"teutonic" poems
Thanks thespis for another muse anew,
Filliping my soul with the spirit of a song,
To chant for the young world in these pepperish letters,
before my callous eyes on the skull of historical future
on my pykitonic torso of I another African pykin,
as I finish my coffin for the cadaver of poetry
that the law of poetry is a distorting neurosis,
neurotic abnormality its baseboard of time
giving classical balance for wondrous poetry.
Compensatory motivation a charm of its seed,
Taking dear eyes from the skull of Demodocos
Leaving songfull mouth his legacy for humanity,
Warped physique not short of history,
Teaching the world to drink in full pyrene spring
As hunchbacked dwarfism of Alexander Pope
was not in any sense dwarfism of his poetry,
nor club foot of Byron in ******* to Maugham
Byronic heroism to Europe of yester times,
That sired Proust, the Jewish neurotic
And Keats the most dwarfish and Wolfe the tallest
Of man and woman to the cultural matrix
Of Europe, the mother of art, poetry and synaethesia,
From which was born Pushkin that took poetry
Out of his nymphomaniac heart, to the solace of czars,
And Shakespeare the dear thief, luckily converted
Childhood kleptomania into royal theatre of King Lear,
The parallel of four brothers from the house of Karamazov,
Their father; impecunious penny penchant muzhik
In the name of Fydor epileptic Dostoyevsky.
A lull of the time to escape from world of rent and tax,
Gripped nerves of the duo to a new realm of art
wherein sensuous glory from ***** and Indian hemp
propelled the souls of Coleridge and De Quincey
to grandiose highness of poetry in the dreams of *****
bordering on the teutonic greatness of ritualistic breed,
poetry that transcended from rotten apples in the writing desk
of Fredriech von schiller the begotten son of Germany,
writing under the arms of Balzac dressed in monkey clobus,
that along with Milton in the lost paradise, gave him swaddles
only when the poetic vein of Milton flowed happily from nothing,
but from the ritualized autumnal equinox to the spiritual vernal,
as Coleridge was in full recondite of marquetry,mosaic and miracles,
the miraculous white male sheep, the white ram of Wole Soyinka,
that he gave as a gift to Achebe at the last anniversary, evil decoy
that become a car which deathly crushed Chinua Achebe
down to demise in the catacombs for the law of poetry
as abnormal human neurosis an equation of perfect art.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Todesfugue ("Death Fugue")
by Paul Celan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky;
there’s sufficient room to lie there.
The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes
in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by,
whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie.
He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes...
he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...”
We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high.
His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!”
He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue,
screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk;
we drink you come midday, come morning, come night;
we drink you and drink you.
The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete...
Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes.
He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!”
He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise
to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight;
we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany!
We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you...
He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue.
He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true.
He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...”
He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies.
He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany...
“Your golden hair Margarete...
your ashen hair Shulamith...”
Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry.
Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
Mein Gott! Can't you see,
in the Teutonic light,
What we proudly Sieg Heil
with the torches all gleaming?
The ******** beckons,
through the perilous fight,
Great Deutschland awakens,
not sleeping or dreaming!
On the huge TV screens,
the footballers are seen,
Foul proof through the night
Brave Germany's dream.
O please make that Hakenkreuz banner come first!
We're the land of Sauerkraut, brave home of the Wurst.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
.few people don't know, unless they read Sienkiewicz... but the Marienburg Castle at Malbork... was originally constructed from white, & ghostly grey brick... not red brick... the red bricklayers came with it being destroyed from the German erasing their shame at it being, claimed... the whole structure used to be a ghostly shaman color of fog... partly white, partly grey... but never... exactly... red brick...
did you know that the Teutonic Order
was the first to invigorate /
or rather instigate the primordial
concept of a... post office?
well... i guess somehow had to write
out the demise of the concept,
or be caught up in it, reaching
the 100m finish line.
those monks really invented /
invested / investigated
the premise of a post-office...
shame, really,
that the post-office is
lying on the death bed...
and the only "thing" that cana
rekindle it is...
a relapse into postcards...
which will never happen...
just as hand writing will
collapse into:
nothing more than a scrawly
stature of pseudo-literacy -
of a signature.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
Cold white numerals
from the Teutonic-honest dash:
9.5°C
Not so cold, I guess
but not the weather to press the button
for the windows to drop
I do while accelerating
too fast for the road,
the fresh air has volume
that angry-loves my tired,
house-cat skin
The wub-wub-wub pulse in my ears
has a cause I control
for once
as the next curve beckons
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 9:19 AM UTC
It’s the Shiite Protestants we fear the most.
It’s the ******* Christians
Scaring the **** out of us now.
It’s those John Birch Catholics
Making us fill our boots with ***
As in shaking, quaking in our boots,
Complete loss of bladder control
(BLAD-CON MED AD HERE.
I invite Pfizer, Merck and GlaxoSmithKline
To get in on this poem:
The poet continuing to reject the
Dying in the gutter-artist track,
Making poetry pay at last, that’s right:
A commercial right in the
Middle of a ******* poem.
Hey Big Pharma:
What are you selling?
What you got for incontinence, Babaloo?)
But I digress.
I was making a point about
Far-right Christian evangelicals,
A significant demographic within the
American electorate.
Jesus was an Aryan, they believe.
Degenerate Art, Literature, Music & Jews must go!
It’s time to purify the race again.
Time for the Huns &
Other Teutonic tribes to
Broadcast insidious seed.
Anti-Semitism rebooted.
Jew-bashing in America 8.0.
Need I remind the Tea Party that
Haym Solomon-- a Philadelphia Jew--
Financed the Revolution.
What about Bernie Madoff?
When a smart Jew goes to jail in America,
Anything could happen.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
*it's a dead, obviously, working from per se, i only used prae to be near per, i could have used foris, or even ante, but given the dictionary and the necrosis of the Latin tongue per se as in: per - by rather than in - and se - himself rather than itself, you can imagine the complications of coining a phrase for the antidote of in-itself, i.e. outside-itself.*
revision of Enya: **** away **** away,
against the wind against the wind;
mash up... brrrrapt big up big up east end
Loud Don... bonkers bunch...
now that is random,
i wanted to make a serious point,
and i will (insert snigger)... eventually.
what i wanted to communicate was the revenge of
von Kleist against Kant...
Kant is the enemy of poetry we're led to believe,
i can imagine, only Heidegger took Holderlin seriously
and lectured on his poetry,
von Kleist committed suicide out of despair
having read Kant's critique...
but what i want to do:
to take each poetic technique out of poetry, and
then use each technique to describe it's origin...
so for example metaphor... given that poetry is
ensō (one smooth stroke) - ever watched the t.v.
series Wolf Hall? it's about the dealings of Thomas
Cromwell, all matters of intrigue, Henry the VIII,
and Anne Boleyn... so the metaphor describing
poetry... at the end of Wolf Hall
Anne Boleyn is about to be decapitated, because
she ****** like Catherine the Great (although i'm
sure the myth about the horse by polish / lithuanian
conspirators isn't true... or applicable to Anne)
and that offended the king...
so on the scaffold, there's the swordsman (using a sword
was a clean affair, axes were brutal, imagine hacking
at stump of wood, or like Longinus Podbipięta,
who with a Teutonic sword cut three Turk
heads in one go, so Longinus Podbipięta vouched
to a lady his chastity that he'd bed her if he also
cut three Ottoman heads in one go ref. Sienkiewicz
with fire and sword - the sword
that cut ****** Mary's head was, blunt)...
so there's this scene in Wolf Hall, ah man, the swordsman
is classy, Thomas Cromwell asks him, 'will it be a clean
death?', 'only if she doesn't move',
so on the scaffold, he takes his shoes off, speaks into her right
ear as if she's expecting the swing to come from there
and then with great stealth moves in the other
direction and cuts her head off from the left...
so i guess poetry is a metaphor of that, an ensō,
an evolution from haiku: one smooth stroke and you're done:
nothing airy fairy, like you need to sigh...
no... you need to drop the anchor:
poetry prae se, as described by metaphor.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC
The slipping plates of the planet
Grind ceaselessly against each other
In terse and violent tension.
Neighbour against neighbour,
Conflicting caress of rock against rock
Until one gives.
The tension explodes.
Little Boy ten thousand fold
Wrecks vast destruction across
Land, sea, village and city
With indifference
For whoever
Whatever
Wherever.
What feeling, what emotion,
Crashes through the landscape,
Dashing communities, families,
Mother and child, father and friends,
School children, colleagues,
Shopkeepers and trades?
Picked up and tossed over and under
By wave after wave, dragging crushing debris.
A black lascivious tongue
Unfurling its fury, lashing
The skin of humanity
From the face of the Earth.
*(And what do I care of the destruction?
Of all the pain it leaves behind?
Of the ever-rising body count
Upon a never-ceasing tide.
I am on my way, surfing
The fury, feeling all powerful
And magnificent, but all the time
Controlled and ruined).*
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 1:49 AM UTC
It is only a big fool that marries from a matriarchal family
And a heavy-weight duffer marrying from the matriarchal clan
There is always a poisonous cobra, mamba and adder in the matriarchal
Beauty. Snaring like calypso to thrash the callow ridden odyssey in the lover
As it went for the stooges in Kenya blind to the colubrine station falling in love
With daughters, spinsters, wenches, damsels and brunetes of matriarchal heritage
They were swallowed by the inherent colubrine queen at the bottom of matriarchy
It swallowed them all, lawyers, warriors, merchants, politicians, beggars, billionaires,
Lordships of top-notch corporations, gurus of research, legends of foot-ball, din magnates
Negroes, Asians, Britons, Teutonic, Luos, Mulmbe men, Mijikenda and all that had money,
Their kinsmen and tribes now grieve in a song,
Chanting the song of loss in my mother tongue;
Sialile papa!sialile papa! Sicha esirove!
Sialile yaya!sialile yaya! Sicha esirove!
Wanangali wa wabaseve,Niiye wamulile!
Emenyele buli abira! yakhaba mukisumu!
Ese beve! ese beve! ese beve!ese beve!
By-Alexander Opicho
(From Lodwar, Kenya)
[email protected]
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 5:56 AM UTC
it begins with saint piran's flag... well, let's just
say that, there ought to be two "offending"
but classicly marxist, separatists governing bodies
in, what's know as geo-politics...
upper-class retards think that the people
occupying the home county known as essex
are, complete idiots...
well... hello my "fellow" londoner!
nibble on some rat-shit, get a pigeon **** *******
on your top-hat? **** **** off!
the northerners can't claim, that i'm
a southern fairy... in europe there the north / south
and the east / west divide...
the southerners seem to prosper, as do easteners...
and likewise...
essex, and the whole "point" of the south-east...
no... cornwall wan't to be indepedent,
like the basques in spain...
and that flag...
may i make a suggestion to counter the cornwallians?
revert, allow essex to have a teutonic inspired flag
in reverse to yours...
i.e. a black crux on a maiden's "body".
living in essex, i've started to become, irritated
by this county becoming a joke fior the whole nation...
like a bunch of indians saying goa in portuguese...
sure, i know: northern monkeys...
wild antics and bits and bobs...
essex has produced snooker champions...
the other sort of chess-players... the geometricians...
and then the serving geographic is simply quote as:
sun-tan orange "quirky" accent;
and all, from a megapolis that exterminates rats,
but feeds urban pigeons.
in essex? we have woodland pigeons,
and they look like the very-most pristine theologians,
if not priests...
and they're fat...
blooming... and they have the equivalent of
a dog collar... and sure as ****
they won't have one their legs, reduced to a stump
with all the claws removed... like an urban pigeon might,
strutting... well... "strutting"... merely limping.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs.
millennial, generation y, huh?!
also called the:
bearable heaviness of non-being...
say: survivors of auschwitz,
and apart from Kundera,
i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit
hangover...
and when i speak the native tongue
i use double emphasis...
everything suddenly becomes italic...
gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja,
ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on
a licky-sticky schtaisse:
vroom bog-tie boom boom...
everntually language is just that:
magnifique sounds, mein herr,
be that a cello i hear?
nada... mindlessly i too
feigned a farting brigadier, farting into
a brass horn: worth a gingerbread /
pumpernickle marching rhythm.
yes, double emphasis in the native...
kosz (koš)... bin...
trza błagać... błagać!
o śmierć... beg for death...
but hetman cossak said smerc... and it
sounded altogether better.
a household argument,
after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout
an afternoon of general bewilderment:
a heap of pebbles makes more sense
than the Orion constelation...
given the mathematical approach
to the situation, and subsequent mapping...
because they really did drop a bomb on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki...
and that's why 21st creativity
is trapped in a hamster's routine...
karaoke is standard...
this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist!
so i said: you really think you conquered
yapan? jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican
jah jah *** buck...
rasta root mon, rasta root.
battered and bruised...
someohow this whole dating scene
passed me by...
and what happened to me aged
21... is strangely becoming the norm
of giving the circumstance:
i can't remember being of any age, particular.
the quicker argument would coincide with:
give me a machinegun, and march me into
a Latvian forest...
because, right now, it's
a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash
or more like a leech,
and an afternoon spent
pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami
of adverts... calling it a job done,
with a siberian brew: cow juice in
tea...
liquid werther's original.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
*when i was in St. Petersburg i must have picked up a Rasputin virus, a Siberian gnat bite... **** you not; the only misery i have is that my counterfeiting assailants were, at best, middle class, and not aristocratic.*
no, honestly, after reading the style magazine
with all its smooch bravado of resentment and care...
i hash-tagged myself: yep it's trending...
i've just about finished a 70cl bottle of whiskey *******
around with Dylan Thomas and St. George... draco ex cymru.
but still it hits me, encoding sounds was never so hard...
those clouds of sunset look so much better
and multi-coloured when they do with sunglasses... i don't
know what's in these sunglasses but i'm picking out pinks
and purples... which i can't make out without
the sunglasses... an L.S.D. trip or what?
i wrote this faster than you'll read it, given the skim- aspect
of literature, immediate journalistic recycling...
they still love Shakespeare, don't know why,
don't ask me why, it's an affair of the english
education system... well... ploy...
conspiracies are welcome posthumously
and adequate intellectual material....
was it Marlowe or John Dee the Elizabethan era
double O 7 alchemist to blame? never seen oxygen
paired up like that! must be a crucifix miracle!
desecrate christ subsequently desecrate all
remnants of royal authority, **** into the crown
of the governor of Liechtenstein: what?
i need the loo! the idea of you teaching me manners
is like you teaching me Hadrian's is synonymous
with qin shi Huang's rattle; rattle meaning
the broken spines of the bricklayers who levelled
the ground around them with cement...
and still the Mongol horde came!
Scots looked at Hadrian's accomplishment and laughed
drunk with a lullaby. the Mongols stretched their
tongues saying: if Europe and Iraq to be ours,
we have to climb that, no arrow will crumble it
even if shot at the cracks! i love walls, esp. if they're
like Malbork castle of red brick... once owned by
Teutonic knights... i end up playing abstract chess with
their brickwork, a strange arithmetic...
girlfriend? what for? have you heard of the aces movement?
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
When do the lines between like and love blur?
What are the signs of that teutonic murmur that changes I like you
into I love you with just one skipped beat of the heart?
Is it not imperceptible?
Whereas love at first sight brings all the boom booms and bang bangs of a new circus in town
this feeling I have now did not come with bells and whistles attached.
There was no proclamation.
As if I'd turned my back, dropped my guard and suddenly there you were.
Brand new.
And your smile did not bounce off my eyes this time but pierced,
a spear hurled to the core of a place I hardly remembered.
After that
I held you slightly tighter
kissed you a little harder
and wished for you a lot more than I'd ever wished for me.
:)
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
*and when they write their novels, the last thing
they'll realise, is that... contradictions, are
twists in the plot... philosophy books are only
akin to novella by creating contradictions,
as a way of suggesting playdough, scrapheap
of phenomenology;
some say contradictions are desired faults
in an "arithmetic" / plot, and yes, that's... "arithmetic",
meaning a + b can't exactly be 1 + 2... but that's
∞ = a-z....
the two are incompatible correlatives...
crafted to ensure babushka lingua
sell her tomatoes...
and all subsequent blah blahs;
oh please! you'll go to thailand some time next year,
you want me to feel sorry for you?
pet a rat!*
and will i dicta villager simply,
qualm?!
you! ruddier!
charcoal fat!
you sludge-ipsen
you vermont Kaiser guised!
you! finicky, thing!
avocado fat ****
let us bravado a chin!
that double! half-wit quiff!
fringe alongside the combover!
all things elongated towards a giraffe....
you! squeaky Lombard of Milan!
you! paraphrase! you! Merovingian!
cackle squat! and summation parts teutonic;
defaced, with mention of tectonic;
and they did live, a happily ever after,
which is the sad part;
you! piglet charcoal with dumb & dumber!
i dare not carve my name in stone...
i carve my name in lamb limbs...
so i debase myself on
the throttle when there's encouragement
of the speeding aversion toward Macbeth;
i look upon the toil,
as i might take slightness of asserting
the earthenware,
to have milked the cow, or to have
leisured an urn from a basic of dover chalk -
there you are... a kingly kin awoken...
there the highlands... and there the deposited
into basin...
for all pyrotechnics
there's still the pedophobia -
means i have an aversion becoming
a father... i don't like children...
do i hate to? ~. really, do i have to?
as it strands... i have to.
it was Macbeth who looked down,
and said: as mere pebble be,
i see less time occupying the lot of the heavens
even if they conjunction Aries into
a warring tide...
there, among
the toothache and awoken chance to meet grit...
i find time worth embedding a scaling into...
a rigidity, that could never define Romeo,
and as said... lost the mc. as having lost
the juliet... and subsequently gained the Beth.
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
They're just an assortment .of letters that bounce off the corners and crash into the netting that stands as a barrier
but
each to his master or the spirit where the level's lopsided,
then the line up begins and each letter wins a place in the heart of some beast
and words issue forth as if Moses had dropped off the radar and boosted a sports car to get down to the start line and taste some of that water that the spirit had turned into red wine
and the words stand in fine print, tuxedo's, bold Romans still bouncing off corners,
I'm all for the underdog if he doesn't have fleas and if I catch him scratching he's out on his ear,
queer how language finds so many meanings in the slang words that strangle and stifle conversations,
I choked on a dialect once and someone performed the Goering manoeuvre which is like the Heimlich one but more Teutonic,
thank you and mine comes with gin.
This is what Thursday is capable and culpable of,
homicidal tendencies
that's it
the letters stopped moving around
there is sound but that's from the street vendors
who send kisses by air mail
and
I am left with the assortment
some achievement huh?
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
i guess black on white, is the subverssive method, teutonic, given that prussians weren't exactly what the germans later incorporated; ah yes, the mistake upon invitation, to allow the baltic crusades; a black cross, upon a white flag.
as someone living in england,
i hear this frequently from
american youtubers...
*i didn't ask for your ******* opinion!
blah blah!*
that's strange...
i don't know why
people have created this subjective-dialectic
monster...
no one is having
objective-dialectics...
they get so ****** emotional...
*i didn't ask for your ******* opinion!
n'ah n'ah me me me.*
comes a time, when, it's really great
to shut up...
evidently if someone tells you:
your opinion is not welcome,
then free-speech per se, is also not welcome;
so much for the "atheistic" community
damning subjectivity,
championing objectivity,
but when a need to reply comes along
and establish a dialogue...
there are only two people,
one shouting into one cave,
and the other,
shouting into another cave;
have these people ever have conversations
with people on park benches?
for all i know, i have...
right now?
i'm not talking: you're talking
what i've written...
effortless... like a falling leaf in autumn;
or as sarcasm goes: thanks for the effort
in exercising your right of free speech;
i'm still looking for an objectivity on this
site...
but it's subjectivity ping-pong,
either how infuriated i can become,
or how volcano-ready i seem to be ready
to suddenly snap.
i don't understand how a calmness of
voice translates as being objective...
it's just one of those clever tricks
of sophistry;
nonetheless...
it's the analogy of two caves...
so much for dialectics,
given the need for third parties
and a complete lack of open dialogue...
and, subsequently...
so much for this so called badminton
of free speech.
oh thank **** i'm not talking
and writing on the colour of a flag
that could resemble "defeat"... since i wouldn't
exactly call it the saudi green of the ethos
surrounding submission.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
un-orthodox, i admit,
but so was the diacritical
marking on iota...
as catholic policy goes
the above stated
word would be
written as cień..
which means shadow.
breaking from tradition?
how about inventing it?
that's bad too?
lao che's
godzina w...
varshava часмир?
or the next point, disclosed upon the hour's
count?
there... floating above me,
crow-signalling a crack for the break
of dawn (as symbol of the teutonic black
on white cross)....
infantalism is the greatest agony,
to be called a child is to have no memory
of actually being a child...
this is what can only be said to be sad...
*vilchór / wilchoor / vilčoor /
wilchør / wilczór /
vilčür / vilčör / wilchœr...*
i mean... how many variations on the word
vilk / wilk / wolf / łólf do you want?
the term vilchoor originates from alpha,
not omega...
question is: should that
be an ee between v and l...
or what diacritical marks are actually missing,
or maybe there are too many
to apply to the english language?
i'm all for the latter being true.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 8:01 PM UTC