there is absolutely no hippocratic jurisdiction in psychiatry, i sometimes walked into the psychiatric offices, poked fun at psychiatrists for being callous sadistic *******, as one suggested: thinking out-loud in reverse: oh, he must have been abused as a child... psychiatry has strayed away from making a hippocratic oath... it actually doesn't have an oath to make: it has persisted with more harm than good, clinging to the notion that there is no summa totalis of the body, and medical psychiatry is to blame for this persistent infiltration of psychiatric lingo... you can't even begin to imagine how much it pissess of people who live in a secular society, to be strapped under an umbrella of "mental illness", while the jihadis are celebrated as completely "sane", psychiatry is the one branch of medicine that's persistently being undermined by the general public, for me, psychiatric materials are too readily available, is psychiatrists are the new priests of the secular age, i demand! i demand that psychiatry does what the church did once before, return to it being solely written in latin! too many ******* retards are abusing this branch of medicine, suddenly everyone is a ******* psychologists amateur, the jack-of-all-trades know how! ******* know ****! i'm this close | | to boiling point with respect to the degradation of psychiatry... reverse everything! start writing psychiatric works, solely in latin! give psychiatry some hippocratic credibility, sure, it's a hit & miss with the pharma side of things, but come on, give these people some ******* empathy, do what the churches undid, and write all psychiatric material in latin! the public doesn't have to know the complexities of this branch of medicine, because, clearly... it doesn't!

we live in an age where dialecticas is
not engaged with,
not even to the point where you can self-realize:
oh, right, i know absolutely nothing!
you can't do that these days,
you can't have that self-realisation -
that "demand" for a "consciousness" -
100 years ago people spoke of a *soul -
that summa totalis of ****** mechanisations,
that eating some food and then
falling to sleep, and yet the organs working
their magic digesting the food...
yet people have replaced the soul
with a reinvented concept of
"consciousness"... the **** does that
even mean? a second awakening within
the first wake?
the brain is the only ***** that can't
truly experience itself unconsciously...
even when it is "unconscious" it still
poses the threat of dream theatre...
   i find that the summa totalis is
bordering on an a "soul" within this
membrane, in that:
  at least one aspect of our body can't
exactly become part of the summa totalis,
and become enclaved akin to
the heart during sleep...
or the stomach prior to falling asleep
while still managing to digest,
the brain can't be deemed completely
unconscious, otherwise how else would
you mind to state why light is trapped
and then projected, and we dream?
           dreaming, that "consciousness"
of the unconscious brain, and somehow
pulverised by the truth-bidding inflection
of the pentagram...
       god, i hate these sorts of poems,
i read a bit of heidegger and suddenly spiral
into this jargon...
  i abhor it...
           literally, it's about as enlightening
as turning on a lightbulb, minus the stereotypical
imagery surrounding an einstein moment...
more like that loony tunes moment when
the head turns into a donkey's head,
   or we see the dunce's hat appear...
elsewhere the capirotes march...
                     but then i think of mental illness
and the stories of the young,
and i'm genuinely worried -
   i was one of the first kids to own a nintendo
NES...
  yes, from the ages of 4 to 8,
my father was just a voice on the phone,
and the odd package of gifts from her majesty's
fair green land, notably the nintendo NES...
but being one of the kids, we still preferred
warm summer nights, hide & seek,
playing with marbles, walks into the woods,
picking strawberries coloured pale yellow
before being ripe, throwing potatoes into
fires, eating gooseberries, eating whole plates
of sunflower seeds,
                  i remember days when we had
neighbours, neighbourly women playing cards,
sitting till 11 talking outside the communist
concrete blocks...
that transition period, i.e. my childhood
has a knack of almost always reappearing...
   so i must be "mentally ill" for reading heidegger,
not many people do,
maybe i suggest something?
  learn biology / chemistry or physics to a degree
level before reading books like that...
it softens the blow of reading puritanical
humanism of, say, a novel...
        or poetry...
             and some people take holidays
to the caribbean, or take a cruise around
the norwegian fjords...
   or walk the great wall of ching ching...
   or ride a horse on the mongolian steppes into
the sunset, or ride the trans-siberian railway...
me? i take a "slingshot" back "home"...
get immersed in the native tongue,
  and finally! oh finally! manage to read a book
in the native tongue...
  i found that i'm a slow reader if i have
a book in polish, but can still hear english
on the television...
   back "home"? what a surprise it was for
my grandfather: he just threw bolesław prus'
book lalka into my lap one summer and said:
lap it up.
      and i lapped it up...
  point being, all these sights and sounds,
scents and exciting stories people have from abroad...
well... when i was in kenya,
i lounged, drank enough to fall asleep in
a hammock overnight and was not stolen by
the somali pirates, but someone did steal
my glass of cognac when i woke up the next morning,
then drank some more, and stayed in the shade,
played some ping-pong with a german,
chatted up these gorgeous ivory beauties of
the night, and chilled with macaque monkeys
on the balcony giving them nuts and sachets of
sugar, again, in the shade...
   i took one dip in the indian ocean and became
bored from the beach vendors pushing
****, drank some more, wrote a short story
for my grandfather about an elephant
           dunking its trunk into a bottle of whiskey...
drank some more, lazed in the shade,
read c. g. jung's western man in search
of a soul - dedicated it, and gave it to one
of the german beauties, drank some more,
         laughed at a baboon with hemorrhoids
trying to sit on a roof once it raided the kitchen...
point being: what sightseeing i have when
i go back "home" is the language -
sometimes i read it, sometimes i might write,
but i definitely speak it,
  but reading it is like the tower of pisa
for me...
           this complete re-immersion of the 8 year
old kid that left kicks in...
        ooh, ant that -18ºC temp. of winters in poland...
to be honest, i never know why people
decide to go to tropical places on earth,
sunniest and what, in the middle of the winter
months, why?
      coming back must be a double ******...
why not go to somewhere where the winter
months are worse than from where you came from?

what i've learned once treading on this path of the writing endeavour: i've become more of a stranger to myself, and a friend unto strangers; perplexing as it sounds, it nonetheless is the foremost acquaintance in experiencing, and fiddling with the medium.

which is, i dare say, so anti-socratic -
but the socratic method is all talk -
writing? hardly the reason to designate
a knowledge of a self -
primarily? a method of unknowing -
or, should i say: the nautical perspective
of searching unseen & unheard of sights -
perhaps even a 5 blind men's guess
at an elephant, or quiet simply:
mining; imagine, to the distaste of the local,
how a "posh" accent sounds in
essex, the land of dubious tongue-effigies...
how the english language *in totalis
looks like a disfigured tongue sculpture,
but if i were a native: there would be
no outsider ref. to cling to with
crab-like pincers,
                  or bullterrier jawline grip;
first you break the spirits, then you
settle on sniffing crushed ivory.
  and yes, i'll always think of the nigerian
chinua achebe calling joseph conrad
a "****** racist" - by now i'm past being
concerned being called out in some bogus,
if not macabre bingo game...
     that "label" is worth to me as much as
a hello, my name is... badge -
there's no honour in it -
           then again, i think about a white man
being racist over the spilled-beans of
looking at an albino... esp. one with an afro...
i have this memory, you see,
this mongrel of a polish girl in school,
art class, and she mentioned something
that still sticks to me like a leech...
no, not the similarity of south asian and african
noses, with the flattened lateral cartilage,
say any african and the malaysians...
this ***** dug deep...
    she said: oh, these poles don't have the perfect
african bone sculpture of the africans,
do they? what she meant, and yes, i agree,
was the not-so-protruding occipital -
yes, it's not as well "formed" as other skulls,
i guess that just adds to the pressure of
whatever the back of the brain is intended
for... a deformity? don't know -
                           what does that matter?
but these early quasimodo implants of perception
i.e. akin to the toothfairy / red dragon
start to bug you after a while -
      what's imperfect is celebrated -
and what's almost perfect: well -
that just goes into the dumpster -
   a pile of hot ****, a feast for fly dump of
concentrated maggot(s).
            which coincides with another thing -
i can stomach german existentialism,
   i can stomach the pish-poor french version
(compared with the richness of the russian
novel)...
i can stomach swedish cinematic take on
existentialism...
             what i can't stand is the english version,
i.e. primarily the aversion to the already
stated versions...
       english existentialism has become
a desperate cry - to me english existentialism
is not fit for conversation,
   it's not lecture and it's most certainly not
cafe talk, there is no: in the time & in the space
occupied...
                 english existentialism is
   non tempus non locus - sure, a precursor of
philosophy, but also the same mouth that
bites into a chicken bone with gums, but no teeth!
to me, what i hear is an existential blackmail,
   and the skipping rope chaos of moving from
the three prime pillars in the anglophone world:
evolutionary biology, the big bang and
(depending where you are): either the magna carta
or the declaration of independence;
   me? my universe began yesterday,
it will end today, and will begin once more tomorrow,
heri, nunc, cras...
            yesterday, today, tomorrow;
and frankly, i'll settle for that,
  but i'll also settle for akin to voltaire's observation
that the english are a nation of shopkeepers...
sure... and they're also the most ardent
naturalists.
              as we know french love pastry dough,
the italians love pasta, and the germans love metal;
further east it's ***** baby, *****.
    - a pole and a hungarian:
  bracia, do kieliszka, i szabelki (brothers,
  to a glass and to a saber).
              besides that?
(look, i have to make this quick, i've got
a mushroom soup going, but i'm missing white wine,
parsley and double cream for the main course
of mustard chicken - sarekpsa, dijon &
  bavarian mustards) -
                      and further will a kettle or
a stuffed toy travel from china to anywhere in
the western world, than a western idea
to china...
     there are limitations on the export & import
of ideas...
              esp. those that have no ethno-centric
"importance", rather an ethno-centric
  trans-literary impotence...
                   sometimes language can't be managed
by a translation that's global / universal -
sometimes the black & white really does only
sink to the depth of skin...
     after all: a white psyche is not a black psyche...
there is no universally robust uniformity of
a psyche in either jungian or freudian sentiments,
black music i can adore above classical,
but i have, perhaps only one or two books by
a black author...
  will alexander & gil scott heron...
       and that's about it...
      hey, same ****, different cover elsewhere...
then again i double up on perplexity -
  if this medium is the undifferentiated balance
of extremes i.e. white in all and black in lack -
        what the hell could possibly be deemed
"racist" - notably the denial of one's nationalistic
struggle with the hindsight of that
current year, under either a tsar or a tsarina in
1857? and to think i loved a russian woman
once...                                    once is enough.

and when you hear: watcha 'tinking? your reply? mostly concerning a ****, & a fudge factory, & a few brownies, topped with some custard goo, what's that to you?, you skivvy missus?

yes, we alcoholics sometimes get the jerks,
what the junkies call the nods,
notably via unconscious irritation
when solving sudoku puzzles -
you know, those japanese blindspots,
waiting for a wet ***** entry re-entry into
the garden of eden -
and without diacritic indicators
you will state *shania -
                     i have lactose in my brain,
and the killer proteins are coming...
         alzheimer's:
     proteins       eating          fat;
i swear i swear i swear i was ready
with the dutch cheese sponge!
       holes? oh, nibbled through,
the blue cheese mouse trap didn't work...
oops...
           put the mice off,
as it would put off any known living thing...
**** making ice-cream with it to boogie
on the palette.
   a bit like mikey mouse replacing ol'
jack, in the box...
        hardly the ****** surprise;
what did you expect in the mousetrap,
a ******* cockroach?!
  wasabi irony... probably a bigger statement
of english than shakespeare,
added to the tongues of humanity.
now, the entry point of unessential aphorisms:

1. drinking does what ****** doesn't:
  keeps you focused,
and if you master the craft,
you get to sport a mid-day sun
with a lot of housewives...

2. **** it, whatever...

3. the led zeppelin vs. black sabbath debate
always misses the ****** of black purple...
  never learned to say the big o...

4. what a waste, being so lucky...

5. i might only make an incremental difference
in this world, but at least i still do not
disrupt the status quo totalis of humanity,
id est: at least people around me end up
living the boring reality of:
      the people around me...
kinda autistic, i admit, nonetheless true.

6. post scriptum of point V -
    a bit like a butterfly watching a tornado's
whirl, and then, unlike a fly incubated
in a spiderweb, watching the ballerina's twirl...

7. what's so poetic about philosophy in
english... i.e. the metaphor...
i.e. the " " membrane, the inverted
commas... commas?
    aren't they supposed to sit down
below, rather than be saintly halos of
the above? i'm guessing that's the source
of why the english tongue doesn't bother
diacritical indicators, inverted what?!
    commas? oh, so that's one citation
mark in a sentence?
      i'm getting really copernican confused...
smacker on the face for attempting
to be "smart": i know... never did anyone
any good...
                let's just call the " " encapsulation
of a word the poetic way...
that's called a metaphor...
   or it's really rather an ambiguity per se...
then again: i guess, no.

8. chinese, eh? as a language, everyone admires
it...

9. my grandfather always admired how
i rolled my tobacco,
making perfect rollies, and pretending
to be needle in hand,
  perfecting the rollie even further,
by warming up the tobacco in the roll-up,
my ex-gf always took the **** out of me
for not being able to roll the perfect
spliff, and then i did,
  and then, for some reason, she stopped
talking.

10. the chinese tongue in translation,
is the most unspectacular language in existence,
no wonder the origin of the haiku -
that's chinese for simple math (syllable
arithmetic) -
the chinese can only count up to a haiku -
and even though their phonetic encoding
is twice the spectacular endeavour of any man,
chinese in translation?
        about as spectacular as a cow's ****...
choo chow mein...
  chew chin mane?
                  i wouldn't even bother
trying to untangle that asiatic bowl of noodles...
rice crispy fortune cookies,
   a bowl of regurgitated maggots;
              cf. mongol!
    and what, arabic with its fiddly-squiddly
attempt at coherent, is not less an octopus
waving to imply hello?
  yeah, and i'm the next mary ******* poppins!
shim shimminy me away...
   oh right, forgot to mention,
you really wouldn't say the name shania twain
like that...
     you'd need syllable indicators,
hellfire / punctuation marks from above...
    hmm, how to cut up a lovely...
    sháníā -
       sha-nigh-ah:
   oh look, seems i'm an american linguist
after all...
   keeping the hyphen handy... turning into
a linguistic chemist...
  ever watchful of the electron migration diagrams...
pompous & sarcastic ****-wit i was
always supposed to be...
           which bring me to the final
observation:

11. i kinda figured that there's a law of prefix,
suffix & affix...
  but with tongues that prescribe their
phonetic units (i.e. letters) the status of names,
i figured it ought to be ease to understand
how they cut these names and leave the indicative
remaining stressor...
  akin to the hebrew, notably?
    via
yes yes, we know the caron on s (š) and the caron
on c (č) implies the english sh - and ch:
**** via cheap respectively -
  this amount of god is a sneaky ******:
loves to hide in punctuation marks,
whether from the godly diacritical perspective,
or the devilish rhetorically classical
punctuative.
point being... ehyeh...
                   yes, but how does the aleph
make it to be invoked in the word?
         א... aleph...
                      יה‎ה‎א -
and these names are burnt tattoos on my
psyche - i have enough raw bile to
do the opposite of dispersing the hebrews:
i have enough of the *******:
to make them congregate;
but tell me, how do you actually write
ehyeh (יה‎ה‎א) - by asking the prefix / suffix /
affix question? how do you cut upen
aleph, to extract the epsilon,
   disregarding the alpha the lambda or
the phi (φ)?
these ancient people are all the same...
the greeks are gay with their φ & θ -
   ε & η or o & ω...
         just like the hebrews with their gemini
zodiac orientation of ayin (ע) & aleph (א‎)...
sure, these languages are classic,
but they're also primitive,
which is why the "barbarians" brought
diacritical distinctions to rome,
                       enforcing it, stabilising it (it being
the latin, you can't even begin to imagine
how thankful they were to have
ditched the runic).

- i'm still fascinated by the geometry of language,
R actually does look like rolling...
   O is always going to be a wheel,
and Y will always remain a yew tree,
or the beginning of satan's entry into
the world of talk.

i have them, i wake up the next day,
fiddle about with it, and realise
in an instant: i'll not honeysuckle
anything out of it -
yet another day in the sahara -
    you only really experience a writer's
block once you've written a lot...
and yes, the mediocre moments
in a "career" do happen,
   but as any stepping-stone moment -
******, better hop from stone
to stone, until that one perfect moment
arrives, and steals you away,
on something akin to travelling to the giza
pyramids...
    mind you: it's unbelievable that only
the eiffel tower overshadowed the giza
pyramids, so many centuries later...
  staggering.
        that aside, it's no wonder that
poets always extend their ambition into
writing the prosaic -
   the would be proselytes -
  who, in most instances:
  do not have the stomach to churn out
mundane narratives -
   and senseless dialogues -
the problem with poetry:
   the expectation to always write something
profound;
i'll never write a novel,
simply because it's not that i aim
at writing something profound every
single sentence...
  it's that i cannot write the piece of meat
of mundane narrative in the medium
of the in-between of finally considering
a profound citation point...
so much of novel writing is idle
chit-chat... so much is filled with the in-between
of said effort,
    not that great poetry always says
great things, but when i look at virgil,
or homer, i find that poetry was: once
upon a time - driven by a narrative...
modern poetry? a complete lack of, narrative,
then again the technicality bewilders me
to never adhere to it...
          did i visit a psychiatrist for jokes?
i sure did...
   i once even managed a stealthy glance
at the notes referred to a g.p.,
what did they reveal?
      a) biting your nails
     b) keeping eye-contact
and
       c) fidgety feet, not imitating drumming...
that's it!
   psychiatry is still oh so barbaric
compared to other branches of medicine...
most people do not believe in
psyche-cogito complex in that: they do not
believe in a soul, but i dare you to ask anyone
who has experienced the osmosis: trickling
of a soul into anima via psychosis...
      notably those who managed
to contain the experience...
             few people emerge from having
experienced psychosis without an
institutionalised backdrop of events,
  even fewer make it out the quixotic windmill...
me? look at me, unscatched -
                regretful? perhaps...
               resentful... every chance i get i
manage to usher in a laugh...
        once more, heidegger...
      the talk of travel, of experiencing
the totality of the world, the - orbis totalis -
  for these people so hungry to experience
the totality of this world...
    i have four words for them -
  the sage of königsberg...
           i'm becoming a hermit of essex
by the looks of it,
          my ambition to live a life like
sunday traffic, to live the life least unpredictable
is starting to sink into my bones,
to even animate them...
        i don't know why people never choose
the predictable life, given that death is
an event that's inevitable -
  merging two inevitabilities can create
the most random experience of events -
     that said: your thinking will never be
predictably *****-likened,
       it will end up as an embodiment of
the antithesis to the sisyphus toil -
   unless some cerberus is watching over
poor sisyphus, the man will eventually stop
rolling the stone up the hill,
   he'll eventually stop rolling it,
look at it, and become a minotaur in his own
cognitive labyrinth...
and in such a labyrinth, sure, there
are are no sphinxes, or pyramids of giza,
but beside these predictable sights,
   the sisyphus-minotaur will see unseen prior to
sights of his own ingenious invention.
like heidegger said:
  ordinary thinking is pulverised by
the presumption that the more "lived experiences"
a human being has, the more certainty he
has in assuring being and what he is
to "become" -
   perhaps, suppose that the more you see,
and the more you "experience" the more complete
example of humanity you will become...
  only to
a) have all the more regrets prior to
     the relief of succumbing to death,
b) the "foreboding" of: never again...
  c) the nostalgia,
   d)  contra nostalgia: the deepest vilest form
  of emotion: the regrets of never being disposed
to fathom any said experience (cf. point a))-
e) if you don't have what you like,
    like what you have...
i hardly think there's a need for a complete
human experience with all the provisions
secured...
  there's only a human experience,
          there never will be a complete human
experience, other than in the guise
of a spectator,
    the only brimful "lived experience" is in
the guise of the being, that's a spectator...
sure, there's a fancy, a day-dream of
being a protagonist of some sort,
   but as the old sayings goes,
if everyone were to take their shoes off,
and throw them into a heap,
  they'd still take from the heap their own
pair: for walking with one's own problems
is always more bearable,
  than experiencing the kampf of others...
  ich kampf - and i love that phrasing -
it's not mine, in that it is mine:
but it's not a definite struggle - rather a
continuing venture into the very mundane
of every other yesterday, or every other tomorrow.
i've met more humanity in those who
chose the theatre of the mind,
           than the theatre of the west-end...
   i've met enough humanity who have
experienced less, but nonetheless live more,
than those tourists, who "experienced" more,
but nonetheless lived less...
          to make oneself encrusted in the local
environment, to stand rigid & proud as
a domineering sight of a mountain...
                        to feel a lesser need to known
the world, and a pressure toward a need to
know oneself...
    to extract the reflective notion of the otherwise
reflexive word structures:
   i.e. yourself: your self,
    oneself: one's self,
               myself: my self...
         and standing these un-noodling compounds
  before the one mirror that a philosophical
narcissus could perplex his self over:
                    the mirror of itself -
              or: die es und der selbst -
                                       the it and the self;
das? that's like a doubled-up definite article...
i swear to god, only the germans
have more definite articles than any other
language - the poles only have two
(last time i checked), i.e. to & tamto -
  which is distinguished by distance -
  to is closer, while tamto is further away...
honestly, the fun really starts when
you stop synthesising language,
   and begin analysing it...
      but i recommend synthesising (mimic)
a language for at least 20 years,
    and then spontaneously "revising" it -
never minding the idea that you might fall
into any linguistically orthodox pitfall.

p.s. ah right, the masculine / feminine brigade:
ten: direct article for he (close)
  ta: the direct article for she (close)
   tamten: direct article for he (far away)
  tamta: the direct article for she (far away),
to: gender neutral direct article (close)
  tamto: gender neutral direct article (far away);

and still the sahara of the indirect article
in german: eine schmein ein schmeine eins ein
11 elves ate a wolf in dresden -
             which made up 36 observable curiosities.

it's not exactly cymande's dove -
    it's mytho's dreamlab (1975) -
  a dedication to wernher von braun -
on the odd occasion
the youtube algorithm feeds
me a nostalgia of suggestions
like it used to: and i forage for
new music...
nucleus' alleycat from the same year...
well:
i'm no bukowski and this is not
one of those moments to
test my strengths of patience
for mahler's: how i will die
with this deafness -
    i know what's lacking in my life
is having listened to the oeuvre...
or have read melville's moby ****...
somehow horizons of
new complete: upon a arrival with
a nudge from charon -
i will come against myself:
rather than upon myself...
by chance...
  that this is not high-brow literature
by any stretch of the imagination:
but i believe myself to be
endowed within the confines
of the democratic process -
a quiver a trembling...
i had to do several impossible
things today...
i laughed from conjuring
a memory while
painting some "chess board"
darkened oak of a makeshift
for the climbing rose to aspire to
with a cling...
i scratched my teeth -
i pretended to play
a violin by fiddling
with my beard:
no exactly de profundis:
but god... how i miss my chin...
i patted myself on the head
while pretending to vortex
imitation over my tummy -
this new man needs to
imagine the process of
caricature of insemination -
i am not the same willing
***** that gave me: you...
   pronoun baggage -
it's so tender in this english:
all english that can be
completely missing in: mutterzunge...
miles davis' ******* brew...
a composition
to imitate the crashing of
piano...
        as i drink i keep a tally...
once i fed an rainbow trout's eye
to a cat...
once i fed a female mosquito to
a cat...
once i had a dog and...
i couldn't possibly rob myself
of a memory of childhood by owning
a dog now...
i am quasi-jealous of people
who have dogs...
it's enough that i tow along
a shadow when i "expatriate"
beyond my day-to-day
trajectory - when
i want to experience an automatic
thinking - pointless memory
weathering -
i sometimes want this completeness
of the incomplete...
no higher sentiments...
new music: not something that
could cradle youth and
the stadium anthem -
something -
even now: one can become
tired of drinking and the occasional
smoke...
           i wouldn't want
to find myself returning to
a paragraph or a novel -
when reading: yes...
    but i couldn't stand the agony
of... not without this impromptu...
sedated into a comfort
looking upon the oeuvre of
jack spicer...
   my grandfather owns
the whole lot of alexander dumas...
i'm petrified of this
microcosm of a forest stashed
on a shelf...
         grand baron apostrophe in
english is so amazing...
i mean: the pedant's treat:
a pedantic treat -
            you can be allowed so many
deviations from orthodoxy -
you can almost wriggle your
way into an imitation jonah -
anglophile i am:
but i see no london burning -
teasing from the outskirts -
flute come to the party...
accent of impressionism -
   diacritical markers -
         i know that i am not writing
for money for excavating purposes:
i can make these little purposes
of fail all the time...
i want to own this language
as if i were born within its confines:
such that i am: "late" arrival:
thrown into the deep end come
me ate: eight - better - eating...

         gladly... because i arrived to it...
it wasn't dictated from "above"
like german or russian might have...
even though: ich muss necken
           alt vater:
              deutschespreschen...
for posterity... ahem... glum looking
joke...
not because i want to champion
the affair of: ****** the private individual...
beside the stage and oration:
yes... clearly he wasn't cut for painting...
i need to fail on writing
this nibbling from the exterior
with an ulterior purpose of tao -

zen my ****'s last worth...
conundrum: a really decent bicycle or...
two hours in a brothel...
hell... perhaps three...
but the bicycle and the return to
the days of drooling over
traffic and nibbling at essex...
i know that i don't know this
over-sexing is me being caged...

well... if you're going to be over-sexed:
pulverised toward status: neuter -
i sometimes mind: not minding...
the genetic argument doesn't really work
on me... given...
i could pass on... hardly the usain bolt
genes...
i could really pass on the most
severe indignation:
i like to call this...
the self-realisation that those
gene-power-proof german doctors
of the ***** had some sense:
in staging such grotesque arguments...

    for the purpose of a pleasure that
i can exhaust...
i don't even need to summon
frankenstein's monster argument:
it's not pivotal -
  when the hormones raged -
fair enough...
                   i can exhaust the argument
with all the readily available *******
and: i will not have to look out
for...                 the trojan dye-d'oh...
or...        ms. dill, ms. dough...

                       from the mother tongue
i couldn't possibly write such
nuances of sounds...
i would be left ******* with crisp cut...
orthographical measures -
   i'd be arguing over: pedantic subject
matters... none of this "poetry" /
graffiti...

                     scratching something vinyl:
elongating some liquorice...
detailing the zenith of england
prior to the dissolution
of the empire...
                  
   in all god given honesty i feel inclined
to be... living here...
it's supposedly not much
but i sense a becoming warmth
as to how...
   it would sometimes take
great care for me to not put on
my "sociopathic" chameleon disguise
of burdening accents:
from the original take:
we're all gammon and himalayan
salt indistinguishable sometimes...

but the affairs of the copperskins...
the camel jockeys, the choccies...
well... at least i'm not colour blind...
i forget to see white...
i forget to nudge some black...
black? you mean: cardamom
with that smokiness -
or nigella seeds?
                 that's black... coal is black...
frank zappa's ****** hair is
black... ***** likewise...
i forgot to be colour blind...

     give me hues!
          give be bold bulging gargoyle-esque
****** features to scare the demons
away...
no?
it has to be a variation
on a new sort of: "racism"...
if we're going to survive the basic lesson...
leave me in the grey humpty-dumpty
area of omelette...
            this be here: the dozen
of eggs that became...
a feast for serpents that didn't become
leather boots... or purses...

leave me to this little cul de sac
of imitation jazz...
  
        synchronised: coincidentally -
but more: a sigma purpose:
  an in totalis - a variation of polyphony -
new jargon - elevated new jargon...
an australian concept of
a savoury-esque dessert -
a beetroot ice-cream...

   pause: syllable cutter:
    not co-in-cidentally -
               a... variation of: ex similis:
but not simultaneously -
too many ******* vowels!
hear it one way: write another...
english is as bad as fwench...
grr...

           well yeah: i'm doing something
more than my supposed democratic
obligation:
i am not voting because i will
write for: the purpose of writing...
english democracy is looked upon
by russian strategists as something
that extends to allow transvestites
and other magpie exotica...

         this current life: this private
adventure...
      would i gladly summon these letters
in such a manner that i...
oh don't bother:
gladly "expatriate": gladly exile...
come to think of it...
if i were to argue about orthography
for so much time as i were
to be alive in...
        english adjusts and makes
pardonable the nuances of grammar...

little can be said: of the already
little given...
                      i want to jump high...
the caged ******* sonnet...
i planned sleep prior to writing this...
that's about it...
once... no... now:
i want to rekindle a fetish for
toying with going full commando
in denim...
  and... to twist the plot...
a ******* will always be nibbled
by the zipper...

it's: the evening i discovered ian carr's nucleus...
the original title simply read as: it's...
then some grandiosity appeared
with a mountain being towed...
and a fairytale...

this grand composure of
the bass routine... ***-ar...
drums on one side...
and solo projects on the other...
something so pristine without
lyrics - which is something i hoped
to exploit... not necessarily make synch...
i'm not a beat poet and i will
not read my words over a jazz:
as some refrigerator humming:
dulling these already pronounced
accents of sound:

a moth twice the size of my thumb
makes attempts to posit a selfie
with its: my eyes' scrutiny:

the jazz quintet is hardly an orchestral
testament of polyphony -
but... teasing at an earl grey in
inconveniences of "lacking"...

a dull moth the size of two thumbs
pressing against each other:
my little loitering project of future:
in eternity from bypassing:
on the the behalf of over punctuation:
as that clarity in the future of words...
or a lack of it...
with etymology...

******* into the sink...
simultaneously flushing the toilet
while washing your hands:
new age of multitasking...

by way of talking to cats:
herr mimic something akin to: ćć..
which is not the english CH - tugging along
the tetragrammaton...
or the full crown of the czech: caron...
                            č...
it's more slush-puppy piquant...
the sort of "thing" that defies
imitation with ny borrow of
meow or bark...

on my bookshelf:
madame bovary in a single tomme -
and... that opening line
of tolstoy's anna...
that misery is unique: particular -
to borrow the old greek dichotomy -
while happiness is ubiquitous -
generic -
             therefore universal...
indistinguishable from
a buddha to a screwdriver
from a jesus christ or a christening
of the next new plotline of
psychopathy...

           halves the hour: in that such
an album is half an hour's worth...
sooner a route relay
with the royal mile and cow gate
towing for any tourist come
edinburgh...

             beside myself:
i will not ever... torture myself
with a novel or a paragraph...
it either comes... or it doesn't...
it's not exactly courting a used to:
coherency...
and you are the reader...
club of exclusivity -
i have written by never bothered
to read back what it is
that i spewed out...

okokamona from roots (1973)...
cow bell... teasing nazareth's:
hair of a dog...
led zeppelin's dyer maker: "jamaica"...
yes... *****'s heaving
a son...
                     some variation of
abortions galore -
that i eat plenty of them in a poultry
feast come morning -
that i'm later scratching
the least of a possible pride:

white gold rubric:
michael pfeiffer...
sharon stone...
              a grizzly with a snub
at an alias: Tobias...
         next leftover project of expansive
"thinking": this little detail of moi too...
come again?
come again?
   *** ah'dzin: eh? gin...
it's not a giggle: it's not a girdle...
it's mr. dzin / jinn... tow the tonics
yourself..
some variation of fripp
is nothing near a hendrix -
some variation is all we heave
to have to topple...

lazy whitey jazz like some
interlude in rainy towing
scaffolds of seattle -
   settled peaches or... thereby plums
to the pulp of the excavations
made mad by pristine...
this feeble work-around
of flesh... in fruit or via
pork with offal... sequences
of bible bashing and that up-kept year
of langid promise echoes...

oh ******* of the most pristine
bluebottle types of flies
congregating:
there's no pawn broker of
klansman in sight...
to wed bed-sheets to a scrutiny of
ghosts...
that such a word
is still scrutinised with a hyphen
"interlude" and that it
can't be... classically: deutsche...
compounded into
a juggling act of syllables?
m'eh!

it has to be a variation of elitism...
   not because it actually is...
but that there's a necessary niche biped
wanting:
to have this kept sacrificial
lamb and a sacrilege of it's purpose
to make grief (grieve, slightly)
(of) a lack of demands
for the impossible task...
english can't be consolidated:
england can be bent to forward
a cosmopolitan rot of an idea...
england can be anything the rodney plonkers
want it to: Clapham want it to
burrow...

english and the universal rubrics
of grammar...
yes no right yore sire...
my missing sir... my drum solo project...
my mobias **** -
my amore amore amore! dulce primo:
linguo - kaff et normandy: genesis...

for the exertion of a patience...
that could never come bu was nonetheless
expected:
by dog races in the abandoned
stadium: of a looted womfowd tool fow
exhauted torn...
  maybe vels - or velsh...
or really? this is not scripted teasing
dubliner gaelic?!

altruism, is, *not,
   superimposable -
   with a reliance
on egalitarianism;
why?
the self is not managed
by systematisation,
hence
  the "self" inquiry,
alternatively known
as the: "jewish question";
hence this answer,
should it be held:
                         untrue,
counter question...
    no man can be bound
to fathom mere mind or soul...
there must be a third:
   the logic of the possession
of a shadow...
   hence? σκιαλογια -
and why?
if psychology can breed
a pathology, a psychopathy -
a pathos of possessing a psyche,
and thus tribunal people
  into "thinking" that
psychopaths to be without
a conscience, or a belief
in a soul?
     how can the psychopath deny,
the existence of a shadow,
the cold, in kantian terms,
i.e. a σκιαλογια?
  how can the shadow
be denied, if the body
  caste, the:
                apparent?
at this point,
  there's no worthwhile inquiry
into an artist's self-portrait.
- and since there's no obviousness
in possessing a "non-existent"
element of **** totalis (ergo sigma):
  in a quasi-vampiric spirit
akin to a missing mirror
reflection:
     do i actually possess a
shadow?
         perhaps i do to my eyes'
contentment,
    but do i think that i do
via knowing think it to be not so,
when in fact i do not think
that i do via not knowing
   think it to be so?
        close proximity questions
are *******,
synonymous proximity
of question is worse than
synonymous proximity of nouns...
nouns, given rhetoric,
are the more distinguishable.
  but one thing is certain:
man is in as much a possession
of a soul, as he is certain to be
in a possession of a shadow.
  - which is why psychology -
its inner-working of disproving
a non-existent guide which
provides a freed "will", lodged in
a "free" willingness...
    at least one is certain:
  the existence of the shadow can be
doubted, and further denied,
but at least the existence
of the shadow: cannot.
  it doesn't require my belief in
a soul coordinate with a god:
  i am in the adamant rudeness of
circumstance to consider, counter
the soul with a shadow,
   and a god: with the sun,
and i base my logistics on that;
hence my refutation of the study
of the mechanisation of man,
via a "non-existent" object,
i.e. psyche...
         the logic of the non-existence of
said object is too cultish for my
liking to accept in the society
of secular values; *******.

My ex was a *******
And that they were like no other
Born of viking blood
And I of mud
I professed true love

Hand in hand
Eye locking into eyes
But of course all those good things die

The first time was the hardest
I will not play the part of the modest
It was of my own accord
That the relationship broke off with a simple set of words

Time passed and then the second try
Never before hard have I cried
Words like acid
Sin dripping malice
A totalis

Snakes coiling my neck
A knife plunging into my peck
Betrayal of the highest order
Like cold blooded ******

My best friend and the love I had
Was all of dat

Now as I lay awake on a monday night
And sleep I try to fight
I think of a better girl I once knew

Better times and friends anew
Course thats all a simple fantasy

Thousands of miles separate us
Boundries of time and of dust

Maybe someday all could come to fruition

And my life could be the tuition

/                        psychology as the medium,
of ensuring the pop.
                                aspect of philosophy -

   not that it was ever an elitism,
rather:
   a concentration
              of eclectic "concerns":

   some men, simply require,
just a little bit more,
   than the physicality of a woman...

and philosophy is the only
adequate bed, sigma,
     totalis, metaphor of the living
ghost accompanying
   wooman: woeman -

i appreciate that psychology is
                                what popularißers
philosophy,
   but the study of linguistics
is what: states the thump of a fist
into the grit
                       of geological
                                   proportions...

and that women are on the receiving
end of this type of "philosophy",
the: someone read a book a priori
to me,
            and took a **** into my mouth
and now i'm giving an allowance
to regurgitate?

                       marquis de sadé taught
something different...
   my asylum is the outer-suburbia -
hence i walk into the borderline
between the cognitive jungle of pure
urban, and concrete streets,
  and the near countryside,
wheat, horse dung,
       and the concrete breaking of
tree bark...

            for woman: the psyche (ψυχή)
   (psooch'e)
                         for man: the techne
                                  (τέχνη) - techn'          
because the greeks could be trusted with
applying orthographic concepts
        to their already beautiful alphabet?!      
that's just being pretentious...
    look at it...
                      who were given scientific
allowances as inheritors with scientific consonants
(that's not a mistake or a play
on the word: constants) -
    
here's a 666 debate for you:
    explain the subtle variant of encoding
to later expression
   of the following letters....

      oυω

              wanna'h see the trojan omega?
   sharpened tool: w.

         and the upsilon? u...

   at least rome agreed on the omicron -
because, that's hardly a reason
to reinvent the wheel.

.mimic: the clucking sound - that distinguished onomatopoeia - the "spoons' race"... clucking or clicking... the horse's tongue... the readily bound to gallop... then the stalled effect of minor coincidences... verbiage custard pie of "late".

elle palmer: what a beautiful butterfly
in the nag hammadi library archives:
as would be cited by an r. d. laing:
humanism of psychiatry - deviating from
the cowboys of lobotomy: squadron...

depression: it's hardly the allure of the romance
of melancholy - michel de montaigne...
depression: the diatribe draw
of having a nagging aunt - lethargy -
stalking you... without a relief that
otherwise a shadow provides:
as an escapism of looking into
a mirror - and facing the robitic
self- automated prefix of... in totalis...
in total...
unconscious heart: hear me whimper...
robot grace of living to the ripe
old age of kurt douglas' vampiric 103...
see me peeling leeches
of dry-skinned eczemas...
turtles marooned on hopes of...
squaters' shell representation...

the romance of depression... melancholy...
the reality od depression - lethargy...
once upon a time best argued / excused
by the virus that spread from
top to bottom...
among the antiques and among
the...gesticulated: perversions of
grandeour...

before... the cowboys of lobotomy...
what a horrid affair...
the grey area of the fears associated
with a common cold...
unless darwin always comes up
with the categorical imperative...
mollusks for running protein...
biologically: weak...

deserving to die...
because isn't that hyper-existentialism...
coupled with darwinism?
in this linear of letters becoming words
words becoming becomign sentences...
pillcrow?

sad... well... there's the romantic sad
of the melancholic...
otherwise... the debased version...
the depressed is the lethargic...
the self-orientating self-fulfilling -
"self-employed"...
without the... cotton-candy...
benefits...

i've been there... i've seen
the macbrian chem soup of brain...
it's... just what it says on the tin...
a lethargy once understood...
teased with a snippet of a pinch...
of nearing windowlicker mr. lobo and
mrs. tame...
shortened to: affix         -tammy...

but elle palmer... what a beutiful
butterfly; imagine...
to start thinking in the trans- category...
before... even metaphysics too to ground,
the *****, the seeds...
the later labour...
the transgender movement is...
completely devoid of a study of metaphysics;

might i recommend looking into
orthography?