/your political ideology, shares its concern with my sumnmary of the "lesser" ideology, i.e. pedagogy... no matter what, i'll still have itchy fingers, might not write a monotone book worthy of a sleeping-pill excuse... but i'll still fathom an antithesis of claustrophobia, whenever looking at a paragraph; because you never disrespect a book by folding the page edges, when you should be applying the fathom, of using a book-mark... aged bibliophiles... what a horrid sight./
so much of music is
guaranteed
by a necessity for
rhythm,
as it is due
to an explosion
of solo;
fiddly fingers,
you see.
with the only basis for law,
that's man's law
of authority above
everything by mere speech...
that gullible hydra
of circumstance...
and fakied superiority...
came back,
once-so-in-high-esteem,
a begging shadow
of what was once
clearly
a body...
**** the man
and his body to will,
being nothing more than
what all came to reside with:
a servitude
to an unobliging
stipend;
death comes,
liberator,
the only fathomable expression
of ease.
