only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.

working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

i find this mentioned success found and expressed in the parameters of life,
nothing more than a philistine’s interpretation
of why la traviata resonates more profoundly than madam butterfly
when a girl does not use rhetoric to see the latter opera
but bows to the former in a sort of cognitive neglige,
so why do i find this mention of existential “success” so unprivileged
as to require a deviation from it and complete the individual?
think of the existential “success” as nothing more than:
a zoological phenomenon, the one chance to zoo-keep the dodo not executed,
most people will live in this safeguard,
they will forever remain the one example of continuity undisputed,
they will be safeguarded by the fact that countless examples have & will follow
them, and they will be petrified into ranks in a soldierly fashion
without moaning, for they are indeed the ones who reaped
the safeguard in the first place, the continuity must persist,
individuation must known nothing of what individuation is -
that process of self-depreciation as a worth in the worth of isolation -
they do exist in this safeguard not for any amusing qualities,
it’s the quantity of the escapade that’s amusing, amusement
based upon its success!
there's mr. and mrs. with 2.4 children,
and there's mr. barney and mrs. barney née barnacle
with an only child and a ticket to jerusalem.
so i digress now on the whim - if i were a sufferer of a medical condition,
a psychiatric one at that... would i have great or no insight?
i find it hard to concentrate on the theoretical side of things
without giving a chemical idle wave of the hand giving full
trust to the chemical cure... rather than a theoretical cure...
if i were truly a sufferer of a condition... would i theorise?
i guess i’d button up do my trouser zip up and take the chemical answer
as the “cure,” instead i decided to “cure” myself theorising,
which can’t make me a sufferer for all reasons stated by
an abstinence from the hippocratic trust... which isn’t really there...
hence the need to translate all this as: a hippopotamus oath,
the nearest noun next to dinosaurs... hip oh oh...
for why would anyone being a sufferer of a diagnosed condition
suddenly decide to theorise the symptom as a cure
rather than accept the cures given?
no sufferer of a condition accepts theory as a cure...
most just take the force-fed mechanisation of excessive use of
chemistry as if it was a choice of a beauty product...
yellows olanzapine and blues some other anti psi psi...
in summary... if i truly suffered i’d suffer without theoretical escapades, i'd take the cure and not bother theorising:
but since i don’t suffer from a false diagnosis i theorise...
sober enough to do so... even though drunk enough to enjoy the silence
and the holy lack of conversation...
i guess in depth, the migrant's ambition in me to be content with
arbeit macht frei... translated from doing construction work
with my father, or my specialisation in chemistry into
industrious writing patterns... a poem a day... let's
you throw an apple at a psychiatrist every other day.

******* and your little intelligentsia
group therapy sessions
basing its roots in caveman cartesian
theoretic - i know you know that
the blank canvas are the *******
and that artists work on that -
because normally grey citizens are no
blank canvas but a subordination -
but still, *******, why not concentrate
on the blank economics of a beggar
to exercise your little intelligentsia
get-together sessions?
there are less social securities in that
department of inquiry -
mental health and art... what's that?
you jealous of the caverns of the mind
crafting an escape pod to your
****** exercise of mechanisation -
**** on me, crosswords! su doku!
all matters of encryption!
endear your lack of creativity with
the synonymousness act of creativity
decoding encryption,
because you obviously can't encrypt
on a complete lack of encoding parameters (blanks).
you can't encrypt originality unless
you start with encrypting nothingness
with stars... and how often does that happen?
perhaps once... i care to make you
feel something akin to bombastic,
a football stadium size of appreciation lost -
skull kickabout with commentary:
to create the post-relativity warp
of quantity-quality, akin to space-time,
for indeed the answer to science's
space-time hyphenated couplet
is quantity-quality - and that's hardly a measurable
consideration, since there are too many particulars
involved, i.e. too many individuals, choices
and disparaging wills - too many particulars
in the hyphenated couplet quantity-quality,
since science is offering universal breadcrumbs
with its space-time rationalisation
for each and every for a share in populating
an insignificance, whether on a personal
scale or an impersonal / collective scale -
and both are indeed expressed,
the famous parasitical comparison found
in too many numbered essays by individuals -
but still humanism has a quantity-quality parabola,
while science has its space-time parabola,
and indeed both in dip, provide waves,
for example the former with Plato and Neoplatonism,
and for example the latter with
the revisionists of Einstein - the revisionist excavators
arguing precision to 100% proof of measurement
in exponential scaling of the mind theorising
a bus trip to Saturn like a bus-trip parallel-akin
to a 1 mile trip on the same vehicle in the earthly atmosphere.

it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.

but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the *carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.

when i = ? i count that, to be the lowest ebb,
and only the word allah can prompt man to genuine song...
truly, i = ? is the lowest ebb,

capitalism has this behavioural
pattern, in which things
fish, cars, aeroplanes are
given the gravity of language,
so they they can express feeling
an via cinema excavate a man's
heart and speak to the heart of man
of a symbiosis...

capitalism is currently concerned with
symbiosis,
like parasites and its hosts...
   it seems we have to pass the concept of
word to dogs or sausages
    in order to keep a dialogue...

i spent this afternoon looking at pictures
of beren saat [beˈɾen saˈat] -
or how we could just insert a macron
and hide the aa... or ah... of fake needing
a dental appointment, or extract a breath
of that H in ah?
ergo? beren sāt... oh, look... it looks
ugly... doesn't it? two strokes to write an A
look more appealing than a hyphen above
the letter with a prompt: prolong it...

it's what i see that i write about,
what i hear can never really penetrate me...
i watch a youtube video of the amazing
atheist and think: kinda like me, by the look
of things?
       nah, not really,
    why am i deluding myself,
i can grow long hair and don a beard,
but i'm bothered about
   the following "arithmetic" that's i = ?,
like i hear a turkish girl talk in a shop
and i'm weak in the knees...
   oh look... they call that why we avoided
diacritical indicators in the first place,
a silent k,             a knife...
a gnome.... and gnosis... then all shouting
and pain in diagnostics...
          
i spent that time watching my grandmother,
and how in poland all the old ladies
are fans of a turkish t.v. melodrama
grzech fatmagül (sin of fatmagül)
the way she said the umlaut over the u...
she said it as an eel, or ill, or i...
that really bothered me...
    (you really can sing forever with only one
word... it's the syllable la...
    only a god that deserves praise,
and receives it in song, can be praised...
the jewish god only deserves the pain
of thought, contemplation,
the trigonometry of (i'm about to become lawless
and make spelling mitakes for fear
that this u.z.i. of a tongue isn't ******* out
bullets as it should be, ******* out bullets / words);
i look at language, and i want a mandible jaw,
i don't want a free-from-pain spine,
to live a life: stiff readied for a coffin...
  it's just rules, and they exist...
i call it the nadir of i = ?, and subsequently call it
a fake nadir of i = !,
    ¿too spanish? oh right, wheelchairs...
what was i thinking?
                        
of the curiosity entombed in silence and with
only the wind to give an answer...

we say just as much... the stress on the iota in
english can easily be transformed into
a polarity, one that can fill books
with ? went there, and ? spoke about something...
competing with ! there, ! something!
   i...
                only when a language doesn't have
this abstract self-identification posit to
express language, this firm unit,
     only then does a language become so, base,
o.k., alkaline...
               they never thought about dissolving
a body once a ****** took place in
an alkaline bath...
      so many acronyms, shortenings,
let's just call it: the french prime unit /
smallest comprehension is reduced to je,
the poles have ja, the germans have ich,
sly *******... east germans say it as isch,
but keep the s hidden, so it looks better on script...

the problem with just saying i, and theorising
the extinct roman pronoun ego,
is that you get ditto... a sort of automaton
reflection of what we once were, and now, aren't...
europe sent thousands of plumbers and carpenters
to china... are europeans expecting for those
traits that could govern man properly to boomerang
back for women no finicky about those call-centre
employees? you ******* kidding me,
you must be...

because some men would really love mandible labour,
and talk less... no, really, the jaw can have a rest,
people want to fiddle with things,
dance the tango, touch, mingle...
     hard to not see ***-tango where the man is
only: huh? yeah, that, whatever...
             women could, once upon a time,
make men believe that they wanted to believe,
to purr something innocent into their ears...
what has made women into men so stating abadon?

i'll cite too much psychology,
    which to me is a pseudo-science,
too little Alexander Dumas, and what Athos said:
the best advice... is to not give advice....
                speak... talk... don't advice people...
psychology is the science where almost everything needs
to be faked, or to use the proper term: falsified...

and they call them the chemists, the biologists
and the physicists.... and surgeons

and they call them psychologists, linguists,
philosophers... and gods...

   that's the strata... i dare say: poets? what can they
usurp, but at the same time heal?
        what is their visible spectrum, outside of:
poets act shamelessly toward their experiences,
they exploit them... was lies beyond this self-love?

you get to write english, drunk,
and... undesirably have to get to look and abhor
the aesthetic, meaning you sometimes write
without conjunctions in the first draft...
then you reread and actually see missing conjunctions...

i talk about grammar like someone might talk
religion... because i was never taught it...
grammar to me is a version of catholicism i might
have engaged in, had i been confirmed in that
"coming of age" rite...

    i've been giving this substance and i'm told to
do something with it: language is like water,
you either drink it, or boil it to brew a tea-bag...
really? a relaxation technique? well... i could take more
fascination with a brick-wall, pretending to play
imaginary chess with each distinct brick being
introduced to strobe light... blinking: now it's white...
blinking... now it's black... etc.
   it's not even funny that i know inserting etc.
sort of killed the romance to your breathing pattern,
and my punctuation techniques, which i borrowed
from the fact that english doesn't intend to punctuate
for clear syllables...

it's only a case to teach better punctuation...
every time i'm in poland i never hear a word about
dyslexia... i'm starting to think that dyslexia
is only an english "disease"...
            it's certainly something you might hear
at school, in a catholic school, about jews...
but back to english bankers: not so good with words:
good with money though...
    i had a dyslexic friend ones,
and just spotting why, of all the nations that inherited
the roman alphabet, the english didn't adopt
a punctuation system from above...
evidently that leads to more diversity...
some would even say: for added complexity...
     but the english can't say: someone will come along
and decipher the current cipher imperative...
oh look... here i go... doodling further,
creating what writing ought to be: a finicky here
and there...

say: a butterfly effect...

   as with the concept of spring, exhausted by two months
of winter, awoken earlier than usual,
moving out of the fake Alaskan imitation laboratory
of seeing so little sun...
                increased productivity: no quality bias.

that's what philosophy books are:
    when the french existentialists complicated it
via "ego" and no moral dedication, effect, responsibility,
i had to write something post-existentialist...
don't get me wrong, sartre is a great novelist,
  but i'd rather stomach being & time than
being & nothingness...
                there had to be an answer to dittoing out
the ego, to stress: no agent of morality...
   sure... me and prostitutes... but ask them
about having an ****** "on the job"...
    
        still... can it be as complicated to say 1?
or to say: the litmus tests proved that i "said" ego and,
ergo, i proved i was a man...
              i might ditto out a meow, or a woof
to imitate a cat and a dog respectively... but dittoing
the word ego out... even if it is just an extinct latin
word... it has too much content to be "abstract",
this thing has memories, it has an imagination,
but sure, if i don't have a conscience i'd have to ditto it out
so i could start looking at my buttocks to find
something worth saying...
              
so first we create this prime human expression,
we eat the -ota                  and say aye aye...
                 and then we go back on that word...
beginning with: just when ms. clinton started barking...
i think that unravelled her campaign, when she started
barking... it must have been the time it happened
at one of her rallies...

   and i could write you any philosophy book,
replacing the "sound" expression with mute sounds,
like the mute letters in knife, gnome, gnosis, knee...
    ? think, therefore ! am.... and just so we're agreed:
that's not a stable maxim... it's volatile...
    since what piece of language was ever stable?
and not like phosphorus, that needed to be stored in oil
should it ever react with water? what part of language
was ever stable?

     2MgO
    (s) + Si
    (s) + 2CaO
    (s) → 2Mg
    (g) + Ca
    2SiO
    4(s)                  the years when i studied such crap...
i might be wrong about one thing though:
   it's an alkaline metal, stored in oil, and highly reactive
with water... magnesium or phosphorus?
         it can't be Na... that **** stinks and i'd love to
see the Dover clifss looking like it... yella...
         no so much blinding Ca...

why have the alkaline metals become so ****** right now?
  oh yeah... the part where i don't feel like
watching ****... that could translate into a wife,
three kids (as if)... a house and social respect...
that part... hmm...

          what is it with these alkaline metals...
so is iron (Fe) and Lead (Lb) acidic metals? could they
be classified as acidic? last time i licked a knife
i did get a tingling sensation as if it might be sour...

so acid is sour... i actually can fathom the taste of alkaline...
it's definitely not sweet...
              what a ******* mystery.

overly theorising poetry can only allow university profs. specialising in the subject the mid-grammar eloquence of philosophical narrative endeavour the um-um-um-ah-ah-mm-mm-blah-blah in trying to elaborate or simply clarify... as it stands... i'm using roman lettering... but i'm writing in chinese in order that many more can live and claim the sire totality of entitlements via lost marxism and the endowment of 3.4 children being nailed rather than ******* into the tangle of seaweed comparisons along the beach of socio-economic paraphrase - i can write english... and you can pretend to be stupid... believe me... i can play this hide & seek until our death dies when we live a second time and forget that i wrote this and you read it; we'll hide ourselves in the blanks, and the hope that remains is: we won't despair over having our memory wiped out like robots unnecessarily memorising the digits of π after 3; how i rather till the field at late summer than till my thoughts into numbers for the sunshine of i.q. glee in parental authority gratified and applauded to simply turn me into a white tadpole of rosy cheeks chequered between success and failure of strangers' expectation levitated into the ******* familial model that's ready for the jaws and clumsy fingers of scientific failures known as statisticians... the journalists of the world of science with numerological headlines that call you - also included.*

sometimes theologising with israel
is like standing next to the brimstone
caste of the golden calf
trying to resurface with people
not used to cast statued embodiments
of pharaohs in stone among hindu
endowments of number & sustenance...
but so it goes...
palestinians come as fleshy shields
for egyptians not having moved an inch since
the crucifixion...
elongating the nile higher than the crumbling
everest of buddha attempting border
and horizon of the dali lama's exile
not extended to los angeles in quest...
if only all nations stood the mark of colorado
of easiest divide in linchpin park of stuttering piston remark...
no i didn't decide to escape through there...
i took the friend's groomed necessity of remorse
to keep him sane...
i grew his remorse and my once loved love
to be his kin... his kind...
i grew his remorse like a vegetable
into a success of career and familial reliefs...
i grew him into a son
into that he might feel remorse being fed
responsibility of the life i could have also lived,
and her too... into a lived i could have lived with her...
and they germinated... into germany...
and i solidified my etymology via logical coupling
with epistemology and eugenics that was without
logic except darwin who was not the only
person to logistic time, timing and timings...
and there it was left... a poem...
a scratch of nebuchadnezzar on the wall
prior to the fear seen by balthazar...
the fear of seven years of madness:
the judea slaves could see the pythagoras a-tip
the pyramids...
but salvage the mind of civilisations
to upkeep prophecy with the foolish
gardens of upside-down, encrusting the king's
skin with oaken bark creases in human age
known as wrinkling or turtle... to see sense of mind
dribbling senses in equations of 1/5 and 5/1
given correlations for the messiah to be sacrificed
and ordaining the comfort of prayer on the crux,
rather than the discomfort of prayer through
work and the thing ordained prayer - on a throne
to our wonder of not having looked
eagerly for the knee to bend beside the algebra of
90º and a, b, c... but instead provoked the anger
of cloning narcissus in mirrors and wax of the idols?
why are you praying over suffering - are you praying
for more suffering, or a quick end?
are you praying for more suffering or your liberation
through the choices of others?
i cannot deny that you took your choices like you
picked up chopsticks... and decided you life
was a free chicken chow mein...
if it was... i can see the bums regurgitate raw cement
into your eyes... and if it wasn't...
i can see you partake in gang rapes of the pensioners' purses
driving them to suicide...
i can then remedy my "name & shame" poetry...
excusing it all as... "capturing the moment,"
given the early stressor signalisation of traffic
past 20, 21, 22... beginning with only the second decade,
of the 21st century.

it’s the old Schengen Theory in psychology,
casually utilise vowels as pronouns,
but then theorise ancient pronouns
as theory based non-vowels: the self (germanic / invading)
and the ego (latin / origins of still using a - z)...
then apply the ditto membrane concern for space,
which will provide you with all the time in the world
to go back from the practical into theoretical that’s
free from having empirical theory interacting with the empirical practice
known as the sedative of life: mistake: life: en route death: life: some
other mistake:
life: don’t know: life: maybe tomorrow: life: maybe never: life:
i wish: life: well at least my saturday is occupied with movies;
they did the trick of of theorising you wearing a suit and doing it
commando in the missing underwear by structuring
an impetus to pause with stating: i said
                                                            ­ äußern  sjalrf
                                                  ­           id scribo;
it’s still a contest... heavyweight champ rom apex jr.
is fighting alarik orca schrei - with the former fighting to get rid
of  ‘ from e, and the latter to attach : to u to make ü:
oddly enough the saracens in sicily were
slavs who wrote ę and ą... otherwise it's all geographically
adequate to push rome down from the top,
with the majority of accents coming above the a, b, c... zee...
although the western slavs were an oddity in that respect...
but then a part of my family is said to have been
hungarian or czech... with surnames like batuk and not
batóg... and the cousin of some cousin
marrying my great-grandfather's sister ending up
with the surname saracen... it's a shame i can't
join in the festivities of the 21st century humanity
because of jealousy that didn't mature to the extent
i wished it had... and the god that suddenly appeared
from the ashen tabernacle of the holocaust in the night:
antichrist to satan... guess what, milton was completely wrong...
i went in there to steal the blood of the messiah
signposted wine... and i came back with blackcurrant juice!
can you believe it?
satan to the antichrist: well thank **** that you didn't
choose the bread... i came back with the apple of eden
and it turned to ash... god knows what the bread of the
messiah would have turned into.
anti-buddha: hallucinogenic mushrooms...
                                (insert laughter among duck noises).

Darwinism has much more
to do with phonetic encoding
than with theorising
an absence of theology
(with signs an absece of the
practice of 2 + 2 = 4), or
trying to depose god or Tsar
of Henry VIII prior to the bishop
the cardinal... the priest, a dog...
forget genesis or creativity,
remember dentistry...
in vacuum who's the happiest?
a dog... and by god's grace we're the
remnant of his existence, dodging dogs
in mirror not so chiral...
merely saliva... and by demand
i know how to berserker a revisionist
stand-off for a lampoon to say but one
ensured non-differential letter!
hence him less operatic than her,
with her ******* vowel ooh ooh ah
and his netting stability in Cumbria and
Shropshire and suburbia in general,
i.e. hula hoop... a sexuality of symbols,
to think any man might treat
vowels as feminine and consonants as male...
hmm!

to follow up on a citation from

art & fear by
david bales and ted orland:

/ it seems that while the “quantity” group
was busily churning out piles of work -
and learning from their mistakes —
 the “quality” group had sat theorizing
about perfection, and in the end had
little more to show for their efforts
than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay. /

imagine asking a mozart to appeal
to both a quality and a quantity,
point being,
    quality will always remain
POP... while quantity will shut itself
off in  king crimson song,

    take what you're given
and stop acting like a pretentious
communist that even the Soviets would
have hated, as this overt censor
who censored so much,
   that he turned an ancient oak
into a toothpick, and not 10,000,000
packets if not more...

much easier to call in a
quality surveyor when it comes
to carpentry: you sit on a chair
and it doesn't break:
     give us 10,000 more replicas...
"apparently" rushed...

a mirage of qua (as being)
      and quo (where?)

        almost indistinguishable
after enough practice, and,
patience... but some much for these
little words...

             that sequence of a tree
made into a single toothpick?
     loony toons,  foghorn leghorn
episode...

  quality is a spare
   of what dedication to quantity
arrives at...
           quality is a byproduct
not the product itself...
        
don't ask me how capitalism rings
a bell, seeing how it's exhausted
       in pumping out quality,
and quantity simultaneously,
having to tap into a.i. & algorithms
because, apparently:
   human creativity is without
an imagination lax,
there are, apparently,  
   25,000 ways of reinventing
the hammer and the nail...
  given that the fear of the hammer
and the he sickle disappeared...
  Columbus discovering America
in a ******* can of sardines...
woo, hoo, honk honk.

sarcasm is not an easy humour,
witty people hardly notice
that wit and sarcasm are the Hanzel
und Gretyl of the comedy spree...
dry, martini, fixations on the image of:
getting away with easing out
a wet ****,  only because attired
in what Rene Magritte would wear
when painting.

oh wait... **** **** ****....

   both instances mind th3 qua-
prefix...
     mind you, etymology of suffixes
with a strong latin prefix?
not my strong point...
   -lity contra -ntity are not my strong...
     what point of intrest
and: the most certain points
worth debating over?

we are summoned by the fickle nature
of: whatever comes our way,
much easier had it been but
a crude snout of a dog
with only a howling or a barking
to emerge from within:
so curse the mind the tongue the thumb,
and the spine,
    or however else you might
want to evaporate expanding the senses
and not clinging to these pillars...

thing about quantity...
    beggars at the feet of spontaneity,
never for a minute in need of:
attempting to perfect a square...
beside a rhombus?
       a bonsai everest of cow dung,
towed by 12 horses and one donkey,
dubbed: Γołgoθa -
      seems Pythagoras was an Aussie...

what with the up-side down right angle
like a swallow nest on a barn...

******* yob mismatched: oi oi oi...

how else to end it if not
with John Frusciante?
        
                       it really takes but one song
to cite, warm tape...
           THAT CHORUS, IZ...
            how do I put it...
the point of helium trapped in a ******?
    the point of
   mixing the dentist high on helium
and the patient high off nitrous oxide?
I mean, **** me,
   is it to remain of matter of
hiding a higher realism in unachievable
cartoon sketches?
    
             a theological dull and grey,
any day, compared to
man's phantasmagorical taste of colour
to revitalise urbanity with
a Braille reading of Vivaldi scores...
no clichés at this point,
even with the behemoths,
given the already exhausted and fly-riddled
moonlight sonnata...

hell, red hot chilli peppers, ooh, pop,
john frusciante, not carvel...
warm tape chorus:
  remnants of...
     pierdolone, baz'groły...

           since how can the artist be
not deemed a pretentious ****,
if he perfects by sole theorising,
and not by making a *** note...
    take an artist and a carpenter...
    after a while the two concepts
are indistinguishable,
a bit like reading the tedium that
is the overburdened suicide explanation
lost in Zen and the art of motorcycle
maintanence...

   QUA, sure, but then what?
        10000000000 contra 1.0000000001?
numbing terminology,
contra: litany prospectus?
          
elsewhere in the discussion,
waiting rooms with jazz, rather than muzak
playing in the background,
qua-qua intersectionability...
     no categorical imperative,
or an imperative to build walls and learn
to juggle a a third entry,
a joker sly upper-hand...
    quality,  and quantity,
         are indistinguishable in jazz...
muchos gracias...
   and your, ******* gospel choir
dance moves and jazz and all
the other encyclopedia entries of
black...
    highschool,
         black girls inventing cat fights,
and when vaseline cream first came
in contact with, afro.

shock-absorbing Christ has a limit... every man has a limit... you take pity you take up the whip and the hammer and nail... you take up the word you take up the heart, the ego, the placard of thought's freedom disengaged from concentrating on him - religious democracy? when did that exist?! oh, when we all became saints... but that was never a certain to be.

you're not saving the system, you're merely salvaging it -
meaning you're exploitative of youth
and leaving the old farts to fend for themselves -
i'm way past  theorising the established order -
by theory you invoke a solution -
Marx was too easily toppled -
the old gits bogged down on the review
and linked-in saying: the adventures
we had worth merely plight -
we ventured to authentic bookmarking -
these days nothing separates us from the young -
you really did place your criticism of
Communism due to the ethnicity of the Pope -
not partaking in the years of Martial Law authority -
it's Christianity built on
John Paul II forgiving Mehmet Ali Ağca -
what... no Barabbas as part of the story?!
in a prison cell - **** your principle of forgiveness
and a cell - GIVE ME SIBERIA! give me the forgiving
elements - not your superstition of forgiveness and cage!
no? oh... THEN YOUR TEACHINGS ARE WORTH *SQUAT!
HAVE A SINGALONG WITH CASTRATOS IN THE SISTINE
CHAPEL... and, personally (due to a Catholic school education)...
*******! i love how i can be Antisemitic in this region -
and be a Jew at the same time - CRUCIFY THE ****!
or hear the gas chamber choir for your birth at Bethlehem.
because what the mortal fears is what a mortal hasn't lived -
funny isn't it? the concept of the Antichrist wasn't
at all Adolf. like Sylvia Plath in daddy, 2000 years ago
from now... you ain't that special no matter whether gentile or Jew;
you disagree with me you undermine democracy -
you agree with me you undermine democracy
as in not automated anthill experimented with,
but as in demonstrated or demonised anthill -
something or other a priori; or the Kant i read today,
too drunk to coerce a sentence with,
thus better left unsaid.

Overthinking concepts then,
Conceptualising my overthought thoughts,
And being wrought with Lovecraftian insecurity,
Words stumble out like it’s three at the club,
Thoughts confused like it’s three at the club,
Existential then small; then harrowing then disparagingly normal,
Repeating points and the still being lost from the point,
Frustration as we weave around the point,
Where’s Wally-ing the words I’m looking for,
A million in one,
I wonder what the exact Wally statistic is,
Am I bi?
Or straight?
Or confused?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I happy?
Or sad?
Or alive?
Or real?
Am I loved?
Or lost?
Or alive?
Or real?
Every problem upscaled to reality,
An anxiety manifested in universal proportions,
If life is a story, then why’s mine so close to not being boring?
Like a film with the wrong director but the right script,
Through hardship and pain,
you would hope I became,
Something more,
Or learn a lesson,
Yet every lesson I learnt is being rewritten,
No solid thought,
Just liquid existence,
It’s all in connections,
Nature is woman,
And harshness is man,
The link exists I’m sue,
But finding the words I’m lost,
Scores of wondrous ideas with no real reason,
Life has no reason,
Life’s full of reason,
Life is the reason,
I’ve never truly lost,
I only get kicked from group chats or families,
Without family we lack identity,
Without reason this poem lacks footing in reality,
My reality lacks footing in reality,
Is this meant to happen on the daily?
It’s three at the club,
Waiting for the taxi,
Writing on the memo app,
Hoping that when I wake up these words mean something,
Or if they don’t then at least they read well,
In the morning,
Where I’ll be ***** and yawning,
Forgetting these events as they’re fleeting,
I’ve been theorising that all people fantasise about dying,
Pushing ourselves till we destroy it all trying,
Die an icon,
Or a *******,
Either way end up forgotten,
Controversially, I would call myself an optimist,
Not traditionally, sure,
But this longing is the purest,
Confused.

Olga the ostrich and
Cedric the lamb
Naive innocence and
Head in the sand

Evil
Never seen, never heard and never spoken
Interests unquestioned
Illusions unbroken

Tolerate
Dont discriminate "beware theorising"
The warnings were heeded
Resisted surmising

Cedric herded to slaughter
Olga safe in her cage
Medicine in the water
That will mute the outrage

Cedric sees what's ahead now
Olga's cage welded closed
Slave incumbant got here how?
That's just life, I suppose.