I would not refuse to *******.
not on a mere ethical technicality
a cursed dialectic sheared and far less pretty
than the contents of your *******
smooth as oysters lips from where your barraged ocean
falls on salty fingertips

you shall bathe in this warm artifice of my adoration
and be my play waif,
my relief from the wristed finesse
that I have become so used to

and I shall take you away from this place
where the chill of a boneless glass sustains
the shadows and fog of a self-financed ******
and Eurydice might still be expected to rise
from beneath a carpet of stone blossom

but in the sober morning a killer may raise
the bones of dead eyebrows and watch the moping steam
evanesce from the wet heart bed
bled full of drowning lungs,
the mangled target of perspective reduced
to something so blessed

.remember this youtube channel: harakiri diat...

i think this genre of music has a name: brutalism...
last night i watched 50 book recommendations
by the cosmicsceptic...
beside his oxford specific titles relating
to his philosophy and theology degree...
came the fictional books...
i presumed that i didn't read anything going
into this video...

i can be forgiven for not reading a christopher
hitchens when i've read some knausgård...
perhaps i presume to have not read anything...
because... i do quiet enjoy the act of reading...
so much so that... only scraps remain for me that
are: useful...

i can't imagine finding any use from a book
if it's not already in it...
apparently i'm not so under-read as i led myself
to believe...
but this is not about literature...
i was looking for a genre to encompass...
say... vomito *****...
the klinik...
the soft moon...
but i couldn't come to anything of worth...
not until i foraged for the more obscure...
the raw pulp...
primitive knot - ******* of brutalism...
again... the channel harakiri diat
has the music covered...
zeit und geist... i am the fire...
let's keep it clean...
i would go as far as to include
bohren & der club of gore: midnight radio
into this whole mix...

as much as i'd love to push for die krupps...
no can do... their stuff is polished goods...
vomito ***** is polished goods...
but there's still something raw about them...
once upon a time there was this "thing"
about doom metal... electric wizard... etc.,
but i can say... this new brutalism is...
by far... better than a gavin mcinnes diet
of punk... i never liked punk...
i never liked punk as i never liked rap...
hip hop yes and all that jazzmatazz fussion...
some solid grit...

after all... Romford, Essex...
probably the last bastion of the music shop...
a his-master's-voice with a vinyl section...
my idea of a tennis-court,
a cafe, a swimming-pool, a park,
a church even... because you can never really
own too many records...

and between me and you:
what's the difference between me and my neighbor?
he plays his music, mostly rap...
on the speakers... and sings along to the songs...
he finishes the day with some r'n'b and stops
singing... i take over...

headphones in, 6ft2 posture hunched in a chair
scribbling with chicken-pecking precision
some long lost "hierogylphic"...
and of course: in between some, literature...
but it was only about the music...
youtubers ruined youtube as much as
the "legacy media"... or the next will smith...
"vlogger"...

once upon a time youtube was a haven for people
like me: who only used it to find new music...
somehow the glitches started and the music video
recommendations died: youtube thesaurus algorithm
became corrupt or something...

would i ever sing-along to a song?
not if it's as raw as a stake-tartar and the dish
needs to be served with merely thinking to compliment it...
i'll repeat what i've already said:
gentlemen! the jukebox is ******!
- and i was the type to listen and then buy
a physical copy... even though i didn't have to...
i could go back and listen to the same stuff again...
out of principle...

no car = no car insurance no road tax...
no mobile phone = no... bill...
in terms of primitive knot, though?
would you rather go blind or deaf?
that's a tough one...

listening to primitive knot or watching
a latex lucy b.d.s.m. short *****-flick...
i know: it's the obvious synonym overlap...
but at the same time it isn't...
gimp suits or all those other unicorns of the bedroom...
but no... the most forbidden act i ever managed
to fathom in a brothel was a kiss...
one time i pulled out a ***** from a drawer
when she went with the money to the madame
of the parlour and coming back asked me:

do you want to use it?
*** to me is like rye bread...
it's not a ******* croissant...
toasting alone will do the trick...
language is already complicated by necessity...
of crosswords and the boredom
that most mono-lingual people feed not having
learned a crossword of bilingualism...
why would i inhibit this fact of voyeurism?
apparently there's something immoral watching
someone get pleasured...
perhaps i should find some rare footage of
a peter anthony allen hanging...
or Leroy Hall, Jr. at the Riverbend (Nashville, Tennessee)?
perhaps i should start jerking off on
a whim, from time to time...
over execution footage?

perhaps it's that sort of conundrum...
you see someone eating ice-cream and enjoying it...
you therefore? buy yourself a cone?
god almighty... but the added responsibility
of also owning the fridge and freezer
when that spontaneous whim passes...
after all... there's always that diet of...
the girls jerking off into the camera...
which is probably the least guilt-riddled form
of ******* on the planet...

hey! if she's doing it... and you sat down
on the throne of thrones to do the no. 1 and the no. 2...
let's call it no. 3 and taking a baptism later (no. 4)...
esp. if you haven't been circumcised...
at this point: i feel sorry for the circumcised men...
that do not live within the rigours of a hasidic orthodoxy:
the circumcised man: the subservient woman...
the circumcised man: the woman in a niqab...
i guess that's how it works, no?
imagine the problems...
if the man were circumcised... but the woman...
was not supposed to pay any sort
of "penalty"...

then again: one would expect to find the best
***** under the crucifix...
stigmata pin-head and all those dittos...
and heads... but i am a connoisseur... 1970s...
1980s... but it must be Italian...
no... not German... and certainly not English...
chances are: yes, French... but more or less
Italian... and it's always on a whim...
connoisseur... well there are videos where
you can find a pregnant woman parading her bump...
and squeezing her *******...
and that's about it...

i want to imagine what those 9 months
of pregnancy must feel like...
for better or for worse... the oral demands...
perhaps i haven't written about this sort of stuff
for a long enough period...

now an interlude where i smoke a cigarette
is bound to be... exquisite...

it sure as hell is the safest way to arrive
at some sort of *** that's purely plesurable:
a gradation of *** without consequences...
but is this a celebration?
a woman ******* on camera with
her toys is a celebration...
me my ******* and the phantom hand...
there's no theatre in it...
the utility of taking a ****, taking a ****...
doing "it"... then having a shower...
and then "repressing" it...
not having "repressed" it to begin with...

i did a month once...
i came to the conclusion... that i'm more impulse
prone, i was planning my next brothel
visit... after a month i was still planning it...
then i relieved myself and...
would you believe it? the impetus dissolved!
i don't know what these right-wing
europa-identitarians are coming up with...
so much attention on:
i enjoy reading as much as i enjoy taking
a ****... notably the constipated kind
but esp. more of the diarrhoea nature...
hello mr. **** hello mrs. geiser!

perhaps that's why i wouldn't ever be a fan
of ******... i enjoy taking a **** too much...
or perhaps i'm just too old fashioned...
but this began as something orientating oneself
around a music genre...
how did it come down to pornogrpahy?

jean genet: the thief's journal...
i was really hoping for something marquis de sade
-esque... there was still too much:

solo girl does her bit...
so well in fact... that... buying a *** doll
must only remain a h'american thing...
*** is already shamed when marriage comes
along in anglo-saxon societies...
notably the inflateable sheep or doll
on those normie stag parties...
*** and children and the joke is:
you can only have good ***...
if you're ******* for procreative reasons...
bypassing the ****** for the sake
of the children...

otherwise... well no ******* doesn't help...
if... there's no wife in a niqab in public...
or some kosher wifey either...

i still have mine and i will keep that...
as... almost... a security policy...
a prenup...

pauk-mumije (1982 bosnian post punk)...
perhaps brutalism is just post-punk?

i remember it quiet clearly...
i still can't fall asleep without listening to music...
as i couldn't back then...

otchim - james dean...
the bass and no guitar riffs until the chorus
comes... and... ha ha... it's in fwench!
just like i could **** her without listening
to really... atmospheric music...
by 2007 standards that was equal to:
the dandy warhols...
but that was 2007...

these days... hardly candles and
black sun dreamer - post-traumatic stress disorder...
back then it was candles
and type o negative...
the candles and... catching a mouse...
no trap... a labyrinth of obstacles
and she sitting on the bed giggling while
i played being a maine ****...
and i did catch the mouse...
held it by the tail... let it lose on the stairwell...
and then watch its traumatised body try to
find a hole... scuttle and then fall...
to a depth of a greater serenity of
a... vermin's suicide: with no monkey sing-along
of... this mouse has done the cheese...

and it was sad when i was naive and
i accidently killed my hamster in a similar
fashion... but some ***** Abel...
but at least the mouse allowed me to
circumstance a Pontius Pilate relief...
and she asked me: what did you do with the mouse?

oh... it committed suicide.

chicago research compilation... tape CRO15...
perhaps listening to the cure
or depeche mode was once a "thing"...
no... burtalism is not post-punk...
pisse - kohlrubenwinter...
red zebra - i can't live in a livingroom...

my one personal joke...
in england i started calling the livingroom...
the civilroom...
pokój cywilny - if it must stress the St. Cyril...
so it must: комната гражданский..
brutalism is not post-punk...

stiff little fingers... are punk's creamy pie...
oto - bats...
bodychoke - cruelty
       "            - red dog
       "            - the red sea
legendary divorce - age with us...

somehow more of my ****** valnetine...
and less sonic youth...

i do remember pretending to date...
at high school...
the first question was always a nervous
build-up to the question:
'what music are you into?'

weird party - acne puncture...

well would you believe it...
some of us are still after something that
finds no sort of aleviation
in the alternative that's an aydin paladin
video...

POPEiUM - papacidal coronation...
Münn - II. in defeat...
a john peel: a no john peel...
the sort of piano that makes
a debussy or a satie blush...
AMORT - die hexes...

the current standard of... the stoogers...
or stooges... and... air no concern...
the limbo artifact of ***...
formerly known as the... limbo pickling...
of the undead...
and all those that come with an eczema and
the scabs of leprosy...
and vampires: those syphilitic zombies...

susumu yokota, and all those stupid,
solipsictically assured cats, grinning...
menace of the grin!
full cheese impromptu with a display
of teeth!
a night promenade into the forest
listening to: demdike stare's tryptych...

i haven't tried... but from 1pm through to 5pm...
i could phone classic.fm and ask
for... a song to be played in my name...
perhaps i'll phone in...
if i catch the right "once upon a time"...
and find it... as i found...
christopher young's: something to think
about...

**** and music... many interludes...
perhaps some little borat-britain references...
and then: none...
per 1K there's a cult...
per 10K there's a counter-culture...
come the 918 apostles... of jonestown...
there's no leftover for no...
alternative...

the restless mind starts its exercise
in petty squabbling....
why weren't i the respected,
vatican proof for a plumber!
why wasn't i to become,
the undertaker!

i too feel: the claustrophobia
of the ensue of the paragraph...
what is primitive knot contra U2...
mainstream? sod it: knot it a blood
and a sundail!
blood dries... the mercurial mythology
dries a solidity of
something becoming more an echo...
and less a sodden-print of the foot...
which the tide will,
nonetheless relate itself as...
worthy of being erased...

the violin concerto...
the piano nocturnes...
and the symphonies...
and the operas...
later the ballet...
beside... a chopin would write a nocturne...
a debussy would write one also...
but...
debussy writes a nocturne...
satie writes a nocture...
but a schumann?! a schubert?!
they write a concerto!
none of their work could have been written
in solide with a solipsistic monologue
escapade...

perhaps i can only appreciate chopin via
his nocturnes...
otherwise i am not convinced...
the greats wrote.... symphonies...
operas... never accompany pieces
to make their instrument an oak...
a tree... and not something resdual
to later make a mahoganny piano / table
of...

pianists! you only hear of their prowess!
Liszt! Chopin! Debussy! Satie...
exclaim as if to: suprise the "audience"
with either knowledge or...
adoration?
can a violinist make the same sort
of statements?
a pianist will play... with an accompaniment...
he will never become the maestro
predisposition
of the polyphony...

a chopin only heard the piano...
a debussy only heard a piano: solo...
a beethoven or a mozart...
what violin solo? what of a violin concerto?!
is that a trick question?
old father bach...
no instrument: well...
shubert loved allowing a piano ****
a bunch of harem violins in a harem crescendo
of a concerto...

but a nocturne? the polyphony of...
the "polyphony" of...
two pianos playing side-by-side...

- the joint"laura's"1967 kk proto prog freak phych -
no, that's not it...
- and no... it's not omega - gyöngyhajú lány...
- well **** on me...
locomotiv moscow is not a band...
but an f.c.... beg your pardon...

as i do hope that i am wrong about
a minor "technicality"...
somehow classical, essential...
and nothing worth or being able to: hum...
or sing-along-to...
always serious and finding outlets
of a necessity in being: thought of...
perhaps there's this grand:

technicality of not finding oneself sighing
or crying for that matter...
vaughan williams is more required...
for the expanse of a cowboy movie
horizon...
or that technical term...
the: deconstruction of the dutch angle
in the perspective shot...

but we don't talk about *** as much
as we don't engage in it...
and we certainly don't talk about music...
the absolute brutal needs to be found...
a butterfly a lotus a kiss in a brothel...
all else is... the slaughterhouse....

this has been a...
no Friday night in Soho can match-up...
i've spent better nights in
Amsterdam...
and no... the red light district was
never going to be a cannabis cafe for me...
or some Vermont-esque quest for a better
pint of ale...
*** was on sale...
there was not real point of making
any money from it in the medium of fiction...
it was always going to be
ugly, frictive... below par of expectation...
but it was always going to
be fathomable... fathomable in a sense
of it being respected...
as a hierarchical undermining...

oh what since was, truly was concrete...
but the verbiage came along
and fiddled with the fog and the end-result
deems itself abstract...
there's the concrete of drought...
and the abstract of locust.
there's the concrete of a mountain...
and the abstract of a pyramid;
there's the concrete of death...
and the abstract of a mosileum;
after all... a grave is a coping mechanism
of someone who...
never began the inquiry... of mortality...
joking as a child might...
pretending to handshake his own shadow.

as i have found the antithesis of narcissus...
the man who fell in love with his shadow.

Dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
So I dream under the sun
I dream ultraviolet
But then to the human race, I seem to lose the keys
And the rabbits always lead me to gardens of lust
And they’re kidnapping angels on capitol hill
Thought me and the universe had an agreement
But still I’m building spaceships the size of a pill
If you let out your monkey, a butterfly gets framed
Where goes all those who have lost their graces
This tattoo of you is a curse-
a Borneo from the bottom of a bottle
And dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality

Some introductory food for thought...

“What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy?”
    - Mahatma Ghandi

“Totalitarianism is not only hell, but all the dream of paradise-- the age-old dream of a world where everybody would live in harmony, united by a single common will and faith, without secrets from one another."
   - Milan Kundera

"Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it."
  - George Orwell


Technocracy as scientific Totalitarianism?
Technocracy is the institutionalised control over all aspects of society by scientific and technological means through a centralised autocratic bureaucracy, whose totalitarian control is secured by the exploitation of its means. Universal utilitarianism over the psychologies, sociology, technology, pharmacology, etc. Whose state authority relies solely on the implementation of systematic indoctrination and propaganda, and the methodical interception of political dissidence or heresy against the established ideological order (in whatever form it takes). Human beings, as the most exhaustively studied species on Earth, have no shortage of data, nor any famine of instances littered among history that create the foundation of a deterministic human proclivity to be influenced by covert forces, often even when staring us in the face.


The institutionalisation of Peace as a political concept?
Peace, among the broader consensus, means to many and ideal not only of great significance, but too, a matter of urgency in a world of almost instantaneous advancement in the technological means of warfare, with the capability of mass destruction or even global fallout ever possible at the push of a button. Peace, however, as a political concept (like all concepts) is multilateral in the diversity of its manifestation, and is one of vague understanding to those who might purport its value, or perhaps not to those who might reap its more nefarious facets. Institutionalised ideology (possibly even Peace as a concept) has a tendency to shift to the extreme spectrum of its implementation in order to compensate for, by physical and ideological assets, the inevitable opposition that will rise in its wake or during its implementation. This is why, despite the seemingly sympathetic characteristics of Marxist ideology, it requires, when in its institutionalised from, a means of repressing antithetical views or activity, for instance, within the Soviet system. Because of this proclivity, it is thus safe to assert that even Peace, when in an institutionalised state could adopt a form of despotic hard and soft power in the enforcement of its ideological tenets.


Peace as an ideological control system?
It is necessary to understand the extent to which the concept of peace can be applied and that to which it's linguistic value could be altered or even neologistically reinvented. Peace, as generally perceived, means a vague ideal of harmony between people, generally applied to warfare and violence and the unnecessary suffering it causes. However, it is surely necessary to contemplate the id of its concept, which could still, by technicality, represent peace. Here is a legalese style list of how it could be applied, utilised as an ideological system of control:

• Opposing dialectic or political discourse between two or more groups or individuals as a breach of peace, for it produces a state of non-neutrality and thus a state of conflict (of ideas).
• Opposition to the state by activism or an expression of opinion as a breach of peace, for it may incite a state of conflict, or a spread of opposition.
• Multi-partisan politics as a concept that produces conflict (of ideas) and thus would be a breach of peace, and therefor is necessary to maintain a single-party system.

These are some ways in which I have tried to apply the political concept of peace as could be utilised for an ideological system of control through the rule of law or other means. Peace is generally perceived as a concept existing on the macro, however, here having been applied to the micro, it becomes scrutinous and can target by technicality, basic liberties. Theoretically, peace can mean absolutist ideological neutrality.


- a short essay by JDH

I'm not one for reality
Like so many humans with their mortality
My heads in the clouds
My brain is so loud
But really thats just a technicality

Modern athletes, strong and buff,
These days are tested soon and late
just to prove their skill and strength
are free of anabolic taint.

Ryan Braun, the M.V.P.
was tested thus occasionally.
He didn't seem the type to me
to boost his skills unnaturally.

Thus imagine my surprise
to learn the ***** he supplied
contained synthetic Testosterone
Brewer fans emitted groans.

Now it seems he's off scot free
based on a technicality.
He will not have to serve the ban
imposed on many a lesser man.

Opening day, reserve the date;
Braun will be there at the plate
His many fans will come to see
Ryan Braun, the M.V. ***.

.                                                 what?
between MC hammer...
and men at work...
there's a choice?
come on...
you could have given
me an easier question,
like... Debussy
contra Satie...
or, like...
  egg yolk or egg white?!
point being...
i'd love to see
christopher lambert
play the role of
raiden in that... mortal kombat
game made into a motion
picture...
you know...
if i owned a PS2...
i'd still be a gamer...
but i never owned a PS2....
or the metal gear solid 2
gaming experience...
not the PS1 experience
fighting ****** mantis...
you know that hack / cheat...
when you switch controller
slots...
when ****** mantis is
giving his grandiose speech..
and you switch the controller
ports, so that in in the game
you're not predictable...
   final fantasy 7?!
completed it with a walk-through...
sorry... homework...
that being said:
all of Friday night and all of
Saturday morning...
and some Tenchu....
wacky-Jacky...
      cow later chow,
enter mein...
           choppers chop chop...
these days?
i game...
           when i take a ****...
i figured... if there are people who
take a book to the crapper...
i'll take a game...
    war robots....
      you know what's fascinating?
the interactive applicability of
a game...
                     team-work...
mesmerizing...
                the whole gaming
structure drifted from a narrative,
to a congregational dynamism...
solipsism unraveled...
i dig the whole team work,
while taking a ****...
love it... 5 stars review...
     but am i a gamer...
do i not think that
a.i. is a revamp of Pinocchio?
no...
     but metal gear solid?
a ******* solid game
on PS1...
       you would be talking to a gamer
if i was allowed to buy
a PS2 console...
         oh right...
  i read books and listened to music,
and ended up writing anti-routine /
anti-technicality poetry /
anti-rhyme poetics....
                                      my bad;
"we're" calling a revision
of chess in play;
yeah... sorry...
   i was never into paragraphs,
with dialogue interludes...
for me...
  poems were always above
a structural stature of paragraphs;
something to do with
haiku or... whatever came out of
Godzilla's mouth.

Pushed to the back of the fridge
Styrafoams full of predictions
Of life after your childish ambitions
played out.

Carried home from a family occasion
The ideas molded
Over the ages of a chilly
Adolescence.

Now each morning
hits like a punch in the mouth,
The sour taste of last nights
Forgetfulness
Heavy on your breath.


it's always too early
To stomach the sun.
Returning to lost love
With only poison in your gut;
It's getting easier to move on.

Continue along
Hanging from a precarious
Cable car of ambivalence
Wave at each opportunity missed
As it passes you by,
your eyes
Idly on the sky.

"Next time, next time"
You mutter

"Next time I'll give it a try."

C.e.M.
2.17.15

fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead  
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.

i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.

of thought.

I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys;  the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed

i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from

the black rays, yes.

the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid  
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of

nimbus, yes

mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan

not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?

i  fed the flock lots

I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...

tucked
under
wing.

i fed them, yes.

a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.

i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand

and crawled, well blended

down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.

i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na

hang the tantrums !  

yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to

short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.

one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and

the solid gold flyswatters.

they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',

now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.

a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.

to grow wings.

yes.

when the original / “creative” part of you dies,
you tend to repeat,
it’s not that repetition is a sin of the craft of art,
it’s necessary to reap from the established boundaries,
you can then enter the realm of the banal
of work, you can become an electrician, a plumber,
a bus driver... although writing poetry,
and this is the redemption bit, you can never claim
a highbrow status for yourself,
you’re in the cauldron with the lot of them,
able to say within a disguise and a keen smile:
oh yes, the 30th of october 2015 was a lot different from
the 30th of october 2009;
unless you have a steady job that pays the rent
and allows you to dabble in transcendental art,
the **** you do on the sly, on the odd protruding appendix,
then, my darling, you can proudly say: me gombrowicz, me t.s. eliot...
this latter example just shows you how art is made into
a sacrilegious state of affairs, beatified in the lazed hours in between chores,
‘hey puppy, here’s 10 squid, clean up your room, say sorry.’
‘yes dada, 10 squid for a clean room and the words oh so so sorry.’*

i sometimes find, that a casual vocabulary usage
of a specialist term
for example, the most common
casual inference is done without prior knowledge
from the 1st & 3rd party associates
that make it their career path to understand
something as delicate as to not allow the butchers in
to solve the matter. the butchers? surgeons,
opticians, the ones that are not stuck
in the aristotelian abyss of trying to sort out
proper names from proper meanings -
even though the two run parallel:
proper names are usurped by synonymity
to make language more beautiful and perhaps more fluid
(as is true for the variations of hue in the visible spectrum),
with proper meanings allowing a word multiple meanings
giving way to chaos / loopholes in practicing law / ambiguity;
the most common apprehensive use of a technical term,
used as a metaphor is the word schizophrenia in the english language,
i’ve seen it many a times, casually reasoned this word
in the public realm looses all technicality... and as i mentioned
prior... because poeticised structured by mythology due to
the fact that it’s used as a metaphor... which is staggering...
given the fact that i have a bit of literature on the matter
i thought it would be worth pointing this out,
depression is not inferred casually in the public realm
the realm of bibliophobes - i’m not saying people do not read
or are evasive of these s y m b o l s, i’m talking a depth of reading,
i’m talking a breadth of reading, patience with technicality,
real-life examples that are not shunned for that patent maxim:
ignorance is bliss.
as you might have noted i understand the technical term
to have been claimed by the public for casual usage (i.e. schizophrenia),
and if this is the case, i have to regress to the origins
which takes me back to emil kraepelin, although changing the compound
name, like i might with hydroxychloroquine...
the original compound was known at the time as dementia praecox
(premature dementia)... given that i propose a change to dementia construo,
given the fact that the sufferer of this condition contracted this
disease at a young age, and has not accomplished much in life
in terms of materialism of safety and boasting competence,
it is indeed a condition that can be defined by its prematurity
(stressors for success, as established by the ruling party, ideology
based upon innovation, education and appearances)
and the constructive aspect of it - based upon the anti-psychiatric movement’s
notion of an inclusion of a self itemised with the tools true or false.
why this latter point? nietzsche would have probably agreed with me,
beyond good and evil? there’s only truth and falsehood,
this the most likely square pairing.

.i really didn't mind which side was going to win... it was pretty obvious in the snap general election, in england, this year, i would have been sold the Blairite mantra any day of the week... that old flavour panache... you won, yes... blah blah... that's the one thing i don't understand about such events... it's not enough to win something... you have to succumb to that brazen: gloating... if only there was a sports' like stoicism behind winning... a sense of decorum... perhaps that's why i didn't vote... i didn't want to succumb to the subsequent brazen gloating... the odd chance that i experience ego-tripping is enough: when i encounter some abstract cul de sac of vocab that will be written... but never entertain everyday formal conversations... but... this gloating... some people can never make it into a... richard federer moment... why would they... after all... politics... voting... imagine if all the cheers and chants in a football match were actually indicative of who was going to win the match... perhaps... they are... "in hindsight"... i.e. when there are only 10 seconds on the clock in stoppage time before the game ends... in politics that's how having won: gloating emerges... it's not enough to have won... one has to bask in it... just like those away fans... with the majority of the home fans having left with Elvis having seen the most erecticle-dysfunction thrashing.

today i learned that some very intelligent people
managed to construct an a.i. system
that would be able to finish beethoven's
symphony no. 10 - or, as a matter of fact:
that the computers did it!

i would applause this achievement...
but... i'm hardly going to...
i wouldn't even applaud had "my own"
flesh and blood - an organic exponent achieved this
feat! unless - he were a deaf man -
even then - relativism of some sort...

as i'm writing this i wonder:
what if these intelligent people managed
to construct an a.i. system that would be able
to finish off... Kafka's the castle?
should "we" celebrate such an accomplished:
should it ever come to pass?

a much harder undertaking...
and for all its worth, classical music...
rarely does it translate into something you
can whistle it...
rarely... and when you can: you barely can...
beside the interludes...
basically Bach's polyphony destroyed
the simplicity of classical music -
classical music? no wonder modern music
has to borrow the technicality of the event...

- could this be a Kierkegaardian style of meditation
or... dare i say it... Knausgårdian?
i frankly don't mind...
how much of my biography i will include
in this is beside the point -
like? do i think that for all their worth,
their grand narratives,
some people can still come off as slight?
i do not want to immerse myself
in how so many petty things
bind people together when being
stripped to find themselves beneath
celestial bodies and some disposable awe...
yawn at the stars and enjoy some
soap opera... get into the jungle petty
crimes... yawn at the stars...

this surely must have been written
from an underbelly...
by a turtle starving when being flipped
onto its shell... otherwise...

classical music and its complexity...
i tried to figure it out...
but i will rarely come to finding it
necessary to enjoy certain things...
classical music i will rarely enjoy -
especially if i have to think about it...

oh the glorious days when i thought
that thought was a pleasure in-itself...
now? this spaghetti monster with recycled
pieces of self and the christo-freudian
trinity layer-cake of ego, superego, id
of modernity...
i'm always somewhere, nowhere:
playing the cameo role...
i imagine a psychologist talking to me
armed with all these surgical "equipment" items
for my metaphysical surgery...
and i have no knowledge / consciousness
regarding each vector or enzyme or...
how i'm still, basically...
primordial in explaining myself via:
a pronoun, a verb, a noun, a conjunction,
and obviously a definite/indefinite article...

have i missed the point?
verb pronoun verb definite article noun?
tell me: what is psychoanalytical theory
staging, before the stage of grammar?
grammar is the father of all learning -
given that the mother is mathematics...
deviation from formal grammar must be excused
if this is at all to be even, remotely,
resonated in the ars poetica...

beethoven!
i can whistle about two or three extracts
from classical music...
the one, that i know of?
that resonates akin to la marseillaise...
and say... the british grenadiers' fife and drum...
and... that bit of beethoven's symphony no. 9...
ode an die freude...

no, i somehow want to stumble into
this egregious cliché -
try whistling to some chopin...
after all... chopin was in a contest with
liszt over who... would break a finger
while playing his centipede technicality...
what sort of woman would faint
what sort of matthew arnold would
go home and ******* in the dark
crying when seeing liszt perform live...

if you're taking a **** and then having a shower?
a few lazy moves of the fore! skin doesn't
even elevate the event to any "immediacy"...
as i once had it: *** pistons *** pistons...
it's fair game... but... after a while
and you haven't paid for it and *** is the glue
that weaves itself into your narrative
and there's talking after and...
god... looks like i was lucky...
my 20s? em... i don't know...
i "think" i was preoccupied with my psychosis
of meeting god... to which i'd reply...
you don't want to be looking for him...
nothing was said -
there was an angelic choir and a great
wind that dispersed it... while i was
running around in a church trying to figure
out 'a how' with regards to still being
the owner of an iPod and...
fasting... high of some variant of marijuana
they only serve in London...

plan? what plan? i'd say: don't go looking
for god: unless you're absolutely sure...
you'll only come back with clichés...

is it really music in those heads of theirs?
i mean the composers?
i hardly think they "think" in terms of melody...
it's not like you could write a polyphony
based externally on whistling...
perhaps a main theme...
like in ode an die freude...
there's a premise... but then?
pandemonium rapes the head of a ludwig...
and... they just keep adding and adding...
but none of it could be compressed
to a song...

thanks be to bukowski for pointing this
out... ludwig didn't frequent the parlours of god
(words) that often... rarely...
he only wrote one: Fidelio -
and it was only as a joint-venture with...
Arturo Toscanini...
because you can't exactly sing along
to classical music...
and if you don't enjoy classical music...
you suppose: the heart has to "think"
in order for any "thinking" by the brain
to be disengaged from: the sound of rain
falling on a tin roof and a piano crescendo
synonym...

is blurring out "thinking" from the brain
being stimulated by the minor fractions
of seeing and feeling in the grand sigma ****
of hearing - minor details -
you still need to feel and hear...
closing your eyes: perhaps...
but at least there's that abstract focus of:
"somewhere in the distance" with:
eyes wide open too...

very much akin to my current drinking patterns...
i don't remember the last time i drank
for the pleasure of being drunk...
christmas is here and i have some minor
responsibilities to take care of...
25mg amitriptyline and a biting event
with the naproxen... the whiskey is measured
like a prison tally... if i exceed:
IIII/ IIII/ by more than II...
i have a problem...
anything to curate this insomnia...

only when words are given access...
but i can't see why words would be necessary...
whether it's a stand-off of show-off
Faustian technicality between Chopin
or Liszt... or whether it's the completely
French stand-off between:
the only way to learn to play the piano these
days... is to find an allure of calm,
of stopping time... a delicate fusion
of... arranging a boquet of roses
while wearing sand-paper gloves...
Debussy "contra" Satie...

but this track of Beethoven's?
is it really such a terrible cliché?
top 3 tracks that have left a most definite
imprint in my head -
a cognitive tattoo... thank god for not
wishing for that sort of other branding
akin to a no. 1990869 from that infamous
of places... or... a ditto on my forehead...

- ode an die freude
- la marseillaise
- fife and drum

is this a clinical approach?
i'm almost certain there's no real thinking
in terms of sound when it comes
to composing...
i once had the rare opportunity
to spot a young composer in a cafe in London...
scribbling his...

ut queant laxis
resonare fibris... to be honest, i was jealous
as ever - but not in a way that:
i could be better...
and as i'm pretty god-**** sure...
he wasn't whistling or humming
alongside what he was writting...

braille is where i stashed this jealousy:
UT
⠥⠞
RE
⠗⠑

because trying to figure out the "thinking"
behind musical composition -
on a polyphony scale...
it's hardly a folk song mentality of:
the "easily remembered"...
but... again this can be achieved...
when a complexity unravels itself into
folk "sensibility" -
do i have to car-crash this sentence
into something simpler?

chemistry almost uses this "syllables"
of meaning... He: helium... Li: lithium...

and my what an honest hour!
i can finish a day well spent!
i did this that and the other...
i watched some alpine ski jumping
from engelberg... a polish athelete won:
kamil stoch... i still can't sing
the anthem: mazurek dąbrowski...
so i... felt... 0.001% of a shared cause...
it's a grey foggy distance in the back
of the mind... that can't compete with
someone's patriotism-in-exile
akin to a Czesław Miłosz...
more importantly... Liverpool won
the Fifa World Cup of Clubs playing
against a very tactical Brazilian side...
and you should have seen
the match-up between Flamenco vs. ...
in the copa libertadores...
who was it... besides the point: what a comeback!

needless to say... who are these "people"
who have started to become reckless
in their attempts to sell love?
this delusion of love -
this most abstract person: personna precusor?
for the love of: what's outside...
beside me - what i see and what i can
offer in it being shared...
never this magician's Pharisee act
of: what love is "sleeping" in me...
how my love is but a yawn should it have
to exist... like a tapeworm without
a wall of a small intestine of the host...
what is this love? this "hurting" -
can it ever please escape the orient
and its parasitical feeding via a haiku?

as no claim: "genius"...
that's the problem... the horde had an element
in it... hedwig... some constant that
could never change and remained
in part solipsistic - well...
a paradoxical solipsism...
multiple-personality disorder and...
the placebo effect of solipsism...
but all the other personalities knew of
each other... it's not like each personality
was oblivious to the other...
which undermines the concept of:
there is no conscious effort...
between switching...
which must be a harrowing experience
to pseudo- the whole experience...
narrowing it down to a thespian consciousness
that's only visible to a thespian audience...

how is it in writing? there is no voice involved...
have i reach a polyphony?
evidently there's a common theme running
through this piece...
but... is there a dialectical play in it -
how there's a grand coming "sigma"...
toward the concordant zenith?
if i were to say these words outloud
and have this little monstrosity -
this little demon whisper as the backdrop
in my thought:
i could not achieve a concordant zenith
as such...

i have already faced the unbelievable lie...
that somehow a bilingualism can be treated
as a schizophrenia...
isn't bilingualism, entrenched bilingualism
somehow not... the stated diagnosis?
why can't i solve crosswords
but find sudoku puzzles to be somehow
predictable?
i already have a crossword puzzle in my head!
and it's not based on a network
of the monolingual architecture that
solves crosswords with a thesaurus:
synonyms and antonyms and "insinuations"...

- mind you... did you mention that quote
from that polish neurologist?
'any one who claims you're mad...
are mad themselves'?
after all... isn't it a neurologist's word
over a psychiatrist's?
according to the latter:
my brain is still a chemical spaghetti soup...
my lexicon is a... salad...
might i ask for the meat... then?

- it can drive a man wild... knowing how
blind some people are...
but after a while... you just:
inhale... and release an onomatopoeia
of the most reclusive relief...
a sigh that's not a sigh... AAAAH...
to be able to walk down a street...
and enjoy the weather,
enjoy the passing-conversations...
the passing traffic...
the stench of a major city...
all of this... would be impossible...
if each man was to bump into
a replica of a Galileo (COPERNICUS!)...

what a dull place it would most surely be...
on a whim: entertaining petty grievances...
on the other: the hunger-strike martyrs for
justice... the philanderers, the sycophants
and their post-moralism bribe donors of
exclaimation marks!
or people like me... who chance upon...
an internalised rhetorical seanse vacation
after the day is done...
since... clearly: i do not have enough
time or money for a cork-lined room to
drum out all external noise...
or a listener with a rubber-ear akin to...
that same sort of fellow...

breadcrumbs from the altar...
where that meal is a ceremony of:
fed by the words...
the details inverted...
perhaps once it was charity...
better the charity to lie these days!

until it comes out by itself...
truth? what truth?!
trivia?! regurgitating scientific facts?!
that's it! or making blatant falsifications?!
i'd call it:
if there is a truth - i'll find it tomorrow...
and by truth and tomorrow:
if there's a truth - it's (a) tomorrow...
otherwise i'll face... death...
or perhaps i'll be cheated of it...
should i come across death in my sleep...
i can't imagine the sometimes
referenced obituary:
he died peacefully in his sleep...
that's as about as peaceful as...
when you sometimes wake up from sleep
because you've just had a nightmare...

this life is a nightmare...
let death be my sleep.

The passion infused plucking
like each note has a soul of its own

The high notes like pinpricks
Low notes like a loud heartbeat

The sound of content loneliness that taught me happiness

The tempo slows like water shying away from the shore

Peace born out of urgency
Love born out of technicality

The hours given to the tone, timing and tempo
The effort in perfectly letting go

Perfectly unique every time
just close enough to be the same

The beauty in form
The form in beauty

Paralyzed from the heart down,
Abandoned, lost and found,
The relinquishing of the crown,
Breathing, feeling my heart pound.

Haste takes my calm mind,
Enduring, hatred and pain,
The ropes caressing feel the bind,
The world submissive, barren and plain.

Sold for a cruel desire,
Abused, jaded and forgotten,
The burning of a torrid fire,
My soul defeated, life begotten.

Taken away from my morality,
Stolen, fought and lost,
The time considered a technicality,
The hours dragging, a heavy cost.

973

’Twas awkward, but it fitted me—
An Ancient fashioned Heart—
Its only lore—its Steadfastness—
In Change—unerudite—

It only moved as do the Suns—
For merit of Return—
Or Birds—confirmed perpetual
By Alternating Zone—

I only have it not Tonight
In its established place—
For technicality of Death—
Omitted in the Lease—

Dirt
Figment
Breeding flies
Sweet charity
Hot, stagnant breeze
Doves in a stale autumn wind
An entity so dense
Holding such little weight
Topicality
Technicality
Revelation and rendition
Something so malleable
Yet so rigid
Reformed
Thick like honey
but smoldering
Grey paste
Emotions breeding anxiety
Still getting by
Not saying, but just saying

a conscious translation of the ego into the id is only automated thinking; that’s the content of the id, pluralism of thinking, it’s all automation, the id is the ego although plural due to automation understood easier because the id is the unconscious ego thought about, hence the excess of psychological theorisation; the freudian stance simple says of the cartesian inquiry: it thinks. the limbo of lost identity! the queueing of card shuffles and the bigger fear other than death in man, the fear of crow and pigeon conformity to repeat inanimate exactness for the narcissus to embody himself; for consciously we say ‘i think,’ there’s identity in that, unconsciously we say ‘it thinks’ ending up a statement of technicality never realised. pluralism and automation is the order in a reckless dream of a charles manson given the neon and example to refer to or imitate. the gods don’t give oral ***, hence their pristine vocabulary that’s less vulture like less and less unlike man’s.*

i don’t have a lot to say, feeling wise? a lot,
hence i write more words than take photographs;
it’s the ultimate antidote to seeing tree, stone, pavement,
when i get to use r and e to write about yellowish sunsets.
because using letter on blanks nurtured me
to stress less of seeing contorting threes with
the face that gaped a silent shout teary eyed to craft chaos.
i was about to be shakespeare but
the my regina interrupted,
i was going to say things like:
animals and children like me,
i gave my pinky away to a toddler
on a bench before i put on sweet sixteen’s heart-shaped lenses
to allow the sun its 3pm in autumn,
i gave a toddler my pinky.
cats are content while dogs are just happy,
i gave my pinky away
like michelangelo painting the two indexes touching
in the ghetto crib of two ******* brawling hello for the revised modern.
toddler took it with an apple in the other hand.
i almost said that the best song of rage against the machine
wasn’t: born of a broken man.
i’m vietnam in the american vanity!
hollywood considered abduction and retirement
with my statement.
you’re a good man when animals and children like  you
but women dislike you,
but with christ the children loved him too much and he said so
touchy feely with the armageddon kids behind a priest’s collar
leashing *******;
the animals? the animals were too eager on the donkey to architecture golgotha.
i’m less irish and even less catholic it would seem,
but when i write and weep, articulate the satanic:
tell one lie and learn many truths -
i'm almost satisfied to join a pilgrimage like a moth
attracted to a lightbulb from the shadows of knees.

from under the iron curtain... not quite though:
in a study of the form of: immediacy...
a spare 30 years (circa)...
    from under the iron curtain thrown
under: the silicon curtain...

                 what science fiction ambitions:
what new worlds: new species of interest?
          concerning some "here"... and
                                obviously some "there"...
glued together, by -
                        the already mentioned study
of the form of: immediacy -
            i.e. more broadly known as the word
being...
          more broadly known as the word:
                                                           being...
for what is... and in that: the suspicious
utterance of "what" in conjunction with: is...

but it's hardly a book burning...
        i once cited a myself in transit...
        i once cited my self:
                            in the reflective sence...
not compounded in the reflexive immediacy
of myself... that...
    writing is not an invitation to speak...
it is an extension of thinking -
            i too have... had... avenues closed off...
for a while...
        as long as the substance is tame...
         but writing was never an invitation
to speak... it was always an extension of thought...
i privy the wanting ****** to entertain
his or her: caged tongue...
to labour with insane dignity to...
have that freedom of breath:
   without a single word being uttered:
   a feast for the eyes...

    of freedom of speech though:
  is... speeking freely... an invitation to... think?
what "book burning"?
             video-mash-up and a ******
variation of "*****": misnomer alley...
           no rigid lexicon for a... stalemate...
some grand unmoveable object of the tongue
to lick...
   to write is to extend thinking:
it is never to script someone...
   however... to speak doesn't invite me to
think... i would be too gullible for that
to be true... too forcefed a bulimic "rhetoric" /
and question to tow...

i have yet to find that speaking freely
allowed a chiral complexity of thinking freely...
as a reply... antonym...
     book burning: audio book... burning?
for the privacy of the eyes...
less this... feeding of echo... and more... echo...
speaking freely is not an invitation
to think freely...
                     i hope writing has
enshrined this facet of distinction...
                    it's such: oh such a "minor" technicality...

but i've used this phrase before...
from under the iron curtain we came...
and enjoyed the remains of the free world...
for a circa of 30 years...
                from under the iron curtain ******
under... the silicon curtain...
                  
/ / / / / interlude... of a soft-core existential nature:

  well the absolute joy of... shaving...
i perhaps did that once...
concerning as most would have called it:
on the face of a late-teen and early 20s colt...
***-fluff...

       as one had to... since the hairs resembled
the crop of cranium...
and weren't stiff enough: ***** enough...
for the guillotine of all ******* drops...
to form a beard...

   oh i had ambitions! i had ambitions
like you've never seen!
to add to a full crown of hair... allowed
to grow long enough and gear up for...
a 14 year old girl's wet-dream in school
of a french braid...
          i had such ambitions for a beard
so long... so long... it would...
tease the length of the whole torso...
from chin down and down to...
the bellybutton!
    in a thick iraqi braid...
       i wasn't so lucky on the face as i was
on the 'ed...
     bets are in... chances of me...
going bald?
   chances of me... having hair on my...
stomach region... my chest...
and patches of my back?
         bets are on... the horses are funny...
sorta running... mildly giggling and
playing: goof... shimmering...
the size of their teeth... as big as their *******
hoofs!

my idea of a haircut?
                      grow it to about bearable...
a comb to the left... a cut on the side...
to comb (hand brush) to the sides...
  and then... cut it down to a bare minimum...
not a skinhead...
   my head isn't best shaped for a king skin...
as one girl told me in high school...
i don't have the...
    well formed pariental / occipital coupling...
one of these bones is diminished in:
curves...
   i curious observation...
i guess that's called an invitation to:
pressure...
        a side-project of the occipital bone
being less protruding...
                          a schlawic shorta shin-diggy-oh...
girl spoke like a confirmed:
proselyte of the soul...
                       of language i can confirm...
it didn't matter it was...
a roman catholic school... in england...
some... confirmation... bias?
then i'd have a confirmation name
to boot with my two already given and a surf-name
surprise!
but i'm still: e = mc...
                     a horrid acronym...
                         eschlert = matthias ck-on-rad...
oh... god! yes!
i love the sound of my own voice so much...
i'm a gifted orator... frequently...
at... some ****-poor party revival
once a year... at... Nuremberg...
    yeah... i love my voice so much...
    i've ejected it from imitation thinking:
internal "monologue" and "air"...
i like it so much: i like it most when
it shuts the **** up...

itchy fingers and pervert eyes...
and domineering eyes...
the kind of eyes that... see...
your and you're...
       the apostrophe and the A like a halo...
hovering above: giggling...
infantile joys...
   never to be revised... but such...
pitiable domineering affairs...
no wonder i never advanced into
the realm of b.d.s.m. of adult joys and
advanced cinematic arena hard-ons:
        
  this one time i can don a hugo boss...
adventure... im grau oder schwarz     (ц)...
                                             (ш)...

all the other letters are kosher...
     but that dream... of a beard... as long...
as the king's hair...
gone... in an instact...
it takes about a month...
  before... everything return to: shabby...
the unkept beard... the irritating moustasche...
and then...
a miracle of having sat at a turkish barber's
with my eyes closed: as one does...
before a mirror... when someone is being
invasive...
      and feeling each and every snippet...
i should have taken
a before & after of my... "vlad the impaler"
deeds with every contort: matter...
a sense of making a rhombus into a sq.
or a sq. into a rhombus...
     oh... hair is easy... cut to a minimum...
a month passes... some jelly is used
in the last 3 weeks of extension...
and then... back to canvas (a) exhibit (0)...

       no point asked for a barber...
the man can cook, the man can bake...
the man has enough fudge muscle to shift
2 tonnes of soil in under 4 hours...
enough leg for 14sqm of experimental golf green
addition to a garden...
otherwise littered with patch-works of
gravel and project: drainage... another tonne
of shingles and pebbles...

    couple that with... a keen insight into...
the barber project... and arrivederci
                                migliore "tenuta"
    correttezza / bellezza: "mississippi"...
          cappoh: cchinno...
                           marble... cake...
                      gas-tap: top-off: shh!
                                      it's a lean...
              a leen in a lean in a: gwan-pazzio!
sounds sounds... suoni! su'oni!
                                      sounds sounds...
there is a morbid sense of meaning... but...
it's all lost to the interlude!

                 there is nothing more gratifying...
than being able to curate your own beard...
and find the sort of cranium crop top
to count the months in a year...
                       never working from:
                                       pelzkopf...
a dream of... roman brush... mochicans...
dipped in... woad blue / purple... / / / / /              

in the democracy of poets...
        in the republic of philosophers...
it has always been like so...
that philosophers dictated a republic...
that the poets... would have to...
somehow... dictate... a democracy...

i have in my possession...
a very strange book... "strange" that it is...
or was part...
of a 20th century curriculum...
a standard of pedagogy from 1967...
   O-level standards...
             we were taught latin: once...
cicero was a go to... beginning
with latin grammar...
first came latin grammar...
then... anglo-saxon shrapnel: "grammar"...
evne the term...

asyndenton... definition?
               this is the absence of conjunctions
between co-ordinate clauses, phrases,
     or "words"... the precise connection
              being inferred from the order of words
and the general sense....

      cicero's "modus operandi" of style...
      -que / et or....         and / and...
              or? speedy gonzales:
   que: what / and...

                   this the "copulative" sense of...
"missing" in-and-between...
                          nouns, adjectives, verbs...
   "words"... synonym pirrouete peacock fest
of grammar "technicality"...
        a "word" for a philologist
                    is a "thing" for a philosopher...

i will not... equip myself with...
what latin grammar i might have...
learned... to have studied such a book...
and its zenith of the year 1967... in a catholic school...
at least a catholic school said:
perhaps - "perhaps" insinuated back then...
latin grammar first...
christian dogma... second!

                adversarities: conjunctions:
                     sed, autem, vero...
example?
                   no example... contrasting clauses...

what of the conjunction: qua - i.e. as being?
or quo?
              privy: quid pro quo...
and one wonders...
the notion of "ego": had to became...
elaborated... isolated...
     given the asyndenton(s) of descartes...
i.e. (ego) cogito ergo (ego) sum...
well then! so much free room and reins!
to isolate the supposed "abstract" he-oi!oi!oink!
"says" so!

we pretend to move forward within cicero's
confines... back in 1967... this was standard
pedagogy!
latin grammar... what am i working with:
said the plastic surgeon to
the jack nicholson joker in that: Dt: fat...
Boatman: a tool a crude scalpel
of grafitti...               ahoy! ahoy! spare island!
Fwyday! vitch iz Velsh! i say!
oi oi!     hell-oooooooooooh!

             almost a sanskrit word...
so it must be!
    hendiadys and the asyndenton...
         the first... in sanskrit...
      please...
                हएनदऌअदईस
           ­       HENDIADYS...
that's as far as i will ever get...
no amount of diacritical marker excavations
will keep track of this:
experiment B'ah-Bel...
              yes... a drying up on the first
conjunction: the natives still speak:
Bay-Bel...
            B'ah-Bel'...

  the pashtun language... afghan women...
landay... something beside the ebb
of the strict skeleton of syllable
count of of a haiku...
or... i'm still token best **** in town
when it comes to:
misnomer: freely open noun usage...

the use of the pronoun IS
implies... there's no pronoun associate
worth a gender neutrality...
          IS is a pronoun...
              how can... IT... also a pronoun...
be... made... double neutral:
when "it" is already facing a neutrality
focus of quiz?

       an abstract noun... though?
to a cicero... an abstract noun...
with... hindsight... would be...
a... microscope...
   an adjective prefix...
   and a bypass of nouns into the verb...
prefix dear verb...
when will that suffix become
a noun and not a doubling of a verb?
of what? of scope!

     to denote an act rather than engage
in it!
          ******* scissor sisters grammar
of the modern age...
they should have taught me latin grammar
than given me
abortion conundrums to begin with:
failure! best kept secret!
aged 16... would make the vatican
proud!
      it's not that i own a baseball cap
that i can flirt with a "noah"
of n.e.w.s. with...
              it's not that...
so much for education...
in 1967 a catholic school would do...
the nun's project proud...
2004? what nun?!

                solitudo erat ea quam voluerasmus...
there was just that seclusion we had wanted...

an "antecedent" noun...
                    i much prefer an "antecedent" verb...
a variation of hammering...
or ******* in "fixes"...
   when there was once...
a turmoil of the jist of knee-armed...
and then... electric: sorrow-sowing of...
the nearby: "fix"...

          this language is best be forgotten...
the otherwise fictive rigour of teaching...
barbarians... a quick-and-easy...
acquisition of... latin: my dear... sir...
because... the english are the afghani sort...
first served: first come... though... last
to topple... anything... worth remembering
a past with 'em: therein!

i call sir! my immediacy...
funny thing... calling "my" in a borrowed...
body... which you... also... cling to...
with a tongue of transcendence...
and... a body's worth of an anchor:
and so! in reverse!
this body of no transcendence!
the old empire...
and this... jailor quizz...
the "asyndenton" of the hebrew...
in... how niqab is your...
                                             niqqud?!
ah!
               שׁ (š)... translated:
                             szkoda: shame...

and שׂ (ś)...       ślizg: slide...

that the hebrews... kept the ancient latin...
play on an asyndenton...
but kept it: vowel primo-intact...
   beside... a mere play on conjunction words...

i giggle... what have i to add?
beside a... ha ha?!

King Kenny,
Like God on Earth upon mat...
Rising sun in his eyes for rainless morning,
And superkick party, catered and cleaned.

Technician of great finesse,
Not living off technicality,
We pay thanks to our savior
For handing out the wrath.

Though I'm not in jail it all just feels the same
Waking up depressed told just not to complain
A shotgun to my head i feel like Curt Cobain
Not a literal sense, but the context sustains
I don't want money, success, not even some fame
I just want to learn to play this game
Each day it gets hard i just keep  breathing
Wondering how the **** this happened, it feels like treason
From a comical skeptic to a reliable source
I question the water that was gave to the horse
Viewed as a sinner but always in doubt
"Read from the scripture and figure it out"
Nightmares keeping me awake like a proxy
SO many bad thoughts I wish I could get off me
Do your 12 steps Bob, everything is kosher
Yet I wake every night screaming still sober
A stranger does the same, and everyone wants to know her
A technicality set, a glimpse for closure
Different from most but related to some
I feel alone but second to none
Shaking again always be the **** up
"drinkings a sin" Always press my luck up
Some things I will never understand
But if it doesn't change I will be ******

Believe in what I am told or what I see
This war is bitter and I aspire to be free
Free from these shackles and discrimination
Free from selective elimination
We call our children mistakes so we can free ourselves of responsibility
And our babies are dying in the streets while we accept no liability
Governed by aggression it’s said that only the strong survive
But instead of showing strength we only know hostility
Creating a place where these demons thrive

A Child’s innocence is used for selfish gain
So mommy can get high and feel no pain
A child that knows no love has no true perception of reality
And the system has no love our children are lost on technicality
Now your babies will have babies searching for the love that they lack
They should have had love unconditional
But instead they turn to crack
Because their family has made it traditional
There is nothing like the cries of a neglected child
Mommy is too high to provide
Taught too young to hold it all inside
Poison their minds with ***** little secrets they are forced to hide
Teach them to look for nothing and that’s all you will find
Because that is all that’s left inside

Fill their minds with worldly possessions
Take what you can get despite the moral transgression
Take God out of our schools because money is the new respect
Craving only negative attention
Because of the love they now reject
First born to poverty and aware before their time
Unable to provide life’s necessities
They are pushed towards drug sales and crime
Society will blame this transgression on lack of affection
But really they are affected by lack of direction
No money to feed the hungry and poor
Our inspiration is music, TV, drugs, guns and war
Poor because they have been dominated and oppressed
Look away from those in distress
Push us too regress
Give to those who already have by taking from those who have less
The only way to survive is to ******, hustle and deceive
There is a better way of life
But not a better way to make them believe
A better way to teach us to accept this fate is what they crave
A better way to give us the mentality of a slave
Their methods of birth control created to control the minority
We are now the majority
They are scared to death we have become the priority
Our people born of whips and chains and still left unbroken
Fed our children’s sorrows from which we choke
there are still too many truths left unspoken

like a "sickness" in the stomach *** 7am
    after only going to bed at 2(am) -
       and not from any considerable mention /
allusion to a "lack of sleep";
     in that "sickness" is more or less
    akin to a metaphor of a centipede wriggling
about on a hamster wheel /
   a rollercoaster of sorts...

   tough-chew of a fiddling with imitation
   walking...
             prized pins in the feet that have
turned to custard-hardening numbness...
immediately a towing of verbiage
seems more apparent than ever...
   perhaps an interlude of

   'and here's one i prepared earlier'...
          
//

  besides: no one really wants to write something
maxim esque every other sentence:
feeding a readership of
exasperation and sighs - from what i've
heard writing maxims and / or aphorisms
can be a rather tedious undertaking -
for all the times that: when should be forgotten /
'suppose i dreamt it?'
              - and any other offer than can
come with: working out a best lived towards
the amnesiac astral domain...

it just came out of a deep need for perhaps
conversation - then again i am too tired -
             a tiredness that probably sounds better
if i push for some eloquence and
technicality - a miasma is too strong a word -
i'm trying to focus on ancient "things" -
   a chimera variation of a turtle -
               a talking sequoia (but an oak would
do just as well)
                                        and a jellyfish...
  from centuries old... lethargy...
                            with this living:
                                        a tryst a harangue
a search for catharsis -
                                 if need be for a mystery:
loitering on the promise of -
                                    by the gallows on
                                         a Sunday -
                                            in a year were all
such days could be: literally read as being borrowed
from the benevolence of
that                                monstrous UV bulb;
and her copperskinned serpent
                          monstrosities of trickle a tease
of skin's to sizzle: undertones of
                 thrashing water against a window
in the ear reach(ing) a pitch higher...                
                                                                                    //

towing too much space: nudging forward
a shy rubric - an omni- litany (by any other
prefix, squalor)
            between a noun like shy
    and an adjective shyness - formality:
a word genus out of identifying it as such -
a technicality of teaching / learning
                                this (a) language...

- but it dawns on me that i have perhaps
eroded too much of origin and thought
and perhaps even an originality via
the cameo cinema of memory (fickle creature),
but it also dawns on me that
perhaps 10 years apart (circa

                                          ) is enough "time" /
the same sort of space that would allow
a rereading of a work that's
             either Herr Watt (ha    ah      ha)
or a Thin Geon  
                           Anne's Wake -
                    for what use to i have for any
more of that democratic endeavour -
   if only to reprise upon: from the catacombs,
the labyrinth, the ancient library,
the depth of sea upon sea of paragraph-congesting
a drawing-up a coming up for air
akin to (verbatim)

- ****, Nick & the Naggies / Glugg &
    the 3 riddles - Chuff etc. -

   in the house of breathings lies the word,
all fairness. the walls are of rubinen and the glittergates
of elfinbone. the roof hereof is of massicious
jasper and a canopy of Tyrian awning rises and
still descends to it. a grape cluster of lights
hangs therebeneath and al the house is filled
with the breathings of her fairness,
  the fairness of fondance and the fairness of milk
and rhubarb and the fairness of roasted
meats and uniomargrits and the fairness of
promise with catatonia and avowals...

that from out of nowhere and for reason
other than: in order to write proper  & "proper":
tossing and fidgeting the little oystertongue
like imitation(?) i.e. forget conversational
standards of languid, lingo, linguine -
in a frock of half down and in a tuxedo of
half up
                for none of this could possibly
make it into: it's a Thursday morning
   by now all the newspapers have,
                               have been printed...
                  perhaps i'll tender a pause to imply:
pounce-stealthily-hidden in
                                                         wait:
  trainspotting & *****-tickling itch-not-itchy...

now that would be a-happening of sorts:
beside all the bog-****-sodden autobiographical
miasma and fog...
beside all the fog-coup-nudging shadow
with elbow and prayer to a nuke-UV-bulb...
a heart a sparrow a ribcage:
                when farting into the wind
when throwing a stick against a tree
in a forest -
                        when the unbelievably
corrupt sense of self is content, pure,
             by pure i'm only aiming at:
                           uninterrupted -
                           or... without a conjunction
like                                            and...

                that's before: that's a before veering
toward:                          image - begin, again:
a chandelier made from champagne flutes...
       on a side:
i can stomach divulging and bulging in
                                   shackles and monkey's
cackling imitation giggles -
some existential angst (although not something
grandiose as a 20th century sort
or "European" / 19th century precursor)
  
       on the periphery of some "now" (a variation
of when, what if - how, what?)
       such that it is a beautiful lie:
this life...
              and my newly  found estimation
of revising esteem for: not wriggling
in worm-food and silly-ink:
a medium of tedium of being taken
seriously (even if as a "reverse psychology"
reversal of joke)
    
       a puncture a wound that "word-thing"
compilation of:
       well beside something as interesting
as: it's an essay by a lucy ives and
                 it's an essay but for me it's more
a shortcut a footnote parade for my own:

   would it ever (at all) be better
to cure an itch by a pinch
   or in(deed) by a scratch...
             gravestones and heads of matches:
possibly very itchy specimens
it's not hard to imagine
******* on a pebble: no, not imagining
it to be a toffee (landrynek)
              
but honest to god and all that's
Port & Geese (Frugal, Portent - i forgot
the attached -al in s.p.e.l.l.i.n.g)
                 i have nothing equivalent to:
beba babe caco (clot)...
in my own in nomine patris
            since: what is much dissimilar
besides... "******": baba implies
               old woman / peasant woman /
         or woman as harangue (of sorts)...
even though babka =
                        a sort of cake (elevated
sponge, elevation = more bite to it)...
   then comes the suffixation of
the diminutive (adjective)
                             to the word...
babeczka, babusia... babcia
                                              (grandmother):
no language policing here or alt.
   wizardry / frothing at the "salad" i.e.
         concretely (in conc.) a D. Pignatari ref.

but for me: unless not congested (at least
like so) then latin is: loophole it see-through
it's almost flimsy it's barely visual:
why-because-it's-so-******-pragmatic
& why-because-it's-so-utensil-where-none-required
& economically sound
& sieve & water & thirst &
it's hardly an M like Ⰿ
                     or Ⱄ as S
                                let alone an I (pronoun)
i.e. not vowel(,) which is a syllable compound
of Ⱑ   (let alone Я) -
                          perhaps via some distinction
between vowel and pronoun
                    and aye i.e. yes...
             i̊ must say if the pronoun is so bothersome
and more: cut the head elsewhere
sınce ıt's there by no real dıstınctıon
when compared to              får
                          when compared to fát...
                    unless that dıstınctıon be made:
also elsewhere - ȷust like so (Jettıson Bothersome
& Blues)
unless: bothersome camouflage like
a broccoli in a sea of cauliflower akin to
ınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınınının
nnnnnnnnnnnnnınnnnnnn­nnnnnnnnn
when "oops" and Bob's your uncle
   i.e. ınınınınınınınınınıninınınınınınının

...never mind - i've been here before
but for the sake of convention (ctrl-c-ctrl-p)
     as clear as day:  
                                  i̊ might add...
       because it would not (otherwise)
  in any other way not suit me -
              thrice up ¡¡¡           thrice down !!!      

all in all: a leisure of an exercise in...
                              terms of waiting for such
pennies of a wording to drool off
a muse's heavenly gob.

for a drunk: i can manage
                                  the cannabis induced
                                       chill...

   what, with england and
                      the laughing gas epidemic...

oh yeah, you can spot about
9 bullets of
the concentrated stuff
  in one evening's walking
                                                    session...

who would have thought
that english humour,
black as the advances of
melancholia
                                    required a: booster...

but then i've never heard
of: (and now it's a concept)
dyslexia in slavic languages...
no wonder

given my: not-so-bright observation
of -
            perhaps its a dialect
of east germany...

one example...
    the tinniest of "errors"...

                rammstein's ich will...
    past the veil and Volford...
      like counting knuckles
whenever not teasing
a punchbag,
      or a stomach on the *******...

there's an apparently missing S...
       what i hear what i hear:
what i see, but don't hear is ich...

and back into language games:
in slavic that's
literally translated as:
                  theirs -
mind you:
i also find the use of the apostrophe
sometimes confusing in english,
it's this one aspect of english
i'm still groveling over...

   have to forgive them for not
concerning themselves with this, minor,
detail...

       theirs,

                        the plural possessiveness
of the collective other...

               hardly a case to unload
with: there's -

     which in hounddog
                gobble gobble down
a goebbels as in:            
                                      there   is,

ya, i know, prostitutes for an hour,
the part of me that's supposed
to feel jealous of owning a car
when i own a pair of legs,

                    and you get to mind
road tax, while i concerns myself about
spaghetti al dente and shoelaces?
i'll take the shoelaces,
  thank you, very much.

   but this is a recurrent theme in:
well: at least sort this "orthography" out,
the english use of the apostrophe
when concerned with
            the plural, the possesive,
and the: "slang" add-on of is...

notably the problem: St. Paul's
             and what if not many Pauls?
you can't exactly note that,
depending on your aesthetic genesis...

                   Pauls's - paul-sysyz...
god forbid i be the one steering
           the hindenburg over London...
    
but clearly there's a dispossesive
pluralism involved in the possessive
article of apostrophe S,
                                                      's...

ich can imply: not the german first person
pronouns, subsequent with
                                        ()Pad...
                cheap, monetißing on grammar...

but in the çited song?
              there's an "enigma" of a missing S...
if you just listen...
it's not ich: closing in on
a lost harking...
         missing phlegm of course...
         there's clearly a sentence
bound to...                                   isch...

details of linguistic technicality
are like itches:
or tooth-aches,
   can't seem to fathom the irritating
S+ in                singing:    ich will....

     namely isch...
             or how the germans managed
to consider a phrase for:
                              shutting up!

a hornet's needle jerking off on
an ear drum...
  one russian lass once suggested
that i spoke too much: sh    sh sh    sh...
and never               hagh-shhh'd...

i know, the U would give up
the Hugh...
    not the ******* Freckled Heffner...
that: faking i'm not spanish
english actor, you know:             (  
                                                      
                                                         (
those eyes,
bypassing a fringe and not even settling on
a raised eyebrow...

******* want to dance...
   łired...
                łorth...
                         which is basically W:
who the hell calls a letter so rigid as
an upside ranging M and double-U?

      is that a real name,
                                or a prison, ksyva?
there is no iota in why or Y
               but a hollowing out,
          a mummification process...

         ******* deutsch-schprech-*****...

nibbi-nibbi: imitating a goose-quack
with the four primes above,
   and a thumb as base:
             of the hand...

        oh i agree, oxford english profs.
have nailed it perfect...
      even though there is no concept
of loan words in english
******* over hindustan...

             but there is the antithesis
of deutsch genesis,
       just shove in the hyphen and
people will read you
           Mendeleev no problem...      

remnants of old Saxon can only be found
among chemical nouns:
      hydrocrabons doesn't require
  a: cut up technique akin to
   Burroughs and Tzara
                 to mind: hydro-carbons...  

look at that ******* aesthetic!
    ugly as a hog snuffing a human
**** imploring to ask at the altar:
grovel grovel grovel:
                    turnips and birch leaves!
       truffles and caviar...
  
most impressive...
    sooner the breath of Miles Davies
squeezed through a horn,
than a sneeze let out from a pork
snout...
            both deserve applause
nonetheless:

there's a missing S, in rammstein's song
ich will:
                 must be an east berliner
"hidden" plot to harvest the dyslexics.

- because playing the grammar game,
fused with only the pronoun
category...
             well... that's not going to vork...

- mind you, in poetry,
     is like... saying: a beginning of
a "paragraph" in poetry,
   not an interjection as such,
  just a "grievance"
         with what's already in
full momentum...

              - did i mention my concern
for the apostrophe usage in englsih?
      basis of: not      use?

hence the stability, and its perpetuation:
hence: usage.

         oh we can go on and on and on
with the technicalities of "hidden" english
"orthography":
   which is really a concern for
either the aposthrope, or the hyphen....
    
reigning superior over
the literacy monopoly of priests...
    degenerate ******* suddenly took
the human route...
and did... what any new-found-literati
would:
           play the fox in a chicken-shack...

miser *******...
                   good to know who i'm
up against...
                      and i can do more in
an hour with a *******,
that you might cling to with,
a post-scriptum nasal cavity being
called a ******* with a boy
     being 30 years his senior...

  these days ****** would not have
been published...
      
fashion's playthings that are called:
the sojourn of days...
  what the french call the yewish sabbath...
   nothing out of the ordinary...
just...
               a formidable
   perplexity with a damnable reflex...
an assorted
comparison of: feeding a tiger.

           it's still a concern for me,
to mind a pluralism of the pronoun,
with a possessive article,
  and: the "innocence" of hding
letters that the english know all well
how to employ...

        ich:              theirs...

                ich:             belogning to them...

          ich:  which is i, in bavaria...

              i(s)ch to propagate speaking
german in a song, or with:

             shish kebab ***** or something?

ich:
                  chappy chappy non cheerie
chop of...                         ich...

    i hark to assert your presence, dear sir...

call it hyperbolic on the literacy
scale...
               but you move beyond
the "concern" for pronouns...
  and revel in the fact that:
   no philosophy book has ever utilised
the shortening-script
   of acknowledging grammatical
pillars...

                   you can inhale into
a rubber ***, call it a balloon, minus
the evidently loss of injecting helium:
and than -benign- the other
              with a case for a ******* umbrella!
fungus party: unlike the tree -
stood on one leg,
         and branched out in a Y -
or gott-tore?
                one revisionist argument
with:
        since the incubated pawns
of a pine forest...
                        no schizoids near an oak...
        farther that i might: "see".

               cut in:
        Pauls'               (with a zee?
                    seppelin *******!)

         certainly: Paul-seßez:
   or:            Paul's: ßyz,

    ha ha... funny alternative of cis,
which is congregational surmounting:
                    çis -
    which is not: sister.
  
what?
               ka-ka macaques *******?!

how come the close approximate
of there's and theirs?
see?! don't know how to lodge in
an apostrophe with the latter example...
but you almost itch thinking
it's necessary...

                       mind you,
i'm bilingual, i don't hide behind
     a /wəːd/ for word encoding
    to: vaguely imitate computer coding...
but there are people who
pursue this: second tier of
       a former, exhausted literacy...
              
reduced 2: not 3: as in free,
                    and that's not: too, either.
when prior to secularism
the power dynamism of the clergy
was obvious, and...
                 but now the deviat
literate can only be mad...
       where's the fun in what
continues to constitute the, grey,
everyday?
              there really is a tomorrow
to mind...
            in writing this?
         i'm just making claim that
there might be a yesterday to
contend with;

but clearly there isn't...

               ich: plural in the possessive
form,
             whatever "it" there is
that belongs to them -
                                        there's
an otherwise unexplored
          existential celibacy to not mind
this writing...

        such obscure testimony of
not: winning...
                        
    a mind in two formats:
soft- and there are virus
ridden repercussions...
   and hard- and there are...
  virtually sessions of reiterating:
there's nothing to worry
about...

   comes the age old conclusion:
there's an age-old
             sub- / ob-ject
         splinter('s) worth (an) ego
lodged in the timber of a mind,
in "metaphor" descriptive
element to attune a shovel and
                 the bristles of broom to...
mind as dust, and mind hiding...

you can't exactly "hide"
a shadow, with a hand
enlarging the capacity of your trouser
pocket to suddenly
become anti-narcissus:
      mesmerizing by staring
at your shadow,
           let alone the stillness
of the lake-water,
          or rather:
          catch-up with him by
the shoreline of a sea...
     troubled waters breed no
                                     death: sarcasm.

- and all this, to mind being in possession
of a wife, and fireplace as counter?!
            as all such comfort are
welcome...
          i can't but find a blister of a burn
i, simply can't help, but: scratch!
    it's the oink-pink hidden beneath
the unparalleled agitation
that demands my closing-in
                      of attention parameters.

Have you ever seen a fish fly? I don't mean a spectacular leap accompanied by twirls and accentuated by the water dripping from its scales like a couture gown. Nor do I mean the astounding burst of speed a "flying" fish exhibits as it leaps out of the water, expanding their large pectoral fins, and gliding to safety. What I mean by my question is the following: have you ever seen a fish exert the energy required to achieve take off and to truly soar among the clouds and dance at the feet of the heavens. Have you ever seen a school of fish flutter in such synchronicity of purpose and action, they sound as one creature? Have they exited our plain of view in such a flurry of color and sound as to be considered art? The answer is no. They never have nor will the ever behave in such a manner. Why you ask? It is not their nature.
To know the universe one must first know themselves, but are we obligated to follow our nature? As much as I would love to disagree, the past year has presented me with an abundance of evidence that my legalistic disposition cannot ignore. Prior to college, I regarded my resentment of tedious and technical activities as a phase of adolescence that would soon pass upon entrance to college. However, the opposite has proven itself to be true. I have become even more resentful, enraged even, at the technicality and tedium of my classes. While I have ideas of implementation and grandeur; they, the classes, deconstruct ideas until they are merely a collection of uninteresting facts and figures void of life and purpose. In just the past month, I have had my motives and resolve for engineering questioned by myself, my advisor, two professors, and many friends. The question is always the same "how do you feel about engineering?" and my response is equally predictable "I think I'll stick it out, besides there is more job stability with engineering than with art." I am dying! Like a fish out of water, I am gasping for air and nutrients but nothing is coming. My skin is drying and I am left expending what little energy I have left desperately trying to get back to the sea, to get back to art. For all the beauty of my mind, it is wasted on my efforts for this, engineering, is not my nature. I became so inthralled, so utterly captivated by the stark blues of calculations and whites of lofty ideas and esoterica, that I ignored the kaleidoscope of colors beneath me as unorganized and useless fragments of information. I never appreciated the bright pops of corals, greens, oranges, reds, yellow, along with every other color known and unknown to man until I had managed to jump clear past, what I then saw as, the boundaries of art and got stranded on the dullness of solid ground with a sound as dense as the colors. Those bright colors were not merely background noise, those colors formed my world, indeed they formed me.
The time is very late now and I am running out of energy, but I know I have to get back to myself and my nature. I'm not quite sure where I'm headed, but this little fish is going to keep swimming until sea meets sky. Who knows, maybe I'll even grow my own set of wings and fly.

In the past 4 months I've built myself a life where I could survive in a world without you. On technicality you get to say I left you. Did you ever once think about what could've been, had you just fought for me? Instead you went straight to bed with as many girls as you could.
No, I shouldn't hold that against you. We were done. We were over. But ******* it you can't beg for me back now!?
I kiss you and I wonder how many girls have been here since the last time I was.
You hold me and tell me you love me and I can't help but accuse you of saying that to everyone else.
"I need you." Well ****, where were you when I needed you!?

i am both

         thespian,

                  and ******...

the chikatilo
                    bullett...

   that slowly,
started eating away,

from the back
of the cranium...

   mouth-like-a-mushroom...

apparently you can only
read german philosophers,
if not wholly,
then "only" slightly
                     demented.

- because why would people
   do so?
the odd chance people
achieve
introspection of a sparrows'
song, lifting up
the labour equating itself
to literacy...

           bequeath cameo
          within the confines of
the opportunity to
assert the sigh orientated around
a prime, performance?

     i don't appreciate
reinstating Hippocratic orthodoxy...
when...
            ah...
              worth the excuse,
of liberty,
      and the boring lives
      reduced to reiterating: trivia...
it almost makes my life
worth: the presumption
of the thrill prior to a grave....

have i lived, the,
     only life?
                        no...
        but have i lived
a life, most alone?

that said,
    what would you say,
about, said example:
            without
                emphasis?

all that remains of me,
is a "question"
         regarding the technicality
of usage, with
a language, rather than as:
a language...

           can't exactly fake
a disembodiment...
              no one actually bothers
to pursue a reiteration
of such technicality...
       unless it be a technicality,
that language
  accommodates,
but reiterates itself from making
a use of.

I used to write proses unbothered by rules,
Poems with no assurance of being read,
Words just written to be free.

Now am I one of fools?
Fearing what comes out of my head?
Afraid of what others see?

Is this the curse of technicality?
Of knowing more about reality?
Bluff is that age comes with clarity.

Here is my **** to hell I send,
Existing is tiring year by year,
Is there anything more to feel?

I am far from the end.
But I wish I am near.
I have nothing time can steal.

Teach me
lead me
which way do I go
highs lows show me what is necessary feed me your will
Let me taste your thoughts
caress your inner most desire
set my soul on fire
gasp as you enter my mentality never on a technicality
imagine we
make poetry in motion
drop down to my knees to give devotion
for you are god in human flesh

that there's a death of melody in music
and that it's coincidental
                        with a poetic death
of rhyme -
                      all precursor of:
res vanus - and a moving beyond
res cogitans -
                 building up a budding
of a frothing emptiness -
                           along with misnomers
as alt metaphors:
                   perhaps then coinciding
with a need for a glue of an imposing
maxim...
           now i want to put on a pair
of latex gloves and write like a perfect
******:
                a mahler or a penderecki ******...
where there was once
an aesthetic...
   there's only a sterilization process
that quasi "beautiful"...
   i'd love to get drunk on alfred jarry's
pataphysics... but i am compromised
by all the social engineering currently
  in process...
                if i could only find relief
in a rhyme...
                          thus rushing to engage
with an cul de sac of sleep:
with each night i prize open a prayer
of an otherwise uneventful narration
that my thought embryo has become
with the words:
let me not become an architect of dreams...
some variation
of technicality.... willful for
an etymological promenade of details....
otherwise a return to a language
summary akin to the final conclusion
of numbers: 1 + 1 = 2 via something
akin to: i ate bread: i fattened the lean
pig with a telepathy of digestion
and the absorption of nutrients...
and fibre for glue-****...

      variations of conjunctions: in
that a letter can transcend mere sound...
or a classification as either
vowel or consonant:

                  w:               in
                    z:             with...
o:            about
                          polakk slavic...
        i:                and...
                    th­ere might have
been a return to concern oneself with
the alphabet...
but what is the use of such
trifles...
                         now i'm starting to gag
on a fear that's turning my sessions of language
use: i hoped for the informal...
  i hoped for a delight of some
unfortunate circumstance:
             translating a death in public
with... the ultimate solipsism of
******* in public...
      some neu grand biting of the ice...
this eating of the ice...
                  counting one's teeth...
a completeness of a crescendo into
a heaving of procrastination:

that instagram stole from
                       the comic book...
            once upon a time: declan... tan...
gave me a comic book
for my birthday: batman vs. alien...

and that i am wearing latex gloves
while i write this: a momentary lapse
in a self-defining critique...

mind the articles in english:
a (indefinite) is akin to a telescope..
the (definite) is akin to a microscope...
mickey mouse turned magician spectacular...
i am sure of it...

i put on a pair of latex more times...
than i have put on a ******...
and that's not because i'm somehow
shy: the brothel and ******
are not... foreign to me...

i imagine the perfection of skin
in latex... what i wouldn't do...
when i otherwise...
squeeze... beelzebub's white pulp
of phlegm coagulating with
maggot brains of acne from my cheek
and nose...
          i imagine latex as that...
olive skin... that apple sunset burn...
it's beside a b.d.s.m. manual for
a total body covering
with a variation of exposed genitals...

i think of all those poor *******
strapped to role playing and uniforms...
i just want to **** a sensation
of an oyster shell one minute...
and exoskeleton slick of knee...
the next... then there's no clarity
of need or will...
      there's just this...
perverted persuasion of an unwillingness
and sabotage... tantamount...
in excavating new burdens
of reproach... for an otherwise basic...
safe and thereby senile:
striptease of a lost artistic...

              latex again... there's no concept
of dry ice... when picking up
cubes of the "stuff"... it's impossible for...
the dry... cold cube...
to attach itself liker a spider
to the rich lipid surface of the skin...

no hindering the typing...
process... but it's not like i'm about
to excavate a paragraph from this iron
maiden of a thought:
ego or inner voice or...
some other synonym as vague as
the architecture of god for
the diligent disguise of: fed on prayer...

because i have lost control of my ego...
i can't be an egoist when
i have come to assure myself...
this feral fraction of the sigma
that's me... this debilitating contraband
unit...
          to employ hands dressed
in latex gloves, to find paper...
to magically invoke ink with a machine-esque
precision...
      
       and because rene magritte used
to... take on the full attire...
of a suit... and paint: while standing up....
i imagine the thrill of gravity too:
this way... of jerking off while standing up
rather than... while sitting on the
throne of thrones and pushing out
a chestnut of:
dilating the **** a little bit more...

- and because this is not ancient rome
and that, "somehow"...
the gynocentric model of...
surrogate fathers even if complimented
by the status of emperor is beside
a question of the old / new norm...

roses bleed a colour such a near impossible
gesticulation at the beholder's eye...
a robed bishop of lavender...
scentless roses...
          give me a flower that...
impossible... the sound of a weeping
willow... rustling... being
rearranged by the rummaging of a wind...
clarity of the closure of sensation
come the petal...
this desire to find... the plethora of
***** as akin to flowers...

           my rotting crease of:
are you looking for paper...
are you looking for paper...
      i look for edible paper with a taste
of blisters... and nails...
like it might be disguised in
papyrus...
              
    give my heart enough strain...
and i will heave a mimic
of certain avenues being solaced
as having been fashioned for some:
agreeable loot of eyes...

sometimes the articles in english
are never used...
the corpus of restraints...
not that it matters...
the restraints are such
that the transgressions mean so very little...
except for a theatre of the absurd...
cruel becomings and symphonic
whirlwinds of the absolute cause...
like riddling a pyramid as a tourist...
rather than... heaving an excavation
of a height of a mountain...

to envy mountains is to construct
pyramids...
  it to also scatter ambitions toward
the primordial and always first:
looting of a sand dune pitch...
                 to compensate the tides:
one of rain and the subsequent
              sea...
or... the grains of sand...
and that deserted place..

          efficiency in the workplace
as a concept for purgatory...
and so many borrowed themes of pressures...
in a society of unit basis:
this greasing of a leather that's
not a pair or trousers or...
       which will become apparent...
a pair of disused latex gloves...

  such a paranormal fear of this...
otherwise possible yield of base:
                                       cradle the dilemma
of a yoke... without the white
protein hive...
         **** a lemon...
forgo the ***** gesture and...
limit: because there's a hybrid
in "question"...
      
otherwise... shrapnel base to base
basics...
some variation of the closed off secure...
adrian leverkühn:
the near impossible
"dialectic" of a oink's anatomy...
the pig foretold the limbo
of a sheik's compromise...

nearing death and a juice of
grey / variation:
nearing death and the juicing
of grey...
                  my no nearing...
death is such a devilish heave...
                 language has to half...
such beside nuance worship of
impromptu / beginner's luck...
  my samson and.. that *****'s riddle
wedded to a D...
            
                     E.L.P.:
emerson lake & palmer...
trouble with acronyms...
conjunctions are sometimes used,,,
while wearing latex... ghosts!
exoskeleton winding up
a giggle.,..
          my nearing a loot
of an oeuvre..
       childless creases of a fabric of
atoms...
this hierarchy of mirages...

                        asking for a friendship
with the moon...
a lacklustre of the three dimensions
of the old speckled hen...

a three legged dog...
                 my own father...
of which i make both sorrow and *****
having found no replica...
this tamed grandiosity of worded
junctions...

               snorkeling is somehow akin
to snoring... here i perfect...
a dickensian plot-hole in "laziness"...
but not really...
         to tame the crab bucket...
to tame: "above the hive"...
a question of why... wisteria might bloom..
seemingly, independently...
yet coincidental...
base repertoir of grades...
      completely useless when
sole verb projects are employed..
    
       i have reason to vain-belief
in the use of: a dreamless attire for the credo:
that's ambition...
bit i fear i'll sooner advent
an anger and a death... before..
i can be allowed a stomach...
and an allowing / alluring concern
for... persaverance...

         like it's a gilding...
an unfathomable first prized...
                     Edison-esque project...
           was there / could there ever be...
a scrutiny of a lightbulb?
                 a mountain reeked of a scent
of havoc...
      the confines of canyon
that of an all-encompassing tomb...

                 to have to riddle
with a rubric of skeletons...
             maya niqab... maya tow
a mouth that doesn't speak
or a nose that doesn't distinguish
a lobotamy from a prose...
new basic invasion of iraq...
  which is no new iraq:
i just devolved onto the topic of...
the rat that stank...
with a gravity of spectacular of...
wishing for the atom bomb...
wishing for the atom bomb.

I dropped out of school after my first semester of freshmen year. My parents had just gotten a divorce. I was in a state of perpetual, adolescent, hopeless confusion.
I've always loved stories. Fiction or nonfiction didn't matter. Just as long as it blew my mind. I, like so many before me, was going to be a writer. Not just any writer either. No, I was going to be part, Hemingway, part Kerouac, part bukowski, and part Thompson.
The decision was made. I only had one problem: I couldn't tell anybody my plans. I am a privately educated kid from England. My path was laid out before me. Hard work to college to minimal success to family life to riches I never knew existed. So I wrote up a fake class schedule. For some reason it contained multiple French classes... I don't know either.
So every week day I would "go to class". Which meant I was walking to the Bowe street starbucks with a pen, a journal, and a laptop. I wrote so much terrible poetry that year you could replace me with any teenage girl suffering from rejection and self-conscious body issues. But you know what? I put the ******* hours in. After a while I found something which I could pretend was my style. I started getting emails from strangers telling me how good my poetry was. I got a lot if reads - 100,000 before I knew it. My head was so big I had a hard time fitting through doors.
Have you ever got so high you forgot your own name? I have. The *** helped me ignore the constant whirring of anxious thinking. The drink helped me shed my politically correct layers of defense. The validation from my poetry ensured my needy feet would never touch the ground. My pride told me everything was fine. Better than fine.
So I started writing less and less. Started staying in more and more. *** fueled day dream benders became a regular thing. Icarus had never came so close to a fake sun.
People started to notice. Aggravating talks about my potential and intelligence. Horrendous awkward dinners with my family. My mum used to tell everybody that I was writing a novel. I didn't have the heart to say I was lucky to get one poem on paper everyday.
Friends stayed distant. Girls came briefly and left as quick as their legs could take them. I became a ghost, haunting the streets of Richmond with bohemian declarations of... "True freedom." Life had lost it's luster. My control was slipping.
The story I would like to tell is that I won. Conquered cultural wilds to paint myself a noble individual. But none of that happened. This isn't a story of my success as a voice of a generation. This is not a story of redemption. This is a story about a confused kid who gave into the temptations of spontaneous decisions. A kid who needed help and advice but was too proud to know how to ask. This is the story of coming to the brink, and not caring if you fall.
So where am I now? I'm back in school, dealing with feeling like I have severely underachieved. I am waiting tables for people I could care less about. I am catching up with my Friends and peers who have already surpassed me. But I am alive. I am still writing. I am here to tell you that life punches in no pattern. Haymakers come with jabs, and the bell always seems to far away. You don't beat life, not even on a technicality. You just give everything you can to try and go the distance.

The day was perforated by a threshold
A distracted post and lintel technicality
All a part of this door I've been painting
It opens out
It opens up
Into joy
But while I was placing tiny brush strokes
In incremental positions
Adjusting for full light
You swung it wide open
Thankfully
You swung it wide open

Let's go!

Metal monsters move on mud churned medley
Looks for sacrificial popies relay.
Inch on inch creeps towards  black orifice
Photo technicality! Artifice.

Pale sly men tarry in busy canal,
Into human knowledge, thats the carnal.
Men fall to Soho decks complexity
With wishes to die in, dark unity.

Stood before trenches all born creators
Armed with their staff true master debators
Menial movements touches the hot brick
Copious pleasure to make the plot stick.

War! Fought between those that want, de lux fun
By male armies in total! Reduction.

so there are fifty states and they’re joined by federation laws,
but talk of “the state” is not talked about in the same way as
talk of california
or new jersey or new england...
because these states... ah blah blah... why not change
it to the f.n.a.: federation of north america?
it’d sell you a few badges, t-shirts and balloons.*

so in america the federal laws are like ecclesiastical laws,
and state laws are like european state laws -
steal an onion from a merchant’s stand
and get your hand chopped off
in the translation of arabic, should it come to such
drastic action -
so while in europe the church-state of einstein’s
vocabulary went their separate ways
ensuring that time became definite and space became definite
and the space-time / church-state hyphenated coupling
was simply defined as indefinite...
and that coupling became sort of theoretically
stuck in bubblegum of inactivity and awe as truth.
in america there’s a purposive blocked toilet
of the federal (laws) never meeting the state (laws)...
but imagine if the federal met the state
like the church once met & clung to the state...
this purposive avoidance of the two never meeting
in america is already problematic
from what i have heard...
the two need to meet and then uncouple...
like in europe where the church & state met and then divorced...
this state / federal engagement can’t last...
there has to be a marriage... and subsequent divorce to just
see how the political engine works...
otherwise there’ll be a lawyers’ limbo to contend with,
i.e. when a lawyer doesn’t understand something
he tends to use his defence mechanism of making at least
one word ambiguous with the word’s secondary, tertiary meaning,
which doesn't ask for a serious argument
but a solipsistic technicality of not talking to the person
least informed but most ambitious to say something, anything.

i.e. you can’t really claim that california is federated
if the wealth of california is worth as much as iowa, nebraska,
north dakota, south dakota, wyoming... basically the whole of mid-west
scotland ireland bulgaria and romania and sicily;
but i’m sure thomas jefferson was looking for pretty geography
rather than equations to stamp out marxism.

no, i'd love to meet up with
a "simple' afternoon gall...
   shy of a bladder...
but... you see...
   i have prior engagements with
your disney god
that i need to bite in his
*** of attempting to
stall wrath and...
  whatever the hell it meant
of jurisprudence
when it came to
discovering the law
of gravity...
     pretty sure as ****
no concern for man's "laws"
bore that ******* child;
you invest in a life
worth a post-scriptum...
                 and brgain against
this wordly affair...
           came...
    the candle, ushered
into a tornado to the blown out,
and man:
an appeasing instrument:
against himself...
     technicality of
language...
                i'd love to settle
the feud on said grievances...
but then again...
most women are the "simpleton"
******
i'd settle for, to mind
at eternity;
                             oops.

Autumn the struggle of orange in red flow with warmth before winter's might

I hit rock bottom once i hit the bottom of the bottle It's getting cold. And I'm just not alright.

Pursue me otherwise

till then I'll drink this bottle with numb regret

There's nothing I can do after your mind's made and your heart's set.

So in the end I enter fugue

And wonder if anything's real that I know to be true

Someone once told me the color of love is the color of Autumn leaves

But Regret's the only feeling I get when watching them blow in the breeze.

Disclaimer

I know not what I am

If only for a second I remember it would be you I would blame for my disorderly conduct

And just maybe, my thinking's corrupt.
I shouldn't blame you for my self inflicted pain, But it's a strain not to wonder If those love colored fallen leaves are missed by the trees they fell from. Or if you'll miss me when I'm done.

Now reaching my heart is harder than carving my chest open with a jagged knife while the Serrated edges my human away from my chest
And I scream ****** ****** from the mess

It wasn't supposed to be that way but I did my best.
That what hurts the most is knowing my best wasn't good enough. That I'm not as good as the wrest of the stuff that serve your escape. It hits nerve that when with me you had to close the drapes. Your ***** little secret, had to keep my voice hushed. But now your voice is shaking and the color from your face is flushed. But i doubt I'll ever know what it is you're afraid of
Leaf.

This wisdom I attained formed my common sense

Which is now a situational technicality
Faint laughs and dull quips

As i finish the last bottle in pathetic sips

I write this last sentence with the color of autumns blood

Maybe I wont fall for it like the leaf's every autumns season

i can't be repentant, he's there, strapped
to that stump of iconoclasm of his,
and you expect me to repent?
i have no mea culpa left in me to
do that, strangers' dogs familiarise themselves
for a brief petting and i cry,
a riddle: what two upturned sockets
give a smile? two harlequins and a pierrot:
for the eyes eagle sadness when laughter approaches,
and the eyes eagle happiness when laughter's
concubine (sadness) revels naked trapped by
waterfalls of eager misery.

you're not going to school me...
ponce... poets are paranoid concerning
a narrator, poets are paranoid about narrators,
sartre's c.c.t.v. existentialism, the eye
through the keyhole...
while he's strapped to that holy geometric of
his, that stump, i'm not supposed to
do penance, do a *mea culpa,
in rite of imitating a heartbeat of guilt
with clenched fist against the chest:
mea culpa... mea culpa... mea culpa...
what am i, the democratic demographic
of the Pharisees?!
i have though, a philosophical inquiry,
let's imagine you're old school,
born in the 1980s, ha ha (old school,
i guess the internet does indeed belong
to *****-like creatures of youth
who'll swarm and literally abuse the **** thing),
so let us imagine you were old enough
to buy compact disks and respect artists
for their effort (i've said countless times,
i'd rather ask for free ***** than free music,
that's the first step to initiating the power of a.i.,
make certain professions redundant,
better in communism where no art was allowed,
althought breakout - kiedy byłem małym chłopcem - https://goo.gl/kHzmEi -
******* hippies via the beatles
when they were back in the u.s.s.r. - or something
akin to that six sharpshooter visa a vie via...
a.i. is a mingling of analytical and synthetic perception,
a perfect balance, analysis is worth storage,
synthesis is a non-replica guidance,
what is experienced cannot be replicated
for fear of mistake,
indeed the old question, was god who crafted man
or was man who crafted god, only a mechanic
technicality, like this philosophic curiosity i have
for you in hope of stalling you:
then man with steam engine and in linear fashion
for once plump beauty to venture into
anorexia... then god with his vacuum engines
of planetary orbits, neither able to immerse in
plagiarism...
i used to buy compact *****, i still do,
i'd burn them onto the hard-drive,
but some were scratched, the scratches in mp3
formatting were like computer viruses,
i'd put them into an ipod and guess what,
once the ipod played the former scratched c.d.
mp3 version it would create a physical malfunction,
the ****** thing would break apart...
it would twitch, it would shut the power off...
a scratched c.d. converted into mp3 can destroy
an ipod.