AN INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF HISTORY IN VERSE : PART ONE
              BY RAJ NANDY
              INTRODUCTION
The very mention of History brings to mind
many civilizations, its wars, with endless
succession of ruling dynasties and kings;
Its many dates and events, which appear to be
rather dull and boring!
“If history were taught in the form of stories, it
would never be forgotten”, said Rudyard Kipling!
So if a good teacher of History narrates those
events like a story within a broad chronological
frame work,
While skillfully linking the present in light of the
past;
Mentioning both important and lesser known
interesting facts to arouse the interest of his
class; -
History would be better appreciated by us!
Perhaps in its narrowest sense, History may be
viewed only as a chronological succession of
dates and past events!
But let me assure you that History is a dynamic
linear progression, adapting and evolving with
changing times,
As present recedes into the past all the while!
These changes could be environmental, socio-
economic, or political changes faced by mankind.
But we remain as a living part of History all the
while!
Yet while we live through History, we fail to realize
the impact we make upon history and time;
And this is perhaps the very magic and enigma of
History,
Which occasionally lends it a touch of mystery!
Our family album is a record of our history we
create and leave behind at the micro level;
Just as past civilizations have left behind their imprints
in their architecture, statues, literature, and works
of art at the macro level !
History breathes and speaks to us from the distant
past,
If only we could pause to hear its unspoken words,
As the Romantic poet John Keats had once heard!
Keats’  “Ode on a Grecian Urn” composed during
early 19th century, -
Harks back to the Classical Age of Greek History!
Keats waxes eloquent in his description of pastoral
scenes painted on the urn which lies frozen in time;
While Keats leaves behind his exalted and eternal
aesthetic message - ‘Beauty is Truth and Truth
Beauty’, - which shall outlive our mortal time!
So it is with History, like the Grecian urn the past  
remains eternalized in time with its lessons and
stories;
While it beckons us to unravel her mysteries!
For the historian, the architect, the geologist,
the anthropologist, scholars and the artist,
‘’History is a continuous dialogue between
the present and the past’’;
As observed by the English historian and
diplomat EW Carr.
Even though we cannot change the past, we can
surely absorb the lessons it has left behind for us!
The Spanish born American philosopher George
Santayana had said; -
“Those who cannot remember the past are
condemned to repeat it!”
The Dutch philosopher Soren Kierkegaard had
once remarked; -
“Life must be lived forward, but it can only be
understood backward.”
So let us learn from past History to create a
better future for humanity.
For the past gives us a sense of belonging
and an identity;
Since our very roots lie enshrined in History!
By the time you complete reading my entire
composition,
I hope to convert you into a Lover of History
by broadening your perception!

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF HISTORY!
Ancient Greece, the cradle of Western Civilization
during the 6th century BC, -
Saw the birth of Philosophy!
Thales of Miletus, Anaximenes, and Anaximander,
from the Greek colony of Ionia on the west coast
of Asia Minor,  (now Turkey)
Broke the previous shackles of all mythical and
superstitious explanations.
With their questioning mind and rational thinking
they sought,  -
To seek the real behind the apparent, and substance
behind the shadow;
By seeking natural and logical reasons for explaining
natural phenomena, -
Free from all previous religious and mythical
interpretations!
Thus, these Milesian School of thinkers in their quest
for truth with their intellectual lust, -
Gave rise to ‘philosophia’, Greek word for ‘love
of truth’, an early birth!
Subsequently, this newly born Greek Philosophy with
its progressive thoughts inspired scientific methods
of inquiry;
Along with Logic, trial by Jury, and the very concept
of Democracy!
The Greeks also inspired Literature, History, Tragedy,
Comedy, the Olympic Games, Astronomy, and Geometry!
Around 500 BC the Greek written script had stabilized,
going from left to right;
And the first addition of vowel letters by the Greeks
to the adopted Phoenician consonants, can never
be denied!
The first two Greek letters ‘alpha’ and ‘beta’ which
gave the name to our Alphabets forms a part of
early History.
Now Herodotus, during the 5th century BC, had
inherited this intellectual Greek Legacy!

HERODOTUS – ‘THE FATHER OF HISTORY’
Herodotus is said to have been born in the ancient
Dorian Greek city of Halicarnassus in south-west
Asia Minor, which is now Turkey;
During the latter half of 5th century BC!
During his days, the city was under the rule of Persia;
Since the Persians had captured the Greek colonies
in Asia Minor!
Frequent revolts by these colonies against the
Persians with help from Athens,
Made the Persian King Darius, and later his son
Xerxes, - decide to invade Athens!
The Persians also wanted to extend their Empire
into Europe across the Bosporus Strait, -
Which divided Asia from Europe in those days!

In 490 BC, when the massive Persian army of King
Darius landed at Marathon as assured victors;
The Athenian running courier Pheidippides ran
150 miles in two days, to seek help from Sparta!
Again later, he ran 25 miles from the battlefield
near Marathon to Athens, to announce that the
Greeks became the final victors!
This historic run by Pheidippides gave rise to the
discipline of Marathon, in our Olympic Games
later on!
Such Marathon runs are now held in many cities
of the world annually,
Thus we remain connected with our past as you
can clearly see!
Years later in 425 BC, Herodotus narrated these
invasions in his famous narrative ‘Histories’.
Cicero the Roman scholar, philosopher and orator,
Had called Herodotus the ‘Father of History’ many
centuries later!
Very little is known about Herodotus’ early life,
But from historical evidence which survive,
We learn about his stay in Athens, and his many
wanderings;
Visiting Egypt, Libya, Syria, Babylon, Susa in Elam,
Lydia, and Phrygia;
Collecting information which he called ‘autopsies’
or ‘personal inquiries’, and hearing many stories;
Prior to composing his famous ‘Histories’!

“THE HISTORIES”: HERODOTUS (430-425BC)
This was written in prose in the Iconic dialect of
Classical Greek,
Covers the background, causes, and events of the
Greco-Persian Wars between 490 and 479 BC.  
Scholars divided the entire work into 9 Books, with
each dedicated to a Greek Muse, - those goddesses
of art and knowledge,
Thereby the Homeric tradition they did acknowledge!
For example, Book-I was dedicated to Calliope, the
Muse of Epic Poetry, and Book-II to Clio, the Muse
of History.
Herodotus begins his narration with these following
words;-
“Here is the account of the inquiry of Herodotus of
Halicarnassus in order that the deeds of men not be
erased by time, and that the great and miraculous
works – both of the Greeks and the barbarians not
go unrecorded.”
Now Herodotus with his lucid narrative style, had
pioneered the writing of History with a specific
framework of space and time!
His style got emulated by later writers of History,
Who improved their narration with better authentic
source and methodology;
Thereby giving birth to the subject of ‘Historiography’.
(Historiography = critical examination of source & selection
of authentic material, synthesis of particulars into a narrative
whole, which shall stand the test of critical methods.)

HERODOTUS’ ‘INQUIRY’ GAVE BIRTH TO ‘HISTORY’!
The ancient Greek word “historia” meant ‘knowledge
acquired by investigation or inquiry’’, and the Greek
‘histore’ meant ‘inquiry’.  
It was in this sense Aristotle later used it in his ‘’Inquires
on Animals’’- during the 4th Century BC;
And this mode of ‘inquiry’ later became ‘History’!
The term ‘History’ entered English language in 1390
as a “record of past incidents and story”.
However, the restriction to the meaning “record of
past events” only, came during the 15th century.
But the German word ‘Geschichte’ even to this day,
Means both history and story, without making
distinction in any way!
Since the story element remains inbuilt in all historical
narrations,
And also remains as a tribute to its author’s creation!
CONCLUDING PORTION WILL BE POSTED LATER AS
PART-TWO. Thanks, - RAJ NANDY.
**ALL COPY RIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR RAJ NANDY,
OF NEW DELHI

Motet: an unaccompanied choral composition with sacred lyrics; originated in the 13th century.  Suggestion: look up on YouTube, the Hilliard Ensemble.*  Jewish tradition says that there are 36 righteous souls on Earth, whom for their sake, God preserves the planet and its inhabitants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Motet II

August 2013

Last night,
I lay with God,
Again.

We made love inimitable,
As if it were the first time.
The music of purity, voices ensemble,
The only commonality.

Afterwards, heaving, sweaty, in bed,
He reminded me that I had already
Written of the motet, long ago,
But permission granted to
Love it, write of it, once more,
As I He, and He, me...

Because after-all, the motet prayers belong to Him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Motet

Nov. 2010

Ce soir, I am prepared, My Love,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen.

The motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.
Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

These voices doth
wrack my fibers,
seethe and contract,
my internal power plant
implodes, heart attack.

Glorious generations of singers,
O woven voices that harmonize,
your motet is
umbilical to my lyrical,  
calming chemical reaction,
I am servant and
you are my server,
uplift, calm and provoke me.

Sing out loud God's
ephemeral, unpronounceable name,
cover me with the fame
of His naturity,
love me with divine kisses,
release unto and within me
the essential oils,
oils by which we breathe,
ancestorally transfused,
oils once called the
blood of the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my past harmonies of poesy,
you shared, lost or just deleted,
tribute unto tribulations human:

I recorded, ven diagrammed,
sorrowed tales of souls waylaid,
debts foreclosed, dues unpaid,
tales of non-fictional agonistes,
suffering a tutti frutti of sarcastic
Earthly  Delights.

Wrote writs re some poor souls,
Prado preserved,
by threading and dying,
on a cloistered tapestry
woven by Adonai worshipers.

With those selfsame oils,
they painted anticipated memories of
Heaven and Hell,
the ones of which I write,
far too oft.

But this night,
In my customary hour
when inspiration is my only tongue,
in the lean hours after midnight,
afore dawn's orangerie of
morning skyed break fast,
I am risen, nourished and
uplifted by the motet's synthesis,
by what I hope to see,
by what I wish to hear.

For I watch,
porched and perched on rooftop,
in the company of
urban spelunkers and debunkers,
all of us desperados,
differing reasons for despair,
yet together,
a human minion-minyan of ten,
we search Jerusalem,
from the Battery to the Cloisters
for glimpses, hints of human angels,
the thirty six^
ministering to the
homeless and dreamless,
to us all.*

Ce soir, I am prepared,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen,
the motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.

Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

Reveal, reveal to me the identity
of your ministering angels!

As the thirty six preserve me,
motet me on eagle's wings, and
return us to you Lord,
that we may be returned.

Renew our days,
as they were before,
when the motet
was bright, organic,
in each of us.






----------------------------------------
^www.neveh.org­/winston/wonder36/36-08.html

Burlesque fatuous is the implication of your emotional daily pretentiousness. I am seldom, otherwise a psychopath, able
to own fraternity which I can't
discernment or jester because there is an art to love and ******
And it's a conventional edit to your own dullness. I am vivid,
Debris to impersonation.
I am absent but identical
to thin air. I am a Prometheus
Arabian night in Lysistrata premise.
My words may remind you of the day I held your eyes in infinite cluster. Perhaps my love isn't enough for you to understand. For example, the glassed vain is paralysis iridium illicitness which is svelte to inadmissible synthesis. The cloud let are torsion, assail with cypress and impossible solariums; and the propane was a sensation of disjointed loveliness.
Every time I go for a walk, mosquitoes understand my lonely talks because they sip my blood at a quarter past ten but these glazed roads scrutinized my wrist, escorted vernal preposterous blue/purple relentless ghostly cheekbones.
Thought I could festive the blaze among the cedar bridge road
but take a pause and look at my skin and thighbones,
Preterists to flowered unless I smile and tell you
"This is heartbreak"*

*Unable to keep up with your facetiousness, personality failed me temporarily. Mind melting in a moment of dissonance,
This cognitive refrain refracts the 'I' that oscillates accordingly.
One's morphology, tuned to its own metric of change.
Hypnos whispers and sleep beckons, taunting insomnia (which makes a mockery of all humans) but Morpheus has no time for anything less than grandiose archetypes.
Last night I may have dreamt or drunk some foolish things, told people the truth untruthfully, let slip more than I should have.
What a pity, secrecy. They say
information wants to be free.
Who lingers in the details?
Past memories are liberated only by the present. I stand here in the downpour, soaking it all in.
Compassion, god is in the rain.
My fulgurite heart resting on the palm of a deity, at a tilt, slowly it's sliding off; when it fell I gasped.
The reflection of wide eyes in each of its atria, emotion flowing through these venae cavae, those
dilated eyes shimmered before it shattered, gleaming with passion. Us, in the blink of an I.

i could tell you how certain stations on the London underground
smell, but i can't capture you this smell...
a bit like in that film Perfume: scents are lost over time,
with regards to places -
                            unlike the eternal pine forest...
or the zest of lemon...
                                         those are universal scents...
one could and humanity has: created a synthetic answer
and copied these scents... made synthetic tastes
a whole chemistry of a posteriori scents and tastes...
Kant and chemistry are a perfect combination...
given the classical schematic:

analytical                         analytical
a priori                             a posteriori
apples grow on               tomatoes:
trees and                          categorised as fruits          
carrots grow                    yet used as vegetables
in the earth                      the analysis being
since apples                     even though they grow
are a fruit                         on something: trees,
while carrots                    bushes, vines...
are a root vegetable,       analysis has found that
ergo?                                 they are better treated
all vegetables                   as vegetables rather than
grow in the earth            fruits, since one rarely cooks
while all fruits                 savoury meals with fruit
grow on trees                  yet the tomato is used
or shrubs                         plentifully in savoury cooking


synthetic                          synthetic
a priori                           a posteriori
■, ▲                                   in light of the given examples
(geometry)                        in the realm of the analytical
and the propositions       a priori: that fruits grow on
that come with                 trees or bushes
them:                                  there's the pineapple
e.g. c² = a² + b²                   anomaly:
or physics:                         pineapples grow on the ground
e = mc²                                (in the ground) like cabbage-heads
                                            grow in much the same fashion...

i always struggle with the a posteriori conceptualization...
in the original i wrote as can be seen above...
are tomatoes the byproduct of
analytical a posteriori knowledge?
i.e. they are fruits that are used as vegetables (used,
hell, even treated as such)... because you will not find
a tomato desert as such...
the classification of a tomato as a fruit:
given how it grows... would also invoke the cucumber
to be treated as a vegetable:
vegetables are not as juicy as fruits...
the flesh of the fruit is usually softer and certainly
more juicy... while the flesh of the vegetable
is more bulky and requires cooking and salt
to extract the juices oh a higher carbohydrate
concentrate of the fibrous nature...

pineapples... a fruit that grows like a vegetable
in the earth...
i like this "confusion" in my head...
i'm not going to clarify it...
            i leave this curiosity in my writing on purpose...
analytical a posteriori facts:
well... first having categorised the tomato as a fruit:
upon analysis... true: the tomato behaves like
a fruit... but upon analysis: after the fact:
it is better used as a vegetable...

         and the synthetic a posteriori truth about
the pineapple? then again: i know where i might be going wrong...
isn't synthetic a posteriori knowledge possible?
it's not as simple as the pineapple example
based on: fruits grow on trees while vegetables grow in
the earth... i can only find questions
on the possibility of synthetic a priori knowledge...
ergo? of course synthetic a posteriori knowledge
is possible...
    it's ingrained in chemistry...
what does synthetic a posteriori knowledge look like?

a chemist tastes a lemon... and he tries to replicate
the taste of lemon using chemicals...
he breaks down the chemistry of the lemon...
and? with due course... replicates the taste of lemon
without actually using a lemon!
he breaks the lemon to the basic components
of citric acids and whatever else is needed to replicate
the taste of lemon and grind it into a powder:
chemistry is synthetic a posteriori knowledge...
isn't it?

the examples i cited with the pineapples:
it doesn't matter that the pineapple behaves like
a vegetable when it grows...
apart from that sick idea of a Hawaiian pizza toppings...
pineapple? ham?! you what?!
that's not synthetic a posteriori knowledge:
that's just a ******* whim of bad-taste...
there's no actual synthesis of the pineapple growing
as a vegetable and the "ingenuity" of treating
it like a bad idea for a pizza topping...
the tomato: however... is a pristine example
of analytical a posteriori knowledge:
sure... it's categorised as a vegetable...
because of the way it grows... compared to actual vegetables:
but? you wouldn't allow the tomato
to be bitten into like an apple... you wouldn't bake
a tomato cake as you might bake a banana cake...
the analysis concludes: our knowledge of fruits is this...
and we have this vegetable: the tomato
that's a fruit... but it would be better suited
in being used like a vegetable...

synthetic a posteriori does exist... it just doesn't apply
to pineapples for the simply reason that they
grow like vegetables... they're still going to be fruits...
synthetic a posteriori knowledge is chemistry...
it has to exist because a pineapple is
not a synthetic a priori "idea" of TASTE let alone
virtue or however Kant framed it...

ugh... my first day back at Craven Cottage...
little ****** steward: i hate these hierarchies...
it's a petty army of high-viz. jackets...
   i wasn't the supervisor but i had some colts under
my "supervision"... i tried to smooth things over:
i did... in the end i wanted to see Fulham play
Liverpool... i spread the word around:
this is *******... they should have put us inside
the stadium...
   but... the weather was the loveliest and the Thames
was tide-out... two seagulls arguing...
in the shade: this part of London is truly mesmerising...
i love the smell of the Thames with the tide out...
in the shade under these mammoth-esque splendours
of foliage...
hell... i even managed to spot my first KONIK
(little horse)... that's slang for... those ******* that buy
tickets at the regular price... then hang around the stadium
and try to push the tickets at a hyper-inflated price...
the ****** was selling the tickets for £250 for two!
and this was after the first half finished!
i told one of the guys with a radio:
call this in...
                          i had to repeat myself about 3 times
before the management agreed to my concern...
they sent two spare police officers to the person in question...
he almost sold those ******* tickets...
one minute i see him pretend to tie his shoelaces
(he wasn't pretending) - his black cap
disappearing under the bushes... next minute:
wh'ah where?! ****** did a runner...
so he wasn't tying his shoelaces "on a whim":
he was about to do a runner...

                  that's ******* exploitation...
that's like: stealing... capitalism at its worst...
the ingenuity of crime: oh... but it's innocent crime...
it's i buy something for £30 but...
i'll sell it for you for £250...
                             now... it's not antiques! it's not a *******
van Gogh painting that has been lying around
for quite some time... gaining a repertoire and a reputation
as something good, worthwhile:
it's a ******* football match ticket!
hyper-inflation like under the Weimar Republic...
money good as "gold": "gold" as in winter fuel,
timber the new platinum!

after all: there was no real synthetic a priori knowledge:
chemistry is hardly a question of appearance,
water is clear, but so is hydrochloric acid...
what else is clear? sodium hydroxide...
                 chemistry was born from synthetic a posteriori
knowledge...
how many chemical experiments came as a surprise
a sort of anti-Eureka of synthetic a priori knowledge?
champagne springs to mind... lysergic acid comes
to mind: no one was actually trying to find these things...
e.g. they did not come about through analytical
a posteriori knowledge: they arose from
a dimension of the synthetic a posteriori knowledge:
by chance: by accident...

sure... i might be doing a ******-low-skill job right
now: and it is... i'll admit...
it's super **** sometimes:
most of the time my coworkers are either
over-bearing ego-maniacs fixated on hierarchy,
or they're lazy Somali youths...
or just plain-sighted Nimrods...
i sometimes leave my mind to wander...
that when i get the jerks in the feet like
i'm about to fall over... like for bearskin hatted
soldiers on parade...
but i leave my mind to wander:
it's not an insult if it's true...
                  no: when i was a roofer and fiddling
with inanimate things there was more focus
on the work to be done... dealing with people
is a crass differentiation from perfecting how an inanimate
ought to behave under your hands...
to turn a roll of felt into a water-insulated roof
with a roll of fleece and enough tar...
people are different: i'm sort of studying people...
gearing myself to hover in on children in schools...

if Leibniz preferred the profession of librarian
and a private intellectual life of par excellence...
i wouldn't think twice about becoming a primary school
teacher than being a secondary school
teacher of chemistry...
**** me: if drag queen hour is about to be imported
from America: i best (better) step in...
i just imagine: well... unlike a barren woman...
who has no children...
who goes into a profession akin to primary school
teaching... but then i'd arrive...
i know the obvious stereotype to battle:
PEDOHPILE! ha ha...
           Ava Lauren: just my type... plump...
full-bodied... probably the age of my mum by now...
that's my type...
i need something rounded of:
a 5.9 = a 6... just an example...
                
             but i let my mind wander... when roofing
you couldn't leave your mind to wonder...
i could... tell you of the specific scents in certain
underground stations... Baker Street? is that the one
with the Victorian arches, a station under the bridge?
i don't remember...
Putney Bridge is a beautiful station...
but today i took the route:
Romford via train... got off at Stratford... waited for a minute
for the central line...
(i love meditating on the topic of tubes maps...
there are only two important lines
in London... why? based on how many times
they intersect... the Central Line and the Piccadilly
Line... they only intersect at Holborn)...
travelled to Holborn... not sitting...
at each carriage there are these half-seats...
you're leaning back... standing-sitting...
i felt so relaxed... i gave way to the momentum
of the tube...
i was moving backwards and forwards...
head nodding... shoulders doing the mr. plastic-fantastic...
i almost tried to remember the remaining
tension in my body... the grip i had on a bottle
of water and a packet of tortilla wraps...
the rest of me was: freed...

when it comes to scents... that's one thing:
everyone knows it's a stupid idea to change tube
lines at Bank... why? well... Bank it connected
to Monument...
it's a city within a city: a London 2.0... oh oh:
yes it ******* is... never change at Bank...
anyway... as i was relaxing having closed my eyes...
i can tell you where the best sounds of
machinery exist in London?
between Liverpool St. - Bank - and Chancery Lane...
mind you... i cycle the route from time to time...
what's above? is not, what's above...
compared to cycling... this route is like:
watching the original Dune movie...
i'm strapped to a ******* earthworm...
or: being digested by one while listening to
the clag glug and clamour iron biting iron...
i sometimes do the "twirl" of the tube above
ground... just after Aldgate...
i head towards Brick Lane... toward Liverpool St.
prior to reaching Bank St.:

all the Piccadilly Stations between Holborn and
Earl's Court have this sickly sweet stench
about them... it's sickly sweet... it's: sickly sweet...

i remember back in St. Augustine's we had one
female primary school teacher...
some ****** proverb speaks the words:
woe unto you for having to care for the children
of others...
while i'm thinking: that would be a worthwhile challenge...
i don't want any of my own:
the fear of ******* them up more than
i was ****** up wears me down...
at least with the genes of strangers
i can send in an auxiliary covert party of my psyche...
who would i send in? the usual suspects...
Kant, Heidegger, Newton, Ezra Pound...
oh... the list is pretty long...

most probably Rumi hanging around with
Zhuangzi... Ovid and Horace...
ooh... terrible idea to start drinking whiskey
after binge-eating a watermelon...
the burps i'm getting back:
******* postcards from Uan Muhuggiag (Libya)...
i'm seeing camels double the number of their humps!
not good... absolutely no good

burp... ooh... this watermelon will not go down
so good... while i worry about *******
myself come tomorrow morning...
unlike the Red Hot Chilly Peppers singing
the fames of California:
what do i have? i have the countryside of Essex
and the incursions in the concrete staccato
of London... i can mediate this...

              burp: well... at least it's whiskey mingling
with the juices of a watermelon...
i much prefer that to the half-digested acidic
meat of any sort...
                 that's healthy burping and healthy farting
for your...
hmm... investing in children... that's an idea...
i once remarked to a boy in a supermarket:
you know... how a while i thought animals
were incapable of seeing 3D objects
in a 2D canvas: i.e. why wouldn't animals
watch television with men?
today i had a "Fred" pester me for a bite
of my tortilla roll...
i would have given it to him freely:
i wasn't that hungry...
   so i asked his owner: so... what's his diet like?
oh... Fred has had pretty stomach upsets...
he spent the past three days eating mulberries
from a tree...
ooh! i love mulberries: who couldn't be more upset?
the dog or the mulberries?
ugh: these kind of people:
that have their dogs on a ******* vegan diet...
hey! Fred! bite into this tortilla wrap!
i have learned that the food man eats
if also eaten by a dog tastes better:
after it was eaten by man!

o.k., fair enough Fred... you have an owner that
deserves having you: but no children...
i'd put you in the same category as a child...
children, dogs, cats...
things that might stir in man the unusual:
certainly not Darwinistic / genetic investment
that might reduce a man's hormonal balance...
mate... you look at me that dumb-***** eyed way
one more time... let me pat you on the head
like i have... you're coming with me to the land
of eternal tortillas wrapping around chicken
and bacon: there's no "yes" as there's no "no"...

but that's London for you...
            and that's also Essex for you...
i spent an entire day in London?
where did i find those cheap-*** beauties of womanhood?
i didn't find them in London:
i had to travel back to Romford to find...
i sat down to eat a snack bucket in a chicken shop:
three spicy wings, some chips...
mayonnaise and some chilly sauce...
a 7up... £3.50... i enjoyed the meal
and thought about: nothing...
nothing is usually hard to "think" about...
you get into geometry: to prolong your time at pretending
to look "cool"... when eating alone...

i hopped on the bus... watched two hunchbacks
of an elderly couple "manage" their way own:
what cruel fate... the extension of mortality
via science... may i never see myself
that old... reduced to being the child of Atlas...
no... i don't care for the sensibility of secularism
and science...
old age transcends both of these:
it's the reality of old age...
prolonged old age is best renowned
and celebrated by lizards: turtles most in fact...
mammals look weird...
mammals look weird when their life is prolonged:
unnaturally: via the basis of science!

start giving out re-prescriptions to people
with a a faith in science but no hope in hope...
start selling them hopes of eternity...
this materialistic "eternal life": is drawing us closer
to no closure...
there comes a life: there coms a death of said life...
it's not fair to pretend that the inevitiable
is "not" going to happen: it will...
the tyranny of old age...
                  by the standards of the Benelux:
i'm more than willing to bow out...

who knows! i am not willing to simply live
for the awkward presence of strangers
on a basis of anomalies and non-intrusions
of some freaked-up formalities...
to hell with that: i have no evolutionary-existential
plight of  "conscience" that might make me suppose:
on racial grounds: that the human "effort"
will disappear: outright: completely:
sure... chances are... humanity will be governed
by more people willing to ***** cities of death via
the pyramid... people engage in the magic carpet
flights of Islam and pseudo-Islam from regions
akin to Somalia and Bangladesh:
my problem? i can't live forever! can i?

et scriptum est...
i like being toyed around as being the idiot...
it helps me grow...
and it was so written...
                ergo? ut necesse sit!
(and so it must be)
  ha ha! ah ha ha h ha ha!
vulnus ferrum:
                  sanguis respiratio
scratch of iron:
breathing blood!
            
mortuus est mori: the dead must die!
vivos debet mori /
vivos non sunt exceptio!

i work among people that make my intellect:
CLOWN!
   i entertain them... i must...
but their intellect is about as much:
grappling as... i don't know what!
i'm out of metaphors and aphorisms...

                        intelligence is discouraged when it comes
to a working environment...
           i'm like Leibniz... i'm unlike Newton...
my ambitions a "cowering" in a personal enterprise...
i like the individualism of m own enterprise:
i don't hope to solve or save the problems of
a common man... nope!
                
last time i heard? the train has arrived:
i also heard: the train is leaving...
well... i'm i geared up:
what do i care for the famines in Ethiopia?!
i don't care for claiming responsibilities for
people who don't take responsibilities for
themselves!
starve?! **** it... why not?"
oh right... one of the Somali types?!
pretend it's work by hiding behind the bushes?!
ergo? behind the bushes i pretend to shower you
with free bread and pork? don't like pork?
eat dirt instead!

i'm done: free-loaders: i'm done with them...
i'm so ******* with these Somalis that you can't even begin to comprehend!

The lotus calls another time;
right now, just bring your lips to mine—
a congress of the simplest kind,
yet steeped in fever, still divine,
this tangled frame of skin and breath 
urged onward to its little death
on rolling seas of hands and hips;
the synthesis of fingertips—
my shaking legs, a testament
to a winter's afternoon well spent.

now i see the frenzies of Dionysian composition,
quiet clearly, the uninhibited use of language,
a whirlpool through which words become unshackled,
and each screaming its own solipsism as,
walking through this forest, touching each tree
to make a sentence seems more like a crazed running
around; but never mind that -
if only the former tongue was not embedded in me,
if only this tongue were the sole occupant,
the lingua rex, the sole victor over both body
and mind, so that no stirring-up of the soul could
ever take place - but it was not to be so -
in favour of the acquired tongue i have proofs of
volumes in expression - of the organic tongue embedded
in early development i have proofs of tenacity -
and a certain straitjacket in terms of speed of composition;
yet there is no lingua rex that might shove
one or the other under the carpet, lock it in the basement,
for if even one is used, the other is working beneath
it, or at least the mentality of it - immediately translated -
if only i came earlier and as early as to allow a quick
cutting of the root from the trunk:
old trees are not to be replanted, some say,
youthful trees, some say, can take root many times
in many places:
                the tenant farmer noble stands equal
                                             to the noble army commander;
or what would have been a second education had it
not been interrupted - as if t build up a national identity?
trivial the years between 1795 and 1918, don't you think?
if one set of national identifiers are lost, a second list
of integration identifiers seem like a farce twice-over -
thank god the anthem is easy to sing:
        god save our gracious queen...
        send her victorious, happy and glorious...
em... what's the rest of it? i'm sure embracing no identity,
no history, no stigmata for myself or my neighbour,
just apart, drifting, problem is, where to put the tongue?
the tongue is already tattooed with what it is that came
before, and what comes after - we're not taught
historical erasure - has my mouth suddenly become a
cave for a sewer serpent? it would appear so -
some say enticing - some say revolting - in the end
a banker would just put it like this: what a load
of crock-****, he sees a south korean deliver him a package,
asks him whether he speaks the language, the south
korean replies yes, the banker replies: good to know -
a ****** sense of utility! but someone has to do
the writing akin to chocolate left in the sun -
the goo of things where otherwise it would be a shaking
of hands in Warsaw and yet more revenue and yet more
investments - genesis of selling London by the pound:
reflection of the surroundings? the Cockneys are moving
into Essex, that's the end of the line -
and i swing between 22 years here weighing less than
8 years where the uprisings from 1795 through to 1918
took place - well, poetry is not exactly banking,
the sentimental attachment? that too... but would a name
like wink tak lumu make more sense to have,
but speak only a word or two of the native? like the ones
who went over to syria to only scratch the surface of
arabic? they say adab (etiquette), salat (prayer),
adl (justice), da'wah (calling), ummah... but they do so
with east London accents, jihadi john's oi oi,
me and my gansta posse gonna shoot the kurf to hell -
is this what happens to the tongue stretched between
two horizons? Napoleon said that a man who knows
two languages is worth two men, man knowing three
is equivalent of three men - which is why you never
seem to take root in the specific locality of the tongue,
cosmopolitan in suburbia, nearing farmers' market
and proper pub grub on Sundays... i guess easier in
name only, but i sometimes wish i had enough time to
have an identity than a chameleon's perspective on
things - 4 accents in the ratio to 2 tongues -
13 years of synthesis, 9 years of analysis - it was never
going to be a smooth ride with constant synthesis,
at some point questions would pop up like mushrooms
after the rains in autumn - but i'm sure few people
can share the memory of picking honey fungus deep
in the forest, this one memory sticks out for me:
deep in the forest, a city of armillaria, literally a city
of this fungus, collected and then pickled, in autumn,
just after the rain - and where vegetation decomposes
fungi sprout. i can still see the earliest human near there,
a flint quarry, an entire town built from wood,
it's there - rezerwat przyrody krzemionki opatowskie,
which is no big deal with the study of turtles on
the Galapagos - that's the cut-off point for me, i can't
imagine humanoids, it's sensible like that -
but that's exactly my point, the early development,
it can be overpowering for later development, given
later development was largely constricted by an
education system, linear stand-in-line conformity -
from early development: the freedoms and the myths;
how even the ugliest communist buildings looked
prettier than what social housing provided in england,
largely because it was the norm, crucially because it was;
and so much free wild space around, not this neat
pristine cutting up of rural area where grids set
a definite path for you - crucially, the english suburban
solitude: got to go into the city and play with the kids
they'd say - later of course computers and even more
instanced of being cooked up - easier said than done
but easily done solo - think of the weirdos of China's
one state policy - me too akin - solo.
coming back to the years mentioned, after the partition
of the commonwealth - i imagine the romantic futility
of it now, but how strong the urge to not sprechen
or говорить - but the futility being, no honey
after 1918, a bit of honey trickle after 1945 when
comrade Marx paid a visit, some say the years up
to 1990 were good, some just remember the years when
Marshall Law was put in place, the hyenas at supermarket
checkout, only vinegar on the shelves, and queues,
queues as far as the eye could see, pensioners did their
bit, waited in line and chatter, Solidarity pamphleteers
made it to the U.S.A. on political asylum - could
the Soviet empire have collapsed and been partitioned
as bloodily as the Ottoman empire we're currently seeing?
want to flip a coin on that one? aspiring Ukraine of
2012 was edging in, co-host and all, now? not so much
an aspiring Ukraine, some easterners shouted for their
mummy - mummy came rushing in at Crimea - daydream
over - back to square one.
truly, a user of the tongue, and obviously nothing more,
no part of me here, no part of me there -
or in summary as worked from Heidegger's dasein,
in translation da = both here and there... hence
danichtsein, i identify with using the tongue,
and as true as is true of this antonym, it's an apathy,
there's no concern - it's a blatant way of saying:
i'm not even going to open the ****** newspaper and
invite the world in, ich bin ein inselbewohnerin.

philosophers suffer the same fate as merchants; when merchants grow old they lament their life's worth, they lament along the lines: i've sold things to people in excess, their lives have become cluttered, they bought things they didn't really need, even in terms of digestable products, they simply throw these excesses away. philosophers akin? we thought things most people didn't really want to think about, we cluttered their minds with thoughts that had no point of relevance, points of exhaustion, points of common sense usage; we simply filled their minds like the merchants filled their houses with things that were simply jumbled up. this i conceded when i heard a banker talk of the vanity in newton's work, for who would need calculus and the regularity of bomb transit? after all, the banker didn't invest in companies responsible for using balistics based upon newton's laws of motion.*

waking to a setting sun can drain a man’s expectance,
esp. if the sun be setting behind a gray pillow
of cloud that demands england acknowledge it’s her sky,
it’s past sartre’s 3pm schedule, now nothing can be done,
but just you wait, when the morning vitality crawls into you,
even without a sense of creativity, writing a
mundane-sort-of poem like this one, you will be
less bothersome and even less bothered than expected,
mainly because your drinking & writing session
in the night was shorter than expected -
also mainly because your computer got a cold,
a virus, a snotty knose, the arrow cursor decided to
have a mind of its own and started to twitch,
you lost control, like that garbage-removal driver
in glasgow who started to harvest people on the street
after suffering a heart attack or something -
it’s not even paranoia that got me writing this, sober,
the arrow cursor really did disobey me and i had to stop
writing... it was like watching the birth of frankenstein a.i.,
well with all that connectivity in the world, science fic
and what not, time for techno fiction;
as in considering the loop: a.i. is a blank canvas,
not an acronym for artificial but analytic intelligence,
then some s.i. (synthetic intelligence) due to many more instances
of familiarity - analysis of the new, synthesis of the old -
artificiality would encompass the philosophical notion that
this world is illusionary, and this to define robots but not us
in order to keep faith with a mundane religiosity?
it's all about the kantian compass (north west, south east,
north east, south west, east, west, north, south),
although the latitude and longitude degree notations
are: analytic a priori, synthetic a priori,
        synthetic a posteriori, analytic a posteriori,
and one of them is impossible / simply denied our
comprehensibility of it - analysis from what comes before
(true), synthesis from what comes before (untrue,
i.e. i don't know this, because i don't know my own
consequences should i imitate to suit a similarity),
synthesis from what comes after (true, e.g. someone
steals and goes to prison, sets an example, you don't
imitate), analysis from what comes after (the preceding
point's relevance - as one who inherits the consequence
exampled, one knows the consequence of such an example
and does not engage with it, on the a priori de facto basis);
but true / untrue are absolutes, and can easily contradict
an understanding of something like the mentioned
directions of knowing something / rather than walking
towards it - there is a contradiction in there somewhere:
i can be humble enough to concede defeat on a point.

when everything everywhere
whispered in irresistible languages

hey you there
stop resisting

i began to surrender
was flowing free

stretching
wings flapping

toward the unknowable
inside

experimented with ditching
body as identification
name as identification
personal history as identification

faded off
mad word searching
explaining  justifying
reiterating too much information

i loosened my squeeze grip
on intellectualism
tell-me-how-to-be spiritual books
whatever the famous someone
said once then got bronzed over

i surrendered to universal unity
where i lavishly decorated
my living changing dream
with my own snap choices

i was flowing with fresh
synergetic synthesis

returned outside to pedestrian streets
where angelics mixed in
wore transparent disguises

i began to flow
forgiveness out and in

skipped a light fandango
splashing puddles was
answer to inclement weather

i set wooden faces
to smiling after
i switched my own

i rolled on through
perceived stop signs
of the everlasting no

incinerated all my karma with
nownownow
wonwonwon

made myself
stock still

experienced
yes yes

relaxed awareness

breathed
emptiness

opened all my hands

a toast to the gods of self preservation
twenty one with plenty coming
allowing to pound sounds within
the crown aroused voided a founders of it’s bruises
spells hold the fold, I’m coasting with the best
resting in the east so I sleep with blinds low
the comfort zone is far from solitude
my molecules have aptitude to channel Jupiter
seatbelts are useless wastes of matter, excuse me
just a minute so you can miss me with that individuality
your calloused grip on reality impairs the singularity
old school, gold noose, silver lined diamonds
Jesus pieces reaped the seeds that teach your blind lids
came back with scabbed knuckled and heart scars
hustled the portal of pretension ever so ethereally
inner synthesis purged the day the plague hit
on the courts or the graves, you name the slaves
the game slayed the day the chains changed hands

[sweet pungent synthesis]
always with dank hysterical women demonstrating the distilled liquid elixir of their many years in isolation.
they are the nitrogen-rich followers of an ultraviolet shrine, such is
a photosynthetic life-form, reacting/enacting/enhancing.
they reach for holes in the moon &
on four-legged fumes carbonize seeds into sons and daughters. birth/
life.
all flowers ache forth to display color and/or
their varietals of hairy oil content.
to dip psychotropics, thus the worship of brain frequency and light.
fresh progress,
the sugar crystal compounds impacting, intact, and swollen.
trichomes, like huddled little masses of grandbabies bowed upon the ridge.
she drips
in dance and derives her form from properties plucked by time,
by moms, and pops.
to discover is to find purity in a moment.
pure travel/ pure
death.
this growing force,
this apparition of sound within me. organics.
organisms bound by great beauty and failure.
sense not the vivid panic, or the shock of last black, but hold true
to an inner joyous/outer motionous, tessellation that is, this
fluttering of us.
us suit of hearts.
suit of leaves.
the fusion of two bodies far beyond substantial pressure.

I've never felt
But I'll tell you how it feels
Her hips will sway, his eyes will undress
He will sip his drink, she will ******
Muster up the courage to ask for a dance
**** eyes
She will touch, but he will touch more
Moving with the beat, hands will roam
He went too far, she redirected
Not now she says; the night is too young
Love and passion will grow, if only for one night
It will feel real, their eyes will question
And they will lean in closer
Lips will collide, heat and *** will ensue
It will end in the dark of night
With naked bodies in synthesis
Two lovers, entangled in the sheets

To be taken silently with violence
Not to utter a salutation
Just the cracking of a door hinge
And a look that indicates that stopping your desires would be laughable
An absurdity
not to be pondered!

The jolting sound of head cracking against metal
And wrist yearning to be ground to the bone
After hours of  furtive clutching
The kind on nail bending fervor that just takes the taste right from bread

Grabbed into a cranium synthesis
Im am forever enslaved in the darkest corridor of your existence
I doubt I will ever be able to leave this lighting wasteland
The eagerness pounding through the point were skin meets weapon

I am infiltrated like a shanty filled village
A real slum filled valley
Hopeless against tracking systems and torture methods
You plunder my underdeveloped hospitality
Like Jesus to a farm boy

As I scream ******* Mongoloid
I am gasping into your filth
A sacrificial lamb
Bliss by the slaughter wells

Mouthfuls of disgust
As your knees jab deep into skid row
Grinding the forgotten and the deserted
Until they are flattened corpses

****** dry of the water holding them together
You are pleased
The phantom has been fed and to ask for seconds would only tease the lamb
As I lay gushing organs with a smirk

Broken bent and emaciated  
I feel alive and it is wondrous.

that's what i found so problematic in
understanding thought,
but concerning the idea of a flux
i found the stasis point in it,
it was better translated by the cartesian basis
of inquiry, i can't negate thinking
because the ontology of thought
is primarily synthetic to pass the time,
rarely analytic unless professional,
so i dropped the a priori / a posteriori
compounding crap and came up with
good enough reasons for cognitive analysis
and cognitive synthesis...
i can relax now, i guess...
so wrote something in a hardcover by horace
to remind me of the origins of biases and bases...
kindergarden swing tactic and pendulum continuum,
i hate to break it to you, but my thought
has no megaphone in the 18th century,
but my words have a place in the 22nd century
given the 21st century provide the images
i'm bound to decipher...
i guessed the asian girl was a robot...
and subsequently i thought all those things
i wrote in the poem prior...
imagination is hard to insist with regards to successful
usage... it uses no patent geometry or
skeletal phoneticism of reminder...
you will not remember a picasso to say something...
but i bet you'll remember an m to utter the sound
em em mmm mumble, funny how it works.
we're not in art gallery... we're just buying
potatoes for home-made *****...
we're living under martial law in poland
before the anticipated soviet invasion and we're happy...
not like now... the silicon god of the microchip
chopped our limbs and we lost the amazon
green for london grey cement and cemetery...
we're here, there's not point poking fun at my grimace
with a flashlight.
so losing the timing of knowledge... the spacing
of knowledge is an onion metaphor for a working
car engine: drilling team in arabia,
the pirates of somalia,
the cargo ships from scandinavia,
the flirty whipping rich boy scouts asking for
a next **** mojito of fever...
well... i did the opposite to english...
i allowed "*****" words into the vocabulary i use
rather than allow dirt images to weave a spiderweb
enclosing the spider...
i rather censor images than censor words...
poor tactic to censor images...
sometimes a nibble of sadism will penetrate
this whole provision of safe *****,
censor "*****" word usage and you'll only
allow dirtier than the ***** words to enter via
images... my god... you must be a sensitive cubist!
we'll allow **** cannibalism and squares...
but we won't allow the representative of
seasonal cannibalism of spring eating autumn
with the tetragrammaton's H & H (twinned temperament
in coordinate starting vector 0ºC
then donning the appropriate clothes while
the trees change their muscles leaving the skeletal exposed),
or acknowledging that there's only a definite
capital delta / y in writing -
we synthesised the square the circle the triangle...
we got π and pythagorean equation...
we gave these shapes the thesis categorisation of scalpel...
we cut with them...
but then they cut us... mathematicians committing
suicide with drills over the π-continuum
that's anti-trigonometric surrounding anti-matter...
but as society goes... courtesy in speech
doesn't necessarily provide courtesy and chivalry
in action...
censor the words ****... and then watch the emerging show
that's antonymous to the majority of time
spent in commute: dumb gloom & grey fancy
to create a rainbow like a shaman.

Traffic lights spread across the Opal sky
He held my face
His gentle, warm palms, magnetic on my skin
Fervorous glow embraced my chest
Beat to beat, my heart bled into the fog.

Leaning his forehead against mine,
I felt my thoughts blending with his skin.
A synthesis of feelings, an ocean of colours.
his lips find mine and heat ripples across my face
Cloudy breaths caressed my skin
This time, the sky didn't blend with tears.
This night, the lights were dry.

Into the whispering dreams
Of your faithful eyes
I walked for days of mist
Looking for the hope
That speaks to eternal images.
Sweet smell ran neck to neck
Inside the starry depth
Of your overwhelming mouth
And I bathed with your light
Kissing our smiles over darkness.
There I am a hidden path
Under quiet wind
Awaiting for snowflakes
Which drop from the wooden basket
Of your bicycle-myth.
Little by little
Paint me green with
Those frosty memories of incarnation,
To mould me in a tree
That only gives birth to
The sweet fruitfulness of us.

Fake plastic roses balanced in a ***
Fake plastic flowers adorn the patio
They say these flowers are beautiful
But no, they are simply synthetic to the skeletal

It’s like the things we think are cute
The things we think we are supposed to do
But simply living in an outer plastic mold
We burn that skin organic to our kin

Throw a little grit, paint a little bit
Unveil the perception which have filmed our minds
Give a little ****, care for that abandoned soul
We are not all numbers on a metric scale inclined

These plastic flowers glisten from the sunlight
Yet they are not there for photosynthesis in sight
They may be pretty to look at
But they are fake and plastic, if you haven’t known that

i. the 1st week is the rapid hemostasis. the fabric of your body clutching itself together, rushing to staunch the bleeding. you breathe and oxygen settles in your chest like needles. you are so tired. you, in your continent of pain, will never be enough of anything for anyone. you burn softly as your cells scuttle to repair the damage. you burn in silence.

ii. the 2nd week is the inflammation. the itching and swelling of flesh. the fingers you move over your own body, holding your hips quiet. your **** is no longer a ****, but a rumpled and puffy city, a strange piece of art, a crime scene after the police have left where everyone is sweeping up shattered glass. someone’s murmuring a poem of soul and death over the radio. it might be you. everyone is shouting and the radio is getting louder and the crime scene is turning into an emergency room and the doctors are flying around in their yellow haste and there is no oasis, no peace, no open window, until the automatic hospital doors part with a groan and she is there, and you realize you are about to be saved.

iii. the 3rd week is the proliferation and migration. she tells you to remove the gravel from your body before you grow a new skin. so you do, you pull it out with black tweezers and it makes you scream until you are raw and humble. you watch as you mend yourself, sped up, like a tiger lily caught on long-form camera, bursting to life. someone says the words love and breaking and heal. someone says i will take you and i will carry you. is it you or her? does it matter? your skin is rearranging itself. you are pangea, splitting and reattaching to new places. it should be violent, but it isn’t. she’s calling you in from the cold and you go to her, scabbed up and scabbed over, unable to close your eyes. she takes up your whole field of vision. her lips, her nose. her irises, where you find god and every angel. the only sin here is the distance between the two of you. which you are closing. by the minute. by the second. by the breath.

iv. the 4th week is the angiogenesis. the development of new veins and ligaments. the deeply complicated process of creating new paths for blood to flow. the beating of your heart when she rests her hand on your knee and leaves it there. your tectonic feelings. the way you look for her in a crowd. the sudden daylight.

v. the 5th week is the  reepithelialization. a big, funny word that sends heat all through you. it asks questions. like: when you broke, did you know you would stop bleeding? when you lay prone in a pool of your own carnage, did you know that Good And Beautiful still belonged to you? that even in that crushing agony, she would come to you, and, with her seamstress hands and surgeon heart, put you back together? did you know that the light was never out of reach? that the walls around you were cardboard, not cement? that she would destroy them gently, then draw you from the wreckage? and still see you whole, even with all your throbbing fissures, the parts of you that just can’t add up? did you?

vi. the 6th week is the synthesis. your wound has gone. it’s a tuesday and you are watching her walk to class. it’s dizzying, the way she moves, the way she walks. she doesn’t know you’re there and you would like to keep it that way, because you are a naturalist observing something rare and exquisite, and you do not want to scare her away. she’s the white-hot sphere of the sun in the sky, and with your woundless self, you take her in. you can feel it, when you look at her—the spin of the earth / clouds sliding into other hemispheres / the swarm of your blood cells and pathogens / the aging of trees / airplane turbulence / earthquakes in places you will never see / lava cooling in the ocean / the rings we grow on our hearts—you can feel all of it. she’s turning the corner now, hair ignited. you are in love with her and you don’t want her to be late. she is so beautiful, even though you can’t see her anymore. she’s the last of her kind.

Forbidden fruits hidden in the roof
of my mind
Its time to set fire to the mimes
Larcenous pursuit of greater acclaim
than is taped and pasted to your brain.
Dripping copper pipes cold in the November light
bright shadows gently crush the fabric of unreality.
Love is a howitzer
it can **** alot of people
quickly and often.
Love is a pool of amniotic fluid,
it sustains and cushions, and soothes with warm comfort.
Cardboard cutouts of cutthroat gangsters with gout,
flout societies mores, with Cuban cigar smoke synthesis.
Brandy
snifterfull
Awaiting the dinnerbell.

Drips and drops of lab-tested fluids
pouring lipids in curves all over the place
while pops and pangs of tiny cells
bubble and fizzle in petri disks and flasks
regurgitating out strands of fine DNA
mix and synthesis of unusual entities
bubbling cauldrons of chemical ritual
give rise to spells of mystic creation
boldly configuring new organic oddities
from lab nonsense to ancient theory
mitochondrial splits and caverns
entries into the unknown of man's babble
for the fine and final production of science's silk
that which is life
and undeniable to our being
so creation can forever stand tall and strong
in the triumphant art of recreation

Synthesis says
hang the liar, birth the


Rabid.
Feign what
he said, she said, we said

Gold.

Martyr in the sack.
Radical, the bone layer

White bride, lucid lace
cool, cool blue in
subdued tones.

Skin is circles, ellipse,
revolution, revelation
creation as submission,

god god god

God.
Cad Gaddeau

We trees, pine broken
and snared, and


Rabid.
Feign what
I said, I said, I said

Dull,

I am
the liar.

they call it the intellectualism of a tumbleweed's
worth worth of attention...
      they call it jargon,
or gnarling, or showing your teeth weather smiling
or teeth kept to a gnashing of bone until reaching
marrow - as they say: if a tartar steak (which
is raw, there's no medium or
well-done to speak) has not marrow
juice for glue... forget it...
i'm eating the horse.
they call it difficult and they call it
jargon because they forgot the Kantian
key... oh sure, the keyhole
is Hegelian pop culture, Hegel is pop,
Kant is antiquity... but in terms of what's deemed
"difficult"? at the end of the day Kant said
0 = negation...
            what symbol could engulf affirmation?
and what symbol would affirm doubt?
  would = proposition and could = preposition?
i'm sorrowful to say: prepositions are still
taken to be grammatical units,
while propositions evolved from aye & nay
into maxims... a sorry state of affairs.
      so Hegel is pope... of ****... pop...
and Kant is an antiquity...
fair enough, we have Nietzsche to thank
for calling him an idiot... i too had great ambitions...
such writings are akin to arithmetic,
what i'm interested in is not a Dostoyevsky
narrative being prescribed for huddling from
the cold in Siberia...
     a        the              's, or how to bypass
the elephant man in staging a language
to be said, avoiding the language thought of,
the plural and the possessive usage with
the distraction of the hanging comma:
its (anger at the l.g.b.t. community
    for any pronoun usage deviatory to the cause)
      and it's (such that English is, Cockney rhyme
or modern urban slang... Becca instead of Rebecca...
Liz instead of Elizabeth...
   no wonder people started calling their children
Peaches)... which is shortened for the drool of it is;
i know they discriminate against these caravan
hobbit inhabitants of Shropshire, but the earls
really do write like these Pikies speak...
trolley trolley bumblebee black bitchiness boo...
    the r that's a trill becomes almost curly...
           well this is an x-ray of all things fleshy,
it doesn't / or should go to the bone...
            you talk to your mother with that tongue
and lick the privates of your ******-coo
             maiden too?
probably not... some called them gypsies,
some called them the ironed shirts...
which was ironic because of the many problems
that Middletons spotted in terms of creases...
         libido though? i'd spotlight a **** for
a gypsy girl... as i said: i'd **** anything that
moves and only hanky-panky my palette
on oysters if i had to... it's called the rebellion
against feminism: or ****** oppression to
endorse kiddy fiddlers in dog-collars getting away
with it and us, "men" having to make
the hand entwine the **** into a boa constrict ion
to imitate: a experience of a ****** i never wish
i had... that's transgender: i've got two
organs... one's a bit android, but **** needing
to necessitate a **** to get the kangaroo pouch
of feeling it, mmm.
              well, if it's too hard, then i'm obviously
employing a darwinism of some sort:
intellectual selection; i put the effort into
writing it, you put an effort into reading it,
the plebs get their stake... and everyone's happy.
     but no one gets away with youtube
regurgitated murk of someone promoting a book
   and then having to reduce it to quote,
while the book if waved about like a brick
about to be lodged into the Library of Babylon...
well... we know what happened with
the library of Alexandria... there's not a single
dittohead to encourage revising what was there once.
as we "speak", this is Latin written in Arabic,
i.e.: right to left, rather than left to right...
  but hey, no runes, so the crucifixion of Juan
at Golgotha wasn't all bad after all...
            look at how Arabic squiggly and Hebrew
proto survived, we could have gone down the route
of hieroglyphics (ideograms, but still the Mandarin
survived), but unlike cuneiform... there were simply
too many holes to be filled with Latin...
but i still don't get why they wrote a shortcut for
U using V, given O... i guess the shortcut for
O had to be •, Omnium Vampirism stake to the heart
of the stone for an indentation...
    i'd cite you the mea culpa if i could only use
another phonetic encoding, but i can't, i'm still
using Latin encoding... it's beyond dodo, it's the one
sound-encoding that could create the technosphere
of digitalising papyrus.
so Hegel is pope because non-economic Marxism
is pop... but i leverage with W. Burrough's
cut-up and Tzara and cabaret voltaire...
   and how revitalising Kant is crucial in saying:
but he already mentioned a thesis and an antithesis
disciplinary coercion in a moving-forward of
mutually-progressive antagony... why is
Hegel the one to take all the credit?
               why not say akin to: Leibniz & Newton
said some about calculus... ah ****, i forgot,
all the Ferraris and bling and *******...
                           let's just settle for the fact that
Hegel brought about the mingling of thesis
and antithesis to create a synthesis that
culminated in Marx, and Kant brought about
the mingling of thesis and antithesis to create
an analysis...
                           i bypass Nietzsche on this point
for insulting Kant, and having been overtly
influenced by the French...
la Rochefoucauld, is, after all, the antidote to
Machiavelli, and that's my pardon;
but that's beside the point, some people want it
easy, but language does take toward
being nurtured sometimes, like a flower as a seed
as later blossom, as later a fruitful in abounding
colour...
                 language doesn't have to take the route
toward a bestseller preacher-style dross of
congregational assimilation and a "shared experience",
which is why i abhorrent that words had to be
invited into an l.s.d. experience,
                        absolutely no c.i.a. transparency...  
it was all up-in-the-air and never personal...
if i write about something personal i'm writing it
because people in the 1960s went beyond the person
experience of hallucinogenic drugs, and the reason
why i wouldn't take them: is because they wrote
about them and ***** the whole case of wanting
to experience it... as the shaman don juan said:
it's your own; once it has been ascribed words?
    it's commonly shared down to the pinpoint
of a plumber and a toilet... once it has been contaminated
with words / accounts of such an experience?
it has become generic, it has become a poem that
can no longer retale it's status as l.s.d., thanks,
***** beatnik, *******.
    well... if a piece of writing is hard... treat it like
if it were some venture into arithmetic,
    and given the parallelism of space-time 1
                with time one, and the Kantian
0 = negation... you'll deny it, because it's too complicated
on the basis of, so what's the equals?
             like that cartesian result: i think therefore i am...
   therefore i'm still thinking... well the + is that
you're still intact and not shrapnel of wonder ascribing
fascination for prefixes suffixes conjunctional *****
        and diacritical marks as once thought of as
rebellious angels in Milton's theology, redeemed,
ruling over ulterior suggestions of dissecting words
for the correct rhythm.
   if a piece of writing is difficult: it's a version of arithmetic,
the only question is whether you can complete the sum
  of the arithmetic and, obviously enough, return to
yourself as your "self", in that you are intact,
having experienced a "self" or the cognitively active
other in the reflexive sense of yourself, which in turn
props of your self, in what's to be of you in the reflective
sense; that's the equivalent of arithmetic,
hence we have encyclopedias and dictionaries as
being equivalent of calculators... i still don't understand
why complex writing isn't deemed equivalent of arithmetic,
i'll probably die not understanding this...
yes, yourself is reflexive   and your self is reflective...
English really is a battlefield of pronoun use...
let alone revitalising yourself with an archaic word...
   thus said: Kant will never reach the populist status
of Hegel.

At no time in my deranged youth
Did I ever grasp the full breadth of the truth.
A living death is sown by us alone,
In a paradox of pestilence
We are our own entropy.
From a rancid repellent abyss
I have climbed forth,
Cloaked in your memory
I storm forward, knowing that I shall not falter
There upon the alter of life's trials
I found a token of acceptance, a funerary charm.
From the dust of a bygone age I will mark my place.
Your hand grips like the talon of an eagle,
I found salvation in your touch and cellular synthesis in your stare.
Now months past the playful begginings, now,
I find your skin particles still cling to me,
Magnetized, electric connections, remind me of our bonds.
Though ******* so perfect, would make slaves of nations
Swayed beneath the legions of laughter marching forth from your mouth.
I cannot crucify your image, though I martyr myself in your name,
In the depths of my shame, your gentle presence remained,
A mirror to the pain, a white blouse stitched, lightly parted lips,
Bring back that ethereal face for one day,
It helped me to battle, and brave the night,
The fight I fought, was for your touch alone.
Now you touch me with different hands,
You choose how you touch, I take what I can get.
It is the meaning behind the caress that abolishes my regrets.

thesis: strength endures voids and emptiness.
strength constructs no homes (antithesis:

if your house leaks then on swollen days
in sullen seasons there is no home for you)

there is endless repetitious strength
enduring endlessly there is this paradox:
strength is the void endured and consequently

synthesis: enter everybody's anti-hero cross-eyed,
sees crossed eyes cross-eyed but looking in his eyes
sees straight, sees sick, sees something monstrous
something insect, sees this philosophic frippery:
that is sees man

endures in his mirror that is self-doubt,
his left arm being his right arm
his left eye sees his right eye
and no eye sees his nose right.

synthesis: enter naked the hero's fists blazing
won't put up with that mirror is laughing
smashing his left hand smashing his right hand
breaks his wrath--

enter the dumb smile of blissful blindness or
dumb sadness belting down a drink
enter an angel's colorful rags and bells
enter a man in colorful sights and smells
enter blonde beauty dragging a bulging ****.

there is the entrance where they enter through
the black hole with crescent thin edges
the animal den the fish smell the ocean motion
there is women's strength endures the stretch
forty-eight hours of warm pain
two hours of sharp pain around mid-night
last sight the tippy-toppy veins of its head
bled and blood and body and push push Push -

and the tide goes out,
enter sleep.

Breathe in quickly
Gather more oxygen
To encourage the thought

Widen the eyes
To take it all in

Keep still
Do not talk
Or dare interrupt the moment

But give the thought space
To materialise

And then
Suddenly
There it is

Truth

Apparent
Present
Realised
Understood

Adrenaline surges
Joy flows
And there is peace with oneself
Connection to the universe

A new dawn has broken
Rich with possibilities
Changing everything