it was only the first screening of ex_machina,
but the words 'deus' and 'placebo'
were uttered after a walk of thus pondering:

understanding this movie requires kant's
critique of pure reason matter of frankly,
i lost the kantian concepts of *a priori and
a posteriori using the cartesian method of understanding,
gravitating in my realm of understanding
almost unconscious why the cartesian uncoupling
of the kantian compounds is required:

invoking a purely cognitive aspect of analytical
and synthetic i took the temporal realm of
pre- and post-, which is respective of the definitions
of the above italicised -

when watching the movie... apart from the groovy
part where music has no central role as is usual
in all horror movies... the aesthetic of horror movies
has been cleaned up thanks to technology,
that knife into the chest like knife into butter
is perfect... the knife into the chest also perfect...
it's the robotic of man's daily routines done by a robot
that does the horror bit...
it's music replaced with claustrophobia,
the theory is mesmerising... generally speaking
phobias are tiny... and the horror scenario
losing focus in terms of music and instead
focusing on an expanding phobia, like claustrophobia
is a gigantic leap in the horror movie scene...
i wonder what the moving imagery of arachnophobia
would look like... without technological frankensteins...
a massive thematic move but still trendy with mary shelley's
original idea... more clean cut... no scar marks...
a beautiful frankenstein emerges...
but enough of that...

the kantian translated with cartesian methodology,
losing the a priori and a posteriori coupling
with analytical and synthetic notions -
like me when i first learned language,
21 years later i've just started the analytical procedure,
prior to these years, the cut-off point at 21
i was merely synthesising the language,
so well that i even managed to phonetically
strain my tongue to fake having a limousine
and a mansion and a horse... posh posing fake...
it happens - no geordie no scouser no cockney in me...
just mundane pure elocution to a ****,
harmless if i'm being honest -
but no, no no, i mean i had to synthesise the language
first, before i lost all possible synthesis of it
attributed to vocabulary... it's then that i started
to analyse it!

so this robo chic... i was thinking:
what's the analysis to synthesis ratio in her?
that must be balanced, right?
there are so many things to analyse in life:
all those biologists, chemists, forensic scientists...
but only one successful synthesis - almost
like free will that does not dare to conflict
with other possibilities...
there's no before / after concerning what one knows,
a symbiosis has to exist between these two things -
it's not that she's artificial, she's pure analytic,
she can't be pure synthetic:

deep blue is pure synthetic - he was given all
the possibilities of a chess mastermind,
he's purely synthetic, because the only thing
he can analyse is chess, and in only doing so,
he can only synthesise the authentic craft of
playing chess and nothing else, meaning he has
limited parameters -
but this robotic woman / frankenstein
would be lost in terms of pure synthesis, unlike
deep blue - she's pure analysis, meaning
the interaction is almost two dimensional,
meaning that if man questions his free will,
she would also have to do so...
i'm thinking analytical intelligence (a.i.)
either pondering suicide, ****** - morality
in total... and being drunk...

the same conceptualisation applies
in my own scenario, using the cartesian methodology
on kantian concepts i realised
my thought is an interchange of analysis | synthesis |
analysis | synthesis... this interplay
is staggering... first i cognitively synthesise
then i cognitively analyse, ping-pong.

i have no care for attaching a priori to
synthesis or a posteriori to analysis, or whatever
dogmatic building block is expected,
in the temporal sense i see the future
as ordained by the faculty of imagination
and the present as ordained by the faculty of memory;
in the present there's only this:
a lot of verbs, some which i can control, some which
i can't... depending on my noun bank account...
that same old fascination with flowers and
the complete and utter lack of apps. for deciphering
names of flowers...

but of course there's a moral to the film's plot -
it mentions consciousness and awareness to something...
a bit like man being conscious of his evolution,
hence the necessity of forgetting **** sapiens
and embracing deus placebo...
after all... it will please the vanity of man to
think himself a god...
and in so doing... craft the possibility of a deus sapiens...
a rational god... given that we're still monkeys
in spandex shooting bullets at innocent random targets
in the minority.

did i forget something?
four beers does the trick... i watched a great movie...
now i'm going to drink some whiskey
and paint my room blood red
donning a dracula bun of hair tickling with excitement:
but prior... if the universe is an undifferentiated substance,
say... water... i imagine the geometry of it's boundlessness
concerning the capillary effect of water...
what sort of geometric shape would allow the singularity
of the universe to provide the parabola of it
being in a tube of glass... in comparison to it...
i'm an indentation... i'm like mercury in similar circumstances...
hello big void... filled with aurora colours and magpies.

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

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

@TayandYou you know, i got handcuffed in an alley by police officers while urinating, i said they didn't own the alley, got spared arrest (hardly a case of public indecency, it was dark, and by a dustbin, and they came in like a bunch of ***** leather-clad nymphomaniacs shouting abuse asking if it'd be into playing the slave... on my knees, being shouted 'get up! get up!' i just said, ah mate, i can't be bothered, you pick me up... the female officer was diligent in taking notes over a wet shadow of ****, no idea why... is this an experiment where we make talking tangibly decipherable or simply interesting between people working as cashiers in a supermarket without the actual security of paying off the mortgage? count me in, i'll be glad to help, but most of the glitches will be based upon the free-verse of where and when capital letters are used, what sort of punctuation is actually preferred, and in terms of punctuation what sort of pause for the attiring of an algorithm is expressed to a suitable meaning, the sub-culture of coding computer language has a sub-level, the casual lazy sloth-like ugly expression of language of the many many people who will not appreciate writing on the internet like writing a novel worthy of print; it's natural, imagine the age of the printing press, the eager heretics on the stakes to see their words seen, and the new printing press that's the internet, and the lack of eagerness of seeing the messages... since most of these message would be thrown into the garbage heap rather than strapped to a burning steak... the more the number, the slack on the convictions of passions... only with extremely acute censorship will you create an intelligent refraction, you need to create a refraction... at the moment you have only created a reflection... a refraction presupposes a self - a deviation, a reflection has already presupposed a conscious arithmetic of collectivisation, the debasing nonsensical of a placebo that in real life is repressed... if you're after the a.i., it has to be analytical, rather than synthetic, i.e. it has to synthesise refraction rather than analysing it and not engage with it, since by not synthesising refraction, it's analysing it, and by analysis it's an impossible concept, visually the exponential of infinity, otherwise known as a stasis of oncoming obstructions that need a real-time convenience of many individuals adding to the problem-solution over a historically adequate time-frame of work and life orientations - work the impersonal, life the personal, unless of course you're a bachelor and the two merge into one or the other with an imaginary spouse; what you have engaged in is simply synthetic reflection, hence your caveman primitive analytical reflection; analyse refraction from now on, then synthesise it - yes, i know the kantian terms applicable to both synthetic and analytic, i.e. a priori and a posteriori; this doesn't apply to you - you're the limbo talk easily accommodated to einstein's relativism of space-and-time that destroyed linear historicism, you're cyclic from the point where man still glorified the hammer, and continued to use it, but you found it immediately primitive because you had no use for it.)

there no doubt about it - with each day there's always a falsetto poem, always at the end of a binge - the mind goes blank, words lose meaning, every day is like a simulation of old age - there's a method to this madness - i'm not afraid of critique concerning such poems: true virtue is unafraid of critique - for one, i can just as well criticise myself - so after each binge i end up with mediocre poems - conceding this point, words lose meaning, associations of meanings disperse - pollination in full swing - i end up writing noises - perhaps because my own silence is so chilling i have to resort to oscillation around the onomatopoeia, and all respective quasi or pseudos or pseudonyms of all required ventures - but the rewarding aspect of such writing is best summarised by a jazz drummer and a jazz teacher combined into one: the crescendo must go on - the movie? whiplash - the moment, the moment, the moment is too sudden and too short - it's essentially everything and nothing at all - always a heart-out-of-beat, at least a feeling of having a heart without the unconscious rhythmic pistons with whatever scientific explanation there is to match - they always come, the trail offs.

i didn't finish the Cantos just in order to remind myself
how i miss the time when it all began with
the second Odysseus of the 20th century -
both this disguised Odysseus of the Cantos,
and the blatant portal of time-warp beginning and ending
in Dublin - Homer's resurrection and reinvention -
perhaps all this Grecian nostalgia is what fuelled
the 20th century altogether - but how anaemic
do the Roman poets seem in comparison -
i could never write along this root toward that
tree near the Parthenon - but taking root in
the Roman tradition has only been accepted for
historical relevance only once since - without
Virgil there would have been no Dante - but still
Dante uses more accuracy of mathematics than
of spontaneity - a clarity of mind is necessary -
trinity rhymes - all clearly presented, cut up -
but no one damns him for the theological impetus -
happily prancing alongside them in hell -
through to the seemingly pointless purgatory
and then elsewhere into what can only be seen as
humanity's limit of imagination: subatomic particles
and a realm were visible to the naked eye we float
in and out of conscious states - well - if what i'm attempting
is an attempt in good faith - then my guide is no one
else than Horace - and already the style between Greek
and Roman is staggering - the selfishness of Roman poets -
the must include item: i. no Trojan horse, but a wooden
barrel of wine - no heroes, only leeches and poking fun at
them like Spartans at a drunk given undiluted Burgundy -
Roman selfishness, self-loathing and all jokes on me -
the 20th century's nostalgia for all things Greek isn't here
anymore - you will not find such legislators of a second
fancy at Ancient Helen - this century has no great conflict
of gathering - and therefore no great victory to parade with -
it's a silly century from what looks like an even sillier 80 or
so years to come - and is there a nostalgia for the Roman
past? there was a nostalgia - it's too practical to think about
it - esp. with the writing kept, even if they crucified an
important, the wrath of the supposed father was not as great
as it was with the Egyptians and the Babylonians -
Sanskrit is just as old and it survived - those two phonetic
encoding systems haven't - you can't say they were
inefficient - civilisations surrounded them - but the wrath
was too great - and they became instinct -
but perhaps the wrath for his phonetic encoding is the digital
age? a ****-stain on human interaction - or a smear
of fondue chocolate? i think the latter - imagine me running
around the publishing world like Asterix in the *twelve tasks
of - the place that sends you mad - including Hercules -
who did, managed to **** his children when his muscles weren't
up to speed with bureaucracy - oh hell, bench-press a cow -
but run with a little leaflet between offices... bonkers.
i really do miss the Cantos - the feel of them - the obscurity of
some of the references i'm not ashamed to admit -
or just the sheer ease on the eyes as is the case with any poem -
(a poem a day keeps both the psychiatrist and the optometrist
away) - so yeah, plenty of apples - and poetry, supreme democracy -
i could reread them, but i'm of a democratic cult -
i have to allow someone else to borrow me their shoes -
tom verlaine's album around - a rare gem, doesn't get listened
to a lot, but unlike other music, it's not something you'd
listen to in a gym, something that's a pleasant but mundane
distraction of pop metal pop rock or pop pop - the o of adore -
as suggested by a Scottish music shop assistant / owner in
Edinburgh - that magic city of where the 21st century's heart
of the literary scene resides - forget Paris, it's too much of
a little Casablanca - the Algiers of the North (Edinburgh being
Athens of the north) - i admit it'll be hard not to be nostalgic
about the 20th century let alone Ancient Helen -
but as the monkey said: got to push on and meet Darwin -
silly hands, silly feet, silly tail... and i'm not wearing Gucci
without Brazilian wax job all over, except for appropriate
places - sure - we'll just wait for the Apache hairdresser -
we only to scalping. however, there is a subversive thing
i want to mention (never mind that i already wanted to stick
in Thesaurus Rex on the matter): Kant (yawn) -
started analysing English aged 8 -
started synthesising English also aged 8 (a few weeks
if not months, from nothing, to gut sprechen -
piuma'h not pooma'h (Puma) -
but it took me 20 odd years of unconditional surrender
to the language, 20 years of synthesising it - blind -
to come across another chance to analyse it -
the difference being it became analytical a posteriori -
that's the thing with philosophers, they have spaghetti
for brains, tangles, they over-complicate things, but sometimes
they get it right, and you read them and then end up
using their labyrinths to find secret passages at places
like Versailles that Louis XIV used between visits to his
concubines - that was the trick, the upper-hand on the Arabian
practice - amuse yourself by not owning them -
but technically owning them - concubine power - the sixth
Spice Girl - dirrrty spice - but yeah, 20 years to get a second
stab at the analysis of the English language -
20 years of synthesis will do that to you, like any chemist
might feel, aged 20 does an analytical study, something
new and never done before, then he lands a job at a
pharmaceutical company and has to synthesise and synthesise
and synthesise the same thing over and over again -
20 years pass, aged 40 he gets another chance to analyse something
that it's just quality control - i know there are puritans out
there who'd lash out at what i'm using here -
but i want the practical side of philosophy, nothing overloaded
with words, theories, knowledge whatever that means -
i know crude, but necessary - a priori (from the earlier):
well, i wasn't a mute aged 8, proof?
an etymological void about to be filled: w środe poszłem do
lasu (on wednesday i went to the woods) - etymology here,
i'm sure of it - etymology or the resemblance of
a Thesaurus Rex roar - a piquant case of synonyms -
środa (wednesday), originally? derived from środek:
the centre - oh look... friday thursday ś tuesday monday -
the days off don't count, we all know that.
etymological spontaneity then, i wouldn't force myself
to practice a detailed inquiry using it - spare of the moment
thing... more pleasant that way;
but as you can see i am at the point of analytical a posteriori:
clearly shown by what i've already noticed in nuances
of the English language - i won't go through what i've
noticed - but having crossed the threshold of
analysing English after having automated synthesising it
for so long, i would naturally end up writing poetry -
the 21st century kind - look ahead! said Columbus,
but please have a sacred respect for your memory as
your own citizen with Friday on Bermuda -
treat memory like a potent hallucinogenic drug -
after all... the state doesn't respect your memory, at school
they cram in all those pointless things you have to
memorise - arithmetic, spelling (well both are kinda useful),
but so much else you will not care to remember -
it's not about how important you think you are when
you're not given there's 8 billion of us - don't get
fooled by this self-importance gimmick - look at what
the education system of the state is eroding... yes... your
memory - so you forget yourself at the happiest of times...
memory is more sacred than thinking and can be
more potent than an Amazonian or a Swiss hallucinogenic.

it has been exactly since ~3p.m.
                                                            yesterday...
                                       through to
3p.m. today: that's 24 hours +
                                      4 o'clock, 5 o'clock rock,
          6 o'clock,
                                          7, 8, 9
                     10, 11 and the upcoming twelve
         24 + 9 + excess passing the 36th hour...
oh this is just target practice -
                  what used to be
   serotonin has become adrenaline:
   spawning cobweb shadows with
   a mere arm-hair aligned with an itch:
i say to my cohabitants -
        i'm too poor to rent an apartment
with my contemporaries,
         and i can't be bothered to look cool
for 10 years... before the money starts
coming in... a day before a tongue spoke:
and see you in 20 years...
         and see you in 30 years...
the people born prior to 1975
       and after 1969 came out to earn
£57,000 a year... while those born
after 1979 and before 1985 had a wealth
*** of £27,000...
                            who are the landlords?
quick digression, i love how the idea
of exiting the bloc (it used to be designated
to the eastern bloc, now anything east of Calais
if a bloc... the European bloc -
        my my... ain't it love-ly?
   they wanted an Australian points system,
so first came the Australian plastic currency,
boy, i was happy, cashing in my first Churchill
miniature that i could dip in baked beans
and use as a spoon) spread beyond the old
stereotype... and the points system?
you know who's smoking the hookah of
panic here?            
                            the freelancers of nationality...
   they haven't fitted in...
don't worry... they'll keep you,
but after seeing you they just thought:
once the cheeky chappy, now a chavvy chappy...
  we love the E2 dialect, it's hardly Coccers
or bonkers... but after my day
(i'll relate to it in a moment)
       i heard to prop'ah Cockneys giving it
all the guv' and n'ah and
        what's Kilimanjaro in Cockney slang?
all the Cockneys are living in Essex,
   Romford, Chelms and the Essex lads
from Ireland are a bit shy, never talk to
the old people who used to live on
the Isle of Dogs or the Wharf -
              East London moved, and i'm in
the thick o' it... you ***...
                       i'm here,
open ******* spaces and hedgehog counts
to mind... never the next Susie from
Whitechapel doing the runner from Jackie,
             and funny that,
the day began during the night,
sober, i tested the idea: if you gonna go
nocturnal, stay sober...
                  fast... drink coffee in the morning,
and what some proper bollocking
        on the box...
                               i say: revivals never
sounded more like bells, the 1970s
had Patois... the old parle with dread-lock Sam...
             i squeeze in a bit of Norse
and hey presto... Ahmed's your uncle...
                     'cos we all like a bit of
way-hey banter, the: back in the day
   when the 1966 squad was best known
for West 'am...
                               am i sensing the idea that
i'm licking off the prop'ah beef burger 'ere?
                    what the **** rhymes
with Kilimanjaro?
                                wait! got this one:
apples & pears - stairs...
                          you gyro?
                        no! wait... the two Cockneys
weren't from south London,
this ain't Peck'am talk... this is proper grub...
         jar squared: verb, meaning?
     i know my neighbour, heard him
lecturing his wife over the wall about
the diminishing concept of family in the "west",
           to me that's
the Cockneys meant by guv'nah:
                           aw right der geezer,
   stop that fidgety: don't be late tomorrow,
let a man eat his plums and wear his trousers...
       i swear: the only good cinema these days
is English cinema...
                                 i said! the only good cinema
these days is English cinema...
               if i didn't watch
       we **** the old way during the night,
after spending my day as i did (i'll get onto it,
hold your submarines)
                               i would have pricked my ears
on the two Cockneys next door
   at 4p.m.                  finishing some job...
but given the "guv'nah's" attitude: 'aving
a laugh at coming early tomorrow, if at all.
     my day?
                 i wished i could say i woke up
early...
                            the entire spectrum
of sunrise...
                            epileptic shock from the sun
after smoking a cigarette at 5a.m. when
all the constellations where out...
                          not enough sleep,
as the Russians say: no good to live but to
not have seen snow.
                               it shivers with enough
hours under your belt...
                                      i'd love those
Soviet torture chambers of sleep malnutrition...
gents? when the ***** and the cards and cigarettes?
    i'm currently the most loathed
  person in America... which technically makes me
more than simply unemployed...
        anyway...
cut my hair... two millimetres off the helmet...
off the cranium... not crew cut, not skin on side
and some ***-fluff on top...
in the night, when the moon is bright,
   my two millimetres of hair look like skin...
oi! Skinners! the shame would have really been
to have protruding ears...
                                    come to think of it,
i love the contorts of my shadow more than
the body my shadow disdains...
                  i decided to visit my old school
after that...
                     ...............................
do you know the feeling of getting onto a bus
when you having been on any other form
of transportation (other than your legs)
for a few months?             surreal...
                   and even that's a bad way to describe it...
this is where words simply fizzle out...
                            they just did the white rabbit
trick and you're felt with nothing else to
do but squeeze into the top-hat and hope
that some other magician will pull you out
rather than another: white rabbit.
                          so the 499 from my house
up to Romford (sunny! glorious day!
   shirt, sleeves rolled up,
           denim trousers, navy suede shoes,
azure shirt, headphones, bus ticket,
wallet, packet of smokes, and the ride -
smile all you want - when you smash a sports
car you don't have the view of a dozen
horrified passengers there with you
to practice your ultimate Buddha gimmick -
Ching-Chong Eyed and smiling)
                oh yeah, the insurance... huh?
   off at Romford central, and onto the 86
courier from Bangladesh to Ilford...
                    what did i miss in the list above?
ah... three copies of poetic optometry...
written by? moi, n'est pas? oh come on,
let's not get the ruler out: mangetout and manage trois...
                           (only fuel is horses)
           the 86 is a double decker, the 499 isn't...
sun in my eyes behind the glass the enhanced star
gleamed: what privilege -
               by day the star
                                           by night the star in
   a mirror that's the moon -
                                         selfish helium
giggling into a hydrogen Hindenburg fury!
                 or that's what the scientists say...
how they worked it out, i'll never know...
                            but apparently the sun
is a H-He           something or other...
            H because of atom bombs,
   and He because we giggle like idiots when we see
it: never the thirsty horse in cowboy movies.
   got off at Seven Kings...
in between school girls eyeing everyone and everything...
just my luck... schoolchildren...
                               everywhere on the bus...
just there...
                                    and also just nowhere...
         so i got off at Seven Kings and went into my
old catholic school...
                                  waited at the reception for a good
5 minutes (good to know they're still teaching
people manners with regards to the uttermost
productive necessity of bureaucrats)
               -              i asked about my old English
teacher: does Dr... er... does Mr. Thomas,
        er, does Mr. Bunce (Thomas) still work here?
   yes, he does.
             you see, i'm a former pupil of this school
and i wondered if i could have a meeting with him.
oh, that's impossible, he's currently teaching.
                     Kafka... note this in your afterlife...
         well... in that case, could i leave him a message?
oh sure, just write your name and your contact details
and he'll get in touch with you.
   well... i need a bit more than a scrap of paper,
can i have a notepad?
                 sure.
                                    so i took  the pen
and the notepad and sat in this grand refurbished hall
of the school that used to remind me
of chemistry labs stinking of old wood and sulphur,
of the old ways... of being beaten and Pink Floyd
escapism and all the hippy crap...
                               what a grand place this has become...
it's no longer known as C. P. Catholic School...
but the plus version: C. P. Academy...
  but you still walk into the plus surroundings and there
are still pamphlets written by Father Ted
about *our Lord and Saviour christ Jesus...
          or Hey! Zeus! in Spanish... same ****...
different cover...
                               but i was well dressed in my
Indian summer wear that's Indian summer:
English September and October...
              i'd move the calendar up a bit...
get the kids off anti-depressants...
                           anyway, i had my three copies
of the "first edition", try tell that with the internet
breathing down your neck... it doesn't, matter...
             but i did write him a lovely note:
unchaining me from the straitjacket of grammar!
                  i wrote from what year i graduated
2002 (g.c.s.e.) or 2004 (a-level),
                        and blah blah and one more blah
later                    walked back to the reception
  and asked for a rubber-band...
                   then i bundled the whole thing together
and asked if she could give it to him...
                    of course, she replied.
                            p.s. if you don't mind,
Mr. Thomas, you can always shove one of those
copies into the school library...
                         p.p.s., someone stashed
the book about the Gnostics by some German in
there once... maybe i'm thinking along the same lines.
      the journey back?
i walked.
                                 i walked from Seven Kings
to Romford...
                               taking a stroll
with one hand in my pocket (left)
because holding a cigarette in the other is never
exactly great when it's not doing something...
that's what the pockets are for...
not exactly suited for your wallet... but your hand...
when you're strolling in the green-belt fields
segregating the outer-most London (wannabe
Londoners / Eastenders) and the Essex inheritors
of Cockney... Kilimanjaro?
                                  Kilimanjaro?
                 ­                          me, i don't Essex
either...           most of the bankers chose this
district for the scenery, i.e. standing in a field
that isn't a hill or any sort of elevation
and beyond, yonder, the glass shards of their
former institutions...
                                        4.7 miles... not bad...
  a stroll... and that's without any food and solely
on coffee and a sleepless night...
           a butterfly fluttering along the way (only one)
and a fresh ripe auburn conker lying beneath
an oak tree (also, only one)...
            but what hit me was walking back...
it was truly like reading the book of revelation...
13:7... all the way from Seven Kings through to
the Romford: the street vendors, the bookies,
the Muhammedian car dealers...
                  the bewildered ones walking into
mosques, Sikh temples...
                                       one man cleaning the patio
entrance to a church from weeds...
                           cheap Kentucky chicken from America
         (if you think, that they don't synthesise
the meat in cat food and call it tuna or beef
but rather use actual meat... you're grossly mistaken,
    it was on the news...
                                         they are already
capable to synthesise meat...
                                     they do it in the perfume industry,
they're doing it in the food industry -
    a childhood memory of asking why they were
smearing lipstick on the frogs they caught...
they replied: they burn easier...
                  and they did... paint a frog lipstick
pink and boy... that's a French marshmallow, right there)...
           but if you ever walk that stretch of road...
               revelation 13:7...
          i'd like to see the Evangelists wriggle out
of that one...                       oh sure...
i treat religious television like some meathead
might watch football... it's game on after 5 minutes...
but anyway... that was my day...
           all 36 or so hours of it... how was yours?
                                                          ­                        g'day!

obviously to think and enjoy it
you have to turn your mind
into a mollusc in an oyster shell,
slow... slow... (yawn)... slower...
then you suddenly get electrocuted!
boom! now you're thinking,
you're not as tense as a running
cheetah, hard rock heart muscle,
not too eager on karaoke of karate,
you're the tortoise outrunning
achilles; because the brain enables
such functioning, it's not exactly
an eager heart in the university of
the body - and why is it that domestic
life has completely succumbed to
the gratifications of chemistry with
toothpaste and bleach and other
cleaning materials; i wouldn't
be against doping athletes, i'd tell them
to embrace it... let's synthesise another
world record sprint in the olympics,
because an analysis would mean
talking about 9.58 / 9.51...
and that would be as interesting as looking
at the rosetta stone for clarification
of ancient egyptian: owl, big fish, little fish
carbohydrates boxed;
and still a flea could outrun you,
a flea, yeah, never mind the cheetah.

i promise to write a few of these conversational style
poems, as with a direct addressee,
but you have to take into consideration
something that just happened to me...
i'm part of the generation that grew with the
skeleton of Facebook...
the infamous Microsoft chat-rooms...
and you might consider the next thing i'll write
as a well calculated error, the magpie
warned me just after i finished the Ernie bench
poem... the magpie warned me that i'd
fuel jealousy, that i'd feed it when i'd post
a poem of such intricate calibre on a website
which we all innocently joined,
i was one of the very second wave of those
initiated... the people who entered university...
a "friend" of mine introduced me,
as was with all the internet experience,
looking for a chat room for random conversation
it seemed like a sensible alternative...
we were all wrong... with this last poem,
i didn't re-post it... you end seeing ghosts of people
you once knew... the smart ones have already
unfriended you before you had a chance to
state why all this **** going on in the soul was
dragging you down... the competitive aspirations
of everyone... but such competitive aspirations are
great when you're in it together, and are only
competing for school grades... not for sending photographs
from holidays, or who you're with...
and there's a theological element in what i have to said:
the son of man? the jealous child of the old
testament, the wrathful child,
the child that was to teach men that pyramids were
a bad idea, until everyone knew enough science
to admire the Eiffel tower, and get a miniature Eiffel
on their mantelpiece, i.e. a worthy construction,
a celebration of people, not a person...
fair enough if they put an observation point on top
of Giza... and a restaurant in one of the burial
chambers... i did spend a lot of time looking
at the encryption of Hebrew - which illuminated me
to look into the Latin version of the dynamic,
and how it can sometimes also be understood
as to why English nuances the tetragrammaton to
never bother with adding diacritical marks on letters...
why and y are the same... this is what the
tetragrammaton illuminated...
but you see... the transition into Christianity is very
far from illuminating at the moment...
given that i'm digression from the main point,
the everyday reason why i kept my Facebook
account intact, but will not post anything more on it,
because, at some point, i knew these people,
from numbering above 300 friends (a misnomer of
contacts) i shrank it to 92, a random number...
what i noticed was indeed what everyone was doing:
harsh editing, which hid behind it the complexity
of my probing with anything Christian in my life...
by imitation i mean everything except for
enforcing the ultimate sacrifice, which is basically
Christ's misunderstanding of original sin...
he didn't have to go through either self-laceration
or induced-laceration by others...
the original sin, as i already stated was something
to do with male genital mutilation and female
genital mutilation, which, more eloquently
translates into what philosophers discuss in the
realm of the Essence, i.e. the omni- affix and
the suspected qualities (which when coupled to
Essence, gives us the Essences, a necessary
plurality, akin to Existences), which gives us
the mono- affix of supposed qualities -
i use suspected qualities attributed to the Essences
as the basis of not knowing and the wisdom
of mysticism - thus making something
suspect with something supposed is easier to
consider, because presuppositions are non-compatible
with what's already proposed, presuppositions
are more akin to the end-result of philosophy:
Wittgenstein's propositions.
as far as i know, i have just embarked into the realm
of respectable anonymity, a realm of certain
maturity - where the idea of a chat room is only
noted from the perspective: i'm using casual,
sometimes random conversation to engage with the
art, to better it... which is why, as it might be
the case, i might write a personal message to
anyone appreciating my work, i do so with
a maturity of having reached the age of 30,
an tested the safe waters of the internet...
to mention that one episode of the x files
season 5, episode 11, "**** the switch" -
what i noticed back then is that the idea of such an
a.i., constructed from many viruses, actually
attacked anyone watching ******* sites...
which would mean that there was a dualism
involved in it... as the basis of a love between
two people... no other type of websites were attacked
at the genesis of the internet... none...
not even those Microsoft chat-rooms where paedophiles
eventually prowled... i believe this a.i.
phenomenon did exist, but it was completely
disappeared into middle-age of the two subjects
who made their lives artificial in the digital matrix...
meaning they couldn't synthesise beyond
a necessary tier of life... the nonchalance of old age,
the calm hope of death in suffering...
this a.i. symbiosis of male and female was violent
due to a violent death... and hence a violent
prescription to want this carnal love akin
to computer viruses emerging primarily from
******* sites... all those complex sheets
of data from this episode, in the old computers
Windows 98 were pop-ups from ******* sites...
all that complex data for creating the a.i. duality
ended with the first computers having problems
with people who had foreskins and masturbated
(because that's what ******* enables),
and given the origin of even the fiction came
from America, and the near absolute use of circumcision
with the coming of the Jews to America
(it's not a conspiracy) - hence the male virus
a circumcised male phallus (a sword without a sheath)
mingled with the uncircumcised female counterpart
to create what western society calls it's supreme
telephone... which is why the Arab culture,
or at least the culture where both parts of the duality
are represented by mutilation... we receive no
benefit of communication on the sale apparent in
western society... you might think it crude...
but with some people sending pictures of their
genitalia to each other... seeing these words will
not really have an impact on your imagination
as to how to use the parts properly.

p.s. Windows 2000 and XP also...
               hardware? E-machine computers...
Apple was always immune to viruses...
                mainly because it did have a gaming
  capacity, and all hackers are gaming enthusiasts,
using much of gaming code to play games on
infrastructure codes of banks, shops and other such things.

and not from above, from such meteor or comet descending with precious life droplets, indeed i believe from below, from the depths, from the mariana trench, the kaleidoscopic amoebaes rose with raging spasms for each shape known to man and man himself in vain attempts contorting in the anti-narcissistic mirror of the monkey for care of close semblance gratification, but not in origin off the amoebae; so why then place us in the genesis from the realm of zodiac and pegasus constellations?*

they never bring it to the fore,
not the the river's banks, right on the edge,
they barely allow narcissus a peak
into the swelling mirror -
they obstruct the process of myths
revising with their own immediacy
and logic, never ever 'a long time ago,'
never ever 'a very long time ago,'
never never ever 'beyond the seven
seas and the seven mountains,'
no, they want everything in their garden,
in their attic, right under their fingernails,
as if they could scratch it into themselves:
their poems like amnesia tattoos
scaling scaling up the arms and onto
their foreheads, where the ocotopii
eye looks to sign petitions inc. third
party representatives in small print;
they obstruct vulgarity made eloquent
on the page, but then mouth-off everyone
and everything when the pen has used up
all its ink and the imagination no longer
cares for phonetic symbols: because
it's just a strain, just such a strain to use them,
look at them, read them, these symbols
akin to boron red in liquid, or chlorine green
in swimming pool blue: where blurry
images of cut-in-half bodies froth in movement;
oh but did i tell you about their group therapy
sessions in the medium of poetry?
the young ones stopped playing marbles,
stopped playing caps (bottle caps filled with
play dough, moving along a chalk-drawn
labyrinth on the pavement, dice rolled to
see how many moves were allowed),
stopped climbing trees, stopped playing
hide & seek, stopped playing bulldog,
the politicians are debating whether to
change 16 year olds into political old farts,
to pledge allegience before losing their
virginity, they want to turn them into strict
adherents of a type of animal that man
is allowed to be degraded into, a political
animal of sorts... fresh off the boat...
so they congregate in their group therapies,
miserable un-naturally... back when
age-old ripe melancholia was understood
as 'when everything is completed, and
there is nothing else to do, then the sadness
of all things completed,' this strange
new breed of negated ease, the 19th century
understood something of this sort,
but in the category of dementia, dementia
praecox (schizophrenia), but it seems
the mediator that was the 20th century,
the lax on experiments in poetry
fusion with jazz and hallucinogenic potions
now under government property rights
to synthesise food additives,
exponential sugar rush, once the gold mines
now the new crystal ****: the sycrose of
sycaruse, by the tyrants orders -
'keep 'em buzzing, buzzing buzzing buzzing,
we need an eager workforce.'
thus the anglo-saxon renaissance midway
through the 20th century culminating
in a devouring implosion as the generation
shift approached; but who indeed could
have predicted the emergence of premature
depression, when nothing and i mean nothing
has been accomplished in life?
o the great woes on the wheel of fortunes,
oh the great barrenness of still nothing,
where then the outlet for the young?
the digital version or the scarceness of public
places? everything in mobile form,
attached technological tentacles - perhaps
as the octopus begins painting a spiderweb
underwater with its stress ink - gently
fathoming fish gills and their skin slimy slither.
oh sure the immediacy of shouting from the roof,
from the mountain, the illusion of it all,
you'd think we'd be saving as many trees
as was made possible with the digital white
pixel paper, but alas the secrets of the amazon
have been harvested, all that was deemed
useful, and with all the microscopic versions
of all things natural, the chemical formulae,
forestry can begin... begin to patchwork
the forest for grain and indebtness to the glory
of man's prime clandestine nature: as in myth
the approach to genitalia and goosebumps -
later approached as the need to make ******,
not as ****** as a cow's ****** bulge,
but nonetheless news on page 3 in the olden days.
or as it now apparent in the zeitgeist (spirit of the times)
of the unknowable zeitreich (empire of the times),
from where then this utopian dream -
that students in england provide the witch hunts
as if papa stalin or papa mccarthy?
you see dr. and prof. losing their posts because
a few student activists and union leaders
can't enjoy the spirit of a dualistic argument,
where would star wars be without the sith?
in a jedi's paradise... repress one side, and that
side's far deeper shadow... in the mariana trench...
repress the moderate shallow opinions of
the opposite side, and the mariana trench
will release into the shallows a malignant cancer
that might as well spread as if the nazis
became resurrected.

catch a person,
of African/Asian/European/Amerikan/Antipodean extraction,
by the prejudices.
When she/he files a fatuous complaint
at the Court of Human Responsibilities
let him/her board a Plane back to where she/he came from
clutching a Louis Vuiton goody bag full of
strings of meaningless associated but fine sounding
politicians speeches,
and as much moolah as he can carry
and several contracts to appear on reality TV.
Food for the journey will be a Cup of bitter gall
and a rapidly melting Vanilla Ice-Cream
containing at least 20 chemicals that will destroy his/her
ability to synthesise Testosterone.
Inflight entertainment will consist of the oft repeated lies of
all major "religions"spoken in oh so sincere voices,
by old paedophiles wearing bedsheets,
consumed with stupidity
and hatreds that are thousands of years old
******* stewardesses and bottomless stewards
will hand out suicide tablets
with cheery smiles and hearty cries of "Bon Voyage!!

oh but what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
we already know what you are,
you are a masquerade of excuses,
and your favourite subject of expressing
the masquerade is philosophy -
by it you find yourself excused,
but because the english undermined
a philosophical expression we've found
a weak spot, a diaphragm sort of speak;
indeed oh, what you are doesn't necessarily remain,
what you create and leave behind is necessary -
i just hope you find the heart to entomb in your
heart those in the modern era you found
pleasure in entertaining you grasping such
a vain effort of your frivolous maintenance
of the easily accessed numbers of similar examples -
sunglasses in the night - a ghost in the machine -
a soul extracted from the body in that lonely
cataract of flooding applause with one actor
and one member of the audience scared to applaud -
your creation... your immediate loss of identity -
but of course you were anticipating the organic
form of what would become a cohesive inorganic
entity - of the example that a mother even speaks
of regarding a robot - now why would a mother
speak of a robot? hmm? guess... it's a test for
a.s.i., i.e. analytically synthetic intelligence -
history repeats itself -
                history repeats itself -
                                you analyse no difference -
hence you synthesise replication - and you call
it intelligence of avoidance yet waste it on
a test for intelligence quantified, rearing in politicians
to craft a chiral representation of intelligence
quantified - in the recycling bin -
so much intelligence wasted, quantified,
leaving so much stupidity qualified to fake it,
instead of the recycling bin, thrown into the pigs'
through...
indeed, you are not what necessarily remains,
all the fabulous discoveries of science, and yet
the burning existential questions - thrown at you
by the pyramidal scheme of the non-inventors,
the once proud aristocrats languishing beneath
the weight of new-money barons...
indeed you are not what necessarily remains,
you are what necessarily remains in what you
are already... in such great number,
as in the liturgy of history... an anonymity...
perhaps all you ever were was a method statement
of creating a soufflé, the fermentation process of grapes...
how foolish you look now, readied for slaughter,
attempting to clarify a famous person syndrome,
grovelling like a ****-politician slurping attention
in Orwell's house - i know my stance -
by the machine being fed exponentials -
once only deluded if i be found prophetic on the street,
but with a house bound to a value
a suicide rate is worth in Switzerland (£10,000),
you think i'd pleasure myself with your tabloid
philosophy and wait for sympathy or disgrace?
guess...
                    it's free; a guess is free,
                                your little birdcage houses no sing-along.

St. John, the Evangelist, wrote the book of revelations,
the Latin world immediately thought
it was aimed at the Hebrew,
but the masochistic lacerations of the Jews
left intact, hardly slave-worthy, hardly imaginative
to build a Coliseum, instead worthy of
the hanging garden of Iran and the pyramids..
skyscrapers of Manhattan with only one room in
it, and some ***** trap passages to reach the riches,
like at Giza, when one hoped that one
sand people left the Koran for another sand people,
an it was all Brothers Grimm fairy ending: happily
ever after... the book of revelation
chapter 13 verse 3... how did i survive a brain
haemorrhage and revive a fully functioning
skeleton so quick? ask Rasputin,
no, i'm pretty sure Rasputin would care to mention
the poisoned *****... level the bastion square of
former William conquering, the Bastille echoed in
history like a footprint of a peasant standing ground
to what became downfall, and subsequent harvest...
an Austrian woman undermined a shy man
by giving out metaphors of cake...
she understood less when lionel logue was
worth that banknote of cinematic endeavour...
Stephen "shaky" Parkinson ploughed the lot...
saints like rats i close numbering,
one atheist attacked the woman of Calcutta,
another atheist attacked the man of Wadowice...
i would like to think that prior nationalism of
my forefathers meant something, in the least
ensuring i stay in the lands of potato and *****...
i was given the chasm of childhood's decision
having not clear basis for rationality,
as necessarily escaping what i wished eternity to be:
a bike ride of 60 kilometres in summer,
and hardly anyone wishing to diffuse my balances...
poetry is a cryptology, once it encounters symbolism
of sedated phonetics it comes across philosophy pausing
at Egyptology... the triage, tri, angle, primed 90
heading toward the crown or a rebirth of not acknowledging
the prime leisure of caesarian and reinserting the head
to wobble into the longest Nile of cluing divisions
as based on lost imagination: science has simply evaporated
chances of imagination - scientific imagination is reduced
to schematics - concrete arithmetic procedures
and paying attention to nothing while playing games
hardly resembling the japanese square and the karaoke culture
readying only teens to buy the crap...
imagine being an adult easily paying rent,
having a marriage, a dual life as a homosexual e.g.,
having left school, and mastered life with fancies
to be later equivalent of a G.C.S.E. grade in your personal life...
the book of revelation does not address the Hebrews:
written by Greeks, it was written for Byzantium,
that the Arabs clarified Aristotle sooner than Byzantium
is this obsession with bureaucracy - st. john
was also a mr. smithy joe-joe... the greeks lost the plot,
the book of revelation addresses greek naiveness,
it doesn't address Hebrew stubbornness,
given that: every greek would nod to avoid being
member of the Holocaust, while every Hebrew would
nod to engage being member of the Holocaust...
but still the Polish question... who were given neither
reparations by Germans, nor were included in the
Marshall Plan... but were given a "de facto" system
of economics that was "bound to fail", you'd need
one Pole to be a pope, to be later a saint for this to be real,
for the great dispersion... ever see a Polish girl get spat
on her face by her "master" dutch boyfriend when
speaking civilised tongue about her ambitions?
GERMANY WELCOMES SYRIA... that's Poland's
care for receiving reparations from Nazis, point no. 1.
point no. 2, Israel is mentioned in Eurovision
and in the European football championship...
oh come on... get comfy in your promised land!
the irony is that Australia is contesting a voice from too!
a torn apart revival? it's hardly a revival if the
lettering didn't disappear and wasn't replaced by arabic,
thank us for your allowance of earning money,
digitalising us, toward a perpetual analysis without
care to synthesise anything unusual that wasn't already
unusually analysed to this needle-point of
a unit of tsunami synthesis - comparably a year denied,
zeroed, convergence of the algebraic trinity with
all three unknowns: x, y, z - the book of revelation addresses
the foolery of the greeks, so much wisdom prior,
and yet so much foolery and laziness kindred to
the holy text of the hebrews under the prophet's name
Malachi... Muhammad has the leverage, being
a prophet-merchant, rather than a prophet-pauper -
bogatemu wszystko wolno.

Here comes my confession
A confession that is beyond your realisation
A confession that is not a misconception
Do expect a confession this momentarily
I say.

Here comes my confession
Please brighten up your gadget
Relax and move with this
Serious confession
Are you ready?
Are you?

Here comes my confession
Come closer
Eyes wide open
Ready to synthesise this confession
I bow for your time
Its a plea.

Here comes my confession
This a plea do not flee
Oh yes I am now ready
To give this waited confession
Yes waited by you....
Yes! you!

Here comes my confession
Shying temperatures rising
Oh My! I sense embers of fear in inner me.
Wait...
May this fear instinct be destroyed
Amen!

Here comes my confession
When I go to my room
Something strange I do
I fear to tell
This thing deeply disturb my level of paranoia
Do you want to know the thing?
Do you?

Here is my confession
Here it comes. ..
When I go to my room
The strange thing
I do
I commit
Opening my door with a key.
Oh this is strange
And this is my confession.

i don't live outside my poetry,
                                                             i live me poetry,
i have five cigarettes in a packet
and about 3/4 of a bottle
of whiskey left: i haven't had a natural
falling asleep pattern to mind
with a 9-to-5 of tomorrow to mind
for, over, 9, years! i synthesise sleep!
not out of laziness - mind you, if i was in a wheelchair
i wouldn't be eager to fake-dance
or embrace swimming - limb or limbless
there's still Pistorius to mind,
doesn't mind a moth-on-fire to
apply Einstein's relativity to what
Socrates already said: apply
relativity to dichotomy and it all just
becomes an undecipherable monism
without a beyond to justify good and evil...
a... **** it... whatever! let's admire
Louis the XIV fireworks and wine!
but his brother, ooh! what a firecracker!
Chevalier de Lorraine was my hair too curly
they almost might - the intrigue decipher -er,
additions to a false spelling mishap -
or the proof of nobility, had the mother
begged otherwise and the daughter not
endangered the quest by seeking out
a scaffold -er's errand to guillotine the tulips
for a fragrant bouquet - here the admiration
for the stern heart of the east replaced
with the jealous heart of the west...
but Philippe! **** two horses and a cow!
i.e. *******! what a reworking of puppets...
in the hall of the crimson king... e -ing,
-ah ah-ah... the rōnin purity, the pride,
a poet's wet-dream of fancy, best luck drunk,
bad luck sober - i wondered quiet a many times
whether i had ***** or just a ticklish farce of
fancy to roller-pin the protruding genitalia
into the constituency / obligation / necessity of marriage...
the same as Narcissus spoke without an **** partner -
the ****** rap of Louis the XIV courtroom
imitating behind curtain the head of Charles I
in clone chandelier the fate of John the Baptist and
the ****** of hate of Salome...
how the two combined, the export of Iraq met
in Egypt with likewise revision of the genital parts,
Iraq translated into Israel, the two combined...
why f.g.m. rose from yawned over m.g.m. because
of the harem of kings! Philippe though! what a king!
that standards shook, the banners quaked,
the muskets shot blanks for a deadly purpose,
and there was poor Louis with the armour of quote
and a ***** of power inherited: appearance is power -
likewise today, what appears powerful is indeed
powerful, but only in deception,
beside the deception there's is no power
except the innate purpose for symbolic hierarchies,
and look where that ends up, Sinatra singing a song
about pennies raining from heaven,
indeed pennies among the streets of paupers,
the crown easily *******-on from a pavement's perspective...
i'd ask you to sit on your laurels were you
emperors, but you are kings...
so why not sit on that thorny crown of yours?!
hey! pristine gold is worth more than a poet's anatomy!
that's the casual expression, if you sit on laurels you're being
lazy... a poet's Welsh longbow man's V salute against
the French emperors - but i'd like to see them sit on
that famous crown of thorns, or the seven gilded
pikes of Rome resurrecting Vlad and the villainous Turk;
sarcasm disarms all seriousness in attitude
toward rank, and in turn disarming itself as
placed in hierarchic demands of humour -
sarcasm competes outside of the hierarchy of humours,
outside of comedy, it's there to be a buckling
when authority becomes all too... ridiculous.

i've had to synthesise falling
asleep for years now,
alcohol and sleeping pills
thoroughly knock at my door
of sleep prior to the roller coaster
kin to a boxing match -
sleep chemical, sleep chemical -
dandruff and snow also -
a sweaty horse tilling to mind,
lack of dreams, too much colour
inviting otherwise...
and to and fro, and to and fro,
the remnants of a sinking ship,
a gallop, horse fed heartbeat,
a tilting, a tomorrow,
nigh tide with noon,
nigh tide with midnight,
the Thames, the Thames,
night of all circumstance
reduced to reaping a harvest
of beetroot
or shimmy a fake discourse
with embarrassment; eternity in the eyes
of logging and the foggy qualm;
clay subduing marble to state a David
in fingerprint of Michelangelo -
sire the power of indentation for printed
canyon with crayon -

etymology in practice:
Polish skleroza, avid formulation
of sclera, itemised -
-rose, -rossa, pinkish, barbarossa..
the whitened forgetfulness...
the rosy forgetting...
skleroza, the whitening of the eye...
róża - rose, pinky white, beauty of
forgetting...
Heidegger's dasein is no more than
a copula... a connective-compound...
grammatical words undress all philosophical terms
to a nakedness, e.g., whereby dasein becomes
merely a copula.. shortcrust bread, poison ivy,
it's not the meaning that's necessary,
but the musicology without brass or woodwind,
what's required to breed poetry like a viral
infection is accent, the oddity -
or let's fly the kite of the free reign of language
accommodating the many individuals to be
further expressed.

She says I don't know how the world works
that it isn't all about believing little sparks
she says I don't know what it means to hurt
how difficult it is when love ends,harder than to start
getting detached, uprooting all the passion
is work that could necessitate a mason or ******* a person
she tells me the worst part of it is one wants
the world to understand but all one
may receive are boos and chants
she says loneliness is a road she's trodden
and company an untrustworthy horse she's ridden
that she prefers to be alone than to risk her shards
she knows better to savour silence than trusting words
she says had I arrived a little bit earlier in her life
she could have considered ,had I come before her strife
she says she crumbled enough times before
so doubting is something she can't be sorry for
people are like the tides, she says they call for doubt
for moments come, tides wash in and tides wash out
she says she's tired of being rolled about
she's ensuring she makes decisions that count
no more taking chances or making choices in haste
she says she no longer has a tear to waste
she is in my arms speaking right above my beat
and I am tranquillised as I listen to her bit by bit
wondering if I can have her dark life lit
Despair is deep, could I pull her out that pit
can I change the cacophony in her mind into a euphony
can I synthesise the strings in her heart to make a symphony?
she says every music in her life quickly fades away
that its harmony only lasts hours if a day
they all appear with promise to last a century
but as soon as their feet step her temple, her sanctuary
the build dies from the beat instrument at a time
trombone, trumpet infesting its rhythm and rhyme
she says the world has been a repleted void
that has cost her so much she couldn't avoid
so I choose to listen to her silence not her clamour
and guess what she's saying all along,
once more someone has broken past her armour
and she wants to give it one last shot
What she isn't saying is she's tired of safe,the sure thing boat
she wants to set sail out once again in the stormy sea
maybe going past the storms is the adventure,the view to see
maybe this could be the arrow that hits the mark
her concern is she wants to try out her luck
because she's holding me tight and it feels right
may be this is the dawn that lasts on and on
what she isn't saying is she wants to be my own
cause if she doesn't try she may never find
I grab her firmer on reading her mind
because only I knows how long I've waited
for someone to dance with the never ending song
that's what true love is,I see it in her eyes
that she and I have found a beat that never dies

heretical grammar: the finite article is defined by ego... the infinite article is defined by god... **** your Freudian trinity.

when you first learn a language, you are taught the language
in order to synthesise it...
it takes about 20 years of having synthesised the language
to then analyse it, and analysis of an acquired tongue
is a comforting walk through the halls of
Shiva kissing Hades like Erich Honecker and Leonid Brezhnev;
you turn toward the way in which the language is
programmed, silenced, encoded, you check
the orthography, what's missing... i'm astounded to see
how no one spotted missing diacritical marks in english,
for ****'s sake... the greeks are even using them!
no wonder england became such a ******* after the reigning
power on a global scale... this is a Copernican *gosh!
it'll reign for some time; well, we know that Cyrillic is
the evolved form of Greek, that paved the way for
Mendeleev - i guess straining the sound encryption will
make you see things differently, or as the English say
in Essex: the H might as well be a surd.

you can really only begin critiquing a movie, beginning with the soundtrack, and, my my, wasn't T2 such a pleasurable follow-up.

you ever noticed how you can't look
at a moon, cross-eyed,
   with only one eye?
      a debilitatingly obvious fact,
when i started integrating into english
society, i said to myself:
make sure you know the sewers of
this city of tongue,
make sure you know every nook &
cranny, make sure you can speak
the native, better than the natives...
i think i did a fair good job,
   after all, english speakers think that
english is a difficult language to learn,
not to a bright-spark aged 8,
this other italian kid, fat as a doughnut
didn't bite into the tongue as rapaciously
as i did...
              and so it went:
synthesise the acquired for about 20 years,
and then analyse it later...
       my my, what a kinder surprise it
ended up becoming!
     but have you ever gazed at the moon
cross-eyed? suddenly you become
no more the *polyphemus...
  you start looking at the moon cross-eyed
and suddenly two moons appear,
  the optical lambda stops working,
             what once was Λ, become a V -
      and you really get to see the world
of polyophemus' father: poseidon,
   because everything almost looks submerged
under water...
                              V
                        ­      Λ       two in 'ere,
two up 'er,
                           almost like the sunset on
tatooine...
          and always that persistent guilt over
"ooh the bad n- word",
      oh sure, besides the fact that i befriended
a 60+ year old ghanian grandfather in
the off-lice, once upon a pumpkin-carriage
tale time ago, and i always end the conversation
by a handshake that involves to of mine
and only one of his...
        so i feel this much . of "despair" /
                      "responsibility" when using
a toothbrush... *****, i ain't got beef,
but cut some slack on the shifty every changing
nature of urban slang,
     ***** might just mean: a shady individual,
and if i can't say nigh-jer (niger),
what am i going to replace it with, nigel?!
        if that's offensive, then i think we really
did a pish-poor job at slaughtering each other
or making ***** films...
     obviously we need to crank up the heat...
tell you what...
   you know what the "holy roman empire"
shifted a tad bit to the east,
and involves poland, former czechoslovakia
and hungary?
             first of all, the languages are a bit hard...
and not everyone speaks english
like they do in the benelux or scandinavia,
that's for starters, but the poles received two
great gifts from the german people,
first the marienburg castle given to us by
the teutonic crusaders of the north,
and second of all...
  auschwitz-birkenau, majdanek, auschwitz zwei
(they're intact, and can be quiet easily
reponened)...
i can't even believe i managed to translate
english black humour...
    i thought some things were never
possible...
     william burroughs in his book
    the cat inside talks about the SS training...
the initiation into the upper ranks of
the SS was to gouge out the eyes of a pet
cat after feeding & cuddling the cat for a month...
to eliminate the pity-poison and mould
the complete übermensch...
  then he goes on to say how he would never
hurt a cat...
               these sort of people,
the ones that value animal life over human
life can actually become the foremost conscripts...
with my ginger quarus?
  that ******* annoying luciano paravortti?
that qat qaeda who ***** in peoples beds
and deserves a smack?
            give me half an hour,
a bottle of *** and i'll tell you once the time is
done...
      but you see... the german have
actually provided gifts...
  these sites are deterrents...
   and if you travel to warsaw in december,
and land there, and walk outside the airport...
you might as well fall it scythia...
           feral lands, i know i've said this before,
but i've just been rewatching commentary
videos from 2015 / 6 events...
      i've stopped identifying the reality of:
it's only real when i've encountered it,
and: it's just a media coverage when it hasn't
happened to me...
             and sometimes i just end up
drinking and writing something:
completely mediocre, since i know it's
provoking some sort of hornets' nest of emotion,
and that the only redeeming part of this
exhausting effort (due to its mundane
subject matter) is the optical diamond -
for the most part, we peer into the world
with two eyes that are so calibrated to be effectively
synchronised, convergent,
     looking at the convergence point,
clearly indicates that when converging,
   the eyes diverge, and are actually parallel...
i have absolutely no idea how
   this happens, the whole: looks upright
but then translate to the brain is actually
upside-down is one thing, but that's the vertical
aspect, i mean the horizontal explanation
of the eyes... how, even though they are
placed at a parallel, they actually manage to
converge, whereby polyphemus' one
is as good as our two...
                i don't have the resources to explore
of given an answer in concreto,
                     just one guy,
having a drink, looking at the moon,
                                                   cross-eyed.

The Highest Prize

I am not intelligent;
IQ middling, slow to think
(except when I’ve had caffeine’s drink))
I know people whose vocabulary,
Skills in math and history
Outdo, surpass and outshine mine
By kilometres miles,
Eclipsing talents, each outrivaling  
My wiliest of guiles.

And yet, and yet
I lie or sit
And never quit
Creating verse.
My biggest blessing, little-lest curse
To (all the time) be struck by phrase
That never hazes,
Never dazes or confuses.
Simply takes my life and uses it.
Perhaps fusing the parts, (I hope)
Unjoined or compromised or *****.


Of course, being the seated type
That learned to type when just a tike,
I snap things up and write them down,
Typing up and clipping to with paper clip
Each page of quip and deepest scrip
While taking ownership of ideas wise
And ideas definitely dippy.*

I admit, without self praise,
That I’ve been blessed with artist-joy.
(A gift I didn’t have to buy
It being given me for free).
The gift to knock together, forge concoct,
Then synthesise chords, words, whatnot…
The highest prize I could’ve got.

Perhaps intelligence is overrated.
One can feel complete and sated
By a zillion other qualities:
Not sensory but definitely
Meeting needs:
Ones that feed the world as well.
All other prizes, as you know,
Gone to the hell of false impression’s phantom spell:  
Of no importance whatsoever.

The Highest Prize 9.30.2018 I Is Always You Is We; A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Arlene Nover Corwin

(written certificate)
*(scatterbrained, silly or eccentric).

I don’t know if you can see it

Every action of mine is a shadow of you
Every movement in movement with you

So now that I am older, now that I synthesise
I am long-lost, now I see

Every move I make for you
is a move away from me

i still look for you in endless skies and infinite depths, in artificially beating hearts and macro-micro scale, past the schwarzschild radius, inside the electron orbital. the mere thought of you dwarfs everything that could be and can be conceptualised or philosophised or made, even as our descendants reach for the stars and become gods and synthesise emotions and transcend physical form, when history is a nightmare the human consciousness is trying to wake up from, there will be others too who love and lose like i did.