In the heart of the Courtroom sat God with his Only Begotten Son The Christ to his right-hand side to the left-hand side was Lucifer fully armored with a Golden Celestial Horn which will be blown once the war speech commences. Directly in front of them sat 25 Golden Robed Kings dressed in a white tunic with Golden Crowns flowing above their heads. In the massive throne room, there were nearly 750,000 thousand Angels gathered to hear this important speech. Within the crowd, there was some excitement and yet commotion going into play. The Golden Armada Of ArchAngels was presently composed of only 8 Lv-1000 ArchAngels they are under God's direct command and they are the most powerful toughest meanest baddest Angels God has put aside for the most dangerous and toughest assignments ever to be imagined. What God didn't expect was about to happen he was about to get betrayed by one of his main Angels and he himself be tested with the greatest trial he would ever face. Suddenly, Lucifer blew the horn the speech was about to commence...

Meanwhile in Infernus...
Inrah is harnessing Infernus power and converting it into a massive ball of power by opening his mouth wide the energy ball that has a rainbow color to it gets bigger and bigger and has created a transparent shield covering him leaving the angels unable to attack him directly...so every attack they throw at him has failed whether it be a long ranged attack or a close-range attack. Sebastian added "If I were to attack the beast somehow in close range I could potentially aim my Holy Spirit Purple Flame Arrow Of Fate is one of the most powerful attacks I have in my repertoire of moves. Valerye tells Krillin to use stealth and cloak herself from enemy view and attack him from behind the skull of the dragon...the dragon had peaked power in its attack and aimed directly at the 4 ArchAngels floating in mid-air about 400 ft away. In a blink of an eye, Krillin shot at the Dragon with Heavenly Gun Celestial Ray Bullets to draw attention to the dragon. Leona had used her doppelganger to act and be portrayed as Krillin. That made Inrah believe all 4 was there. The bullets broke the shield behind Inrahs skull and 3 bullets penetrated his head exploiting deep within and causing huge rupture like holes on his head. Inrah lost power and was interrupted so the energy ball lost some power itself. Squad #6 realized this was their chance to take Inrah down ...so Valerye being the muscular wise the strongest she leaped then teleported to Inrahs head and descended with a colossal attack disestablishing his power ball and exploding creating a distortion of ethereal space and the blast was so powerful that the Arch Angels suffered extensive damage to their armor. This time Inrah whole head had exploded and collapsed on itself Slowly but surely the tremendous beast with ferocious power had been silenced they all thought Inrah was dead. So each of them examines their selves Valerye had a crack on her shoulder side of her armor. Krillin had her armor almost intact except the broken shattered part of the crystal armature which some shards cut her left arm below the armpit. Krillin was bleeding but recovered phenomenally. Sebastian had Burn marks all over his lightweight armor. Leona had not suffered much due to the fact that she was observing the blast farther away. She had once again used her doppelganger to trick Inrah that she was Sebastian and had moved close to the energy ball when it was still in decent condition. Those golden seconds allowed her to teleport to a nearby location to observe the blast.
It had been 7 minutes and Inrahs head had not recovered...Exhausted from the long battle the Angels began to slowly fly away from the scene. However, Inrah was not dead yet and he gathered his last bit of strength to go back to his Arch Fiend form. The Arch-Fiend flashed and grabbed Valerye then Inrah began glowing dark energy and wouldn't let go of Valerye. So then all the other 3 members threatened Inrah to let go of Valerye then Inrah shouted to the Angels that if they were to attack him or interfere on the absorption of holy power he was going to perform that he would explode leaving Valerye dead or heavily injured. She then telepathically told all the goodbyes and all. Then Valerye heard the Lord's voice to tell her teammates to attack Inrah. Sebastian telepathically asked her if she wanted him to use Celestial Arrow so then they all detected that Inrah couldn't telepathically communicate with them anymore due to his lack of power. So they communicated this among each other and they took advantage of this opportunity to communicate with each other about Jesus message to them saying it was OK for them to attack Inrah due to the fact he had allowed the Holy Spirit to descend to Infernus temporarily to shield Valerye. Taking advantage of Inrah's inability to decipher their angelic messages thru telepathy they readied their positions. In fear, Inrah shouted to him and warned him that he would explode. Sebastian just looked at him and smirked and said... "Don't you see Demon is over..." at that very moment he drew his heavenly bow and slowly drew a celestial arrow. So then Inrah responded nervously... "I may be at my last stand but Master will understand..." right when he finished those words he exploded annihilating him instantly but Valerye was left unharmed due to the Holy Spirit Godly Shield an ability able to withstand any blast with a power level below 1000. So there all four Arch Angels stood on the ground of Infernus and made a surprising discovery. Their power level had grown. Furthermore, a new ability was unlocked by each member of the group. Sebastian learned Shadow Arrow. Leona Infernal Shield. Krylinn learned Earthly Armor. Last but not least Valerye Shadow Clone the ability to use two doppelgangers. The victory came at last and they all four after being left roaming Infernus for 7 long days they arose to heaven victorious and feeling joyful to see the Lord's gentle face and to feel God's embrace and power ever so mightily.

Back in the Courtroom...
The earnest tone of voice and a most elegant poise was worn by Lucifer as he gave his speech. Spoken in Umen a diabolical dialect mixed in the crowd was Vhar disguised as a messenger Angel. He contacted Nebol the 6th DemonLord of Infernus who has 650,000 Necromancers and 1.5 million undead soldiers at his disposal. Nebol made a rift allowing the Undead and Necromancers inside Infernus to relocate to random places around the perimeter of the Throne Room. Vhar and Nebol stormed into the Throne Room just to find themselves surrounded God had given orders to dispose of the imminent threat if any that opposed him or his kingdom. However the demons knowing God's presence would be overwhelming Nebol opened a portal right in front of him which transferred him to Infernus however him and Vhar sustained damage which lowered Nebol vitality due to Occult technique Shade of Darkness which allowed them to be shielded from God's Celestial Light and Adonai Vortex the first ability allows Yahweh the to impair demons use of abilities and conjuring power. The second ability is a is a white dim and slowly becomes a transparent hole that disintegrates demons any rank if touched by it. So with 1/4 of Nebols troops disintegrated when he almost lost his life and almost lost one of his best Generals Vhar he was outraged at the fact he had lost a significant amount of his demonic fleet. Now with 450,000 Necromancers and only having a million undead soldiers left. Nebol killed and consumed the heart of 5 Lv500 General Undead Soldiers and 1 out of only 6 in all the Necromancer Platoon an Lv-800 High Diabolic Priest Necromancer regaining all his power and armor back and with a stronger more powerful stance now regaining his posture as a Demon Lord. *There are 9 DemonLords in Infernus. Each and every single Demon Lord has Immortality and a power level of 1000. However some Demon Lord's are weaker and some stronger even though their power level cannot be higher. It ultimately matters of determination and skill. Aikalar First of the Demon Lord's rules the first circle of Infernus. He is a Huge White Wolf with Black flames with a small blue hue in his eyes and tail dominating the entrance of Infernus the smallest circle of Infernus. The Second Demon Lord portrayed as a Crow in a rotten tree high in the heights of Infernus. The second biggest circle in Infernus. Croxuss the third Demon Lord of Hell portraying himself as a huge turtle looking monster with Bloodshot eyes and ugly putrefying stench emitting from his body. The 4th Demon Lord known as Flayiron a once beautiful Arch-Angel LvIII Bow-Master now that he has joined the Infernus Fleet after his rebellion in Acapella He has a light blueish/purplish armor with a gigantic bow that can be transformed to a sword or a shield with a telekinetic command given by Flayiron. The fifth Demon Lord of hell is known as Asmodeus a half-giant half grey skinned demon who killed an Arch-Angel known Killas. Nebol the 6th Demon Lord of hell who was inbound to attack the great palace of heaven retreated momentarily to collect his thoughts. Lilith the 7th Demon Lord is the Angel of Lust a pure goddess of seduction with tremendous power. Nova the eight demon lord the most powerful goddess of all demon lords extremely beautiful and extremely sensual she does as she pleases with any of the Arch-Angels God has sent her way so far...she doesn't know she is about to meet her doom ...
Squad # 6. Arch-Angel Valerye with Arch-Angel Leona Arch-Angel Kryllin and Last but not least Arch-Angel Sebastian. They came to the 8th Circle Of *Infernus where Demon Lord Nebol from the 6th Circle Of Infernus.

there's much gesture in thinking out the nonsensical,
the un-thinkable - the un-pardonable - with sheer gusto
you tend to think out the unsolvable -
the nonsense people are afraid to
think about - the impractical -
and that's for one reason alone -
                  it doesn't create real problems...
you do not engage with real struggles
people encounter - because by doing
all the above stated... you are not the one
who says to a person: you can't do this,
and you can't to that.
                 which is why i don't understand
the English aversion toward philosophy:
say the word, and the English immediately
succumb to the notion of pedantry and
snobbism - when in fact: it's hardly that -
          perpetually philosophers entertain
themselves with invoking awe, as with ageing,
and seeing the many pitfalls of romance
and comedy and tragedy... awe becomes
very hard to find... it's simulated ignorance
in a way... for example Heidegger championing
Aristotle is a gesture intended in this direction -
and his concept of dasein is another
way to stage a coup against the world...
              it's an antithesis to what would otherwise
be regarded as activism... or more piquantly:
hedonistic activism, which primarily encompasses
staging a higher moral authority -
but never reaching for the fist making a signature
for the cause... that phrase: just empty words...
and humble pie. well... if you're a bachelor,
have this instilled aversion toward having a private
relationship with women: suitor - Kierkegaard -
well... you are bound to create pointless problems...
because... to be honest... you'd rather throw
"imaginary" problems into the metaphysical arena
than sit there... as a competent English gentleman
and speak of philosophy with about two or
three terms... reality... god... monkey...
                  or at a chessboard with a desire to provoke
a telekinetic pandemonium.. x-men apocalypse and
all that ****** imagery...
                             it's odd... but it's just so...
the English had an idyllic life,
                                      as any island dwellers might...
which is why they don't like impractical problems...
because they blabber about practical solutions,
to practical problems... that never get solved,
i.e. engrossed in more politics than anything:
the English have no ear for philosophy -
the mere word frightens them should anyone admit
to being the stated adherent: for god's sake,
the Scots are perceived as barbarians with the
deep-friend Mars bars (and pizzas) - but Hume
rang the eardrum in Kant's ear... and wallah!
a new chapter... Locke? only Darwinism,
popularised with images, as they say:
best leave these skeletons in the closet.
                             what am i working up toward?
well... it's a bit specific...
                                     first... the easiest proof
of solipsism... a crowded train... someone farts...
     guess what... the person who farted is
the only person on the train who appreciates the stink...
            hence: the theory - you like your own -
hence the abstract of the self, competing for a theory,
the self - as an optical itinerary: from head to foot,
from hand to toe - a long list of self-serving
          accomplishments in detailing all acquired
difference...                    but it's not about that...
          for all the reasons that life can become perfect...
at precisely that moment people began to
philosophise -                       and that condemnation
of reading a book on the topic in youth
rather than old age?        well... the glory of old age
is kinda slipping away...    if not now? when?
obviously you might jump the wagon too eagerly...
but at least you'll soon realise how
    a philosophy book (excluding Plato) can actually
help you in forming a dialogue -
                       i think that's what they teach primarily,
the art of dialogue... not the art of persuasive speaking
(rhetoric) - but the art of dialogue... after all...
   Plato... right? all dialogue...
                                  and they do: it only takes one book
in this literary region, i became convinced of it
after only being introduced to the subject area quiet late
in life (21)...        prior to that? fiction and poetry...
   and science... nothing else...
                              like a fish to water...
the necessary 21 years of strain having avoided the subject
(not on purpose, mind you).
                  yes, a glorification, why not?
     it's because these nonsensical problems arrive
as a reflection of a defence mechanism...
     the English don't like "too many words" or
the continental verbiage they coin as the psychiatric
phrase word salad - precisely because, sometimes,
language is not about entertaining someone with
tragic choke-jokes and songs...
          great singers, great comedians,
   great engineers... but in this field? obnoxious *****.
  the English are the first instigators of
     enshrining a quicksand pit of a person's
esteem in his ability to use and comprehend language,
primarily because they can't comprehend
the complexity of language being thus expressed
they immediately conscript against him
    this... odd... quack-wacky need to teach
the person in question refer himself to the Jane Austen
clinic of correct language parameters -
            nothing beyond! nothing foreign and
original! we need novelists who only travel in
straight lines (preferably on a Benelux plateau)
        and never dazzle with a tarantula bite of
disorientation (akin to the cut-up method)...
        and you will find that the English are primarily
concerned with making people suspicious of
   their sanity... strange... i once had a work-horse
work ethic and that became undermined,
                       then my use of language became undermined
because, as already stated: the English don't
do impractical things with their thought:
                it has to be practical...
like the Germans and time... everything has to be
efficient... or the Japanese and space (*******
cardboard sized hotel rooms)...
                             which brings me to the point of my
original intention:
                 deleuze's and guattari's searching ambition -
the anti-oedipus, or: body-without-organs...
             in turn the dark ages of Cartesian thinking (in England)
or how            mental health is somehow a lesser
   health to physical health -
                 sweat... and exocrine glands v. endocrine glands...
    <yes, telegram mode, precursor to a detailed
        explanation>
                                i'm just proposing what i dare believe
to be a thought-object, or more precisely a
             thought-***** -
                    no point looking for a shortcut with this,
      it's either the sort of verbiage compound you'll
reason with... or you'll treat it as *******...
                     as ever, whether that's investing in
a gym membership and a suitable diet...
         you won't get the ****** six-pack on your torso...
  this concept is reserved for what i find problematic
in mental ailments - which, in turn... somehow,
"miraculously" translate into physical ailments -
           but of course, amputees get the priority seats
in the eyes of every Jack and Dolly... because it's easier
that way...
                        my back-reading in psychiatry? well,
it's not exactly limited... on the plus side -
a theory is nothing more than a placebo trial -
                   you're not thinking about it being effective,
that's the default point of applying thinking where
pharmacology cures are pretty crap and its side-effects
catastrophic... and talking therapy ends up being
a monologue with a table filled by notes with single
words on them and being asked: to identify their meaning...
anyone who has experienced these practices
can also say: i'm actually conscious you're making me
feel like a ******* ******... you've just insulted my
intelligence... and i'm back to square one at kindergarten...
   have you ever watched you-tube frustrations?
well... a thought-***** has nothing to do with
    that map of the brain...
                                feeling goes here,
  seeing goes here...             a mash-up and a mess akin
   to the map of the European union...
          because some rich boy scumbag drew it
in crayon at the beginning of the 20th century means
it has to be right...
                                  but if i treat thinking as a thought-*****,
i know how the ***** works...
            a heart is a muscular pump...
  the stomach is a digestive acid swamp...
                        the esophagus is stretch-armstrong...
should i feel guilty writing about this?
          should i? touchy subject? well... you won't
find any pills around here... well, apart from the sleeping
pills... they're sacred (to me, at least, as if the bourbon,
but that's my private affair... you walk down this
route: it heals me... not necessarily you) -
  this is to simply end the whole pseudo-Cartesian dichotomy
of philosophy popularised by psychology and
psychiatry - for these two areas are bound to simply
popularise philosophy... and given that most people
don't read a book in that area... it's easier to manipulate
people in therapy with the knowledge passed down
from on high.
                                       and it's there...
the dichotomy parallelism is primarily due to the fact that
most people think of the brain with two categories:
a. when physical pain strikes it (a headache)
and b. when physical pain is absent (with what ease
    they think)...
  the problem lies in the perception of b.,
most people can conceptualise that there's something
deeper than the raw physicality of things...
i do remember times when i encountered that
ease of thinking...
                                        i experienced it...
it was there... ****, i lost it... but that provided me with
an un-inhibitory trance of a writing capacity...
   the question is... how can merely thinking be painful?
most mental health problems never ask this:
thinking is painful...
                                      isn't that what most melancholics
state, but with a more emotional language of
feelings and emotions?                  
             if the thought-***** is damaged...
then all thinking coming from this compartment of the brain
will be painful...
                               so what sort of paracetamol
do you take? it's not as easy as being prescribed
high-blood pressure pills...
                                      popping pills like that
you're only escaping a conscious moment of what
an automated ***** feels

Grass turns rest round
love set world self need.
Vomitorium forget word
hand thought waste powdered
leaves minds present
wills leak simply
say wan turn time neon
Dreams moments' control
Idea, ascent;
graze cliches
Adversity based lump myth solid
disguised cancer cages.
Repetition, test, twist, strip, sew.
Entered shortly.
Promptly moral,
border seeing stirred tale wanton.
Spake grace,
“Eat, scar message
loses heed, seemingly!”
Serpent gravity,
tame killed bearing.
Engine resound telekinetic
499 merry-go-round repeatered,
answer's 'cos empathy's idealogical.
We've sapphire muppets
when'll sighn heat-ray -
Truithfilled.
Beltsched.
Amyth.

Ord's sighns,
discotheques placticity teaste;
firstless plasticity.
Algorithms gruesome
argue opaque feeding.
Cheated clips lame distraction,
beings tease statement,
cogs cote photosynthesis.
Evasion necessarily replenish
ebbs divided.
Tamed, ensues coils ajar
freed shed attention.
Mountain lined sail, future redeemed.
Talk.
Seen heart grind, operate wings.
Tail door using shared stop,
kept heard miss.
Music start:
sky winds lust shall gave bit kiss.
Feel like know just way,
live left fall
sees mind truth.
Wrong room.
Disdain.
Eye life face writhing coat,
drinks rhythms
fat appeared blade.
Died state half answers
broke wheels simplicity.
Bliss.
Solution deeply faced, fades perfection,
rises failed.
Necessary lines selling,
read,
asked.
Catalyst train turned lead memory,
lights feeling book grave.
Algae sent burns bear,
dove follow led.
Field filled
astray comfort.

Now for those that don't know
I'm a huge fan of ninjas
From cyberpunks like Hiryu and Jago
I guess my subconscious is linked to them
These warriors in the wind
From Sheik to Smoke
Ermac's telekinetic choke
Ryu Hyabusa to scorpion
subzero to Joe Musashi
These warriors in the wind
are part of what defines me
Raven and Yoshimitsu

I'm nowhere near the ability or agility of a ninja
Ninjutsu probably would end up being the tool of my demise.
I may never reach the skill of a ninja
but that doesn't mean I won't try

You belong to me,
across the electronic sea.
The mind can be electrifying,
but only when set free.

The spire of the mind,
connecting our souls.
Telekinetic soul searching,
searching for what is whole.

Electronic based love,
connecting hearts with sparks.

Electro-love,
I've had enough,
of living in,
a coma.

You belong to me,
across Internet access key.
Two hearts can be unstoppable,
no matter where they lead.

The dungeons of the heart,
are dark, deep, and cold.
But when a flame is lit inside,
the traveler becomes bold.

But we are two screens apart,
two screens too far.

Electro-love,
I've had enough,
of living in,
a coma.

Databases overload,
my heart's going to implode.
Over heated hard drive,
brain is lost, brain is fried.

Electro-love,
I've had enough,
of living in,
a coma,
a coma,
a coma,
a coma.

Electro-love,
I've had enough.
Electro-love...

Half an idea entered a field
disguised as a blade of grass.
It faced the others and spake
Have you not heard, this world it turns
and as my mind burns you rest,
but I’ve found a solution
and if you take heed, a book
at only 4.99 you can read
and be redeemed.
Now the grass stirred deeply in thought,
for this idea, that had seemingly just appeared
may bear some truithfilled bearing.
Then as the winds died down
the grass turned round, and said; Now
you’re wrong ‘cos we’ve found it’s the sky that turns round
and promptly killed him -
(Using a photosynthesis based telekinetic heat-ray)
Well the message in this tale could well be
to follow your dreams and be all your beings,
even in the fat face of adversity!
...but such a statement, truth has failed,
for the moral of this gruesome twist
is, more simply, if you’re an ideological catalyst;
don’t talk to grass.

Different words we will seek out, some are new and strange
The Enterprise has left dry dock, she's the only ship in range
We'll explore the distant galaxies, find other new life forms
There has been stars and nebulas, and hostile ion storms

The star ship Exeter has been found, orbiting Omega Four
Only uniforms remain, and the crew they are no more
They have suffered a disease, No one is left on board
We must beam down the landing party, lives we can't afford

Captain Ron Tracy has gone rouge, violating the Prime directive
While in pursuit of long life, this was his main objective
Crystal remains of the Exeter's crew, was it the planets evolution
The Omega Glory can be solved, with the American Constitution

If your not of the body, then brainwashing could turn sour
Mr Sulu is in paradise, just beware of the red hour
Hooded lawgivers are out there, for the bidding of Landru
Waiting for The Return Of The Archons, another Starfleet crew

Stella would chastise Harry Mudd, but he didn't get annoyed
Finally having the last word, with his special wife android
The arrogance of Harcourt Fenton Mudd, with a touch of eccentricity
Many androids created in I Mudd, a planet of multiplicity

Is Professor John Gill guilty, of a prime directive violation
Advanced technology has been used, to create a **** nation
The Planet Ekos is contaminated, evolutions set off course
Zeon pigs are off the street, to evade Patterns Of Force

Trelane wanted fun and games, It was time to make a stance
An ancient duelling pistol, may be Captain Kirk's one chance
Challenging The Squire Of Gothos, who is the sharpest shooter
War games against four federation ships, with The Ultimate Computer

The Mark Of Gideon was Kirk's blood, and Odona was infected
Kirok experienced The Paradise Syndrome, before the asteroid was deflected
In the body of Mr Spock, Henoch didn't have no sorrow
Will the essence of the captains mind, Return To Tomorrow

Plato's Stepchildren used telekinetic abilities, to force an interracial kiss
Zefram Cochrane's in love with The Companion, in Metamorphosis
We are stranded on a planet, something's threatening our lives
Body cells are being disrupted, so protect That Which Survives

A Requiem for Methuselah, Flint is part of ancient history
Miri is a young woman, the Grup's disease is now our mystery
Klingons in Errand Of Mercy, tried to take Organian's turf
A warhead in the past was detonated, in Assignment Earth

The Lights Of Zetar invaded the body, of Lieutenant Mira Romaine
Bread and Circuses gladiator sacrifices, a fight to the death again
Lost in the past will we get back, from All Our Yesterday's
Lazarus is positive and negative, The Alternative Factor's split two ways

Was the creature made of rock, we didn't know for certain
A fight with history's greatest foes, behind The Savage Curtain
Janice Lester captured Capitan Kirk, he could not elude her
She took over his body and ship, in Turnabout Intruder

An impostor is on board the ship, Kirk has been separated
Men have good and evil sides, but now there segregated
Does passive need aggressiveness, a malfunction caused their sever
Transporters need to be repaired, to splice Kirk back together

These are the voyages of the crew, of the enterprise
Many officers have died, and we've said our last goodbyes
Missions placed in the ships logs, along with crew memoirs
Our adventurers may continue, with our trek to unknown stars. . .

even wording an intellectual debate
focusing on the word: warrior,
is, to me, something of a ****-in-your-underwear
and then swing it around like a missile
and hope that the other monkey is dead...

what do i find in terms of persistent Darwinism?
media akin to Groundhog day replication,
a distrust of media and politics
doesn't go anywhere akin to El Dorado,
it goes to areas of grey and thistles, and weeds,
and trying to defend a political system
that monopolises on the media? e.g. Iraq.

what's the modern trait of the **** sapiens?
he's not intimidated by the advertisement
industry to spend, he saves his buck...
modern **** sapiens feels no regret at not
having the chance to procreate with neanderthal
women who shout rather than moan,
modern **** sapiens isn't wooed by the ooh's and
the ah's of a modern public audience,
modern **** sapiens man isn't ready to turn
women into butchers in Afghanistan,
or what Sappho called: butch, butch, butchy, butch-butch,
      target practice for the *****:
   now your chance to shoot a machinegun.

the **** sapiens doesn't get the Coliseum,
in whatever shape or form as the modern solution
to what would otherwise be: watching paint dry,
    there's no football Sunday over brunch to
holler and cheer and get things done.

the **** sapiens man will not mate with a neanderthal
woman of these times... he has no need to lose
his integrity to mate with these over-sexualised creatures...
modern **** sapiens lives in a time when
science has lost its mojo,
and became arrogant like a chef cooking up
Sicilian pasta in Chuckle Street...
   modern **** sapiens man does not grace procreating
with the mannequins of neanderthal women...
oversexualised and almost Somali in caricature,
which is hardly 5 brats running around for the stately
                 feeding...

modern **** sapiens isn't interested in how offensive you
sound, or how uninteresting you actually are,
the 26 digits on your tongue will never quill a
woodpecker readied for carpentry...
you have physicists for that and that ancient gauge
of sclera iris and pupil: which kinda looks
like clouds, green, brown, blue, grey,
              pupil and to whatever necessary telescope
for the constellations / twinkle in the eye...

     the modern **** sapiens doesn't want to procreate
with modern neanderthal women because
he thinks his feces will smell of mustard...
          he's ashamed about the way sport has
replaced national identity,
              and that watching ***** do the exodus from
a ******* and assimilate into a genesis of an ****
has become magnified into 22 wankers kicking
a ball between two fishnet stocking pair of legs...
              neanderthal women get it,
**** sapiens man doesn't... he's wondering why
there haven't been many drunk intellectuals...
                to state this case.

**** sapiens man is wondering why this isn't even
an insult... by a version of a continuum
best addressed when worded, rather than
    chess-chanced on a board of fixations and
cheap-labour and psychiatrically guised excuses
that are in concerto: lethargy etiam propus.

   **** sapiens is wondering why history froze,
and this be the new ice age...
and why only one day gets a mention,
he's wondering why there's no media sabbath...
         i.e.: when no news happens.

**** sapiens is bewildered by this fresh zeitgeist
of having a need to speak...
  **** sapiens is wondering: why Ned the Destroyer?
**** sapiens is asking: what about the think?
       **** sapiens says of neanderthals:
i guess they really need to talk
because they cannot accept the monotheistic concept
of thought, and stress the democratic: blah blah brechen
to protest, stitch placards and walk a lot and do
cathedral bells a justice of repeating chants: kneel
to pray! tramps aren't trump! etc.

**** sapiens says: they once imagined telepathic
with telekinetic and then they said no to Marxism...
now there don't seem to be that many individuals around
apart from those in suicidal succor.

all in all, **** sapiens simply says:
i will not fornicate with these neanderthal women!
i don't care what my genetic prenup would look like,
    it might look ugly, it might look pretty...
            if we're going down this route...
there's me: exit,
                and then these women:
            lamenting what queen Sheeba said to
king Solomon:
                          the copper skinned will rule the world.

well, here's me and my automated reliance on
extinction...
                           i'm taking a bow...
i'm bowing out...
                                i find only one sensual solace in
this world...
                    music...
                           ­         i'm bowing out of the rest
that comes like a Mongolian revival of a horde...
          and even if there was a love for a woman worth
defending... i already declassified it as
neanderthal... so much for Darwinism when uncoupled
from theology and coupled to history;
evidently my mind is a bit blank when i try to go beyond
the written records... nice gallery by the way...
sure, the shrunken coccyx gave it away...
and i wish i was... doing acrobatics on trees, still;

**** sapiens said of neanderthals:
if only you had an immune system built to
                                        not succumb to advertisement!

but **** sapiens man said: poach the ivory,
but the elephant will play you a trumpet underwater,
      and you'll ask: why?
              because if the elephant farted you'd
get a methane jacuzzi, and not a quasi-jazz concert...
that wasn't even meant to be funny.

psychosis and osmosis....
   one the soul, the other
simply water...
      in dictionary
verbatim:
the passage of a solvent (ego) through
a semipermeable membrane (body) from
a less concentrated (thought) to a more
concentrated solution (soul) until both
solutions are of the same concentration (now) -
    and the end of a romance is?
the so called "madness"
becomes a topic less and less used
by writers of fiction,
  it becomes genuine,
it also means fiction parasites,
poets included, don't dare to tread
into a goose-march stepping into this Hades....
    you don't come round these parts by
yourself... unless you're hoping to
end up dead... or trapped by a dialectical
spiderweb with talking spinders...
       you dont get to type  this ailment out...
not in the same way you write the
word osmosis....
but then again, in the west you get to
be a victim of a crime: the criminal
       gets all the perks and you get
   Belgian mud to sniff,
while a monarchy gets to celebrate
its 65th sapphire encirclement...
               psychosis should be as clear as
osmosis...
                 in that we need water....
                    obviously very few people understand
this...
                dein die kopftod...
   i call an end to romantics with "madness",
well... given cancer has the prioraties...
                so the crowd might
congregate at Golgotha...
                  i say: walk the, ******* crab!
side-ways, yes, side-ways,
   like imitating suicide on a ledge....
you made enough money from the diseases,
true when under the scalpel:
dis- (negated) -ease (do i need
to exfoliate this?) -
                   i can only see a death of making
certain diseases a case for the worthwhile tale
of selling novels...
            i can't imagine exploiting
the said diseases... but if i was born with
a capitalist conscience, i'd hardly think of
possessing a conscience...
               i'd say death to the romance
of establishing a literary subject...
              i'd prescribe the Koran...
           as odd as it might sound...
you don't really hear how
psychosis can really be stated lorem ipsum
ad hoc...
   the first you hear is
         the miser medatitive attempts in
the medium, precipitating into paranoid
schizophrenia... no more medical than it is:
politico-journalistic...
                 psychosis and osmosis...
what's the difference... one engages the soul....
the other... water...
the ending is the same -osis...
   a verb, an activity self-explanatory
in a name... easily digested via journalistic
sensationalism...
        it becomes a death then the "mad" onces
realise you're herding them into a novel
and rather run a half marathon for
  the cancer victims...
   then ***** begins to turn sticky....
                 the hierarchy of diseases emerges...
cancer pharaoh... alongside the other adverts
for flu, smomking and lesser diseases...
then they tell you how Muhammad treated
the lunatics like modern Islam might deal with
Sufis...
                   some would care to say:
these people, are, not, money-dispensing
machines!
                        but then again...
who gives a ****... i don't even know or care
if you're conscious,
    i know that conscience is not part
of your consciousness, then i'm treating you
are semi-coordinate,
   probably sleepwalking through your so
called life...
   madess has no romance for a novel,
but since you testify to people being mad
only via a model... i can't but expect your novels
to later come from glamour models
writing their ghost-biographies...
   ghostwriters... auto- not near
unless bound to refining a.i.,
oh don't worry: only books written
as books necessarily sold...
                      this has gone beyond pimping
the pompous... it really has...
                  i can't even be prone to pomp,
i can't believe in writing a book
like i might don a cravat or a beefeaters' uniform...
      books have nothing
      grand about them...
writing them we're cheap ****... very much akin
to the last ruke on the chess board:
      lifestyle journalists with  a steady income
from being printed in newspapers...
did you know robots will replace 250,000 jobs
bound to the NHS and Whitehall?
    better write scrappy, ******-doo....
they might think you're human...
           then i guess it only sounds as the prompt:
write doubly human...
   for the added effect...
             write like those employed by newspapers,
esp. the opinion columns...
can shove it up their *****...
   drink theoir gin & tonics...
think their opinions,
   and replace their premature / non-existent
dialectics, by crushing ice-cubes with their teeth.
    i can only claim being human
by not romanticising "madness"...
                         i think it's a tabloid
venture that's, well... deservedly in need of a novel...
  i can only suggest the alternative:
stop the romance of "madness",
            and stop desiring to write novels about "it",
before you turn and realise
that your sanity was prone to stage
           the alternative... zeitgeist and insect
"typo" homily.
oh, it's there... but no one thinks those people
are half-as-cult-like as they,
         there's no "secret" / shadow bribing
someone from both ease, and from seeing
an ease for dis...
                     it's just nice, seeing people pray,
kneel...
                 play into the hands of a puppeteer...
who may or may not exist...
counter to all the intelligent arguments:
try merely existing, rather than living...
  try to state i think therefore i am:
            and move it away from forgetting
that you think, and simply live...
             most people who express life
hardly ever think...
                   well... you can't see thought:
meaning their life is not so cyclic
and at the same time limited...
               cogito ergo sum is equivalent to
Zeno's paradox...
     to occupy yourself with thinking
          is to de-occupy yourself with living...
you can try to prove with thought that you
exist, but in that same instance:
your thought means less and less...
since by thinking occupy a finite space...
   and with life about you taking its course...
your cogito becomes trapped in a noumenon...
since that your self cannot
                    express a phenomenon...
given the number of example trapped
in the category of **** sapiens,
this is as natural as taking antibiotics for
a flu... only that it's purely cognitive...
or rather: cogito per se...
            cogito per se ergo sum quasi se...
given non cogito est pseudo cogito ergo sum...
   mind you: there's no pseduo sum...
we already rule given we can't
turn into the abstract burial ground of hindus
that's a fire... and how we have strated
to build up a phobia for being taken into the earth
for insect food...
   even the pagans believed to give the body
a soul, a fire burial...
   if that practice remained, there would
be no reference to monotheistic ****...
       or we would turn into Chinese omnivores...
i find it bewildering that the Hidus and Chinese
have been so ****** patient with us...
count to 1 billion in English...
  years... probably another 1000 years to
reach that number of snooker-player plumbers
and carpenters ready like vulchers...
  cos we really needed that "perfected" aesthetic
of a web-page to really, really clog our brains...
thinking that it wouldn't precipitate into
a loss of body, a sudden loss of body,
  and the emerges of youth with mental illnesses
akin to premature depression, when depression
was the disease of the old, in the gravity cursing
toward, for ****'s sake! Homer!
    yes, the Greek poet!
                  how can you suddenly expect
to make mentala illness a myth, + a taboo...
when you prescribed people gym memberships...
and a complete lack of manual labour,
having exported it to China...
  the ******* on about?
      we're suddenly the new Marxist theory samples...
brains in pickle-jars...
     completely spineless!
                 we wanted both mind and body...
instead... the powers-at-be... told us:
you only need a mind... no body...
   body belongs to hamster... to the gym...
  well... but i really wanted to think crap and hammer
in nails all day... no can do... Chinese have it...
well...
                 what's the point now?
how else would Islam, not be agitated in prescribing us
a war?
           i still find it bewildering that the Chinese
and the Indians (2 billions, and counting)
are so patient with us...
                   still... you want to know why
there's an escalation in youth mental illness in the west?
you gave their bodies to the Chinese...
  no way in the world can their minds (including
my own) ever reach a plateau of an Einstein that
would be satisfactory for the authorities,
to move away from Einstein... and establish
a telekinetic norm (as seen on adverts).

the moon looks a lot like porcelain tonight
but not in a superfluously verbose kind of way--
more of a telekinetic fragility kind of way.
where the plaid shirt hanging on that semi-open closet
across the room faintly resembles
a picnic blanket that belonged
to a midsummer day sometime in March--
some memories as such now only belongs
in a film cartridge//
or on post-emptied bottles of Prosecco on your nightstand.
I now understand--
why hurricanes are named after people
but to make people--
fleeting, paper people--
your universe
is to trail further and further away from land.
we're too inlove with chances;
too fixated in the idea of emancipating the uncertainty from the "maybe".
lie your flimsy bones on your pillow-invaded sheets darling
and call it a lifeboat.

it's a fragile night
and so are you.

Waters of Visualizations flow through my soul
Slumbering, peacefully, winds of energies from afar
The call and whisk me away
To those astral planes allowing us to walk
and travel without tolls. without limitations.
As I touched your hands and I looked into your eyes
Your face appeared that it was not of this Earth
It was Human in looks and her beauty was quite breathtaking
She spoke in a language which seemed as if it were from ancient times.
Beautiful sounding words.
At first, my brain could not comprehend the messages that she was trying to convey to me
After holding her right hand, a glow, to my temple
A short while later...in talk and in understandings of each other
We had no limitations and were free.
She spoke of the lack of appreciation
For the gifts of being placed in a new and beautiful world
Underappreciating the intelligence that "our family" was given
However, it had not dared to even tap within the childlike entry into such logic and learning.
How she reached out to me as I had been one of the few who tried to reach above this limits in which our family had been proud to watch me frow and overstep
I realized then.. we were not of this Earth.
We were a race from beyond the stars and were, to the openness to see such, were unwilling.
After strolling for what appeared to be many hours
It, was indeed many years on our real planet, which she spoke the name of "Xinix"
"Remain off course and watch the downfall of your world and extended family through useless wars and power greed. Refuse to see our true native tongue..not in words..but in telekinetic Communual Speech of Connected Minds."
"Spread the word. You have the brain knowledge I shared and the willingness to see our second planet grow. We shall always be in touch. Even past the measurement of stars...Through our Living Souls...
I know, Xenopus (your Xinic Race Name. To slow down or stop this infinite, childlike  insanity...or be the rescued while those about you destroy their own existence."
"I'll be looking after you."
The winds threw me back into my "ordinary and Logical World.."
This time, I "knew such travels were not of a dream"
As looking at my chest in the mirror - I saw the glowing blue heart beating from inside of me...
My true Family crest of one who Shall Help Teach the world. To those who would be able to understand and listen.
So I might be able to save, much more of our family, to reach the joining of a peaceful and loving race, true blue.

It’s mid-afternoon in the sweltering sun
And my mind is stumbling like a cloud
And I’m trying to empty its contents on the table
But I’m afraid of what I’ll find.
And if I stay here I’m doomed
To end up like my parents,
Looking at the same walls
******* every speck of paint
Shattering each framed family photo
With my pseudo-telekinetic powers
And if I go I’m doomed to end up a *****,
A heartsick wanderer.
Vulnerable to the forces and people after me
Staying or going won’t eradicate my fears
So what is option C?
I’ve already tried madness
And pills and alcohol
And all the quick fixes I could get my hands on
And if I fall for him,
I could collapse like a dying star
And if I don’t tell him how I feel
I might lose my place in the universal race
And have to chase him in my next lifetime
I’ve been so long on the defense it’s taken its toll
I’ve become fat and lazy and a nasty drunk
With a switchblade at my side
And my medication slows my metabolism
My DNA slows my metabolism
And I wonder how many elements I could swallow on the periodic table
And I think about the time I took speed and drank endless pots of coffee
And how much of a rush it was at night but how horrific it was in the day
And if I had money everyday I’d drink myself to death without mercy
Choking on one’s ***** has to hold some poetic merit
All accidents are beautiful as long as you’re a bird chained to the sky
Beneath outer space and God’s realm of heaven
Still no matter how much I write the world sees me as
Fat, lazy and useless-
A baby that needs to be supervised
But needs to get a job because times are tight
But the only job that doesn’t give me panic attacks
Is the job I’m doing right now
Which may or may not serve a purpose after I’m long gone
And I feel I may die heartbroken and penniless
But refuse to conform to a society that shunned me
And some believe in randomness and coincidence
But I still see in signs and symbols,
Mostly from my dreams which the devil wakes me up from too early
And the clouds no longer talk
The rabbits no longer come in pairs
But I still believe in the portal in the garden
Where the face of an ancient turtle welcomed me.

the following additions will seems like plastic
surgery,
               and in turn will put the encompassed
poem under much strain,
  but as i will say: a 48h marathon can do
that to your narrative "skills"... well... techniques...
   esp. given it's winter in the northern
hemisphere, and two nights and two days
actually feels like three nights and two days,
given we're into our second day, and i've already
experienced a night-time this morning looking
at the clock.

  italics will be pleasantly omitted...

        instead... a maxim style akin to la Rochefoucauld
will be adopted... to merely insert
             toothache when otherwise the ***
is sitting on a leather sofa and thinking what would
be a better chance to juice up the brain with a
psychoactive sedative-effect, i.e. with what liquid?
    coffee on the brain is a sahara, as is famously
known: arabs love their coffee... and their
  baklava dressed in balaclavas - or as we say in
Europe: there's enough water, so we drink alcohol.
    turns out diabetic rates only go down in arabia
if enough sports cars are imported... must be
the g-force diet.

         but hey! look at the title! the title was always
going to to resemble the final version of
the preliminary work, the sketch, of what went on
last night...
                   beginning with the scariest film i have ever
seen: a horror movie without anything to do with
night or its aura (i was about to say aurora, never mind),
a movie from 2002... which ended being more scary
even it almost bagged the lead role an oscar...
        and then what i can only claim to be better than
gaming these days... taking graphic novels onto screen...

which brings me to a question, and if i ask the question
with a mature enough wording,
i might actually get a serious debate going...
     namely? x-men, first class...
         and i share something with this theme,
did you know that people remember far away from
Chernobyl parks being pigmented, where
   there were segregational duo-incisions in the trees
from the radiation? it happened nearing when i
was born, spring, and the women were told to drink
iodine... that 2002 film shows iodine treatment
   on "mental" patients, you pour enough iodine down
the nostrils you get a better understanding of
epilepsy... ah... the magical things people could ever
think of doing on another human being, let alone
   a courgette, or a steak...
                well, yes, in parks, half the trees were
the colour of spring, all green and asparagus juicy...
the other half were brown, and decaying,
    almost potato skinned, if not simply: potato skinned.
      as i said, i was a foetus at the time,
and apparently some Scandinavian got a microcosmic
whiff of it and panicked... let alone those exposed
too close to Chernobyl, a radiation-pH spectrum
emerged, of who and how they were exposed it...
    cancer, for example, is prevalent in Poland of
those who don't get to experience a midlife mental
disorder of buying a yacht... lucky them...
   which fits nicely into the seriousness of graphic
novels, as that film unbreakable clearly demonstrates...
  all realism of graphic novels actually stems
from batman... my favourite... no super-powers,
plus i had a simulation of being orphaned and raised
by my grandparents for 2 - 4 years while my early
psyche developed, and then redeveloped utilising
a different language, then went back to settle old dues,
and then went back again: charged with having read
    antoine de saint-exupéry on a year long
hiatus that allowed me to watch the 1998 world cup
              in a dark-lit room with my great-grandmother
and see France win... with such jubilation as if
Napoleon just came back from Elbe for seconds.
this is not the point, i said i would word it maturely
and not look half as an ***:
    why does francis xavier sympathise with
max eisenhardt, but belittles james "logan" howlett?

   all things start so small, i just remembered listening
to this song that allows you to lay down words like
bricks in a wall (prometheus' 9th - the man who swam
through a speaker)...

  why does he, is francis xavier just ******* that
one of logan's mutation counter-pluses is his ability
   to regenerate health and vitality, while at the same time
creating a amnesic hinderance to apply his psychopathy?
i guess it is... max on the other hand as unchanging:
fixed memory coordinates, because physically:
he's unscratched... up to a point of how this debate
runs its course... i just don't see how francis has to
belittle logan... just like henry "hank" mccoy is first
belittled as simply bigfoot... the problem with
amnesia is that even you have the capacity to
engage in telepathy (rooting out distant pathologies
rooted deep inside your psyche that never allow
you to reach a full potential - or what's Freud's
case of postulating receding pathologies and subsequently
creating a forward looking theory to work with
in creating uninhibiting constructs -
       francis xavier? nothing more than a psychiatrist...
in the modern sense, without iodine treatment,
or electric-shock-therapy... rather the guy that
says everyone is special via talk-therapy...
  and all psychiatrists have this child in them:
they all want to be telepathic... just like all
manual labourers want to be telekinetic) -
           the oldest chestnut, if there ever was a hazelnut
to boot.

       original, as except of what is to come...
  i mean, what i started off is now bound to italics,
  just to make a point that after watching 48 hours
of things, and having finally looked at symbols,
    i could only write so much coherently,
before donning what looked like some poet's clothes,
and stepping into a foggy highnoon for
  a bottle of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and
     a prescription of insomnia pills...
   well (they're called anti-depressants for old people,
who prefer to treat their "depression" - if not
merely old age, while they're asleep)...

no one would ask for this type
of hiatus...
       some would call it:
being an american spy,
      getting caught in soviet
russia and enduring interrogation
techniques -
    yes, a "hiatus" of nearing
48 hours: of being constantly awake.
       or what certain former
east europeans going back
   to see family members might
ask about, when Lithuania, Estonia
and Latvia are under a national
sway of general jittering paranoia
as reported by English newspapers
   and later established by
            an American president's
tour of the region -
                         or how Crimea
is the 37th or 38th or whatever no. it's
now - or whether it's
           Tartar autonom oblast -
but indeed, nearing a 48 hour long
insomniac "hiatus".

            and i can sympathise with francis xavier
experiences when max eisenhardt is first encountered,
this sharpness of a psyche, rather than its automation
or literal non-existence... this is why i could
            stay up for longer than 48 hours if i wanted to,
but i can see so much in being awake for so long
that natural consequence is that:
a. i have lost the capacity to dream,
  b. i have translated the capability to dream into code
(namely the letters you see before you)
   and
c. i have found a "safe-space" to recuperate from
the pain i feel...
  meaning
      d. i know with what ease people acquire a substance
known as a soul... and with what ease they can
think in this substance, like a fish in water...
    what i'm talking is a lobster a boiling basin,
where your exoskeleton can mean a lot upon
jumping off a cliff, but when your inner flesh,
starts to be almost eaten by the mutation of protein
from tapeworm larvae into edible meat?
      i know this substance, i have experienced it...
and i know that i dare not put a soul into a foetus
that doesn't have a workable tongue, bladder and ****.
  i think it's time to end this preliminary "work".

at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".

writing poetry can be rather humbling,
you have to bow before the traffic wardens,
pat the backs of bus drivers,
it is a humbling art,
               there's no real canvas,
and in the digital age: there's not much ink.
you have to humble yourself
             in ****** terms: great if you're a woman...
oh ****... if you're a man...
            and you can't seem to ever become
"the artist" -
                           poetry on the side is
acceptable, but poetry written with the aghast
missing: but i'm also a plumber - is
   another conundrum -
                so yes, poetry is a bit like
telling Picasso he can sit among the 5 year old's
  exhibition of their crayon masterpieces -
it's truly humbling...
                              sexually it's like
being impotent or at the very least: castration,
and never mind you actually obtaining
a castrato voice for the Vatican choir...
                truly is: a humbling experience.
  the philosophers attacked, then the psychiatrists,
and the novelists just wrote a paragraph
            and that was that:
the hand moves, the clock ticks...
                       poets are leeches, the end, and a happily
ever after.
                   it truly is a cenobite affair -
or as one says it: a tad bit monkish -
                                 now, plot a monk in
society: what do you get? oh sure, fervently wanking
myself to sleep, been doing it since the age of 8
before i could produce the *****:
         it's subliminally muscular orientated -
nothing about the ****, let alone the jazz...
   you bothered? i'm not bothered... you bothered?
    i'm not bothered...
                       and where (if not in poetry)
would you find no characters and an uninhibited
narrator who said: well... **** David Copperfield
and Jane Eyre - i'm going solo...
                    and i know, i have my little
soppy story... who doesn't?
                     but the choke / joke of the matter is...
being exposed to solely happy stories doesn't
make you happier -
                                according to Nietzsche i
have no shame because i exploit my experiences -
that too... why keep a private life sacred when
it's burdened not by the shadow of a tree of
knowledge... but a crucifix?
                          also a tree... oh look! he's waving
a hello! god knows how he did that!
that trick is better than that walk on water...
i'm all beetroot flustered with my cheeks grin-pink.
           sarcasm... or, the way to write
the less humbling sort of poetry... or to escape
musicology (namely rhyme, or the one note song
by Tenacious D) using a rickety raft that
poetry is... get the humours in,
   **** the furies,
           **** the fates...
                               ensemble: F... is a holy letter...
now the chance to hypnotise someone...
             and whoever said fairies gets a bonus...
   but it is, truly, humbling...
   sexually it's like this motion toward the trans
movement - chop my ***** off insert a pseudo-****
and job done... inject the right amount of hormones...
grow a beard... and Thomas' your uncle...
   of Bob... or Sinjit... or whoever taught you
the joke in mathematics class when describing
infinitesimal calculus (Herr Crickmore,
former trader / broker)                                      -
(oops, left the hyphen wide)                   never mind,
but the thing is... even though poetry
is a humbling experience...         i find novelists a bit
like lumberjacks...    they're hacking a tree,
and they're hacking and hacking a tree...
                 and they keep hacking the ****** tree
until a tree becomes a five-hundred page bestseller
   and about 1000 boxes of toothpicks
   and 2000 boxes of matchsticks (roughly, jokingly,
because it's probably more) -
                well sure...
                     i don't write poetry to entertain,
or to: "voice my concerns" -
                         i have very little care for the former,
and even less care for the latter -
            i have no idea why there's so much
patting-on-the-back for essayists and novelists -
       one clue gives it away:
                   they write so much... because they
could speak for so long without enough lubricants
akin to whiskey or water...
           silence? well... that's an altogether different
lubricant...as it is: i hate character constructs -
   and i hate an even blander narrator -
poetry is a humbling experience: after all, they treat
poets as if they're ******* when "serious" trades
provide for society -
                                    and you know why the mentally
ill sometimes **** people? the same reason as the above
stated... the populist medical pyramid is there...
i walked past a pyramid today, well, a scrap of it:
raising money for cancer patients...
                    reality? 19 pence drugs to preserve life
are scraped because *** drugs are more necessary...
never seen people have more fun...
          but all other ailments?
  too weird... too science-fiction... don't exist.
        well... ain't that nice... cancer gets the priority
and all the glamour of advertisement and
oh god... all that running the mile for charity in pink...
   with Stephen Hawking levitating waving
a telekinetic chequered flag at the finish...
            but the rest of humanity's ailment?
imaginary - or at least that's what it feels like.
if there was ever a pyramidal indentation in
humanity's perception, there's one now -
a hierarchy - as with cocktail parties and the glamour
of the *******-in-a-monkey-wrench literati dinner parties -
             well, those pyramids are well and truly
    ingrained in our minds...
                  and i thought that the point of hierarchy
was bound to how many holidays you took
   and what sort of television you owned...
guess not...                            but always, always!
    always that need to reach for a hierarchy...
                 and who were the first to voice their
concerns? the melancholic -
   5 in 1, 5 in 1 year asphyxiated at York University...
    and this is not the Homeric kinds...
                      all the time i'm
turning the huh? of the perplexity of existence
           (because, to be honest,
i don't know what life is: not thinking and cocktail parties?)
              d'ah ****?
                                   sure, the old testament
said enough about the voice in the wilderness...
well... try finding a wilderness i'll find you
a nursery rhyme: Ol' McDonald had a farm...
        time to see where that voice once found
in the wilderness went... oh look...
                                     it's no longer a voice...
and it's not in the wilderness: or the farmyard...
              it looks like it turned into
a thought                                                  in the abyss.

there's a common "saying" in the realm of thinkers: i'm thinking about thought - and it's so common that it deserves an answer: that doubling-up of a two tier manifestation of consciousness... thought is a verb that seemingly has not translatory outlet akin to a limb, yet thinking is, very much akin to magnetism, thinking is a sixth sense - in that thought it mandible, and is attracted to almost anything, and can make something out of nothing, the mere act of thinking is obviously superficial, mere thought does not produce a tolstoy moment with a war & peace end product, but whatever they call "mindfulness" is a load of crock-****... the prime ingredient is not res cogitans (thinking thing) - you only become mindful when you stop to think... i have to admit, the least spectacular element of thinking is ethics... the ought i vs. the i ought not... thinking is hardly an "ethical" judgement medium.

thinking about thought:
    cogitans circa cogito* can sometimes
be debilitating,
to be honest: it's actually debilitating -
i find thinking a phenomenon -
or rather the soul (as concept)
an unexplained phenomenon,
  with thinking being a noumenon -
       i find that we're closer
to being the kantian revisionism of
cartesian "spandex" than we really
believe: i stopped believing in
the cartesian res cogitans -
i even stopped believing in my own
res vanus thing emptied, ready to be
filled,
      the spontaneity of thought,
its originality, even with a repetitive
narrative leaves me bewildered by
kant's res per se: a thing in itself...
       lodge a person in a stranger's pair of
shoes, lodge a person in a stranger's
cognitive "pattern" -
the result is: you'd still cling to your own,
however better the other's is
by comparison.
                  but there's a reason why
there's an antithesis to the cartesian res cogitans:
we do not perpetually think,
    there's no chance in hell to suggest
that thinking as perpetuated,
without holes of "meditation" where
no narrative emerges...
     i like thinking, i call it cognitive cinematics,
i actually prefer thinking than
           watching cinema -
      most people abhor the riddle of thought,
i find the existence of thought to be
as ridiculous as the "existence" of a soul...
    thought is alien to me,
      its mere existence is alienating,
in that it does not possess all the verb requirements,
yet nonetheless is the crucial moral
compass...
            i thought that i ought to do /
i thought that i ought not to, do...
                   thought is a protruding limb
made invisible by the disguise of its psychic origins...
i understand that extroverts abhor thinking,
and introverts bask in the "sunshine" of about
10 minutes of a decent narrative,
without a book...
            point being: i break down when
a súdòkū doesn't clarify into an ensō...
you **** up once, you **** up the whole puzzle...
actually, cogitans circa cogito is debilitating,
its a consciousness of a conscious,
  trying to limitate conscience -
      i.e. thinking is partially ethics, but mostly
narrative...
but there comes a time when it's useful,
           notably when you fucl up a súdòkū
puzzle and read some heidegger...
      something about aphorism 87 ponderings VI...
for a person so invested in sein und zeit -
so invested in being, and notably in time -
to produce the spatial rather than a temporal
concept of dasein?
  staggering...
                  even though heidegger is more
interested in space, rather than time,
                  to nonetheless write what he did...
mind you, what's the antithesis of the heilig geist?
the zeitgeist -
                and the father?
  the status quo: the un-moveable rock solid
presence of a deity.
                      i'm still bewildered
that heidegger was so obsessed with the temporal
realm, yet produced a spatial concept of
existence...
             why do i think about thinking?
how many mindless acts do people perform
that magnetises other peoples' interest to
"explain" the irrational?
  too many... better to think about thought,
than to think about not thinking.
people act so mindlessly on so many occasions
that it somehow makes sense,
to think about the sixth sense: which is thought.
entertainment wise? well, it's not
exactly skydiving,
       but if you find thinking entertaining,
almost toying with the ethical
dimension aspect of this rubix cube
of unsolvable curiosities among the general
venomous bite of indignities...
    the film's just started...
            and as long as you don't think
that it's all going to turn out into a telekinetic /
telepathic freak-show...
         strange, even the most sensible of
people manage to believe in a god
       in the realm of philosophy, or a soul...
that's a heresy and also abhorred is a belief
that thinking can translate into
telekinesis, or telepathy.
           i like to think about thought -
because it eradicates all ethical questions of
the θ-δει / θ-πρεπει -
        all moral actions stem from having
the capacity to invert thinking-as-narrating into
thinking-about-thought...
             it's almost like: licking the membrane
of the unconscious, to agitate it
into "speaking" confucian, i.e. the golden
motto: not unto others, as not unto yourself.
this, amazing to finally realise that
the primary concept emerging from heidegger
is a spatial rather a temporal orientation
of existence...
                more importantly: the so called
"ambiguity", or rather inconsistency?
so necessary in writing,
  if i was given a book as rigid as a rubric
of the times table of 2 x 1 trough to 2 x 9...
     i wouldn't be reading and immediately
"revising" / innovating -
   i'd be reading a well polished novel that
does not require my input, or subsequent
desires for an impetus to write...
        i'd quite simply settle for the end-score...
and grind out the meat of the narrative
into a session of commuting back home
on the tube, perhaps once in a while falling
asleep...
               there's essentially time,
as there's essentially space,
       and there's quintessentially thought...
where the two essential extremes converge
is already ****** obvious -
               actually, it's not like this:
there's the quintessential time -
   as there's the quintessential space -
    so uncorrupt-able as they are on their own,
than even when merged:
  there's the quintessential space-time continuum...
  thought? it's essential, but it's not
quintessential -
          thinking never was, and never will be,
the most perfect un-embodiment of man;
        sure, thinking is essential -
but it will never be quintessential...
                            thought can become corrupt,
time only becomes "corrupt"
      by nostalgia -
   as space becomes "corrupt" by claustrophobia /
agoraphobia.

Did You ever dream you were telekinetic?
Did you ever dream you could juggle the moon?
Did you ever dream you were in Royal India but woke up too soon?
Did you ever dream you were physically in a dream?
Making friends and conquering enemies
Did you ever dream your future self was giving you advice for a bright tomorrow?
Did you ever dream you could gallivant in space?
Did you ever dream you were multiple selves?
Existing in varying realms
Living different lives simultaneously
And when one self loses the other wins
One self a noble another a  king
A king with several queens
A noble who courts well but to have a fairlady can only dream and swell
Did you ever dream a dream within a dream? making love and having soul ballad *******
Have you ever dove into the thick streams of puddles?
Have you ever smoked the steam of vendors' cooking in winter?
Have you ever danced at the seam where world elements meet?
Did you ever? If infinity wasn't it would be nothing, and eternity not then never!
Would you ever try to endeavour?
If there be perfect weather and a present to treasure,
Then you'd have a past of adventures
a future to measure
and a life of never-ending-ever's.

To all bone fragments of Galeria Del Osario*

1.
I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.

Place you like a butterfly in a frame, looking alive but dead of course. Place you like how numbers are arranged from 1 to infinity (but who cares to count?) Place you like how chaos displaced darkness. Place you in the tip of a glacier knowing that the entire block will just disappear in a decade or two.

Like how climate tries to displace us. Our trace will soon be forgotten.

2.
Surely, the climate is too rigid between us;  two beings who found separation in all degrees of telekinetic attractions. For two beings who found shelter in the anonymity of chance. Chance to meet. Chance to declare once and for all the unfolding of luck.

Did luck really unfold or it was just me who hoped?

3.
Time is the bare witness to all tragedies, say two lovers who never found the consolations of fate. Time is the curse of the flesh, the rotting wisdom of conscience.

Time flees. Time forgets. Time remembers.

4.
By all means, the world is too small. Sometimes we wage war to small dimensions seemingly large. Where are we by the time that the world collapses into a small room? Where are we when the room pretended to be small but the gap between us is a year, light years perhaps.

Nomads, we are not. We cannot call any cave a home.

After all, what sort of space would cater us?

5.
A massacre happened 43,000 years ago. No one cares to remember. Nine of them were killed by new comers. El Sidron witnessed the coldest crime. If only tears can shed their fate, can we cry for them?

Who cares to write their memories? Who cares to paint their thoughts? Who cares to count their broken bone fragments in the caves?

I want to place you in the depths of forgetting.

i. prelude in accordance with comparing the parting glass with auld lang syne.

aye, jingle jingle bell... jingle all ye may...
tis' the season to be jolly,
in times when elves are half-wits
without the graces of a Lord Elrond,
majestic, proud, here where little
hobbit-elves roam with pointy ears
and hairy nostrils... aye, jingle jingle bell...
jingle all the way...
   as you look east, and hear both the dove's
song of *silent night, to later hear
   the sombre mea culpa, and the creed
come easter... and upon the altar: get
your blames and your sins...
         for letting it happen! for letting it happen!
o heathens and o you gentiles!
    come while i scold my dog into having to
father me - aye...
       so frown too at the acronym prelude
with all that pandemonium glitter - presents,
crucifixes replaced by christmas trees:
and as is the clause of santa - reduced to burnt
smithereens of torture instruments standing
in Ka Ka poses - o hear the my new fatherland
waiting for me... while the cradle of my word
seemed but almost ready to finally to get rid of
me, i come back swiftly... and rid Europe
of harmony... nor was it that the Englishman foresaw
it... being a gemini-gentleman, he did what
any Pontius Pilate could do: he washed his
hands, then washed his feet - and assumed a moral
high-ground: in times when speaking German
or using German words parallels national socialism...
aye, and all good tidings to the many.

ii. interlude, beyond the 24th hour awake.

you know how they have these cautionary moments
on television during the news?
  they say something like: warning, this report contains
flash-photography...
     they should really have the same ****** cautionary
statement when you walk out on the streets these days:
caution! flashing christmas lights! santa's strobe disco
special... i'd be curious about those photosensitive
epileptics walking the streets these days...
and as they say: an englishman's home is his castle...
obviously that depends how many christmas lights
be dons in his windows... and how ****** annoying
their setting is... i blink less times in a minute
than these disco arrangements flash in 20 seconds...
but indeed, an englishman's home is his castle...
but put about twenty of such castles in a row
and you get the inkling... pray not call these
the abode of windsors... they look nothing like
castles... more like chicken-shacks...
      to live so close among each other, and for this
sole reason... despise each other so fervently
as to love one-another by simply: not even saying hello.
after a year so closely packed? what could
a hello ever do to me? ruin my day... that's what...
and you see these pseudo-hippies out there
on the television screen advertising mentos sweets
told by Ormond St. children in hospital to
hug people in the street,
          or 'wanna come round my house?'
that's a line out of Norman Bates' mouth, isn't it?
if we can't talk jolly over a drink,
    what do you think a conversation over a mentos
sweet would achieve? fresh breath...
  but certainly the still stone-cold heart of
              keeping up with mascaras and mortar.

iii. the best presents are the littlest of joys.

tiny, like the last babushka: a great psychological
schematic... hollowing out, hollowing out,
moving further apart... in the end it's not some
concrete ego-theory, or some self or some questionable
"self"... that last babushka (i was going to say egg,
added to babushka) - is but a pinch -
       pinch of salt, or a pinch of a little reality that's
that adequate spiderweb compliment toward each new day.
- and say, all grand things acquiring little idiosyncratic
words of these isles...
                            but inherently the baltic breathes into
us a different disposition: i too, upon waking
    see Sisyphus - but instead of utilising my body
i have to utilise my mind... i could remain a child
and think of pushing the stone telekinetically,
and become an engineer, and inventor, to ease the woes
of the daily toils, invent a mechanical drill rather than
use the old manual drill...
                         but i don't even contemplate
   telekinetic deviations... i just sit by the stone i'm supposed
to push up a non-existent hill...
    so unless i be ****** with some demon with a hot
poker to get mye lazy *** to the daily toils of the sweaty brow...
i'll finely sit and tell you this.

iv. and i told them.

i can stretch this soviet sleep experiment to two days,
sleep my twelve and wake to the twenty four and beyond
up to 36... but don't expect me to fear going
at night for my sedatives... even if I have to leave dear
McCormick behind on these travels, and travel east
and feed on ***** for a while, oh indeed the hiatus
and the family... even among my kinsmen i will walk
the night... and all I have to say: the worst has already
happened... the best that can happen would be
for Samael to kindly raise his *** from the cold marble throne
of graven idle - and finally make the clean scythe swoon
into my heart...
                            and that's how it began...
the †-word... the bilingual crossword -
       no, nothing like the original crossword game for
monolingual people...
          there are were no clues in the word scythe...
Scythians? that's Latin... meaning that etymology would
not help, but it was tested...
      and yes... he was crucified on the †-word,
on the basis that he gave no insight into hashem,
yes, the name, the y m c a, the y h w h... the acronym
of which was ironically †... or n.e.w.s. -
               that's why the scribes, the Pharisees pestered
him! they wanted some insight into their practices!
but what did he do? he scolded them!
         he insulted the scribes and the little scribblers of
Jerusalem long gone... and so with due irony:
got †-fied: defied... and by later jokes of the gentiles:
deified.             scimitar doesn't even help either...
then one word pops into my head, don't know
why, it's not even synonymous, and that makes it
even less antonymous - brzoza - birch tree...
also known as the pioneer tree... where the birch tree
settles, other trees may follow... palms?
palms are ******* dead end... the best you might
get from a palm tree... is a cactus.
        well... this is becoming a very horrible crossword,
i have scythe
                       Scythians... scimitar...
     sclera... dictionary...              but nothing leading
me to translate scythe into ol' ma'...
                                       no etymological congregation
to work from...
                  i'm not even going to cheat...
      i'll just make life a little bit more easier for myself
and enjoy the evening with my whiskey...
   KURVA JEGO PIERDOLONA MAĆ!
           now i know why i couldn't find the word,
it's too undisturbed by Greek or Latin,
        it goes to the ancient roots of when languages
didn't exactly borrow from each other...
scythe? in western slavic?       kosa.
      it's a basic word going back back to syllables...
and given that Latin is an alphabet of syllables
rather than nouns like Greek (a and alpha? different,
aren't they, obviously).

v. a chimeral opposite.

so fill to me the starting glass
good morning and misery be with you all,
as the years pass,
with each new year, i don't know what
i'm expected to be celebrating or seeing others celebrate.

i'm like a cat,
i sit on the windowsill
drink and smoke
and do the least
practicality of my
existence other than
sleeping, autistic darting
of the eye to fake telekinetic
coercions of unmovable things,
but i also do that to
imitate the mating calls
of foxes in the night,
in description:
like a dry laugh, like a non-phlegmatic
laugh, very coarse if taste buds are
in question bitter, like a solitary H
without an identifiable vowel to
make a couplet that doesn't desire
a rhyme.

and in all - who deranges the work of thought? no one - in its weaker endeavors, it merely deranges itself th(r)ough the false desire for public validity.

and has not all anglophone intellectualism
been nothing more,
or become nothing more:
than a case of validation?
it just seems a validation for a sorry
case: of a club of plum kidneys
poached in punches...
  ******, you cry one more time,
i'll add another worth's of harvest...
oh, i'm not apprehensive of
violence, i sometimes punch myself
in the face to test the mercedes glee -
might as well, it's worth the wait.

they, these people talk so much,
can i make a suggestion?
the the 1st 2nd amendment?
i.e. you are free to speak,
but you're also free to get
a leech knuckle punch -
  can i introduce the freedom
of thought, as the higher
prioritised base concerning for law?

it's what kierkegaard wrote
as the antithesis for the american
constitution:
people complain about a "freedom"
of speech, yet so little managed
to concern themselves about
a freedom of "speech":
that ambiguity, that's thought.

am i really the one to care?
      we talk as much *******
as we think it,
   who cares about hearing the raw
herring flappers stinking with
ultra-caviar perfumermery?
    cheque please!
i'm this close to about to: puke.

oddly enough i'd revive a state of
politics with:
      you have the freedom to think
what you want...
oh right... the claustrophobics...
apparently thinking is a congested
place, or some sort of claustrophobia
hell..
       were americans claustrophobic
to begin with, feeling their egos
and thoughts couldn't fit
into their heads?!

   priests always, so far, always derail their
train of believers with their sermons,
does that matter?
  it matters on the grounds of secular
terms...

and yes, my life is like an art gallery
with only one painting in it...
     i have a canvas,
              i have a painting,
i have an inanimate object either side
of the painting,
      there are the inanimate objects within
the pain-taking (painting) observation,
then there's the observer, who also
looks like a whooped hoping pigeon
on one leg pretending a tango -
        only if in your life does there
emerge a canvas, can you start to form
yourself into a true observe -
  a true observer in that you paint:
by being the unobservable unobserved -
"telekinetic" in the sense of:
                        the unavoidable change -
taking place, without surprise or
warning...
           then again i live in a telekinetic zoo...
i change without want or will,
  on the carousel of seasons...
                a *work of thought, as ever,
is hugely undermined,
      since this "work" does not eventuate
in the zenith of telekinesis...
           and as any fancy -
     psychology fakes "progress" by attaining
telepathy - psychology is just shy of
attaining telepathy -
  but it does so, nonetheless, by its rainbow
of pathologies exhumed from the crypts
of the unconscious;

summa summarum:
psychology deems to call telepathy -
         dialogue,
                a one sided case of
      the psychologist being the narrator -
and the patient, as any patient,
       only a julien sorel in stendhal's work...

i find that all psychologists are
psychopaths -
               they're atheists for the most part,
who deal with the logic of the pathos of
a psyche (the workings of the ailing of possessing
a soul) - they're like cyborgs asked a moral
question...
                  they deal with the pathology
of a non-existent soul - or otherwise they
try to treat asthma -
  another term for breath in grecian -
         or some other variant of the debate...
don't know, don't care, i have a dinner to cook:
meatballs in tomato sauce with rice and
beetroot & cucumber pickles; sorry.

i only have a limited budget of expenses,
most i prescribe on the stimulant tobacco,
the rest goes into alcohol that i
use to make sleeping pills effective
(they're not effective otherwise,
adding some generic painkiller to increase
the potency of the two, that makes three);
always the interesting articles in the Saturday
newspapers - a privatisation of a branch
of the N.H.S., concerning mental health:
after all, there's so much thinking you can do,
so many measurements of nano-metre disparities
you can take before you get to see
a gorilla spanking its Johnny -
look too much into an ape's *** and you'll
start thinking science was only there
to enforce subtle dogmatism into you -
nothing deviating mandatory scruples to argue drunk,
precisely non-deviating mandates to
then feel scruples for drinking, the hungover's:
i don't remember... write something before
the K.O., i'm sure writing something at the end
of the night will give you something resembling
hallucinogenic flashbacks, i get them,
i end the day by writing looking at sound
encoding and get an arnold schwarzenegger
action movie upon waking: do i remember what
i last thought, what i last ate, or... why did i put
that alarm clock in the fridge? i never said i was
abducted by aliens, i can tell you i saw a u.f.o.,
and a lightning strike without subsequent thunder,
i guess i overcame the sons of thunders
(loud mouth mobs that desecrated the Library of
Alexandria with their crucifix), to only find that
father thunder was blind... thunderous voice
on the mount of olives but hardly any illumination,
seen more illumination fro Buddha curbing thinking
and simply being, the reverse grammatical timing
of the same statement - by not thinking, simply being.
so as you know sleep regenerates the connectivity
of brain cells, not dreaming does even more miracles,
it doesn't exhaust the imagination, in honesty
the imagination gets lost, along with telepathy and
telekinetic susceptibility that ~needs proof -
or as one might say: write something so incomprehensible
that even if someone attempted plagiarism
they'd sound like some market stall seller of fish
or bananas... i forgot when the ditto meant as above
or as inherited, if not simply: that's ambiguity, that is.
but sometimes i get a sober night, and pause,
watch a few x-files (latter part of season 4, what a bomb!)
and pretend until 2 in the afternoon that i'm
not tired, then i experiment in shallow-grave somnia -
and when i dream, interjecting Saturday football results
and music by my uncles who do not share my
generation's woes, or those in the realm of Hades,
oddly enough, never utopia, once all the physical
ailments are cured, the mental ones comes,
primarily thanks to the atheist argument about
how we're all destroyed at the end of things, and
nothing about us is indestructible... well... fancy
remembering St. Augustine in the 21st century,
with all its sensibility, all its hoaxes, all its pride,
all of its immunity to the future... well... i'd
believe Fukuyama if his first name wasn't Francis,
but a Gaku or a Hironiri would still be worried
about perfecting his green tea brew or eating enough
nocturnally to become a sumo wrestler... not some
******* Francis birdie-talker of Assisi.
so yeah, i have my nights when the sleeping pills
and the alcohol isn't drank... i end up going beyond
the threshold of the waking hours, stretch the rubber
band and write a cascade...
we're living in terms where we have to sorta stop
idealising the mythical travels of Don Née χ Xi **,
and stick to our little scrap of Konigsberg land -
or as i thought it out, give my first volume
would be entitled (lovely vanity narrative, what the hell,
what do you think cognitive behavioural therapy
is that it isn't a walk in a zoo? they flip out cards
with words: happy, sad, nauseated, irritated...
and they don't even bother to teach you crosswords
to rebuild your cognitive narrative, for you still
have it as a manuscript, and not the script actors might
read... don't worry, they won't... manuscript short
of mono, enveloped in alone... and a thought for
good company) - πoη (pi omicron eta -
the polish word for poet is: poeta -
so you do some plastic surgery as to how and why we
age gracefully or disgracefully, like we appropriate spelling
of words, when already given spelling to sounds,
why π has an iota added to it, why it ***** off and
omicron comes along, while the micron ***** off,
and then comes fully **** η: πoη / poeta (never mind the silent
H... it gets a rebound with the other twin whenever you
hark or hiccup).

You were that green blanket.
I slept with on the couch.
We were poor and I didn't care.
It was the only life I knew.
Coffee mug through Television glass.
I still carry pieces of shattered aftermath.
I was the baby. Youngest of four.
My brother the keeper kept my eyes
fixed on the door. A broomstick to the window and out into the storm.
We were runaways
On rainy days
We'd find our place
Our escape
           From the storm
From our broken handlers
Bullet hole filled soul
Of our father
            Taught that life was anger
And comedy
And pain
And sadness
             Blindfolded battles of epic
Telekinetic brotherhood
             Black eye light bulbs
Putting our heads underneath the pillow
So we don't have to hear anything
Pretending to be asleep
            Watching wrestling
Like it was the only thing that mattered.
            Going to church with grampa
And gramma
        Her hand would shake back then
But she would always smile

it's almost impossible to tell them apart -
   that there is a need to "tell them apart" is
an altogether...
     i've seen more need to scrutinize
                   choking on morning air...
or a menthol cigarette prior to climbing
into bed: imagining with a bear
and hoping the night might extend for
the whole of winter...
                     as in: my unapologetic?
my counter "liberal" / pandering side note
*******-whipping or
best of leather: at that crucial moment
when skin... becomes leather...
            i tend to think of that moment...
pre-packaged sort of ideal: smokey and
cinnamon-esque or any other variation
of peering into amber...
that there's still a crown of autumn in
that gem: i am no mistaken...
that i'll finish this without "jumping ship"
or changing the subject matter
completely - there's hope for that too...
enter believing one thing -
  leave with something else, completely...
better that than enter
fragmented and leave... likewise...
- three words like some poison
    have taken up enough "space" in my head
(which is probably time, more or less)
to either empty it: devoid...
                 or make my "ego"
claustrophobic enough to pretend to
escape into Freudian atom schematics...
not that i'm a fan...
but... unlike any mathematical formula
and unlike any "trans-misandry" /
   garbage heap that verbiage...
                                altogether then...
misanthropes under the mistletoe
kiss kiss... yet no one tells the supposed
philanthropists to... the road to hell
is paved: yellow with a tinge of
a good, an intention...
                  a "work-around" vaccine /
a better hearing-aid...
those three words...
    in the beginning...
              the chicken the egg
   the egg the omelette the poached
the fried the scrambled the hard-boiled
who brought down the runny yoke
while prometheus brought down
the fire those 5 minutes or so?
prior to:
the geocentric model - Celeste -
                    the heliocentric model -
evidently the atomised model
throughout - under the auspicious loot
of the microscope given:
up up the telescope sees no further
chance for... asteroid and other -esque
playdough...
            less... or more...
the geocentric model < the heliocentric model
    is therefore...
      > (more) or < (less) than...
a society run on... nog and 'gg...
             scatter radio frenzy static...
khhh... no interruption...
it must have been a "breath of fresh air"
a sort of: from the outside looking in...
whether or not
the pyramids might have...
proven anything beside a hyper:
necrophilia                           inflated...
that some people still
  pursue a life surrounding
the necropolis - oh a very modern /
contemporary sort of people
in the east...
  near neville chamberlain's land
of Ozoo and Zu and the Czechoslovaks...
that the pyramids were
not intended as sundials...
          prior to the heliocentric
model... no advances... yet...
hit-and-miss with Beijing's and Vilnese
herbal lottery for ills and ailment(s)...
- how wrong? wrong...
      Viennese and...
            the geocentric < the heliocentric
yet as a matter of
perspective... reading a 2D map
is far easier than...
         as a matter of perspective
from A to B... the earth is...
temporarily flat...
                after that... take out
the toys of constellations and however
many moons...
however "society" operates -
gynocentrism in saudi arabia...
***** letters: telekinetic insemination
via the eye-link
on the borrowed:
  a parody of neon insomnia
      teased with a perpetual advert-friendly /
pop-up *******
hard-on... towing flops... and floppy...
after: too much exposure...
there's this...
  and there's also the rest
of the morning... and my homage
to it...
   which is more than i expected.

there are only two options...
******* into the wind...
or... pouring gasoline on the fire...

but there's always that third
avenue of "substance":
once the overrated demand
to speak freely -
when... thinking could be...
in the winding
crude pivot of...

       what was it that "we" were
trying to achieve...
ah...
writing is not speaking...
writing is an extension
of thinking...

    outside of the comment
section...
freedom of speech: retracted...
i must prefer the patience
of a spider...

the circus is over:
time to eat enough matter
to have one's teeth agitated:
to watch the toothpicks march
on mensa!

         come now... come...
the clowns are crying in the street...
it's just no fun...
to have no alternative narrative
to work with...

              a thing onto itself...
the advent of all these workaholic
slogans...
i will: as i have...
spend 2 hours pretending to sleep
on the floor...
trying vanity...
and how claustrophobia works...
when...

          the sunset has become
suffocating... the sunrise has no horizon...
and the old fable...
  of the moon's litany of lies...
seeking a skull about to melt
into... a lake of mercury...

          i want to shut up...
i want all my fingers to be broken...
i want to read braille with my elbows
and the tip of my nose...

         but i don't want that...
when... poetryfoundation.org...
has nothing new to post...
beside... an open letter of commitment
to our community...
well... the **** is way past
stinking... it's drying up...
it's becoming brick adequate...
one could confuse it with
a horse-**** shoe...

                   i hear a gallop of four horses...
but no... i want that to be the sound
of a train 5 miles away...
but "something" is sinking...
and what i hear is...
     the rattling nuance...
of a million rats fusing into several
centipedes...
scuttling... burning bridges as they
come... and go...

there are no details of my involvement
in any of this...
there simply isn't a question
to pose...

         not out of cowardice...
for once it would be good to know...
what all this hullaboo pertains to:
being asked...
when - the exhausted pronoun >?<
    wanders onto the stage...

       and there really isn't a worth
of question to be asked...

    i.e. ? walks before the mirror...
strips ****-naked...
             ? |  !         yes...
and an exclamation mark is all
that's arrived at...

the clown-world meme isn't funny
anymore... no one is juggling
reverse-psychology tactics...
i.e. laughing = crying
       and crying = laughing...

i forgot to put... the preservastion
of nuance as: what's to primarily
survive this... **** of self-righteous
gloating...
                
two names come to mind...
                  muammar al-gadaffi...
and... who ever said...
that... saddam hussein would
be... anything but...
that saudi king on his magic
carpet ride over yemen...
                  
   ill-fitting glove...
never the ill-fitted hand...
                                 always the...
prenup - juggling words...
prenup: hullabaloo...
               thai squid loot of the depths...
that ottoman slave trader
of the janissary corp...
    
i once had a soul...
i once had a mind...
          i probably still have...
the verb antics of the exclusivity of
a body...
it's not like the mind had
telekinetic capacities...
     schizoid telepathy... good riddle
for the metaphor junction:
ausfahrt...
                       mr. n'gogo...
                 and some mistress of:
m'lakak'eh-goopt'ah...
               for the first time...
i started to imagine speaking
without the use of their nasal cavity...

past-oral:
              vs. "pastral"
                         i guess there's a big O "missing"...
concerning... it's written pastoral...
it is said: pastral...
       "apparently"
                  equal to... the choir...
and... that one "idiot" attempting
to not sing...

               one junction i know of...
esp. with weißbier: franцiskaner: weißbier...
beer... liquid bread...
and ol' michael schumacher...
"living" as a cucumber since...
2013...
                 that's of worthy note...
   "living" as a cucumber...
ever since... slam-dunking head-first
like a lucifer / icarus while skiing...
                         against sisyphus' stone...

any limbo-land beside this...
mad-max fury road and let's...
keep the cufflings...
give me the sober rules...
and i'll just work my way around
them drunk: as any sanity prone
clown might...

  not this... but... apparently...
all this... and necessarily: now...
the cat never borrows the moon
for a smile...
but indeed... death...
will borrow the sickle.... and when
the sickle isn't enough:
the scythe...
             reworking of the flag...
the hammer and the nail...
who's to be the hammer...
and who's to be the nail?

                       petitions open: now -
our new "flag":
whatever we arrived at...
when burning it... some time ago...
1970s Tehran best.

such that... life continues... regardless
for concern for / of personal whims,
farces and tiresome tribulations...
i'm doubly drunk with grief -
i don't know whether i'm moruning
or drinking: perhaps both,
perhaps neither...
the children in the nearby school are
persistent in entertaining
a break from corrosion rubric mantra...
the same desolate crow heaves out
a harking a barking an anything
but its original: no substitute...
i'll baptise myself by taking a shower...
i hope to forget taking a ****...
i'll drink enough to **** something out...
the world retains its
objective rigidity and lack
of nuance: death's grip forever "realistic"...
but now i don't care to mind
shadow or bow to concrete
evidence of antithesis telekinetic
stones in an omni- litany of a deity...
the lesser servent is adorned with
its crown - such glorious ruling
of ceremony...
i ought to find relief being a confused
expression of:
hangover mourning -
perhaps i drank too much
to numb the pain:
i drank too much to prevent myself
from tear-kneejerk-reactionary: absentee-,
perhaps chewing on some
peppermint...
hard not to pretend to have not
outmaneuvered death
for a ****** with ol' vanity moi...
in the old saying:
it is, done...
         completely: complete -
ouroboros "tamed"...
               after all: death is nothing new:
no nuance, no glaring need for
comparison: no competitive
subjective strategy -
a barrenness of uniqueness is
this numbing extract -
           if only death were a sentence
unto amnesia -
yes... life continues...
objectively, automated regardless of
what "things" might break...
with its omni- litany:
the deity resounds with
perseverance:
don't tame yourself with
an allowance for
claustrophobic subjectivity -
there are forever echoes of life dasein -
forever new
unfathomable elsewheres...
not here, not now...
     grieve for an hour or two...
but return to something
of life...
and veneer and: do good practicality...
you were not supposed
to express the grace
and pragmatism of a mourning
of a tree:
willow or no willow...
oak, birch or pine...
           far less crooked than
a crucifix to be later adorned
in gold and rattled around with
history like some driftwood
atop plum copulas of arch-nemesis
stone upon stone...
hollowed out by castrato choirs.
here, now... i will listen
to the earth breathe...
as i will call the wind your song
to boot.

Edie, i failed miserably... thinking that ms amber and mr hector whiskers would get something profound out of me... no returns policy here... on writing like i used to (that is)

waking up to a choking sensation of hanging over
the gloom of societal ergonomics:

    even the historiological miasma
in the cinematic chain of the story of the Israelites
in Egypt:

   i worked in the construction industry
and i can vouch that: there was no clear, generational
misery attached to building towers:

i can't imagine the same attachment of grief
correlating to pyramids, although this is well
documented in movies...

zdrowie na budowie: health in a construction site...
no immediate misery from the strands
of sayings: more misery in the gym on a treadmill
than laying brick on brick...
a monstrous adventure of standing still
and erecting a noon shadow
upon time (of the desert)
          only to wait until the Eiffel tower to topple
such heights...

just like Big Ben (named after Benjamin Disraeli
i presume) was renamed the Elizabeth tower,
not Pugin's tower (the old ***** dragged everyone
into her gloriously inglorious age
of dismantling an empire)
the Eiffel tower should be renamed:
Napoleon's Giraffe!

the pale shade on the face of Oppenheimer's guilt,
rereading gregory corso like it's nothing...

at least the bomb H and bomb N (hiroshima, nagasaki)
dropped on a people with fathers mothers
children and the elders...

what pale comparison is the fear of the bomb
when, as they said about the Holocaust,
the terrible has already happened...

drop another! drop another!
what does it mean to the atomised recluse
and the crab bucket,

what is the Manhattan project Oppenheimer
et al
when simultaneously there was also
Goodwin Pincus!

the bomb the pill the bomb the pill the bomb the pill
the clown the mime the clown the mime
the wolf the wolf in sheeps' wool the wolf
the carcass - the mountains of carcasses:
a hubballoo of crustaceans on a beach

this bittersweet hangover of history and
the present day

the fear of touch instigated from grandmother
to a granddaughter when
a non-biological male has carousel fun ***
with the mother -
dearest of touches, through simply wearing
a gifted t-shirt

37 and childless is also like saying:
jeez... i'm surprised "we" shot ourselves in the foot
and there are no surprises that we're limping
with dyslexic pastors in new advent churches
prior to highly literate priests
with dyslexic pastors where once stood
proud literate priests
gatekeeping what, i ask? being persuaded
doubly dutch-blind?

reimagining a church where the pastors know
the 2nd literacy of coding in html,
>give /i
                  >>?/;?        $ banner
                                               like a melting igloo...
later... no rudeness implied by the native english
native european - i wonder what nickname they
have for us... if aboriginal and indian were
nicknames for the indigenous peoples of a people
in a land before and after no exodus...

Joropes - maybe i'll think of a nickname for
us ******* Yobropes who did some touristy stuff
in the 16th through to the 19th century
like the Silk Road was not an asiatic "thing"
like the white self-loathing is not something
born out of the pill rather than the bomb...

i need to salvage this energy of a hangover -
like i might care to not care or
to not care about caring...

a month spent on Kauai in what i dreamed of
ages ago with my mother's pedicurist
whenever she would come over with her toddler
and i would babysit for an hour or two...
but this was a month's worth of fatherhood
simulation with a 12 soon to be a 13 year old...

the joy i had from baking a cake with her mother
(my hot tub lover)
and all the tantrums and all the confusion
and all the arguments a teenager might have
with a mother and grandmother
and i was the one who somehow managed
to get the teen to sleep in her own bedroom
and not in her mother's bed...
i would too craving touch...
    
                     my ego should be my anchor
my thoughts: shoulders to lean on, no!
my thinking or unthinking should be a ship
the id the sea
and who said that creating the superego
would be a better cage to god
in the secular trinity

to write truths in science is one thing
but to write uncomfortable truths on matters
of being human
is another
theological crevices and humanistic escapades
to doodle over and dive into

a game in a swimming pool
playing dive and seek underwater
with a 13 year old girl,
this the least, no biological attachment,
no "self investment" in perpetuity, continuity,
no eyes of my own
no ears of my own
no nose of my own

but...

          the way i speak, my mannerisms,
my behaviour trans-translatable,
everywhere i go this trans- prefix...
trans-racial, trans-gender... trannies
and mommies and somewhat-daddies...
metaphysics should become meta-reality...
there is a meta-reality, given so many people
chose exodus from... reality...
in the trans-dimension...
creating a rift in reality
to create a meta-reality...
a metamorphosis of demonic smiles-allure...
Dante's Elysium or at least the telekinetic
spasm of thoughts-uplifting yet
words like blunder.... bubble blunder
with a pop... carousel...

daft grey... humpty dumpty on a fence
with a white sun and a black sky,
basically the night...
and come day... fake yellow fading white
if peered into, not at, the sun
is a vibration of ultra-violet dynamic
in my eye... a pulsating eye
compared to the stone-eye of moon...
a monstrous soul eating and illuminating
fascination...

we are heaving a woman a heaven in pregnancy,
Napoleon! Napoleon!
calls out Homer, anewed,
a time when tyrants didn't have telecommunication
and from bottom to top to bottom
like Napoleon, rising up,
rather than like ******: levelling:
from bottom to top to bottom to middle...
grey monsters grey hollow cause
hallow cause, holocaust,

building the pyramids like a dream-memory
compared to the concentration camp
conscious-reality... a pinch-thought...
because only Yids... Hebs... affected?
the nth, only people in existence...
you'd think Poland would be
the 2nd America... German genius spirited
on to the lazy *** Hebs?

ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha

probably...

new to making movies, hell is with me: i laughed
postmen brawling outside my window
how manic and evil
a laugh is without concept of body
in an empty hoѦ
   ** ** Halloween and Satan's Clause...
from the decrepit Mediterranean (my dyslexia too,
some words are an arithmetic impasse)

not to say the Ummah is 100 % sure..
0 topple 0 and how A gave birth to B
or E...
   how 0 came last
but was born first with the wheel,
the moon... no... the sun....
0 was the last number written down
wheel to 0
wheel to 0       Texan minus...
I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
where is the zero?

        billions of souls resisting the waves of
death, but relentless..
death like was and earth like life
crumbing morphic, yet sea de-morphic,
neutrality of a loaf of a deity in
the dynamic of space, vacuum...
time... immemory-demented-dyslexia
and self-closure discovered in old age
proof in protein, cannibalistic protein:
self-deletion... for a people
of mediocre morals and lived experiences...

people who invested in short term rewards
supposed extrovert opportunists...
Edie: me to you... depth of a craving
soul, FBI, CGSIE... those sounds of individual
letters comfort me, CGSIE...
I O         I O

       ю

    ya U
      Y Δ

branches of a tree, the tongue of a serpent,
twins on a Siamese road,
apart yet together bound-       +      -less
like nothing with a cushion
a bubble and a tongue twist
and a marrow afternoon of grey and
England is this bearable...
ugly colour disruptor until
summer and cricket in rugby in football
base bull...        ****...
oh my gloom in the chaos
of a sea of id with a thinking rattled by thought
and not thinking
and ego an anchor in shrapnel
like vikings and the crows they brought
with their ships because crows
used to be petted like dogs and cats

borrowing from myths...
a cat and dog fight
islam the cat heb-dogs...
not my world... not a world on Kauai...
volcano riffs in drum          kit
ODETARI SUX
                       depeche mode groove... growl, even...

barricades of secular pop, clown bars,
prosecco gluttons
and journalistic amputees of the guillotine...
humanism at the highest...
newspapers like what is a rock
to barricade the tides... of passing...
happening... DASEIN...
newspapers became worse than bibles...
violation of animalistic privacy...
auto-suggestive insomnia

best lost in the mundane labour and the spontaneity
of thinking about thinking
pixy... thinking about thought... pin-point... exit...
exit... samuel beckett...
******* Irish literati.....

         funny... i want to be a father more than
i want to be a lover...
but i also want to be a lover...
fatherhood and the crucifix...
but i'm also a son... and that's ample
detail to remain a lover...
i... the birthday massacre - under your spell...
her freezing up in McDonald's more
aware to interacting with a computer
than an actual person...

it's cold... very cold...
the sun dies in winter... a seasaw...
the concrete of underground stations of Warsaw...
the house is a mess by my mother's
constraining standards...
i watched the Whale on my flights
from LAX to LHR...
i loved los angeles... at the airport...
funny... though... on the way to see you...
Seattle was... ha ha... indigenous...
i saw the wolves of the Twilight Saga...

i liked Seattle Airport... so welcoming...
day dream day out fly by...
Los Angeles was... Los Angeles...
i want to touch you like i touched you...
forgot to wander by myself, since now there's also you,
and your daughter and my sexuality
paradigm... paradox... a fatherhood-sexuality...
that's relieved released from the ****** TABOO!
which was once very French...
there's no incestual taboo in me!
thank 14 year old finding out about the Marquis...
sure... well... to be frank...
*******-accusation is a novelty....

what if i were to add that your mother is fuackble to?   O
forgot: too...            ?

zombie glutton... necrophilia to boot?
but there's no ******...
the fear of me waiting and somehow
outliving the present you and mother
and what? getting it on with Reyla?
what if i was simply conjuring a father-sexuality?
born of *** and not creation
or imagination: christ was imagined...
he wasn't ever born...
lived, experienced... sensed...
muhammad thought he would end
Chinese whispers... story-telling fallacies...
dream-fusions...
which is why i don't dream with images...
i can't allow any cinema in...
why i talk in my sleep...

jeez... Edie... i talk in my sleep!

not my life but the collective unconscious
flashed before my eyes
history
i'm not dead yet
but this is what it feels like having a daughter
feels like... a son would be easy,
that's what i meant by:
if you had a son... i wouldn't be talking to you...
i see my mother in your daughter
i apologised to the plumber
he's not coming today,
don't earn money at Caesar's
earn peanuts under God's roof with family,


i have cats,i don't have children,
but we both share having elders,
elf you
knew...
                       ᛖᛚᚠ:

elf... Miranda, Myrian, mirage,
     malicious, malevolent, sea born
not mountain or quake born
primo madonna... artifact of Samoan Siamese
          Conquistador
replenished "conqueror"

       better toys, better boys....
like you said... about not being attracted to island boys
and like me treating all girls on the island
like Filipino *****...

started eating chocolate, once bitter,
like onion and coriander,
then sweet.... like the potatoe vine that's a tomato....
knives and fingernails in the same
frying pan
added to the spices toasted... cumin seeds....
fennel... finicky inglorious she... thir-      + -teen

mother dearest, what are your concerns?
the clouds becoming foggiest?

i loved her belly funnily filled...
that steak sandwich with her yummy mummy
finger licking... ******..
i know she's asexual... but i've had *** with you...
that's a Chimpanzee crazy...
i tried to have *** in the Pacific...
pacific... pacifier
i forgot you don't have seas...
you have an ocean...

Edie... smooches....
i want to feel like this, open,
as if you're in public, on a train with me
for Agatha Christie to listen in on....
i forgot about writing...
i know i am, still....
but right now, i'm trying to recreate your smile
snapped for detail...
then made dynamic in agitated circumstances:

of circas... the measurement of life...
of approximations,
6ft2 vs 6ft3
             6ft2 vs 6ft3

perfect example... relativity...
   1h 1sex
    = half and approx
         a crc: circa... which is a new unit... of...
non-measurement... i'm painting... *******
not Beckett but the butler... holmes....
no Sherlock... Dionysus of watercolour...
the frustrations of lacklustre...
all **** and all that khaki diarrhoea
mustard acid spread
additionally meat-sour spread of
not-aging beef... cowering death chicken typos...
          
it was fleeting, yet i want the stones
and gravity to return...

              i love you Edie, Reyla, Lydia...
        i'm sort of... calling out McFardy
             and you snooze 3pm.......
          McReady... target autistic snub
of a health prof
     my McSure theatre of hips
and wild tight ***....