going well, the feelings of helplessness that we as individuals, and seemingly the community as a whole, were feeling at the time. I told him that it'd get better one day, somehow and that change always is a painful process. Then the light came on and I started pondering how that sweeping societal change might be accomplished.

Andrea: There are a lot of themes in the book, a lot of subtext and implied conclusions. You've been criticized for what seems like hostility to faith and some say advocating violent political activism. What are your responses to some of the accusations that have been leveled against you?

"         ": Hostility to faith? Absolutely not. Faith is one of the overriding points of the whole thing. The objection is to organized and subverted religious teachings. Faith exists to aid humanity in the struggle of their lives and I feel like....if you examine history faith has time and again been co-opted into a tool of oppression. That's what I object to. As for advocating ****** revolution, that's another flat out misinterpretation. Yes, politics is a huge part of the story and plays a huge part in really tying the whole thing together. But it's not really about that, it's not about any single issue. It's about people, as a whole, taking back their right to not be dehumanized by anything or anyone, especially their government which is supposed to protect them.

Andrea: I see. So it's not so much about the mechanisms of power politics as it is about people's inherent value?

"        ": Absolutely. Our conception of what power really is I think is grossly inaccurate.

Andrea: But surely you can understand how your depiction of terrorist acts and a domestic insurgency is very disturbing to some people? You were a Soldier yes? Did this affect your style, and the arc of the plot?

"         ": Of course I can. And it's meant to be disturbing, it's meant to illustrate how positive forces of change can be corrupted into violence. And yes, I was an Intelligence Analyst in the Army. We were fighting an insurgency, so in order to learn how, we basically deconstructed insurgencies throughout history. We learned how they functioned, all the sides you could throw at it. And then I learned from two Defense Intelligence Agency Instructors how to start one too. Those experiences most definitely gave me the technical knowledge I needed to write something like this.

Andrea: There's also been a lot of talk about how graphic your imagery is. Many prominent individuals call it a lack of talent on your part, that you can't write without going in for the shock factor so to speak.

"        " : Ha! It's not a children's book. And besides, life is graphic. You can't portray something accurately without tackling the nasty stuff. Besides, things like ****** assault and drug use are essential to some of the characters. It wouldn't make any sense for someone to react as violently as they did in certain scenes without the reader knowing exactly what had occurred previously to form that character's identity.

Andrea: I can understand that. Doesn't make it any easier to think about though.

"       ": I don't know what to tell you. The truth is a painful thing sometimes, and portraying it was not exactly a fun process.

Andrea: And what about those very colorful characters? How did you get your inspiration for them?

"          ": Oh all sorts of places. Honestly, some are based on real individuals that I've known at some point or another. And others are pure imagination. Ta'ra and Clara were inspired by a Dane Jones ***** for instance ha ha.

Andrea: 'Blushing' That's, er, interesting. Characters from ******* is one I haven't heard before. Anyway, throughout the book is this sense of individuals being swept into something bigger than themselves and how they react to that. It's kind of ambiguous sometimes, swinging between very New Age concepts to mundane life on the same page. The quote at the beginning for instance. Very spiritual, very deep. But then you open with an interaction on a street corner.

"          ": Hmm, I guess I could try and explain about things like Theosis, which is one of the main themes by the way, but I don't think it would illustrate what I was trying to convey very well. I guess I was always kinda on the fence about divine intervention and that sort of thing until I read a piece by a friend of mine about an experience she had some years ago. Basically, she was in a diner when a Muslim woman came over and asked to sit and talk. They spoke about spirituality and the woman turned to her and said that anyone could be a prophet, like it wasn't something reserved for saints and such. It was very powerful and finally convinced me that humans aren't just ants on an anthill, so to speak. It spoke to a very, very intimate part of me. So, I took it and incorporated it into what I do. Which is write.

Andrea: Wow, that's an amazing explanation that I really didn't expect. I'd love to talk some more and I'm sure our listeners would love to hear more, but unfortunately that's all the time we have for the show today. "     " thank you so much for joining us today and sharing so many insights about your new book, The Orchestra.

"           ": The pleasure was all mine Andrea, thank you for having me.

Andrea**: This is Andrea Marsino with NPR and thanks for listening. Coming up in the next half hour we have Peggy Walker from Floyd Virginia talking about some of the exciting ways her community is fighting to keep their traditions alive today.

Inadvertently avoided through mental thought processes
Subverted into
New shoes in an off white tint
And a new addition to my collection of lint
I'm sick of window tint so dark you can't see inside
I try my best to catch a glimpse of another person's mind
Striving so hard to manifest itself through the body it's been placed in
I step on the gas and pass their *** just so I can think to myself:
I Win.

.seems like the asian dub foundation lyrics came true: the lunatics will lead the blind... counter-metaphor, like i don't know how the mainstream doesn't exploit ascribing metaphors akin to psychotic or schizoid to slander their fellow "sanity" hives... and then, there comes a snippet, a mini-apocalypse of a one-man "army"... conflating a genuine Hippocratic observation, with your usual casual slander in all things politico: including journalism... i guess that calling someone dumb / plain outright scheming is not enough... oh but the genuine examples scare people... for all the criticism of Muhammad... ha... ha ha? he was awfully fond of lunatics, maybe i misread this, but i'm pretty sure sort of content is ascribed to the hadith... my allegiance? to the language, this is true, on other matters... hit or miss... cherry picking... the usual... in terms of England? what's there to subvert, when everything has already been, subverted? ****, bad grammar... maybe that's what can be subverted, that last bastion, oh, wait, that's also gone with the whole pronoun debacle... about time to play the Pontius Pilate role... but instead of a maddened crowd of hebrews, there's that small matter, of an enraged crowd of grammar-fetish-nazis... rigid, rigid as ****, you couldn't find a dried out piece of horseshit as rigid as this... and i'm not even a native... going out to nightclubs on either a friday or saturday used to be fun, until, this culmination of events... yawn... no, no... this is where i get to punctuate my sentences in an excess of erraticism; well: any counter to the overtly eroticißed currency / culture... if anyone told me to fixate my attention of linguistics, i'd be like: give me a break... gone are the days when a homosexual could scribble something as curiosity-worthy as a william burroughs... well: if we reached a fundamental plateau point of inertia... it would take someone from... Gomorrah... to talk about all that slobbering over sea food juice, from the flowery pattern of a *******'s *****; and that would be me.

don't ask me, how, or why,
maybe i should get in touch with
some of the airline pilots,
maybe they'd believe me,
or perhaps to anyone in close
geographical proximity,

   let's say i'm sitting on the porch,
smoking a cigarette,
mentally lacerating myself
over an outburst of unfathomable
anger requiring me to do something,
which i nonetheless do,
but the whole fiasco of a tirade
wasn't necessary...
         and... with my rigid
ontology, i repent,
    i go a step further,
            i think up all the standard
negative thinking,
  
   to a point where
the word banal,
         mingles with the word
benign...
       at this point
           these words are being
drilled into my psyche,
   they become static,
   and obstruct any decency
of a cognitive narrative...
           benign becomes a negative
word,
      somewhat closely alligned
in spelling to banal -
   well...
                        as close as B
goes...
                   strange...
how thought has to process
feeling,
      and how feeling:
    rarely processes thought...
just your standard cartesian
"quadratic paradox":
yes, perhaps a misnomer,
but err:          into air quote,
there's always a nuance
to be minded,
   and a misnomer cipher
usage...
                              i.e. metaphor...

so i'm doing all of that,
   and then...
            you'd have to be in
my vicinity to see this,
    and a night sky...
   so the stars are there,
fixed points in their constellations,
or some outliers...
then you spot one appear
in the sky, and move
in a straight line,
         a slightly dim star...
copernicus:
     but i thought stars
weren't supposed to do that?

and then? a star so brightly lit,
also moving in a straight line,
so, so bright,
   and as it moves into the distance,
it starts to wane,
fade...
    a plane flies in its direction,
i'm strapped to the earth,
but i'm hopeful
    that the airline pilots
have also spotted it...

                this is not supposed
to happen...
   i don't know if i'm freaked
out, or just used to it,
years prior, i did my occasional
star-gazing...
   somehow detached
from the usual curiosity of men,
i knew that i hard to return
to the hierarchy of metres,
miles and centimetres etc.,

          someone else did,
whatever they did,
   to orientate themselves with /
around, the current capacity
of communication,
    but no one could say:
the guy who created the piano,
     could play like a Schumann -

my predicament comes
with this language,
      acquired, self-taught,
   perfected,
                i remember the day
i was thrown into a class
   at primary school,
   mute...
          cartoon network wasn't
exactly a teacher back
in post-communist Poland
in the early 1990s...
  
          i was... without a play
on words: thrown into the deep end,
told: ******, now tread water.
  i still sometimes help my parents
with legal paperwork,
  but i'm content that they
managed to... **** me...
    me, holiday, to the Maldives?
hard work, i almost enjoyed
doing roofing on an industrial
scale sized roofs...

             now, i drink,
and if i didn't...
   i'd writing with a sense of
urgency that's more erratic than
imbued with a sense of urgency
of, imminent death,
  and i'd be running paranoid,
7 trips back and forth
between London and Edinburgh
and Glasgow in a short period
of time,

        then to Athens,
           brief interludes of calm
like a trip to Venice...
   mind you: if the diagnosis
is correct, i.e. psychosis,
and for all that time,
  i didn't behave like your
tragedy psychotic,
               well...
               is that... responsibility?
the knowledge of a condition,
tamed,
    rather than walked into blindly...

apart from the usual
historical literature,
                       what could possibly
top philosophy as a genre
of literature?
          d'uh... theoretical psychiatry...
notably from the 1960s...
precisely because:
    prior to that time reference?
psychiastric conditions
were, grotesquely enough -
                      luxury ailments or...
the other kind,
         the ones were they throw
you into the asylum
      and... god knows what...
now?
            they drug you...
  pacify you...
                        but what if there's
still something hidden
within you,
                               to counter?

i probably the only smarter
thing available...
                      if i didn't turn to
philosophy...
        or psychiatric literature...
yes, it would take you a decent
3 years to read the two volumes
of Kant's critique of pure reason,
to be able to move forward
your own narrative,
   without having to: read it,
only in order to regurgitate /
teach it...

                   no one is going to talk
Kant to you,
    you will, most likely,
be talked Kant to you / taught,
yes, more like taught rather than
talked (down)...

                 for all the sins of alcohol
consumption,
   well: what other sedative
is there within the same price-range?
i'll always be unrepentent
about the drinking,
           how much of a *******
******* would i have to be,
     to repent for something
that, somehow, clarifies my head
and allows me to
spew out, something akin
to this?

            no, stars aren't supposed
to do, what they did,
and keep on doing,
        in my presence...
   only one person has shared
this spectacle with me,
my grandfather...
   'for the stars to be moving?!'
just my luck,
   that he suffers from
a mild dementia...
           cul de sac of convincing
someone...
    so back to the secular
game of juggling negation,
and lying -

     at least doubt can mingle
with belief,
   at least doubt
       is, akin to belief,
   a plethora of emotions;
i never understood the criticism
of emotion,
   esp. in the secular west,
i just can't turn into
   some emotionless
apathy-zombie,
    or some,  brain
and a spinal cord in
a ******* pickle jar,
semi-autistic:
but that still implies
   channeling your emotions,
rather than giving into
outright, shallow and not
premeditated calculation.

Flippant polymaths exude the frippery of travail for lapsed inordinate surgical gains in temporal but temporary acclaim that owes its provenance to the gullarge accentuated by the guttural tempests of silent windfalls that wrestle with sharks and snarky cagamosis with pilfered fame without rulers for rules that own the profligacy of a cineaste game

We cannot surpass our talents with ease when the treecheese of inevitable distance between equipoise and insanity is a tantamount inanity of prolixity for the sake of freedom rather than servitude to the slow meandered steps of trudged verbigeration that needs to be exorcised from the seat of authority for the plodding inconvenience of time earned that shakes the listless yearning people who lie and spurn

Demagogues are trifles because they are anoegenetic and care not for the abligurition that consumes the energy of a dismal life lived on fringes rather than reaped with grimaces for binges that continue to absorb the painful pangs of twinges that hedonists are of interest

We cannot exorcise the demons that give stygian weight to exchequers beyond the gamut of money but rather the currency of velocity of thought that owes its weight to weightlessness of spaces between the spacious and the limited tract of isolative territory that many mendicants looking for sustenance travail in insolence and in perjury of their solemn duties for self-serious honesty they lack a vista to see their crimes as more than just a pettifoggery of disputatious wranglers that wrench and then contemn the objects of their moral scruples to contend with nothing but the vacant expanse of a limitless injury for a momentary slip of cultivation and countenance

Frippery is hard to cobble with lapidary wit because succinct grievances are fallow ground for the permanence of atrocity and the temperance of felicity to conform to the desiccated pathways of limpid but livid excoriations of willful ingenuity met with aleatory rambles that sprawl incalescence with words as a dying occupation that is resurrected from the abeyance of its pragmatic utility to distinguish class from crust.

The triadic fatuousness of snarky sharks recruiting the gullarge of paranoiacs to deputized alacrity lead many strident vocations astray as they pilfer the nullibiety of spectral ignorance and defy the gravitas of the primiparas of a swollen technocracy, an outrage that scarecrows with prevenance have adumbrated against with strident accelerations of sublime velocity

So we swim in perilous straits against the demiurge of inclemency in fated rittles for the turpitude of wraiths and engineer every aborning day a new foofaraw of unalloyed atrocity
Now more than never should be deployed to ensure that the castigation of scoundrels and guttersnipes that exert a rip tide to those stranded on the shores of littoral desiccation might find the pristine beachgoing public an amenable treat proffered by exorcised sheepishness in reiterative bleats that quarkswarm only the antinomy of sentient masteries by shoveled civilizations proctor to horological insistence in design

So we designated an abeyance of heydays to create a rippled nostalgia that creeps in the winter storms that singe even glabrous ignorance with the twinges in absentia of the regal crows that circle the sun as the sustenance of the alighted moon as we reach for the heaved Richter teeming with ablution for venial commination of prolix croons that exert a Palo Alto rhyme

Phenomenological fields distal to the cephalocaudal origination of limber and the ironic counterpoint to that strife in excess rather than dearth of the henchmen behind the exchequer showcase that fluid thoughts surpass the limits of the dentistry of cosmetic cosmology simultaneously a scientific boon but a coarse albatross

We are criminals in a world stranded by ****** apostasy because of the sincerity of minstrels meets plodding human ignorance as exemplars rather than the apotheosis of divine excoriation of wastrels and flattybouches who webdoodle their way into the extinction line in some computer file swiped from eccedentesiasts who often in uncouth barbarity forgetfully abide without the temperance of floss

So what are we to make of magisterial wits of wiseacres who pilot tenable objectives like Indiana Jones flexing his comical whip when the gunfire of cacophony inundates our ears with a lisp of cockalorum imposture rich in chewing tobacco and its ungainly gripes and tenacious grip

Should we seek salvation from the treecheese of arboreous terrain amenable to the newfangled windfall of agricultural whims that dare now with caprice but not quixotic disdain to reconfigure the parsimonious levered engagement of melliferous fungible transaction between sabbaticals and chief financiers dubbing the vociferous limn of the primeval fulgurant incandescent ethereal quips?

We strive for palaces issued with dimes, dozens and scores of retinues that retain the patina of sophistry as the gullarge makes the vangermytes cozy in their defensively mechanized citadel buffered against the unheralded malversations of mammon intersecting with primordial chemistry that give the philanderer a guise of philanthropy despite professed gainsay that perjures because hucksters are winsome with fiduciary risk

So we calumniate with lapsed puns and Potter’s Spells as we dredge the indemnity of bustling heydays that extend beyond the bailiwick stated because of the prolonged trace of nostalgia that frazzles our voluntary expeditions with misanthropy as each libertine instinct becomes subject to stop and frisk

How to balk at such a garrulous repartee as proffered by swanky intransigence that shakes it off in a quaky town that hates the Swift refrain that endangers the fatalism of recuperated foresight borrowed from the armamentarium of corrupted killjoys who swim in a dalliance with the itchy myths that drift from powerlessness to voguish debauchery of insouciant internecine fringes frayed by the tomes that decry Stygian drift

Shiftless and rooted in rintinole absolved by plackiques that enchant the voyeurism of repined squalor of industrious frippery deracinated from the aureate complicity of largesse calibrated to mobilize the skittish mercurial yuppies to a dance with divestiture, taxes and an earthen death, we sprint the evergreen mile toward the scrupulous invention of enthusiastic euphemisms arbitrated by the procrustean silt of the leaky faucet of enigmatic timelessness etched by chiselers to beat “Us and Them” and warn the vanguard of the front rank about the thespian rift

Exhaustive rescue squads prepared for the dearth of monetary heft in times of perilous drought denigrate the authors of famine to the indulgent parents of inordinate sabotage of narrative for riskless arbitrage that is the outrage of sciamachies between platonic indifference and the tantrums of the feckless in the dangerous hearth of the cavernous wilderness of limitless imaginations that stagger so far beyond orbit they become satellites to vagrancy and whittled paragons too distant to dissolve in the ethereal chemistry of incalescent uproar sadly flanged by the Dopplers of ephemeral fate

Squandered by the desuetude of a snarky intervention I issue invective at the proctors of deafferented limbs for barbarous swine meeting expediency in demise, bemoaning the placid distaste of rectified cries that issue candles for each acrimony beyond the permutation of the staid inflexible limit of 88’

Bashfully we careen through argosies of curiosity to fossick the stalactites of timeworn intuition and reckon with their converse ironies that drip faucets of mildew that remain hidden unless poked by plucky flashlights to inspect the paragon of erosive filigrees of a bewildering paradox of polarized design that one meets the ceiling at inception and the cousin strives to clamber empty space to know with faint certainty the bulldozed irony of superordinate coexistence

Now we return to the majesty of a spurned wiseacre that evades the snappy parlance of a wrenched friction between the physical and the metaphysical elements that constitute a commensurate reality so supernal that its ostentation creates lifetimes of reiterative growth that spawns crimson red and bloviated blues to find a fulcrum of balance between the malversation on one hand of criminal sinister machinations and on the other hand the execrable self-righteous ignorance of a hidden vehicles of dexterity that are subsumed by a subtlety of legislative graft that owes its forbearance to the sanctimony of perseveration without the laurels of persistence

Now we wed the concepts between the ambidexterity of a monolithic titan who wanes rather than waxes himself because his glabrous head already exposed requires nothing new because the empire that struck back is denuded by the thorny imbroglio of a sunken Rose

Timmynoggies are perfect for haberdasheries of saccharine and glib excellence as measured by the ****** cacophony of unmerited applause that strains the resourcefulness of the silent mastery of magistrates in mellifluous alcoves surrounded by the soundproofed rigors of an execrable dereliction wilt into the imaginations of the few that watch movies with errantry rather than pleasantries of gaudy nonsense enchanted by a striptease of the wanton zeitgeist that some balk at but everyone knows

Time earns the spangled banners of sloganeering because of the fastidious creations of pole folders that maneuver between quips borrowed from antique movies and swindled affectations of yearning of many of all fears inevitable with the malevolent passage of the technocracy from cheers to vehement inveighed jeers

We should fear the watershed because it necessitates the evaporation of winsome ambition and implores the subservience of a guiltless fascination with abominable regress concomitant to the acceleration of money preceding a whipsawed downfall ensured by the funereal spates of requiems to oneironauts who plunged to their deaths on headlong flickering whims past the craggy landscape of lunar concordance and through the abeyance of qualms to flabbergasted self-importance in the eradication of provident fears

Memorials exist encoded in the temporal twinges of agony that straddle the cardiovascular throbs of impermanence that sweat with each simple beat to blather about the repetitious nature of a livid nature scrambled in exodus of the emigration of senseless blather to the subroutines of regimented sleepless paragons of travail in every pedestrian feat accelerated with each passing foot traversed by vigilant and eager feet

Tempests crowd the cluttered hamartithia of dredged incompetence leading to the foreclosure that precedes the simple derelictions that amount to grievous uncertainties that squawk in the plumage of the frippery decay of an autumnal fall from gracile riches landlocked without room to sprawl rigged against every track that is a surefire gleeful keepsake to meet, greet and serenade the claques adorned with the monikers of the Greeks

Trembling beneath the weight of mellifluous sauntering dingy designs that exude the anguish of our provident but incidental remonstration against the plodding indifference of the artistic clerisy we sputter against intransigent annulments of the emotive human engine calibrated with creaky pistons that rumble with furor of abrasive protest in timely haphazard elemental designs for vanguard ears

Tridents shed the fossicked leaves that are divisible by two but not inevitably glue that solders the identities of people congregated around a situation of gleeful sprees rather than wistful regress into a temerity without regret that gets dangled in the purview of the spiteful wings of armies that drawl when they sing vapid songs for vaped bongs but not the soberly cheers because of the deafening din of conformity oblivious of the honorific crescendos that still peak after so many restless years

Confederates line the avenues of bustling caverns of cumulative human disdain so willfully flouted by the wrenched corrosive frictions of vibrant deformation of the cultural narrative that encapsulates the collective bubbles chewed and jettisoned like bandied candy and then defamed without justice because  hurricanes churn up the reclusive emergence of protective vanity chased down as a sunken cost for a siphoned glory of tribal pride despite the strictures of logic

Creeping with insistence is a subaudition of governing gravel that entombs many steadfast lies that embodied people living delusory lives under a paradigm that has been subverted by the feats of science into a morass of irrelevance and the chances are many of those so deluded still breathe the air now more polluted but balk at the memories of the fallen passengers on the convalescent train that accelerates sunblind but respectfully toward a systematic engrossment of swollen intellects whimpering about the tautologic

We finance our prescient rodomontade with rodeos equipped with zany clowns who spurn the tridents of Poseidon because of the iridescent gloss of sheepish and flippant zealots who churn against the wrestling match of televised irony with accentuated eccedentesiastic disdain amended by a tolerable diversion of ennobled gallantry zip-zagging among the many valid quodlibets and missing the mark entirely on purpose to vacate the possible raillery of those who balk at time’s chosen serpentine tracks because of limited pedagogical tracts

So lets solder a forceful brunt against the senseless regalia of modern omphalos and return to the plenipotentiary fields of resourceful human inquiry into the chagrins outmoded by convenience but amplified in vociferation by the prosthetic extension of a grangull humanity outfoxing itself into a zugzwang inevitable in the future with collateral losses because of senseless invidiousness orchestrated by the immiscible dermatology of divisive facts often about race and ineluctable tax

We conclude with the optimism that refineries become gentrified by the superlunary squadrons who bask in beatific beams of anonymity and that the pollution preceding our evolution is just adventitious rather than central to the amelioration of wavy screens ennobling so many upstarts to teach themselves the majesty of lucid dreams and to capitalize on ludic ideals divorced from the urchins of radical idealisms that ironically poach rarefied air with smug pollution of narrative scares

Without trepidation we can muster the largesse of civility to create a progeny that has a recursive progeny of heirs that defiantly imagine a world bereft of specters of the soporific imagination enforced by the lapidation of insight from termagants who stride with ursine acrimony naked bare and envision a global meliorism that is careful, picaresque, pragmatic and filled with meritocratic care

With those ornaments of an aureate measure in mind


We leap beyond the enumerated infinity in time's proper design

The blades of grass untidy over some sub saharian variety.
The cumulus  clouds are more down town
with illegal builds shimmering  in the corners.
We look back at our hopes
and belatedly realise baristas have
subverted  our national brew.
Sub let flats with strangers passing through
leaving catering oil drums outside.
Our national prerequisite  minding ones own
allows everything unknowing to go on,
including a morning benefits agency raid.
Rules and queues consigned to ailing  England

babe, i've got the grid, you've got the grit; i had relationships with wet-dream pairing felines, and each time i never took the money... i guess money for these girls is like owning something that's neither a piano, nor a violin, nor a technique of anti-medicine prescription ultra effectiveness of alcohol and sleeping pops... money is like wanting to own a violin, ending up owning one... but only scratching a deafening symphony of some composer who wrote one jerking off; or as mr. turner did, spitting on the canvas to ease the mingling of colours into perched insomnia hazy sleepless after 48 hours; she's got the dough, but can't get the bread without the baker, if she only learnt the trade, she could have both... but i guess being served cappuccino hands free is a bit like having multiple sclerosis... i guess all billionaires are like multiple sclerosis victims... a compost heap of professions dumped into a kaleidoscope of cafes, operas, and other such places; i'll wipe my own ****, thank you.*

i'm not going to moralise the gods,
i think for the most part
they're humbled enough in awe at what they
were told to inherit,
the crucifixion only proved the point,
the crucified one twinned to
the most audacious introvert,
the jealous one, would never provision
the onslaught to come, the conquerors
of judea weren't the invaders from
the north or the eastern steppes.
i'm not going to moralise the gods
in favour of demoralising myself,
true horror begot the main role
overpowering the narrator as true horror
as a woman,
across two garden lengths of garden
a woman checks if all pythagorean
angles are 90 degrees untrue in
the poly grid of 6°: spelling out 666
with two other attributes of a bbc radio 4 discussion..
woman is a beauty i dare not fathom,
i rather fathom my own dirges and depths
for a beauty i do not see in myself, so there...
flowers are bettered hue more of seasonal
thermometers in them... i'll stick to them...
i can't simply exhaust myself on a woman,
it's pointless, the woman disappears anyway
once she has children, and thus the zoological
safety enters to pedigree man: children
are like iron bars for a woman to enter her purpose...
elsewhere it's a rich old **** and a youngling
donning leather fishnet stockings and ruby lips
and corsets that make the ***** twice the original...
my world is my safety, and to make my world safe
i have to encounter a "holocaust" / i'm not into
brooding exactness, 2nd 3rd or 4th meanings of words /
let's keep the river flowing, ditto a word and that's that...
a human expression of ehyeh asher ehyeh...
moses being the usher boy, the inverse version
of a subverter akin to ****** or stalin,
he didn't turn on the egyptians to explode even further,
he turned on the egyptians to implode,
****** the swiss moustache austrian exploded with
germany, so did stalin being a georgian,
germany and russia exploded, egypt imploded...
why cite the 40 year wandering when you talked
to someone who could be reduced you talking
with your hand like robinsoe crusoe (technically
a fleshy entry point of circumcised phallus warring)
with such impunity? i'm a subverted myself,
the 2nd degenerate classification akin to moses,
great britain my donkey... for all the ailments
i finally plucked the cherry an compared it with
moses' apple and said: yep, seems about right.
well if the only law of the land is reserved for the rich,
and the generic aren't allowed a generic sustenance
of the cubic with provided for electric and gas heating...
what are you going to get?
a sloth anarchy, people bewildered by a collective
unconscious movement with two idiots playing chess
thinking it's chequers...
but it also comes with the rich 1% (esp. women)
saying: so not being on papa's pay-cheque
feels like this, it feels like i can't love anyone i want?
yes darling... touch on wood, you're never allowed
such a gesture.

****... the sunglasses...

double ****!

        dinner... making my father lunch...

triple hush hush ****** third....

  i might be a drunk...
   (burp)          
              but i have my obligations;

the day doesn't begin
with or without a dosage
of sleep...

         i tango with a sputnik...

what?!
you know just your random ****...
sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet home
Idaho!

              Ghana?
****... i misspelled Missishippi....
             no,
not exactly Family Guy funny,
but you know,
you spend a night with two Germans
tripping on mushrooms,
watching American dad...
with an Egyptian drinking *****,
all quest-west in Amsterdam...
and you're not seeking the company
of a Puerto Rican hubbly-n-bubbly...
touch of flesh...

   the night must be pretty entertaining...

so that's what you call exfoliating
when given into excess...
...      .... .... (the excess pause)...
and then shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
in a makeshift metaphysical library...
literary... yes... (burp)... literate...
the sunglasses are working
just fine...

                   the sun isn't...

why do i always sit through the vanilla
sky of a sunset, why?!

hush darling...
          Shakie Shtevens is going
to tell you  all about what gives him
the Shakes...
   shakes? if you drink... hot sweats...
one minor posit of a subverted
hangover...

                  a slap, a punch, a slap
once more, oh look, i'm found and bound
to sober;
getting drunk,
and then returning to the leash:
well...
    covert for: a pristine afternoon.

p.s.

quasi-headbanging to a meat-head
tune...
  yeah.... Slipknot... what?!
no....   MC Hammer!
  i'm touching jack-****...
       look at me...
   touching... clapping using jazz hands.

Affinity for the sharks attraction to the squeeze
Apotropaic lyrics cure an ineluctable terminal disease
Traversed time repent and rhyme
For every dollar exists a crime for every penny lost cured with wine
I serenade the world with lore threadbare and cloying but earnestly transcendent
Linger longer in evanescence so I can see the rainbow’s intent
Confederate putsch subverted by transnational push and supreme wonder
Tactless assault on the unadulterated truth a sheepish blunder
Ennobled and regal they gentrify the legal
A European tyrant fishes the sky to capture the preeminent eagle
Kings of the jungle turning us gradately into desert
Desiccated promises elicit the thirst but **** myself they can be so curt
One eye to see them all
One conqueror beyond the confines of linearity hogs the ball
Shoot the three when two will do
Missing every time when the sky is completely blue
Shrouded in the clouds are souls wafting to the sky
Concealed in the Dow a dry rain turns the dust extra wry
Moments clash with movements and chaos erects a monolithic lie
Sold in every shop consumed by every cop it keeps us landlocked on the verge of flight
Rescue the contempt needed to override the wrong and enshrine the right
Abdicate the war, annex the score and appear to soar
Words cannot corral the present anymore than the future can ignore
The past becoming present presents us throttled to the wire
Cartels own the news but the periphery is harder to conspire
We scour the earth looking for rebirth
We tower over the worthy with a catchy mirth
To all law belongs the defeat of malcontent with a begrudging consent
To any miser nothing is more miserable than avaricious but impotent intent
Invisible prison with visible prisoners beset by bars established by BAR exams that we fail to apprehend
Zero sum collapse contingent on the motives of the tyrants that cannot break or bend
So stand to grow the earth with elapsing sand and synchronize the beating of the drum with the actions of the best possible invisible hand
Choice monopolized by a garbled voice trying his best to be the lead singer of the smartest brand
Wary of the scary and contemplative before the boast
We align with design streamlined in serpentine time and on that sinuous path we coast
So we find time for a dream that proves God is a dreamer
Only to find out that all the teams play for the teamsters
Bribe yourself and renege your own wage
Depriving yourself of the ink needed to fill the page
But many words are impotent
When few will do
All you truly need in this world is an emboldened you and a chosen few

yes... cold-turkey for a day...
the one will do it...
i just smoked a second one...
and the "hit" is not as benevolent...
simple arithmetic...
a carton is 200 cigarettes...
that's 200 days...
if i stick to this "pattern"...
no pointless cigarettes...
with coffee first thing in the morning:
on the medical "fast"...
after a grand meal...
cold-turkey throughout the day...
one balanced with a generous
amount of bourbon: surfing
the night-cap...
this could work...
      no... no point paying homage
to the romance of rolling tobacco...
a single marlboro will do...
esp. if it comes from eastern europe...
to have to start to treat it
as homage... something...
sacred... that's better than simply
quitting...
much... much better...
this late pseudo-caffeine hit
in the day...
first day... 2 cigarettes in a drinking
session is unnecessary...
one will do...
receptors become blunted...
and now the gratification from
"over-stepping" the mark...
and the gratification of...
not bound to a tarantula numbing-bite...
something has to make sense in
this world: let's begin with this...

i.e. thank god i do not make videos...
writing doesn't really allow
for... what happens with
a video... there's the preserved:
address to the writer...
and the medium of the reader...
rarely will you find yourself
bound to read two readers
competing: for the crown
prince of echo chamber...
not that i'd reply... no higher power...
a laptop... no mobile device...
the internet access is static...

2 is a "magic" number...
after 2 i imagines the gateway: fully opened
for the orc horde of dwugs:
      i'm standing: upright... content...
to tease the addiction...
as if: "as if" for the very first time...
cold turkey my ***...
because of covid-19 "discrepancies"...
no "black market" cheap cigarettes
from moldova...
or romania... poland, ukraine or
bulgaria...

            checked the feed-drip...
cold-turkey for a day...
complete the day with a cigarette...
200 cigarettes in a carton at...
£35... that's what... per annum?
       365... we're talking about...
roughly... 50 quids worth...
of: taming this beast...

                 for a year...
                              yes... this could
very much work...
            and what is the perfect sandwich...
of... extravagance?
a bagel... or some toasted rye...
english butter... smoked salmon...
cucumber... dill... mayonnaise...
and... rainbow trout caviar...
is caviar "all that"?
     it's like marmite... you either love it:
or... hate it...
it's not a luxury... if it was...
a luxury... it would be universally sought
after...
it would be a luxury... for both the rich...
as it would be for the poor...

minor note: how were oysters treated
in Dickensian times?
weren't oysters the food of the poor?
and now? suddenly they have become
a luxury product...
something only the rich are supposed
to enjoy... cods-wallop!

caviar is not a luxury...
but... if you're asking questions about
a palette...
rainbow trout caviar balances out
the smoked salmon...
truly... the fish retains its status as fish...
and the smokiness is tamed...
almost subverted...

the cucumber the dill the mayonnaise...
auxiliary details...
but of course the cemented base:
toasted rye works as many more:
lazarus resurrected miracles as a bagel...

caviar is not a luxury...
in st. petersburg there's this pancake
fast-food outlet... where caviar is dripping...
there are copious amounts of this
**** dished out...
not everyone buys the caviar panny...
because: caviar is not a status symbol
of luxury... it's in the category of marmite...
it's for oddities...
       it's equivalent to... a concentrated
taste of fish...
burst a pill of shark oil fat... omega 3 etc...
perhaps...
    
  once upon a time... TRAN...
was forced upon children in school...
so they could harbour a strong immune system...
tran? cod-liver oil... no... not in capsules...
on the end of a teaspoon...

can i imagine eating caviar...
beside the zenith of the above described
sandwich? well... yeah...
but it wouldn't be rainbow-trout caviar...
beluga / caspian sea caviar...
on the tip of... a slice of...
a napoli pizza...
    anchovies do not have a taste
of fish... salty shrimp whittle wichards...
the best fish: are ate...
with all their bones intact...
sometimes even their heads and eyes...
like...
           smoked... sprats...
nonetheless: caviar is not a luxury product...
nor is blue cheese...
who doesn't have...
a taste for... the "obscene"?

   peanuts and beer in the grand hall of
the west...
in st. petersburg... beer and dehydrated
shrimps... fish...
same ****... different cover...
i much prefer the extra guise of protein
over the fat of nuts... with a beer...

as a warning: oysters were... in Dickensian times...
eaten by the poor of the east end...
and caviar... that's like marmite...
or... salt & vinegar crisps...
you need to appreciate the piquant
detail of the food...
champagne... for example?
i can't drink that fuzzy-brain
anorexic ***** juice of cat... whiskers for
a violin... snarl... shreek...

caviar is not a luxury...
a luxury would imply: a universal...
translation... that... all those who could:
would want it... as much as those who
can't: would strive to also want it:
with enough savings to begin with: could...
but... caviar is marmite...
then again... smoked salmon is marmite...
a steak tartar(e) is  marmite...
i'd call a slab of beef: well done
to be... a doubly-butchered piece of meat...
others... are fond of... fish-fingers...

this can be done...
i can keep track of this choo-choo-train...
200 cigarettes per carton...
that's beyond half a year...
     cold turkey the day...
no... 2 cigarettes is too much...
after the whole day done cold turkey...
it's a beneficial ferris-wheel "dilema"
at the end of the day...
oh... esp. with the bouron...
yes... the matter is not going to be
approved for dialectical concerns...

i call for the advent of "sanctimony"...
         the "superiority" coming from the depths
of... not the cold-turkey lot...
nor the: 20 per day...
and zinc and copper licking tongue
numbing at the end of it...
this one a day...
                     and the bourbon...
ogh! mein gott! come to think of it...
the money?!
money comes last...
so much for "saving" the money from...
not smoking...
where to: a vinyl collection...
aaah... a weekend trip to Prague...
you really need a woman
to spend money...
           given that one can become
very... very... satisfied with
the basics...
esp. when one isn't a gambling man...
these days... gamble on what?
well... save up...
and have *** with a bulgarian *******
once a year...
or pretend to...
            that's probably best...
aim at... salvaging... the most...
wortheless maxim of a translation
of value... in the flesh:
the inanimate concept of money...
the guillotined head
of ol' lizzy the II charming
the heads / tails science debate...
          not getting richer...
not getting poorer...
                   playing a sleeper...
beside the essentials...
it's there... but... it's not there...
it's hardly spending...
it's hardly saving...
      it's a cushion... it's not avarice...
it's not...
beside of note:
the veil that's not in iron...
but is... like...
being paid in peanuts...
peanuts... pebbles... the common
denominator of: one-hundred copper-pence
coins in a brass pound!
i'll settle for... just that.

An important message for Christ’s saints,
is to guard hearts from becoming downtrodden.
Attacks started immediately with Man’s creation,
knowing that Adam lost the first estate of Eden.

People must not lose sight of their Godly identity,
during this critical age of holy dispensation.
The Great Commission is still relevant today,
for bringing souls unto the revelation of Salvation.

Eternity is a serious subject that no one,
imbued with the Holy Spirit, should take lightly.
Avoid messages of subverted ideas about the Kingdom;
continue in a Truth-filled life… that shines brightly.

Your belief system demonstrates the way you think;
therefore, daily renew your mind with The Word.
The power of speech yields a degree of influence;
be sure to understand what you’ve learned and heard.

The love of Christ constrains us to spend time with Him;
we’re to repeatedly lift up our voices in prayer.
Cultivate your ongoing relationship with the Lord,
insuring to diligently remain… within His care.

Though we have not reached the fullness of time,
we must remain alert to avoid eternal damnation.
Allow the Holy Spirit to lovingly reveal Truth,
so you may embrace the Kingdom’s fullest dimensions.


Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 28; Phil 2:1-11; Rom 1:16-20

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

An important message for Christ’s saints,
is to guard hearts from becoming downtrodden.
Attacks started immediately with Man’s creation,
knowing that Adam lost the first estate of Eden.

People must not lose sight of their Godly identity,
during this critical age of holy dispensation.
The Great Commission is still relevant today,
for bringing souls unto the revelation of Salvation.

Eternity is a serious subject that no one,
imbued with the Holy Spirit, should take lightly.
Avoid messages of subverted ideas about the Kingdom;
continue in a Truth-filled life… that shines brightly.

Your belief system demonstrates the way you think;
therefore, daily renew your mind with The Word.
The power of speech yields a degree of influence;
be sure to understand what you’ve learned and heard.

The love of Christ constrains us to spend time with Him;
we’re to repeatedly lift up our voices in prayer.
Cultivate your ongoing relationship with the Lord,
insuring to diligently remain… within His care.

Though we have not reached the fullness of time,
we must remain alert to avoid eternal damnation.
Allow the Holy Spirit to lovingly reveal Truth,
so you may embrace the Kingdom’s fullest dimensions.



Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 28; Phil 2:1-11; Rom 1:16-20

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

As much as the **** female is central to underground society, she comes to me in my bedroom.
Those sources of her pulsate with the richness of her beauty.
How many geniuses have been subverted from thought by her.
How many have plunged into desire's depths, reliant on her picture to allay their suffering.
Without sensuality they derobe as if to go to battle. With her in one hand and their shlong in the other, they make their towel wet.
Now with their desire fed, she looks as a mere distraction.
Just another human body she is now.
Her image has been worshipped and they have found no god.

He remembers the day
Although the date eludes him now,
When, after several weeks plumbing dark
Recesses and posing unfathomable questions,
And conducting evermore bizarre experiments
Engendered by this yearning, burning chaotic search,
And impregnated by newly revealed secrets colouring his perspective;
When he lay his head troubled and confused;
When he seethed in frustration and vividly imagined instant death;
When the night was riven by his revelation.

That night everything changed,
For better or worse - worse he suspects.
His brain exploded; his mind expanded;
He touched his core and it seared his soul.
he threw himself out of bed
And danced, and laughed in ecstatic rapture;
And the energy flowed, powerfully emanating his whole being;
And those visions cascaded, joyously unimpeded,
But too quickly to give him any answers:
Just the feeling of a thousand births;
A glimpse of his name encircling the Earth - 200 miles tall;
He an observer, far above a white-clad Assembly
Watching someone (himself?) walk down an adoring aisle;
A million other snatches too brief to echo through the passage of time.

Regardless of the tumultuous avalanche,
The knowledge imparted was certain - it resounded universal truth -
And he knew; knew with an absolute conviction;
absolutely KNEW! His spirit vibrated with celestial significance;
He knew what the chaotic slideshow revealed;
And the revelation enthralled, excited and scared him.
He knew what was meant, but the logic escaped him;
He knew, too, the ramifications, and they dampened the exhilaration;
He knew...and he whimpered in anticipation and awe,
That he was the One. The One!
The One destined; the One Chosen;
The One awaited; the One feared;
The One loved of Gaia and the Universe;
The One cause and the One result;
The One responsible: The One, Alone.

He screamed as he cavorted,
"It's me! It's me! It's me!", and he knew the truth.
He knew, then...but now?
He knew, then...and the certainty infused every fibre within his body.
But now...? After all these years?
Now the doubts prevail;
Now the doubts hold centre stage,
And the certainty crouched, cowering in a dark corner;
Now the doubts, reinforced by countless others, dominate;
Now the doubts twist the glorious vision into delusion;
Now, after stigma and derision, it's delusion, not revelation, acknowledged.
He cannot shake it off -
The kernel of delusion sits hard and solid, stoic;
Colours interaction and coincidence, but is checked,
Subverted to fit a prevalent worldview;
Acknowledged, but swallowed whole -
Lest he succumb, savouring the enshrined power, and becomes another sacrifice.

I am,
I will do,
however many times,
verily, I say to you,
that I am about to die

I am so close.
I can hear his breathing
Behind me when I walk
And I see his shadows behind me
Whenever I look.

However subverted I may seem,
Scythe marks replace footsteps
satirical monologue replace thoughts
Awkward uncertainty replace fate

I am no fool.

I am not ignorant

I just seem to know that
death is very close to me
And I am certain
Beyond all doubt
That there is no foreseeable future

This isn’t a monologue reading of my depression
I am not reciting verses to cure myself
Of these thoughts
in hopes that they will leave me

I’m simply here to express
My distaste for the living
How sweet those secret kisses I stole from death
when we shared the shadows

so in fact
I am not dying
I am falling in love
Which is just the same thing really

A world without Kmart would not be worth anything. People would die, many would cry. A world without Kmart would cause starvation in the U.S. nation.

I

Battered by a brute
Nor’easter, the cottage
rocks in rough wind,
teeters on tall stilts,
architecture animated
by howling provocations
until even the somnolent
wine glasses begin to sway;
suspended and racked in rows
below kitchen cabinets,
crystal clinks on crystal,
clear bells signaling alarm—
the storm forewarned is upon us.

II

This seaside aerie rises
high above sand dunes,
undulating driftwalls
feathered with sea oats.
Protected by weathered
shingles and salt-pocked
windows never shuttered,
the house stands sentry,
stoic structure overlooking
the Graveyard of the Atlantic,
the vast saltwater cemetery
where untold ships and sailors
have come to wreck and ruin,
subverted by shifting sandbars
and chancy wayward currents.

Buried in navigational Neverland,
vessels slumber in oceanic silence
on a seabed as soft as coffin plush.
***** convene in chambers of ruin,
scuttling over rotted mainsail masts;
the jellyfish hover, ghostlike, in hulls
above steerage skeletons bedecked
in crenulated shells and sea anemones.
Plankton settles on shipwreck rust:
pervasive spores, mausoleum dust.
And draped across each wreck,
a pelagic pall of melancholy.  

III

On summer nights, children
chase ghost *****, freezing
them with flashlights, scooping
them into buckets brimming
with a berserk racket of claws
and shells scratching circular
walls of makeshift plastic crypts.
From the top deck, we follow
disembodied beams of light
zigzagging in darkness,
graveyard robbers darting
above holes in the sand,
black portals, each one
the size of a child’s fist.

IV

Years ago, so-called
wreckers would hang
lanterns from horses’
necks and lead the beasts
up and down the beach,
yellow beacons signaling
as though from distant ships
buoyed on placid waters.
The lights lured desperate
vessels inland, unsuspecting
captains and crews crashing
ashore in blind catastrophe.
At daybreak, islanders
scavenged the spoils
of their subterfuge—
silver chalices,
jeweled goblets,
golden cups and bowls—
treasures cast to rapacious
hands upon an indifferent tide.
And of course the corpses came,
caught between shore and sea,
rolling in breakers, stuck
in salty purgatory, churning,
shell-pocked and unsanctified.

V

Tonight a yellow mote of light
floats miles from shore, some ship
flickering like a votive stowed
upon a headstone’s crown.

And the half-drunk bottle
of pinot noir in the ship’s
decanter has me thinking:
When my time comes round,
wait for a moonless night,
black funeral gown
of sky embroidered  
with stars and satellites,
and sneak to the end
of the Avon fishing pier
and release the ashes
from whatever vessel
you’ve decided best
accommodates me.
Scatter finite confetti
to an infinite tomb,
ashes dissolving
unceremoniously
in saltwater,
subsumed.

Next morning,
perhaps catch sight
of a spirited sailboat
tacking over waves,
sails billowing in wind
like the unfurled wings
of a sea bird, full of grace,
alighting from grave to grave to grave.