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David Barr Mar 2014
There is something Scandinavian about the experience.
It reminds me of eternal resolutions.
Are you able or willing to listen?
Let me be honest with you: although I personally dislike the texture of ***, I truly validate its place in the realms of peculiarity.
I am privileged to say that we are humbled by those who are scorned by populations of presumption.
Sausages must be fried at the correct temperature, otherwise their savoury convergences are lost in an abyss of culinary sabotage – don’t you think?
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
l'amours dont sui espris...

  me and the moon cower,
me and the moon peer into the night,
from behind the cloud
from behind a puzzling thought...
me and the moon cower:
before the altar of the night...

well... i would never **** a fly...
at least i'd try...
the kingdom of insects states:
by some "consensus"
that the females are bigger
than the males...
i've heard it's not so with
mosquitos...

i couldn't **** a fly...
but when Monday's garbage collection
happens and i'm left dragging
an empty bin
into the garden to clean it...
i find... maggots at the bottom
of the pit...
still wriggling in the leftover juices
of meat and others...

carelessly like jerking off:
i pour some bleach into the cauldron...
sodium hypochlorite...
then some water for the foam...
the maggots disappear...
i wish them well...
but not much good could ever come
from drinking a corrosive salt...
alkaline implies corrosive salt...
well... i drowned some maggots in
alkaline...
but i very much care to have
a clean bin...

i ******* crocodiles and tears and tadpoles
into a tissue while
on the throne of thrones and send
them to: nowhere...
just before i take the no. 1 & no. 2
(no. 3 to ease up)...
then baptise myself in the shower...

summer will soon be almost over...
autumn will come
the proper fruits will start to fall...
i'll be making my wine...
it will take me 3 weeks or circa...
maybe 4... the apples will fall...
the pears too...
winter... when insects sleep...
as much as i might appreciate the copper-neck
suntan... i'll be happier to find that
the insects are sleeping: along with
the bears...

i rarely **** a fly... a mosquito, though?
each and every time...
if i were a zombie and a fly *******
a maggot-load onto me... i'd beg to digger...
well...
    i did't feel like killing this large
specimen of mosquito... it wasn't going to
bite me...
never mind...
i didn't feel like merely killing it...
i caught it be one leg...

i have two spider twins either side
of the door to my garden...
one was sleeping...
the other was awake...
how did i know?
the sleeping one curled up its legs
into a bud...
it wasn't awake to play piano with
its cobweb...

        so i pinched this one mosquito
by the leg and watched it frenzied...
trying to escape... my hand led it to the altar...
how quick the spider! how quick
the spider made a mummy of the would:
juiced up mushy meat!
i didn't **** it...
i just fed a garden spider...
a catch it couldn't otherwise catch...

i felt indifferent... more indifferent about
vegans than vegans feel: "differentiated"
from debating the need for milk...
eggs... never mind the meat... cheese...
i don't understand veganism on these three pillars...
milk (cream)... eggs... cheese...
i couldn't be a vegan...

vegetarianism: i can understand...
but... no eggs?! no... milk / cream?!
no... cheese?!
        get out of 'ere!

       maggots swimming in sodium hypochlorite...
or rather... dying in it...
but the prettier sight than killing a bothersome mosquito
was feeding it to a spider...
it almost felt like...
   feeding a cat sushi turkey ******* on
the end of the knife...

this song has nothing to do with the experience:
chevalier, mult estes guariz...
none!
why do i abhor Darwinism...
it... doesn't tease my vanity...
it just kills off history!
from ape to "somehow": now...
that's it!
   **** similis: the ape was known to the ancients...
but the ancients did ancient "things"
and didn't allow themselves to be swallowed
up by a ******* comparison!
metaphor! they would have settled for
a metaphor... but not a comparison!
a synonymous-ness!

Darwinism is right: nature abhors vacuums...
nothing in nature is to be ever wasted...
everything has a purpose...
if... somehow... it doesn't have a purpose:
it will... it will evolve... it will adapt...
but... Darwinism as... the prime idea...
the one & only source of the genesis of
"idea"? only in the anglophone world...
no where else will you hear
Darwinism so celebrated...
Hermes asked... why did Galileo overshadow
the findings of Copernicus?!
why did even William Burroughs undermine
Copernicus by staging a "fact" that...
oh the ancient Egyptians knew!
the ancient Greeks knew too!
but... no mathematics...
then some pope-****-smear of a Galileo
was the one with the telescope
"probing": proving the heliocentric model
most adequate...

one spider whispered to another:
find any cobweb: piano concertos in the desert?
no... me neither...
let's just wait for some of these sand-*******...
camel-jockeys to catch up...
we'll show them... mummification:
hey presto!

- and they did... how quickly that spider
launched into the mosquito...
rapping it up like a... nothing to be
beside the futures of food-stuff...
it felt...
well... not ignoble... a pride in a sense
of hierarchy...
the spider easts the mosquito...
it's really levelled ground in the insect
dominion...
i allow maggots to swim in sodium
hypochlorite...
i catch a mosquito by its leg
and feed it to a spider...
the spider does the mummification
ritual... the world balances itself out...

it's a strange sensation: it's hardly a feeling...
one gets feelings on a graveyard...
count the bones...
wake up... re-wake...
the fickle faculty of memory:
so prone to amnesia...
i abhor dreams.... therefore i dream none...
less Freudian ******* shrapnel....
less & less...

i need a mirror to take a selfie...
i need... the apparition of 3D space...
you can't revise QWERTY!
you can't improve it!

i can type without looking down
at the keyboard: here's to imitating the Liszt...
the Chopin...

eh?!
i didn't cite:  E... did i?
i included the surd of breath...
EH?!

ask the ******* Hebrews why we have concern
to begin to laugh...:
it's trapped in their definite article:
HA! SANTA!

           i'm here for only one thing...
beside thrilling it alive in Thailand...
or... recovering fractures in Europe...
someone... maybe one... or two...
have... stolen my identity...
                  sorry...
             garlic pickled in some red wine
will always go under the radar...
electric six's album should never have:
gat bar! bay bar!

   it's the 1980s and sade...
smooth operator....
             best kept feeling...
feeding a mosquito to a spider
rather than simply killing it...
like... the inversed... imploded...
ploy of game...

who needs tiger blood?
bluff?
i need... a mosquito...
a spider... a spiderweb... like a piano...
i need an awake spider...
the red wine is not to be...
necessarily... mixed with garlic...
although last time i heard:
infusing ren wine with three or four
teeth of garlic (nuggets?)
is a slimming elixir...

father SLiM? *******... yacht...
bogus crew...
feeding a mosquito to a spider...
death soon arrives... "tomorrow".

- still need the geocentric model when
reading the map... hell:
i need the flat earth perspective when
reading a map... i don't really care much
for the equator, the Greenwich meridian
when getting from A to B...
funny how geographic "algebra" works...
from point A to point B:
a round earth doesn't really help...
perhaps if i were sailing but even then...
a straight line...

Darwinism didn't really undermine
man's final vanity... according to Freud...
nor did Freud undermine another vanity...
Freud & Jung created the divided schematic
of what once man:
i wouldn't say man was Leibniz's pristine
monad: something indivisible...
but it was close: to be divided by memory
fickle faculty:
how it dries up through the churn of
pedagogy... so much strain on learning
2 x 2 = 4... a, b, c, d, e... f, g, h...
fair enough: to later rearrange into words...
but i don't appreciate the classical alphabet...
the genius behind QWERTY...
i type without looking down at the keyboard...
it's almost like: imitation of reading braille...

maybe the alphabet should be less: a, b, c...
it's not like the vowels are at the beginning
while the consonants follow...
it just doesn't make sense:
rigid...
i wonder what would happen if children
were taught the QWERTY alphabet sequence...

or... just remember all the letters:
it doesn't matter in which order you remember them...
just remember that there are 26 letters in the English
alphabet...

- it's so pointless just killing  mosquito...
a fly... hardly...
but a mosquito... just at the right time
when it inserts its needle and become a syringe...
that's the sweetest of moment...
lord of the flies? who is the lord of mosquitos:
didn't ha-shem eat up all the lesser
gods of the Levant... but somehow avoided
gobbling up the lord of mosquitos?
i'm conjuring up a deity the Hebrew deity
didn't gobble up into his pantheon...

what name... what name?!
to challenge a name like... Beelzebub?
Be'el'zee'bub...
proper pronunciation with
the apostrophes: intra-verbum...
just so you know...
who: hoo! i'm getting hot from all the cider
and whiskey... god... i'm gagging for
some absinthe... the moon is ripe!
it's full...
     i need some slimming elixir...
some red wine infused with garlic...
to keep the vampires away...

what will i name you: lord of mosquitos...
KOMAR... mosquito in western Slavic...
Darwinism doesn't bug my vanity...
i.e. it doesn't bother me...
it bothers me that it's a history eraser...
nothing from yesterday here on in...
in the anglosphere...
the monkey: mammon key "happened":
an oops! ****! hey presto!
deluxe! no one grieves for Robespierre...
i might...
like i might for the wild imaginings of
the Marquis...
               if only... i prefer prostitutes to these...
"free"... masculine prototypes of... ahem... "women"...
once the woe... once the woo of man...
now?!
i prefer prostitutes...
no need for dating: plus... if they're Turkish...
they like a beard... a hairy chest... a hairy
stomach...

i'll push this dagger into that crux of:
et tu... so far so far as it can be harnessed
collectively that i'm... passionate about...
not angry... bitter... pickling my emotions...
there's a gherkin for a heart if anyone is
willing...

lord of mosquitos: raba'albaeud...
well, i could make that apostrophe disappear...
but i'd only replace it with a diacritical marker
above the A... to imply: "a.a."...
i.e. that there are two... Siamese vowels...
but it wouldn't help the pronunciation...
let's see...

raba'albaeud vs. rabālbaeud...
            eh?          ha ha... "no" difference!
so much for everyone being... "literate"...
they read like they might eat...
i've been told i eat in a way that...
invites other people to eat...
so much for others... dictating pleasures
unattainable...
i was a dinner once... with school friends...
i was the only one who asked for
rare beef... everyone else...
doubly butchered their wants...
they wanted them well done...
beef? well done?!
oh i'm a snob at that...
IT'S NOT MINCED BEEF!
YOU NEED... JUICE!

i kept my mouth shut and ate happy...
so much for friends...
i.e. "friends"... people you spend a lot of time together:
it works in a pedagogic environment...
school's great...
you are ***** into their presence...
you have to have... work-around tactics...
bullies... brutes... nerds... teenage mothers...

the full moon: while everything is attired in:
quicksilver...
the full moon: skin-head BISCUIT...
while everything is attired in quicksilver!

too many vowels... too many vowels...
raba'albaeud...
i "think" i'll rename him...
phonetically, though: ra'ba'alba'ood...
although there's an E & an U instead
of the omega...

Lithuanian: U'ODAS: ooh... not you...
i need bitter... twice bitter than an IPA
Czech absinthe...
i need to see straight... wonky too!
i need my tongue to be aflame!
i need teeth made from iron!

- history has become less linear than it used
to be... it has begot an ouroboros
of repeated... thanks to journalism:
history used to be linear...
time has reached a year 0...
but there's no revision taking place...
don't shoot the messenger!
i'm looking for the name of the lord
of mosquitos...

it's a hard name to conjure:
even though you have all the tongues in the world
available on the palette...
i need bitter... Czech absinthe...
i want to feel: hot... as rot...

Latvian: not Estonian... i.e.:
not sääsk (saaaask):               ODU...
主 / オモ (omo-odu)... that's clearly pushing it...
       オヅ
it would be so much simpler to just **** a mosquito
rather than... purposively...
feeding it to a spider...
i would "feel" much better killing it...
than having fed it to the spider...

Napoleon might have added:
sure... they're literate... but literacy only arrives
as useful when the literate are bilingual...
what use do i have for these people
distract by letters...
what use for the priestly class...
since... their safeguard is... "missing"?

sweet amber... whether beer: gods' juices...
or simply... mead...
from the work around of Hephaestus....
safeguard these names of the gods...
before they disappear...
before the Czech absinthe becomes too
bitter... still drinkable... but hardly enjoyed...

"too many vowels"... the "argument" follows
suite... i'm red... hot... chilly-esque...
chasing zeppelins... chasing diacritic markers...
covert: how you might say:
SPIERDALAJ: DALAI LAMA....
  ARES... his son...
                  Hephaestus....

             while i'm burning!

                         pronoun verb
custard: ich arbeit...
all the nouns the world might allow...

butterfass...
                   i'm itching to pass by:
butterfaß.... consonants ought to have...
better... phonetic encoding symbols...
like TH and PH have to encapsulate F...

who needs buTTer when one Tao might
have... MITE vs. miGHT?!
two consonants coupled...
not another night in Posen...
please... not another night in Posen...

chasing
i don't want to be English so much....
too many troubles...
too many fictions...
i want to be inherently "biased"...
too many frictions...
  too many fictions...
chasing  Zeppelin....
     ditto: base... the Warsaw "boat":
about to... sink.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
yes, i know he said he was a vegetarian, delicate counter-priesthood prince - a manner of vegetarianism that expressed an abhorrence of the practice of Eucharist, i too think the Eucharist as a metaphor is a bit porridge: i.e. yucky.  but as Wagner said to him: up north, either you eat meat or you lose the plot (loose - ß - again, not scharfes S - but die scharfes'zart - sharp-tender - already prerequisite of what sharpening omega meant for the w); mind you: salt & pepper to taste according to your own palette - if you're not a sugar ****** you won't over-salt the sauce... and you certainly will not overcook the pasta, halfway between dreadlocks and poodle hair: desirably experience bound al dente, and here comes Socrates with his knowledge of al dente: me no muffin! true that... like all these excess sugar breakfast cereals - ******* the outside, soft inside... or like the idea of ants having an exoskeleton... that's pure culinary theory - al dente exoskeleton; did i already mention salt and pepper to taste? yeah, the beef stock cube is salty, but not salty enough, given the already unsalted meat and vegetables: i cook, i take care of a toddler - Nietzsche keeps bragging: cooked by a cyclops.

who would have thought that a personal
revision of mama Italia's classic
could end up being so tasty;
Nietzsche is the foremost diner in my humble
abode: i just like the way he says:
who let woman into the kitchen?!
that's right, i deviated from the standard recipe
of mama Italia's cooking for papa don
Giovanni - honestly? in lonely times at
university when everyone was into ******
ad drunk debaucheries, and ****** fancy dress
parties? Aria Giovanni saved the day...
just look at the classic beauty, plump as a plumb
in between two cream bergs - such
exfoliation... where's that daddy long-legs
on the catwalk... come on! shove a malteser up
her *** like a suppository escutcheon - i'm sure
the salad leaves will keep her starving even more,
or walk her in Gucci with a drip-pole -
intravenous therapy while on the job -
but can you believe what only a quarter of a teaspoon
does to the Bolognese sauce recipe?
wonders... you don't add the carrot, or the celery,
among the vegetables you add button mushrooms,
and the three colours of peppers -
onions and garlic (a lot of it) as standard -
oregano, rosemary and thyme too,
some Italian five-spice - but the fennel seeds!
the fennel seeds! after i learned to cook i see
ready meals are diabetics in disguise,
and restaurant foods as defunct -
what? we're all expressing our capacity to
make choice, apologies if you made the sort of
choices you now hate... hardly a reason to
complain about my exercise in freedom,
i don't blame you, i'd have chosen differently
if i were you too... but there we go...
i'm cooking Bolognese from scratch because i like
to tickle my sense of smell and the buds of
the palette garden, i look at the sauce and
write fiction: the plot thickens...
                                                     and that's the great
3 minute microwave sequence on the other
side of the spectrum... because we're all so *busy
-
busy bees and that's merely the generation Y
dads getting hormonal treatment from tending to
babies - choices choices choices -
                                                          oddly­ enough
the mediocre work that goes on in those glass
shards - by comparison, the default argument is
pretty obvious: i too would have not invested
in caring for art, or as i once said:
you can't get good art and raise a family -
you can create good art that will support the family,
you'd end up being a great technician,
an artistic engineer - the standard model of bridges /
already in your head - is refining yourself
via plagiarism - you end up plagiarising yourself -
but come one! a quarter of a teaspoon of fennel seeds?
well, i'm not talking cumin seeds...
or maybe it was the turmeric powder that
coloured the onions yellow while frying?
2 tablespoons of garlic - for sure, enough garlic
and we're already talking Dracula -
~5 strips of bacon too -
                                          no, not necessarily involving
carrots and celery - why be boring?
this is me in my furore days in an organic
chemistry class at university - back to the esters
and perfumes, but this is raw, it's analytical
chemistry, it's nothing synthetic -
birds and the bees and some hippy buckles over
a giant butternut squash - which is why i find
people who ably memorise and recite poetry
are the same people who probably write polemics,
and do the peacock verbal dance for a woman
in a restaurant - rather than give her raw grub
of your own calibre - 1 cube of beef stock
dissolved in water - simmering for about 40 minutes,
tomatoes chopped - obviously tomato puree -
500 grams of mince beef -
                                                ever think that poetry
could reinvent journalism and also the way of
writing recipes? FENNEL SEEDS! that's what goes
in first, you roast them in chilli infused olive oil -
let them sizzle for a bit - and yes,
you pour some oil into salted water where
you'll be boiling the spaghetti - the oil means the
spaghetti won't stick together, plus pouring
oil into a saucepan of boiling water is the other
famous pastime of chemists... the former?
watch paint dry. i'm pretty ****** sure i missed something,
like mama Italia missed something to keep
the recipe a secret - well... there's Parmesan cheese
to garnish and fresh basil -
                                                and if i were raising a family,
i wouldn't be listening to the dead skeleton's album
dead magick... oh sure, the reward would be:
i'd have a little crowd at my funeral, some gibberish
about how many people knew me so well... but really
didn't... the whole street profession...
                i never got the idea of solitude and how it
might be sad from the Beatles' Eleanor Rigby song -
don't know never became an impressionable counter -
oh yeah, Darwinism helped! it helped a lot
in creating a world view, a world view that said:
don't touch this ****... leave them to it:
these people are more influenced by opinion columns
of newspapers than philosophy books -
in England, where, i dare say, the daily telegraph
is actually respectable, as is the guardian -
and the central of the two opposites? tickling
tabloid, i call the times posh tabloid, because it is
a posh tabloid: i like the way fame
desired for sales becomes toilet paper
the next day... or the newspaper on the street
that gets the footprint on the plastic surgery escapades...
love it! mm, yes darling! lovin' it!
samasati Sep 2013
you are like black magic,
a hidden lip underneath a night of grace; underneath the canopy
of old soul trees, stretching out above
to protect hearts from being
hurt;
but you,

you are like black magic
and cheeky lick kisses under ****** blankets.
you were a secret
you were a shame
you were a dose of mortifying pleasure;
a sore amount; a quarter of a cup; a batch of chocolate chip cookies
with just one egg,
splenda, not sugar,
tofu, not meat,
never enough;
but I’m a sucker for vegetarianism and anything
orthorexic – I’ve compared you
to my biggest demon
too often; so I should really know that
you’re toxic –

I dance alone
with my eyes closed
and you’re there; step step, close.
your fingers slide into the gaps between mine
and now we’re interlocking,
like a devil on my back;
I move with you; dancing to your heartbeat
step step step, hold me close
and never let me go
-- oh please let me go
-- oh maybe I should let go.

We’re Getting Older,
the lyrics in the song I am listening to
tell me;
but I feel young under your gaze
a time machine; taking me back to a year ago
in the winter
in the cold
under the open, black sky
because the trees are broken and little in the winter,
leafless,
and don’t have enough life in them
to protect my heart
from being hurt
(by you).
oh you,

you are like black magic,
and I am like a baby lioness,
proud and easily tamed.
Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
Marigold Dec 2013
I have vowed to no more eat that which harms,
And to the best of my abilities,
I do so.
I see no difference between the cat you pet
And the lamb you slaughter.
I see no difference between the dog you play with
And the calf you tear from its mother.
I see no difference between the pet birds in cages
And the male chicks thrown in the grinder at birth;
They will produce no eggs, we have no use for their lives.
I believe it is not the role of man
To deem whom should retain their lives
And whom should die for a  moments self-gratification.

Vegetarianism is wonderful,
Every little bit helps; less humans eating meat,
means reduced CO2 emmissions
and less world wide poverty,
The grain that could feed a hundred hungry mouths
Is not used to produce  single burger patty,
For a single peckish man.

But drinking the milk of a cow,
Eating cheese and eggs
All contributes directly to the meat industry.
Dairy industry is veal industry;
Dairy industry; milk, eggs, cheese all supports and prolongs the practice
Of killing and eating children.

You ask that we respect your choices;
but you do not understand that your "choices",
Your learned eating habits,
Your probing questions of "what do you eat then?!"
And your arguments of "But meat just tastes so good"
Are directly offensive to all we stand for,
And all we fight against.

To me, arguing that the taste of meat,
Makes the living conditions of these animals ok,
Is a kin to the argument that slavery is fine,
Because the work gets done quicker if you can use a whip.
It is a kin to the idea that **** isn't that bad,
Because it at least feels good for the ******.
It is a kin to the comment that women are inferior,
Because men could beat them in a fist fight.

You will instantly think I am radical in my views,
You will try to brush them off as the rantings of a crazed vegan
Or you will stop reading
Because you really do not want to see what I have to say.
But I give you only the truth as i plainly see it.

If you must eat meat,
Hunt for it and **** it yourself,
Let it live a real life first,
And respect that for you to eat,
It has died.
Xan Abyss Jul 2014
**** humans.
**** animals.
**** political parties.
**** anarchism.
**** art.
**** science.
**** religion, faith and spirituality.
**** music.
**** noise.
**** sports.
**** nerdy ****.
**** drugs, **** and alcohol.
**** sobriety.
**** vegetarianism&veganism.;
**** the meat industry and hunters.
**** feminism.
**** patriarchy.
**** the War.
**** pacifism.
**** your body type.
**** junk food.
**** fitness.
**** nationalism.
******* if you hate your homeland.
**** your belief.
**** your non-belief.
**** your pseudo-belief.
**** your job and **** everyone without a job.
All of us are wrong and do not deserve to live.
But then why does it matter?
It doesn't.
Nothing does.
I, we, all of us and everything spinning away in this perpetually expanding universe,
100% is equally worthless in the scheme of existence.
The infinite gaping void of time will swallow it all and destroy it inevitably.
That is entropy.
Everything will eventually cease to be.
Our jobs, families, lives, and our entire history not just as a species, but as an entire solar system, will eventually mean zilch forever.
Nothing matters, it never really has and it is never really going to.
But we're all here, aren't we?
Regardless.
So what are we gonna do?
Nothing?
Why?
Because it's the only thing that matters? Nothing?
Why does it have to matter?
If everything is equally worthless and insignifcant in the grand, cosmically entropic scheme of this progressively more and more infinite universe,
Then who the **** cares what we care about?
If nothing matters, why does it matter?
It doesn't.
Nothing does.
So are we going to sit around and waste away because we know nothing will last forever?
Deny ourselves of the (albeit completely worthless and unimportant) experiences that this universe has to offer?
**** ***?
**** love?
**** music?
**** art?
**** cinema?
**** great food, cooked who by people who love to cook great food?
**** writing, and poetry?
**** sports, the thrill of the game, the roar of the crowd when the underdog scores a goal for their country?
**** culture?
**** trying new things and going new places?
**** creating new life? Raising a family?
Seeing your children graduate?
Who cares that it makes you happy, right?
That you exist in a realm where you are able to feel joy?
Or euphoria?
Or ecstasy?
How about,
**** that negative *******?
The universe is the most incredible thing in existence -
Because it IS existence.
There is nothing worse, and nothing greater, there is only what is.
And what is, is beautiful,
and Terrifying,
and Magical,
and completely,
100%
REAL.
Reality is infinitely fascinating, wonderful, divine, tangible, wicked, dangerous, and intoxicating.
And human beings are all too lost with their heads to the ground
Or the sky,
Peering into cracks and shadows,
Chasing dragons and vices and dreams,
Searching for perhaps the only thing in existence,
Which truly does not exist:
Meaning,
to see it.
Being crushed and destroyed and surrendering their hope, and faith and love in the universe once they do not find it.
Humanity, and perhaps all intelligent life,
(though we may never find out)
Is distracted by the questions,
"Why am I here?"
"What is the meaning of life?"
And thus hindered from ever finding it
in their own
Meaningless
way.
Marissa Navedo Mar 2012
He tries hard hidden in the harbor,
gazing at the deserted creek presuming,
the shallow water shows their shapes.
The thin thread he ****** into the water thoroughly vanished.
Weighed down with wonder.
He wheels in the well-weighted gnawing fish.
Defiled by the death drops down.
He knew not the fish nor flesh, he knelt
Honest offers originated over his grotesque tragedy.
Praying pin points his pleas importance.
Changing his choices taken contributed to his vegetarianism.
Àŧùl May 2017
They who do work for Me,
They who work for righteousness,
They who look upon Me as a goal,
They who set Prabhu as their goal,
They who worship Me free from attachment,
They who just lose track of everything else in worship,
Who are free from enmity to all creatures,
Who practice vegetarianism and peace,
They come to Me.**
They reach heaven.
My HP Poem #1542
©Atul Kaushal
Qualyxian Quest Feb 2019
such cruelty, but also kindness
    startling beauty, baffling blindness
              faithful in my fashion.

      No to fatalism, no to indifference
Yes to vegetarianism, Silence, non-dualism
                    Great Compassion
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
i hate talking about darwinism
outside the realm of the individual,
i can encompass darwinism
with a sense of individualism
but what we're being sold is a collectivisation,
an economic model, and eradicating
personal theological practices will not help:
i like the algorithm fluctuations
between 1 (existent) and 0 (non-existent)
it's a bit like a paradoxic: Siberia...
Sahara... Antarctica... what's the other
hot alternative? a Jacuzzi in Las Vegas?
but when darwinism looses its individualist
approach, and tries to collectivise...
we're talking my grandfather's youth...
idolatry, communism, or both exchanging,
intertwined... all the entrepreneurs in a furore
while the share prices on Wolf St. gave way to an avalanche!
or in kindred tongue, via Mafia:
boom bara boom and spaghetti Bolognese -
brains for marbles, Don Quixote with napkins
in his cheeks for the Oscar-winning accent...
and i guess your landlady was named Frizzy Mary
like some ******* cocktail.
(question mark is missing due to innuendo irony
of pronunciation prolonged without, irony -
plus no soprano would read poetry
to mind spotting that gesture...
there's no stage, no spotlight, no crowd, no applause...
it's poetry... you can prance in flamingo ******
and interpret as much as you like...
if the poet isn't there to ramble about copyrights...
you can take it as your own:
without the poet: his poetry is yours, and you too, an ****...
now translating this metaphysics
into physical terms invokes
variably a circumstance of: you're a cannibal... so say bye bye
(go on, give a wave) to vegetarianism.)
Lucky Queue May 2016
Yesterday they lined up all the boys to give them a good talking to.
After all, when you're about to ask the head priest's daughter for her hand, you must do it the right way.

But of course, they'd only line up the boys, and not the girls who glance and flirt and trail the tips of their fingers along wet gowns when bathing.
It's known that Victoria will kiss anyone who can tame her curls, and Alice leaves violets for those she fancies.
Even a pig recognize that Jacob and Peter have been making eyes at each other for about two summers, and that Matti only longs for books.
Harold's true love is venison, and though he could be won over digestively, Emi is really trying to move towards vegetarianism.

So they told the boys how to carry themselves and some listened in desperate eagerness and earnest and a few planned pranks, and anyone worth their salt could tell it was a disaster.
This morning, the local girls dressed the boys in flowers, as is strange tradition, but then a few joined the line and fairly glowed in their blue linen and lemony cinnamon licorice hair, dripping with petals.

The king laughed and the head priest smirked in bemusement, as it is every year.
And Emi gazed, bored and silent to every proclamation, gift, and oath.
Yet a fourth year had passed without a chosen suitor.
Courtyard emptied, and I drew near her chair as well.

"I have no strange and beautiful art to exhibit or exotic sweet to taste. I do not seek what you will not eagerly give, and I will not ask you to be my wife, but I'd very much like to be your friend ifthatwouldbeokaywithyouthanks."

After all, who doesn't fall in love with Artemis.
5.31.16
There must be a grimy, non-theatrically saucy way to gratify, for 55 minutes, a woman sexually like Béla Lugosi did when he was alive working as a working worker bee in a working worker bee bee hive
Bill Clinton's trucking dad died because Billy Rockefeller was born
so that Arkansas bath houses hosting *** *** antics could film ****
Somehow my **** lard **** ain't getting no thinner on a 7-day daily
diet of ham hocks, pork rinds & chocolate-syrup sundaes for dinner
on the 7 steps to Zoubek's Memorial to the Victims of Communism
I shall show love for chewing chewy carrots with vegetarianism, or
I'll choose a chewy Cuban ****** chaos for chewin' chewy carrots
with Castro's 1959 call for a cruel & cruddy Marxian vegetarianism
that'd be Cuba's revolutionary means to spoil Haitian egalitarianism
for forgetful amnesiacs who can not recall unrecalled amnesia at all
There must be a grimy, non-theatrically saucy way to gratify, for 55
minutes, a woman sexually like Béla Lugosi did when he was alive
working as a working worker bee in a working worker bee bee hive
Bill Clinton's trucking dad died because Billy Rockefeller was born
so that Arkansas bath houses hosting *** *** antics could film ****
Somehow my **** lard **** ain't getting no thinner on a 7-day daily
diet of ham hocks, pork rinds & chocolate-syrup sundaes for dinner
on the 7 steps to Zoubek's Memorial to the Victims of Communism
I shall show love for chewing chewy carrots with vegetarianism, or
I'll choose a chewy Cuban ****** chaos for chewin' chewy carrots
with Castro's 1959 call for a cruel & cruddy Marxian vegetarianism
that'd be Cuba's revolutionary means to spoil Haitian egalitarianism
for forgetful amnesiacs who can not recall unrecalled amnesia at all
working as a working worker bee in a working worker bee bee hive
Bill Clinton's trucking dad died because Billy Rockefeller was born
so that Arkansas bath houses hosting *** *** antics could film ****
Somehow my **** lard **** ain't getting no thinner on a 7-day daily
diet of ham hocks, pork rinds & chocolate-syrup sundaes for dinner
on the 7 steps to Zoubek's Memorial to the Victims of Communism
I shall show love for chewing chewy carrots with vegetarianism, or
I'll choose a chewy Cuban ****** chaos for chewin' chewy carrots
with Castro's 1959 call for a cruel & cruddy Marxian vegetarianism
that'd be Cuba's revolutionary means to spoil Haitian egalitarianism
for forgetful amnesiacs who can not recall unrecalled amnesia at all
There must be a grimy, non-theatrically saucy way to gratify, for 55
minutes, a woman sexually like Béla Lugosi did when he was alive
working as a working worker bee in a working worker bee bee hive
Bill Clinton's trucking dad died because Billy Rockefeller was born
so that Arkansas bath houses hosting *** *** antics could film ****
Somehow my **** lard **** ain't getting no thinner on a 7-day daily
diet of ham hocks, pork rinds & chocolate-syrup sundaes for dinner
on the 7 steps to Zoubek's Memorial to the Victims of Communism
I shall show love for chewing chewy carrots with vegetarianism, or
I'll choose a chewy Cuban ****** chaos for chewin' chewy carrots
with Castro's 1959 call for a cruel & cruddy Marxian vegetarianism
that'd be Cuba's revolutionary means to spoil Haitian egalitarianism
for forgetful amnesiacs who can not recall unrecalled amnesia at all
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
back in England,
and back to the similitude
of the pardonable
quest for an,          i...

standing before a wall
of books,
from the floor to the ceiling,
stacked
like some
reminiscent domino
of events that didn't
take place...

     back into an interpolation
of i,
   via an interchange
between ? and !

            as if existentially
content: as if:

      from that persistent
bulwark
               whereby there is,
no nothing...
   either an expected agitation
or a nightmare,
or an unexpected self-encounter...

born a slab of clay,
died a slab of marble,
yet featureless -

   not the repetitive dream
of falling,
   not some dream-world
phobia, guaranteed in,
say: claustophobia...

  something English,
and therefore eerie...
as if teasing American,
or what is the vein,
not the L.A. artery
cultural export...

   the sleepy, hallow and
mistifying north east,
the first indentation...
   something...
  akin to:
     what happens when
you first encounter
Dumas... but not H. P. Lovecraft...
but encounter the latter
in an essay
by michel houellebecq -

**** me... French phonetics
and French linguistics -
either a misnomer
in saying:

        no wonder they
are the basin for idea -
or rather... the Freudian
id etc....

                    the clarity of
phonetic encoding,
to be honest:
    i know of one
that is, but buckles under
an orthographic aesthetic,
like a wronged limb,
there...
   but... dull...
  limp... yet there: provocative...

a return then to: there,
or, rather: "there"...

a month sober,
first night drinking
and one expects to unfold
a month's worth
of a Libra imbalance,
i.e.:
    write as much as you read,
or...
  read as much as you write:

never write less than
you read,
   never read less than you
write...
apparently i read
more than i was supposed
to write...

what with the Sveedish
invasion of Poland,
like some... murky rubric
i learned in the Irish
   niche of the outer
east London nibbling Essex...

Romans...
  Romans...
  this diabolical theatre
of agitating poetics
like mantras...

   either Jesus with his
bread and wine...
or mystical Eve with
a 2 in 1 combo's worth
of an apple...

mind you, i did notice
the difference between
western and eastern
Europe...
how the night is illuminated...
dimmed sulphur like
emblems of a moth's
delight in:

    tip of (the) tongue -
onomatopoeia:
where no noun dare tread...

a month's worth without
   a "freedom" of speech
  (third person inquisitive
contort):
   you mean - diarrhea?

yes - thank you, dear,
whoever, what-
    a character assasination
of the narrator...
say...
why am i unable to write
a novel, brimful
with an assortment
of characters?

  ah... i remember the basis...
of this: "nuance"...
  yes... either a misnomer,
or an ambiguity,
caged in the existentialists'
"       ": lacking
the morn upon the 1st of
May's lark...

         i wanted to paint,
but... i can't afford to buy either
paint or canvas or brush...
and... i grew out of writing
novels before i even began
writing novels...
i found it hard to translate
a childish game
into a novel, hardy,
adult enterprise...

hence this interrogation...

  as a Chinese State policy
child... perhaps a, millennial...
but as an only child...
i prefer to be dubbed...
the third plenum of the 18th
central committee of the chinese
communist party:
of which i am not,
    but... eh... what a waste...

i didn't end up writing
novels, because...
i used to play with G.I. Joe...
marionnettes...
   how then to translate
marionnettes into adult?
ah...
   "eureka"! (mundane tone):
write a novel...

   i cut off my hands
and opened my eyes
to the grand lambda...

   i found her on a coach trip
to Warsaw...
   Λ...
   the sensation / awareness...
once i used to smoke marijuana
to entertain
a lost narrative,
    a "lost" narrative...
   which was cogitans per se
is... with all the annexed ergo
implies: cogito est narratio...

of course... minus
ethics, etc.
          which is how i came
across a keyhole,
θought...            which became:
    φought:
or rather... without a question
of a morose: 'ought -
esse - i.

                             that same
blatant disembodiment
of the will of man...
Voltaire is good at that...
   simpleton,
       Zadig...
                sure, prior to: Candide...
but in England,
let me assure you:
do you think you'll ever
buy a copy of Voltaire's
principles of Newton's
physics
?
        
               not a chance!

perhaps i grew out of
toying with G.I. Joe
marionnettes too late,
perhaps...
hence? no novel...
hence(?)                  poetry...

sketches...
     the consort of thought...
there is no other,
and there is no...
poetry is no art,
there is no ars poetica...

   Heidegger appreciates
Hölderlin...
a poem is not a *******
rhyme worth a pence
for a ******* postcard... savvy?!

where philosophy dictates
a wall,
   poetry dictates
a brick...
    when "things" become
too... inedible...
people start to flirt with
vegetarianism...

      but said "things" are: edible...
yet...
   poorly manifest
in the dignity they
demand...
   say... a hunted boar
is a tad bit higher
in the hierarchy of tiers
when man
compensates
   the boar with
a caged chicken...

                    and what of
cultural Darwinism?
the same... the same unit of man,
as bothered by:
how German and French
existentialism / humanism,
became the Anglo-Zaz
futurism / economics of:
always the pristine
                German and Chinese
labor...

          i guess some people
have no notion
of either slavery or liberty,
as much: a soul
or boredom...
        only the English
brought about a concept
that overpowered a concern
for worth, in ethic
(with a missing S) -

                                   or not...
deutsche? arbeit!
   chinesisch? arbeit!
the English? flirt...
flirt with nebuchadnezzar...
and let the jew mystify
everything, pact universal.

my, my disembodiment...

       Λ:

  no... not V...    not 5...
   somehow not A either...

                 two eyes
and a pointer...
no... not the nose...
rather... an imagined horn /
honing device...
as in?

   not the automated nature
of the brain,
jellyfish soap opera...
fungus marionnette...

       m'ah ******* forehead...
Λ = oculus + fore'      'ed
   (Cockney gapoos)

   V = oculus + shut mouth
+ wry & wormly numb-tongue

    or the Welsh salute at
the French... in loan a broan
post bow set loose...
arrow: pointy thing...

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

(which is an authentic pause...
filled with
fiddling with my beard)

   like sticking
a stick into a river
       and expecting it
to change course...
    
   a wild idea,
  but...
        some insanities
are adhered to...
   Xerxes "thought"
  the lashing the sea...
           a blind
convent of all
our hearts' content:
life -
or no life:

            a bothersome
clause...
    
                         an intimidating
yawn...
       a bloated
saturation of filth
in a sieve...

                           with a childish
kaleidoscope of causes...

   the:  ergo ad continuum
of science...
a *******'s worth
of existential glue.
Michael T Chase Feb 2021
How do I put away words when they can spread maturity?
How can I exercise deeds when wisdom doesn't call for them?
How can thoughts ever have effect if they are not cognised into words or deeds?
How can objects of the macro level ever be justified if they are not used at the macro level?
How can minutia ever be justified if they are not employed in technology?
A quantum computer on every phone or in every home by the time I die!
How can prayer ever be worthwhile it doesn't inspire these things?
Who will be an exponent of knowledge in a field of ignorance where each person must criticize another knowledge to build up there's?
The school of life is full of naysayers.
It is also full of special interests who wish to keep me questioning the dignity of dignified politics.

The world needs unity, our President has propounded.
Yet who am I to set forth ideas for laws?
I am a vessel for love, for idealism.
How do I spread idealism, when my deeds say "moderation"?
Smoking cigarettes, non-alcoholic beer, **** art, *******, and God forbid: coffee!
On the other side: vitamins, vegetarianism, exercise, meditation, martial arts, math, and science.
For some reason I have a picture that idealism equals fundamentalism.
When in reality idealism is love and unity.

When spoken of as love for God shared with others, love can be a foreign word.
If God can never, ever be fully seen or known, wouldn't the only love of God be love of humanity?
Also, when knowledge is the main focus of life, love loses meaning and love is love of knowledge, while any other love than this is petty.
There is also love of excellence.

From a child it was the admiration of a kind one, an athlete, a musician, and artist.
It soon turned into a love of companionship, both friendship and romantic.
Yet due to my diverse nature, I found no one to share a moderate life with.
So I turned to companionship centered on alcohol and drugs.
Then I finally realised it was really just love of drugs that kept us together, and that without them I was as nothing to them.
So friendship ext became a sort of intuition.
The institution of religion.
Where even the proximity of a religious person was as dear friendship to me.
And any differences between us were joys of freedom of belief.

Next, without school or work I was as an outcast, because religious friends are interested in my work for humanity or too often an outer institution of knowledge.
With no compass for even writing down my thoughts to give me confidence, I did the only thing I could: I copied an Isaac Asimov introductory physics book word for word.
Physics my senior year created such a love for physics that my only dear expression was in copying that book.

Then, one night I realised I could copy Holy Scripture to strengthen my virtue.
And with one copy of a verse, my world came caving in.
My newfound spiritual power found the only avenue for my ignorance in violence toward my father.
I was hospitalized for mental health at 19.
First I argued with the staff thinking I didn't need medication.
Then I realised that cooperation was the only road out of the hospital.
I became docile and sedate.
My first day out my father recommended that I start his style of meditation.
Previously I had wanted to do my own style of meditation, but when I shared my insights with him, I was met with: "That's not what so and so teaches".

Now I found myself docile enough to begin his meditation.
After three months I felt focused and one-pointed.
After 18 months I had my first enlightenment experience.
Then, after I continued, The meditation started to make my strong and capable virtues waste away.
I was, unknown or rather known to me, a prisoner of my meditation.
My fields of study changed form music to philosophy and religion.
I moved away from home.
I worked unrelated jobs.
Then, due to my interest in spirituality, I entered an unaccredited spiritual school.

They challenged me to practice different techniques of inspiration, meditation, concentration, journaling, and diet.
I felt it was time to change my meditation practice which I by then had fully assimilated form my father.
But now I differentiated form him.
I used my own eyes like they had never been used before.
I finished a higher college degree.
I got married.
Then I was tested harder than I ever had been, and still never was.
I battled for normalcy by going off my medication ending up estranged in jail, only to come out with a wife who filed for divorce.
With her unforgiving and weak heart, never wanting to see a husband go through such tests again, the marriage ended.

I at once felt cut off from the world and became depressed.
Now on two meds I once again managed my life on my own.
I worked while going back to school to study electronics.
Afterwards, my interest in physics grew and grew.
I devoured all I could in my free time away from my job.
Then work was taking me too far away from my studies, so weirdly enough I had a back/hernia problem at work, which caused me to quit.
That same week my roommate, a best friend, had moved out of state, my cat who was catching mice for another fiend wasn't allowed back into my apartment by management, and my grandad had died not too long before.
I was weak, exhausted, felt displaced, and companionless.
I immediately took a 90-mile Uber trip to my dad's.

He let me study without a job for three months until I felt my life wasn't progressing without a job.
Two jobs later I find myself as a dishwasher/deliver/food prep worker at an upscale restaurant.
With blue collar humor mixed with female energy, it is quite exciting on busy nights.

Almost 21 years since I finished my first physics class, with an electronics degree, and over six years of self-study, I have little to show the world of my love for this knowledge of math and physics.
With Grassmannian geometry, momentum event horizons, and galaxies moving in all directions at all accelerations, with the inconceivability of witnessing a graviton, and the cover up of the US government reverse engineering extra-terrestrial technology.
With local laws helping free us from the grid being squashed by state governments, and thousands of secret patents, and inventors killed.
I can hardly make any ethical movement in technology and science without first coming to terms with the Native American, Black, and Hispanic brothers ans sister being systematically devalued, while women don't have equal pay with men.
So my mind wishes to grapple with science while in reality that path can hardly be entertained, or entertained only as an outlet for curiosity.

Meanwhile, seeing with my own spiritual eyes, my meditations have developed into a kind of zen, although I have no formal teaching in it.
There must be a grimy, non-theatrically saucy way to gratify, for 55
minutes, a woman sexually like Béla Lugosi did when he was alive
working as a working worker bee in a working worker bee bee hive
Bill Clinton's trucking dad died because Billy Rockefeller was born
so that Arkansas bath houses hosting *** *** antics could film ****
Somehow my **** lard **** ain't getting no thinner on a 7-day daily
diet of ham hocks, pork rinds & chocolate-syrup sundaes for dinner
on the 7 steps to Zoubek's Memorial to the Victims of Communism
I shall show love for chewing chewy carrots with vegetarianism, or
I'll choose a chewy Cuban ****** chaos for chewin' chewy carrots
with Castro's 1959 call for a cruel & cruddy Marxian vegetarianism
that'd be Cuba's revolutionary means to spoil Haitian egalitarianism
for forgetful amnesiacs who can not recall unrecalled amnesia at all
Ryan O'Leary Apr 2021
If Brontosaurs Rex was still around, we would never
get to harvest the apples from our French Golden
delicious Trees x 2 that I brought from Provence.

Extinction is in ratio with evolution, natures culling,
the perfect balance, but what would be ideal, is if
there were no humans, a flattening of the pyramid.

But as the animal kingdom began loosing their portion
of the equilateral in this equity equation, nature once
again arbitrated and created an appetite for vegetarianism.

So, you see, everything will happen without our intervention,
it always has and stocks replenish because of the invisible
moratorium which we are all participating in, it's a universal law.

As for global warming, again there is this wonderful
thermostatically controlled system of a hemispherical
differential which we call night/winter against day/summer.

And Covid, surely it is better than war, modern war may
not be the way to go, so again, population control will be
looked after, nature will find another way to imbalance us.

The earth shows up those of value
and those who are good for nothing.
Qualyxian Quest Apr 2023
The vegetarianism mostly Quixotic
The animals get slaughtered and slaughtered
Predatory terror
Life as horror story

Buddhist monks in forest
And temple
And palace
And hut

A poet of place
Her face!
Her name
O glory!

The imaginary becomes real
She dances
She sings
She teaches

                      What?
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
The vegetarianism mostly Quixotic
The animals get slaughtered and slaughtered
Predatory terror
Life as horror story

Buddhist monks in forest
And temple
And palace
And hut

A poet of place
Her face!
Her name
O glory!

The imaginary becomes real
She dances
She sings
She teaches

                      What?
Qualyxian Quest May 2020
Arthur Schopenhauer
Philosopher of Pessimism
Admirer, like me,
Of Plato, India, Buddhism
Sympathizer to the suffering
Of non-human animals
(me also, hence my return
to vegetarianism)

He concluded
After surveying mostly
European and Asian history
That no woman
Ever created
A single enduring work of art

He always puts the Man first

Mr. Schopenhauer of Frankfurt
Meet Ms. Dickinson of Amherst
James Daniel Feb 16
I've had many teachers
But one of my favourites
Or most memorable
Was Clive Wansborough

He was my Year 9 English teacher
He said you could call him Clive

We had argumentative debates
About Jimi Hendrix,
Electronic music
The Smiths and vegetarianism

We started each class with a meditation
Closing your eyes
Filling your lungs to 75% capacity
In and out
Relaxing, the sound of his voice
Counting you into relaxation

He said I'd written the best piece of writing
He'd read in 10 years
About my experiences in Little Athletics
Being afraid of the finishing line
Afraid that it would clothesline me

I think I had a **** in his class once
Pearse and I were mucking around in front
Uncontrollable teenage hormones
Reading ***** literature

But I felt creative in his class
I wrote about a river flowing
from your mind down your arm
And into your pen

And I think he quoted it
When he said something like
If you don't know where to begin
Or don't know what to say
Just write
Just write
That was Clive's advice
clearly they're scared of the impeding gravitas... at Wembley... well... if i was this lowly exit steward once, then plain ol' dandy... then supervisor of stewards, then a supervisor of the response team... and now they're asking me to be a quadrant manager... the security industry is not a career (reiterate: there is no career prospect in the security industry) - and rising in rank is not something to be glorified... but here's the burden and apparently i'm competent to be able to do: human-chess... but the subterfuge of people with absolutely no skills: no skills in construction, no skills in culinary expeditions... which later translates as no competence in giving people instructions in a mild-mannered deviation from having authority... but here i am... the first time out of a school environment of climbing ladders and it's just like school... the horror...

so i get technological paranoia... sue me...
a 502 bad gateway
of a page shutting down is
me at my most orientating pristine...
but then i share a picture of my ***...

thirst for squabble:
she's demanding triangles
and squares and circles of me:
something geometrically defining
my construct
in the confines of a female psyche...
so we playfully argue
like she does pretty much
all the arguing being half
Puerto Rican
and i'm like: o.k.
for the juicy peach of an ***
i get to RAM...
i'm not arguing...
as long as i can think about
making a pasta Carbonara
the next day
and think of eggs
and slugs
and *** and **** juices
then some blood...
and how she only recently told me:
well you know that i've done
****...
like me being upfront about
trying out a ******* and for
the love of god
the next time i ingest that suggestion
of... "feeling like a king"
just because:
i could swear i didn't ask
for a *******
i was almost pressured into
claiming that whisper:
but it wasn't true:
i didn't feel like a king:

threesomes are for petty thieves
who cannot reside in the confines
of a harem...
the rest revolves around
the dynamite of monogamy...
the nobility of monogamy:
the triviality explained: celebrated:
of monogamy...
like her falling asleep with
her daughter falling asleep
and me on the other side of the telephone:
not trying to fall asleep:
now that! that was a *******!

to have that sort of pairing of mother
and daughter knowing
full well the daughter is not even a taboo
but a sanctity...
taboos and sanctity...
strange how a plural of the latter word
doesn't really: "figure itself out"...

but how i love these petty arguments:
you cut me off,
not saying: i'll be back in a minute:
well mother called and she wanted
me to take a picture of a hospital appointment
letter...

i knew there was something wrong
with those brakes:
there was too much tension
on the wire...
i might have been a fool trying to take
off the cassette...
******* up my wheel then gleefully
basking in my intelligence's impotence:
but breaks and break wires i can figure out...
too much tension:
that's why whenever i squeezed
one side: the right side
of the brake would leech onto the wheel
and create a friction:
since there was too much tension on the wire
there was not enough REFLEX...

the most important aspect of dealing
with a subject matter of revising
a bicycle is:
you need the proper tools:
i can't stress how much ******* i received
from myself
for not having the right wrench or
the right spanner etc
to improvise with a bite of tongs
is not a way to revise:
i don't need to have shoe guards on those peddles!
what if i get "confused"
by the spin and i'm at a roundabout
and i need to press hard
on the peddles to engage the traffic
and almost be grinding my teeth
at the start of a race at a velodrome?!
apparently the force that needs to be
exerted on those bicycles is
equivalent to someone pushing a car
while reclining on their back...
well **** me: i'd love to ride
a 55,000 quids worth of a bicycle
more than i'd want to drive a Ferrari...

ah... the ******-Catharsis Complex
of the Anti-Oedipus scrutiny...
perhaps... but no...
it feels less and less like i want
to **** my grandmother and more and more
a relative concise: precision-marker
of wanting to **** my grandmother:
in terms of the body-volume
voluptuous scandal...
like pears, peaches,
oysters... slugs...
                   cushions...
                         clouds...   chicken hearts...
squish squish... octopuses...
kittens...
   cannibals exposed
to civilization and vegetarianism...
then losing the plot with veganism...
anemic vampires...
     haemophilia...
                       someone fainting seeing blood...
needle poison...

not so much public as it is cryptic
or perhaps i don't really mind
that i see people see me **** her
in my mind:
they're not actually going to see me ****
her just me thinking about:
for the time being:
next time i do i'll open up a champagne
bottle and call it a new year's eve party...
until then
we have to spice life up with
little agitations to sense a wonder
for the status quo:
otherwise it's not going to work...
but little agitations i can stomach:
like a steak tartar...

but how she managed to convince me
that i'm parasite riddled
how i have worms wriggling
in my agitated ****: tingling ****:
well... if you're scared of me licking
it and you enjoy it:
then you might as well know that
you're riddle with pin-worms!
yes! you are! riddled with pin-worms!
am i?
what?! just because i felt sort
of weird about you licking my ****
out oh the power play
so now i have to concede:
because i get to get off licking your ****
out...
but i've never experienced ****
and you have
and maybe if i wasn't so *******
vanilla i might be inclined to be gay
and maybe i should ask someone to
stick their fingers up my oblique
of a mouth:
and test for the existence of a prostate!

like a fish needs a bicycle
like a tortoise needs
a cupboard.

— The End —