i once loved, and it's a shame to
agree to: better have loved and lost,
than to have not loved at all.
and as i browse the pages of
a saturday newspaper article
i like to think about virology applied
to mental illness...
and how they: life is ****
   story could really be a viral infection...
i don't know, it's not exactly
h.i.v.,
                oh i can contain my own
*******, i'm writing it on the flag
of colour white,
next time you get a brain haemorrhage
and then get diagnoses as schizophrenic:
i'll take you the crucifix on golgotha:
and imbed your head into
the cross... silent anger, contained:
and all the more concern for inhibited
humour... because as Borat said: jak sie mash:
i like. so please, don't tell me
you weren't gagging for the new golgotha...
because i wasn't...
         and i know, most of the time i have
my mouth attached to a head of a struś
gagging himself in a pit of sand...
yes an ostrich, the grand inspiration for
francis bacon attempts to redefine geometry...
oh coming out of communism and into
capitalism, for a kid?, can be a rough ride...
you don't know what ideology to appease
and what ideology to dictate...
         but i'm wondering whether or not
mental illness can have the potency to
        become virus-like...
     and drain,
and i mean: drain the soul out of you...
or whether man as mammal ever did exist...
or whether this new fashion of
feline existentialism can ever take off,
narratives about spending time with your
bonsai tiger... you'd really think japan was
a bit freakish... but it just has a large
ageing population and no one thinks
that euthanasia is a standard of humanism,
unlike ******* ***** into a face of
a woman... because right there, no
one died... if had any of those anemic
tadpoles actually lived...
    which brings this about to concern me:
so... we live for nine months, in, let's
basically say: in an environment without
oxygen, you got gills stashed in there
with that umbilical chord...
how can it ever be a miracle of birth...
that's what a god might say...
a human would look at it and say:
huh? you joking? i'm part of this horror?
     but not until you have a brain
haemorrhage and get diagnosed as schizoid
and then you think: so what was the point
of forgiving your enemies come into this?
      i can't believe it has become so, so personal,
to actually have this nagging, decapitated
doll-head on your shoulder telling you to:
repeat! repeat!
       i could literally be writing this in
Auschwitz and be like: Neddy needs a jumper
and a diaper... cos like that really needs
you to fathom the logic of assembling an
Ikea chair...
                          i mean, talking in the west
is a bit like farting into a hippotamous' nostril
for a ******* jackuzi effect...
  jack! i said ***! what's with this jacuzzi?
English, mein gott... confusion everywhere
you pigeon **** onto a top-hat.
by the way: everyone becomes
dyslexic on the word hippopotamus -
there's a reason why hippos exist...
        you want acronyms, you get shortening...
and yes, since english society has abolished
asylums, the society has become a breeding
ground for asylum instigators,
rich russians, bewildered chienese...
it's en masse, one, massive, cesspit...
   i mean the part where you don't get the brown
steamturd floating about like some
  celebrity you'd love to slap with much
more than mere paparazzi epilepsy...
because violence matters, esp into language games...
i was just asking, because there i was,
working on a roof on some construction site,
and she calls me up and says that
she hears voices...
          that's what i mean certain mental
delinquents and their choice of Samaritan...
  what does a roofer know about "voices"
if it doesn't equate to a bad conscience?
    that's why i'm wondering whether certain mental
illnesses have a virus-like profanity attached to them...
oh yes yes, the unison: bob marley: we're one
type of ******* to boot, like i'm supposed to get
a hardy and a 'ard on about it...
               ******* spoof of a light-bulb moment: PING!
and there... ain't that just dazzling?
phantasmagorical blurp at the feet of
Eros at Piccadilly Circus... my ego is a canon
that just simply shoots out viagras! and questions.
and yes... that's what we call being part
of the clown...
    and if there's a lord of flies...
what's the guy mentioned by beelzebub drunk
doing about the mosquitos?
           ah... boundless at the crucix, once more!
i'm just wondering where
does mental illness become solipsism,
  and when in fact it becomes a sort of virology...
   i can romanticise mental illness as a type
of solipsism, that it has a cage, that it can be contained...
but when mental illness goes outside of the novel,
strolls outside its cage and becomes
something akin to kissing a *****,
     i want to know.... because i swear i have been
affected by someone's mental illness being
hidden in the shadow of taboo...
   look... i'm ******* exfoliating with vocab!
        how can you become normal after someone
exposes you the symptom of "voices"...
that's demeaning given the past history of
having relationships with angels and demons,
that's like a neuter noun.... voices brings up
more concern for a pronoun-****-up than
a clear, noun association... angels, sure,
i could start looking more closely at pigeons...
demons, doubly sure, i could start
chasing bats...
              but i need to know whether mental
illness is worthy of taboo, i.e. it's worth
the category of being physical, in that it can be
contagious... whether it can act like a virus....
whether it can become an epidemic...
    and to be honest, i think it can,
but that seems pointless, since western society
has exchanged asylums for taboo...
                  look at me now,
a once budding roofer, reduced to writing poetry,
i might as well be an ******...
            safe-guarding king Solomon's harem...
oh sure, eunuchs were able to **** his *** slaves...
they were slaves themselves,
what they weren't allowed is to usurp
    the ******* crown of the king passing his
d.n.a., mind the frivolity, never the seriousness
of geneticist, yawning when their genesis was to come...
    i'd love to see hans andersen on the trail of
dolly... the sheep... and dolly really does become
a trinity of animal prior to human in the out-reaches...
what with laika (man's best friend)
and later fiztgerald... oh wait (man's worst enemy,
the money) Baker....
   thanks to de Sade and baron Sacher-Masoch
we could truly begin the orthodox occult of science...
   how the two patron "saints"
interpolate... it really is a dualism worthy of
dangling a crucifix... shame the first monkey in
space wasn't called Brian...
    i don't know, then, perhaps, the Caesars at
the coliseum wouldn't boast so much about
   the: lacking the ambidable thumb
(yes!) googlewhack no. 4 / 5 -
mandible thumb you idiot! d'uh...
but still, a googlewhack at the end of it...
type in: lacking the ambidable thumb
and, yes = 1 result in the google algorithm...
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Have-Thumb-Deformity/728760,
i call this the alternative version of, or rather,
the digital version of fishing...
     a tail like a thumb, the grip baron...
   but my peacocking the tongue shouldn't
be deemed as: straitjacket panic button prone...
  why would it?
****! he used the colour azure in his blue period,
that picasso did! chain him! gag him!
stash him in a kitchen stove!
i mean the inspection of genuine viriology
dynamic concerning mental illness,
the anti-thesis of solipsism, as the proper counter...
or should i say: membrane / barrier?
    can mental illness make ranks, i.e. spread?
like a virus can?
            well, if you take to explaining a zeitgeist...
ideology akin to communism and ****** can
become virus-akin... so i guess... yes...
it had to become a self-serving question easily
answered... mental illness can be very much
akin to a common cold... it's not really a case of taboo
being the lock-and-key to contain it...
nor the asylum... i suppose the best prescription
is the idea of solipsism...
              but isn't this grand,
i'm actually lethargic, coinciding with
    a tax on robots... and the French slashing
their 35 hour working weeks to 32 hours...
    and the Finns paying their unemployed
    (2K, placebo dosage for the actual
   237,000 unemployed) - a random €560 a month...
such are the times...
           it really has become a sort of
year 0 orientation lesson... because it's just
gagging for a guillotine to snap it awake,
so a decapitated head of Charles I at Whitehall might
say it's final farewell...
              and is mental illness capable of
being akin to a viral infection...
     it probably can... you probe the waters in an
environment of poets... they're good enough
to succumb to a white rabbit experiment...
              question is: do you apply the rule
of solipsism or an actual asylum? in a post-asylum
society, i don't think there's an option
whether solipsism should, or shouldn't be used
to counter the more serious form of the flu...
   but, as ever, it comes down to the age-old
cartesian model of dualism... or as any siamese twin
might attest: i'm not that further away from
my sister as you might think...
  the dualism that served so well for so many years
to appear "peaceful" became a real dichotomy...
  the ergo suddenly failed... when people realised
that the fact "i think" didn't necessarily
precipiate into "i am"... given what the media is
interested in, and how many people become missing
and all that... the numbers were too much
for player uno to simply give up the canvas
of newspapers and t.v. to some poor schmuck
trying to impregnate his canvas on which he worked
his paint-brush (power) and paint (wealth) onto...
   the cartesian ergo simply failed...
    oh sure, the other two facts worked... but they
didn't necessarily congregate universally
in the crux of ergo,
        i was told it would be a monsoon of thought
established on earth... instead i got a light-shower
   and the Gobi desert.
in the same way the subconscious exists
as a fake of the trinity...
           to me it has no need for a chisel...
as a realm... treat the conscious as a realm
akin to Hades, and it becomes wholly
de-personalised... there's not individual in it
that might require it... it's a covert mechanism
of subterfuge... but if we're talking
making rabbit heads with our hands
   in the shadow form... we're talking
nothing but puppeteering...
   or like saying, let's create an evolved
version of the definite (the) and the indefinite (a)
article...
                      well... there must be
a direct and an indirect article...
                well there is...
con                                 and sub-con,
       un-con is an indiscriminate article...
meaning: what are the evolutionary gains
of dreaming, given the cinema?

.pr.s.: well... if i am deluded? can i claim melancholly to be of equal ontological excuse to a flu... and say: i was infected by a mental illness? and there was never some, "mythical" origin of the illness... as you're sure i'm aware, i do not associate mental illness as having origin in a genesis of solipsism... there's nothing Kantian about it... for me... mental illness is very much an extension of virology... but this be the tempus for the crux of the body contra mind dichotomy... which since the 17th century hasn't been resolved... or has been... by the zombie squadron of the pharma-ingesting spooks of: awaiting a phobia of the white-coats urban myths... of course i fall to sleep thinking about killing someone... why wouldn't it? i end up eating a chicken the next day... what's the difference of a "somebody" for the worth of "something"?

whiskey,
           KMFDM...
very much akin
to ready to blow...

   nine inch nails...

the kids and the punk
and what
was industrial rigid...

and "being" white...
well...
if we're all going
to geneology
the whole "concern"
for history:

originating from
a people
with not tabloid
literature
having succumbed
to colonialization...

"save" the white women...
what?!
with not asian fetish?!
who, are, you?
teenage suicides
engaging in social
media...

             well...
Freddy Mercury was
just revived via:
another bites the dust...

what's agitating?
the inactive presence
of a screen,
that, i somehow need
to make tattoo of...

scripted rhapsody of
the believable people...
like:
people who arm their
psychology with
the orientation
of... "petting" tarantulas
or boa snakes...
touch all you want:
but try a second time
to extract character
and behavioural nuance
from these... "things"...

me?
voluntary celibate...
cenobite *** a
lost leash of leather straps...
every time i ****
off: the hand
becomes the ****...
grip and no soft pouch
of a cuddle of
****** in,
either lip, or...
no... i don't know
what a "missing"
******* feels like...

punk bores me...
punk always bored me...
esp.when championed
by commentators
alligned to...

do you know what
the entry criterion
for the proud boys
was?
   being punched...
no... not on the face...
and having to remember
a recital
of the pleb's favorite
cereal brands...

how about a new
limbo for the "worth"
of entry...

punching yourself
in the face
20+ times...
and then remaining silent...
while the history
of your mother's
****** exploits is
revealed to you
by your grandmother...

how's that?
i pet a cat, i *******,
shape of the water
(females *******),
i take a ****,
i take a ****:
yeah... sorry..
no scented candles,
no internet cameras...
did i coincide with
jordan b. peterson:
yes...
i will never **** these
women...
given they're
**** actresses from
the 1970s...

i, like: vintage...
quirky hair
with the...
gob's worth of *******'s
worth of scrap...
and a bullion
of throbbing quirk
looping lips...
  
i have assimilated
over 20 years in england,
3 years in scotland...
being asked: where are you
from?
like some ******* tourist...
****** me off...

was i going anywhere?
or... point being:
am i, "anywhere"?
ah...
so i am nowhere:
so reading Heidegger makes
a lot of sence, then?
given that
                    no
is no sein
          and that...
as much of where
                    is "there"...

but this sort of pedantic
address for the use of language,
does translate into
the habitual, and the "readily" given
use, concerning the "idle"
hands of a plumber...

a lay-job contra
the pedantic interest...
well... sure...
              we can succumb
to investigating contrasts
that are not worth the while
for being 2 x 2 rubric
statements...
having lost purpose
as 2 x 3...

thus, at times...
i almost forget...
      time...
                 that precedence
hierarchy...
  the precedence membrane
of who are allocated
the purpose of being
contemporary...

   i... somehow...
forget to dismember
the cradle mimic sound
of insect
(entombed in the cracking
wood),
with the rattling sound
of a lizard limbo...
to the R of the trill...
like... what gives off the same
found of creaking
footsteps,
or the burning of wood...
close approximate...

yet there are some people
who i know are not
deserving of a precedence
whether in hierarchy or...
but these people will
congest themselves
to a bite-luck quest
of argument in reproductive-recreation...
so?
failure escapes them
now...
   failure?
           will not escape them...

greeks might have
"invented"
1 + 1 = 2...
no argument, loose association...
but the hindu theologial
rubric, stating:

evil deed + apathy = good eventuality
                                       for all...
  is necessarily false,
is worth being negated...
i like the Hindu algebra
of time being both:
expansive, & constrictive...

    "my" world?
has already disappeared...
   by coincidence...
i've watched how...
            
    no... i'm not here to make sense,
to invest in a non-empirican
standard of a (0, 0) vortex
of beginning:
clinging to being perpetually
cleaned...
  amnesia-ridden...

         and even if i let my
ailment be known "to" or
"in", "public"...
                              the life of
a baker, or a butcher...
can't become overtly,
  "complicated"...
unless it's a genetic anomaly...
because a flu...
is a type of virsus...
poly-morph...
that is never...
    translated from person
to person...
mental illnesses are
never deemed worthy
of the strict scrutiny of
virology...
like...
all of thinking is safe...
and is not ridden with
       pathology...
  like... mental illness
is a hubris of medicine...
   like: all of medicine is
only physical,
and no metaphysics is handy...
how...
      
     like... mental illness is
such a pathology,
such a fetish,
that... it cannot be correlated
to something,
aking to the phenomenon
of propaganda...
  sure...
           the common flu...
i know where my mental "illness"
stems from...
a russian girlfriend...
who told me...
she was abducted as a child,
and *****,
and what not...
trying to excavate
an ******* from me...

mental illness?
   well... bilingual is the new ******...
and any personal
interaction is: worthy of
the... very understanding public...
you know what song
i have, to rely to lodged
in my mind?

   rob zombie's - michael...

me?
     yeah, i know:
a beard doesn't make a man...
then again...
i rather be subject to
something being itchy,
than itch for something...

proud boys:
you sure you joined the right club?
what... entry level of:
get punched by the "sharks"
having to cite breakfast cereals?!
wha......?
    it's like i'm tied with
this chick from Siberia...
    and i can't get be rid of her!
it's like:
we married...
   upon the cranium ring
of death being part of
our ceremony of fingers...
she ****** around,
i went to the *******...
   it's like: that ******* giggle of her's?
that **** is haunting...
russian milk skin...
some new variant of aristocracy...

so... proud boys...
get punched giving names of breakfast
cereals?!
right...

ever punch yourself in the face
to the point of giving 'erself
a plum-shadow?
****! better rewrite than in
"english":

          pflaumeschatten;

oh i'm married...
i'm ******* certain of it...
but the priest
wasn't a closet pedohpile...
it was whoever
the it that strangulates
my he to she and
her she to my she
of a St. Mort... or death...
yeah...
i'm married: post-scriptum...

punch yourself in the head
20 times for a black-eye,
and then tell me:
there is not an element
of virology
worth being investigated
in the realm
of mental illness...
common flue...
and...
being a girl who says prior
to wanting to *******:
i was abused as a child,
i was molested...

better death being the *******
priest
than some *******
dog-wishing leash of a:
scuttle for words & worms...

she can be as *******
randy as hell...
while i can have the "pleasure"
of having kissed several
prostitutes...
   marriage, inverted...
because i just can't stop
myself from seeing similarities
in...
   the public realm...
of...

the foul breath of the other's
ego...
  ****** for biling.
   psychotic for by 'er ego
  'ur ego too...
         it's like a marriage
of the anti-materialists,
the wedding ring of paupers...

mentall illness is so funny...
when having to compensate
its difficulty,
with the "difficulty"
of having to attire oneself
with the role of
being a supermarket cashier...

it's like:
this is medicine, yes?
so... what isn't metaphysics,
isn't exactly mental illness,
but a meta-illness...
  so... the orthodoxy of the scalpel...
heeeeeeeeeeeeeeee heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
******* fairground!
let's do circles and zigzags!

and that one *****
that told herself:
                   i have to get away....
my love has a grave
and i ****** well hope
there's only her name
on the crux of the marble...
and her ghost
******* my dead body
to boot.

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.

papa internet goes wacko with his cybernetic compulsory
esoteric ****, says words like: the person who's to go against
the holy trinity (minus the surd no one really bothers) is no longer
a Jungian fantasy, the trigger and
the detonator of world war une and part deux,
but the paraclete isn't a person of much
relief either - cold war une and part deux -
right now, china's expressionless billion -
you squint, they look sober,
you drink, they look squinty eyed,
can't winde up that cold heart readied for
a billion polymath antonyms of your self
in automaton mobility -
compared with the fragile western championing
of individuality, China looks like a billion
despots morphed into one, you can't win.
back to Catholic bureucracy:
that's two names at your baptism -
matthew, conrad - and a third
at your confirmation (which i never
had, scouts' honour, cross my fingers
mea culpa my heart and count to 100)
would have been: Shiva -
the auspicious son returns -
well, **** me, canned peaches
and some apples and the NATO
phonetic: will you be my bride?
that's a thumbs up on the Rockefeller Sq.;
Isis: blatant espionage: mother of Horus
sister of Osiris - and i'm the Duracell bunny,
******* a clone sheep with a ***** dummy eject;
******, ***** strap-on, thingy magic eek (
the fidgety bit of putting together an Ikea table
for high tea).
you never went to a faith high-school
you never got to grips with the uniform,
or the bureaucracy, some of it invented
to simply rebel against it -
not the uniform bit, i thought that
was clean, in terms of non-discrimination
and how trans gets gendered as both, or neither
being allocated the chance to foster
would-be abortions.
hey! if Elton John can have a telly-tubby, so can i!
but this isn't your song...
and you just made an effort to scrap the idea
of singing in a shower -
poetry is never a sing-along, more or less
a thought-along - thought... a word masturbated a lot...
and i meant a lot - esp. when you're day-dreaming
and nothing you think precipitates into being
what you were thinking about -
so anti Cartesian, fair enough, thinking can precipitate
into a centimetre definition, a centimetre allowance,
self-consciousness bit - but beyond this fact
it's back to square one, daydreaming,
the disagreeing fact of thinking but not being,
or not thinking and being: the latter reserved for
entertainers and sports -
this is the secondary stage of the Cartesian realisation
that Descartes didn't mention... when thinking
does not precipitate into being - secondary meaning
a telepathic joke - or the men that stare at sheep
in the U.S. army and think they can run through walls...
of course the classical model involves the easiest
explanation, ergo as in +, -, x, ÷, take whatever metaphors
from this tetrasignum you want on a vacation into
psychiatry, i'm not one schizoid moment bothered
about firebombing Dresden either (slaughterhouse 5),
it's true enough to say that thought proves existence,
but thinking doesn't necessarily prove being -
whatever that means - it's the daydreaming bit
of the equation - Descartes is really a primer for
the study of philosophy, even Kant comes back to
this vocabulary arithmetic - as does Heidegger with
his bemusement: when people say "i, i",
cognitive identity and otherwise expressed.
the roads are divergent, or let us say the one's
origin from nothing leads to no big bang,
let us just say: a personal rebellion, not so much
that one precipitates into another,
let's just say that the ergo is worth replacing,
given our daydreams... and the fortune of never
realising our fancies... or as some might claim:
our misfortune of not realising our fancies, but
having a personal life without a media microscope
itemising our every movement... poly-diadem
dictator of western media:
                                                cogito para sum.
or, as stated by the benzene trinity affixes -
inclusive ortho- and meta-, obviously shortened
for liquid extraction - or the quip -
as in para: guard against, | |... interjecting / intersecting, i.e.
the suffix -llel (closure? not really, it could be
a nuanced noun, category affix, less familial concerns -
ah yes, an affix -llel, a suffix is a complete word:
pre- agaro -suf phobia, till the no. xi).
so a step beyond the cul de sac of Descartes -
the daydreaming part, when indeed thought materialises
into artificial intelligence simulators concerned
with the question of self-consciousness, paradoxical twins,
where thought materialises into its existential recipient standard
of never fulfilled, always unfulfilled, always demanding...
the bemoaned culture gap between youtube videos going
viral and virology on a canvas of infected flesh -
so forget the Cartesian cascade, that thinking will precipitate
into being of some sort, given current care for celebrity
culture we can't be assorting this equation with a rational
sequence, or the "as it should be", that train is long gone...
we need to defend ourselves against the precipitation of
thought into non-being - to regain a pleasure from mere thought...
not every thought will leave us richer off or as start-up
entrepreneurs - hence the need for non-materialisation,
our perfected mechanisation - the daydream - oh don't worry,
i'm not writing this from an ivory tower...
i have a constant fear too... but this ergo of 1 + 1 + 1 = 3
will not do... hence the revision, as all philosophical
standards are cared for akin to Renaissance canvases -
                                                               ­             cogito para sum:
that my thinking parallels my being - as i indulge in the former
and economise in the latter.

what terrible news, the marx in me said it true, article heading: mental health gets only 1% of council tax...£664 million a year on ****** health... £111 million on tackling obesity. here’s a simpler explanation... c.d. is part of hardware... mp3 is soft-ware... get a scratched c.d. and turn the hardware into software... then put the virus mp3 onto an iPod, which is hardware... then watch the technological virology take over... the host hardware will break, given that the parasitic software is implanted from a sick hardware it was copied from.*

i was redecorating my mother’s living room,
for a handshake and the prize:
don’t interrupt my drinking pattern, woman please!
so i found to ancient scribbles of paint,
but then hid them like a treasure chest...
i also found the vol. no. 2 of kant’s critique of pure reason
under one of the pieces of furniture...
over a year i lost it... blamed everyone i knew...
but in reality the realisation came when i rekindled
the bookmark coordinate:
it took me two conscious years to read heidegger’s opus,
consciously defined by reading poetry on the sly...
with kant i ended my reading with the introduction of hegel:
antonyms of a pure mind - the third conflict between transcendental ideas -
i got the antithesis straight away... mainly because it spoke of freedom...
while the thesis spoke of the laws of nature and 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
0 central...
it spoke of sequencing of events... it spoke of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
as paradoxical of 2, 3, 4, 5... and 3, 4, 5 and 4, 5, and 5.
i think i better translate this passage to exemplify the point...
i lost kant for over a year and the **** sizzled...
i kept heidgegger for a year and i came out wondering
why it should take someone 15 years to study aristotle by the man’s suggestion,
so i had myself the alternative:
philosophy begins with awe... well... so does tourism.
let's just say there are corridors at the junction...
we say i almost pickled a cat's paw with wet cinnamon
or ketchup to imprint a paw-print with the gaff quote:
i was here, i found the sound meow inexplicable,
incomprehensible... given the human complications,
i decided to utilise meow with randomisation away
from my superior intuition... whereby the phoneticism
of meow was less than my eyesight and hearing...
so i announced the whiskers and fur and snake-eye in mammal
with a meow... i used meow to communicate with the complex
vowel-consonant reason, but i found my intuition
in rachmaninoff's vocalise wordless song... with my ear against
the radio dreaming away... so said man un-attentive of me...
that i managed to mingle my instinct without the meow
asking for butter... and instead for the daydream...
diva lute diva tangled... diva es lute es flos...
there i was... the cat of abashed baptisms at the fountains of
the baptist with my head wetted...
careless for the dung bag walking partner, or the plaything
i was forced to take interest in... my casual...
fat for keratin, as if fat translated from man unto animal
to ask the boar for the daydream of the conveyor belt
with lost fur and gained fat...
off with my shirt i too graded the follow-up...
as a loss in the tightened woods of winter with the losing shadow
of the shadows of beckoned crowns not adorned in vogue.
but this was only 1912... five years before the revulsion...
before the revolution... five years! spent in the abode of harmonics
by the piano i tried to mistune to write a deathly haunt of presence...
operatic alphabets twisted me into recovering from
the foremost attraction of failure... the neglige of virginity lost
to the public's applause missing...
i too could have vouched a coming back: of spirals away from
the champagne starlight in bouquet crescendos,
for the simple minded aura of perfection - but i vouched
hypnosis as the adequate precursor of staging fright
as the lost composition rekindled into revisionary composition
regained - there too i found the picturesque familiarity
of unsung hilltops regaining strength in the longshanks' heels
as if by deed of achilles in strength regained...
to frighten the lowlands with that glorious fame of
being poisoned by the gratifications of excess in the untrodden path
thus trodden by ear and echo rather than foot,
into the zephyrs of the larynx-ballerinas upon mountain-tops...
thus there, among the content misanthropes -
i too searched orpheus' mirror and prometheus' stone
to be bound to an eternal moment that denied all
other eternal moments and furthered the denial
by not allowing a bullish billion of china
its existential prowess among nations so frequented
by scandinavian description.

you know why i'm not afraid
of plagiarism?
   memes...
          funny, isn't it,
i don't mind, or, rather,
i started to not mind plagiarism...
because the plagiarists have
been inseminated, ***** even,
i don't know whether i ever
owned a puppet,
but if i'm plagiarised i own a:
cohort...
    it's nice...
     you can rule by ridicule
rather than be ridiculed
as ruling,
notably the english monarchy...
it's nice to have pawns who
don't even think they aren't
pawns...
         but that's the beauty
of intellectual virology -
  an idea is like a virus,
  and the fact intact remains
signifying:
               well: go ahead with it...
i don't mind anonymous
"credit" 4 it...
             you think i have
i have any complacency to mind?
    rot the gnat and vermin...
i am the one to fuse
plague and language together...
         man was
always endowed with a heart
and woman with a heart,
when it came to, politics...
women always, meddle...
           how isn't punctuation
important in writing,
given it be necessary that
equate punctuation with rhyme
and consolidate prose with poetics...
    punctuation = rhyme -
                           overseer? yes.
- and why do i not mind plagiarism,
pontius pilate...
            the only person worth
being remembered of the new testament...
oops..
         why do i not mind
plagiarism... i know they'll mutate,
morph...
             but that doesn't matter...
a part of me remains,
  and all the better should the plagiarism
be otherwise be defined...
         but it's too late:
the innocent seed competes
with the forbidden fruit...
i have my paupers and my
                  puppets...
                 for grit and gift of word,
i have my: assembly...
            you can plagiarise all you want,
all i ever gain is yet another
puppeteer's string of
                          limb annexed.
i love the idea of memes & plagiarism...
it means the utmost anonymous
            influence being exerted:
how far is the puppeteer away
from the necrophiliac, may i ask?
   thank you for a chance to
not prioritise a demand for
a gene chronology on the altar of Cronus,
allowing me, to,
   ******* my meme,
rather than consecrating my gene
in the ******* of fake white
             and...
  the agony of what would be to come...
    ever wonder the mystery
of autumn, when a southern wind
blows?

My dreams have shrunken and changed with you.
You are molecular;
A study in virology.

Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
Every scientist should be held responsible for his/her own action
My birthday in the year of the corvid 19, will be different
I wouldn’t bother to confirm with the ground hog on this matter.
He too is refusing to come out, he detest the humans
The righteous will possess the earth, and they will live forever on it.”. — Psalm 37:29.
From what is going on I might have to debate this verse.
Would you agree with the poet?
Where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power
Is this what we are dying for?
"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue?
keeps his soul from troubles"
We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
Our next generation is going to have a hard time
Explaining this to their next generation of survivors
What happen in 2019, was an act of greed
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist went mad.
If this vaccine doesn’t work what will be our next move?
When your boss take his clean non corvid 19 facilities and
Turn it into a corvid 19 center,
What would a poet call this move (greed $$$)
All this poet can say.. “Let wait and see”.
Crave all loss all. one who wants everything, may lose it all

yeah...
i seem to have forgotten
the prime,
of... keeping up
with the GENE...
no GENE no go...
         i seem
to have forgotten
that mind-set
of furthering
this existential
impetus...
           must have
flown right over my head
with a: quiff! sound
to accompany it...
no quiff...
sound...
but certainly an hour's
worth
sitting in a chair,
at a turkish
barber shop...
   funny thing...
no sight or conversational
hotspots
akin to either
         Beirut or Mecca!
without a god,
do i have to be made
conscript into the whole:
telepathy of the passing
on of the genes?
the Jews have returned
to the Levant...
          there really aren't...
any conspiracy theories
left to... "unravel"...
   the jews are back
in their homeland,
i'm strapped to, "home",
dealing with ronin...
           the camel jockeys
will continue calling
me dumb...
     i will preserve myself
as: playing dumb,
to whatever drum is
made available...
         happy days...
and we, as people,
will hardly talk to each other,
let alone share a meal...
so...
what's to win,
and what's to be lost?
   hardly anything
to win,
and all that is before us,
to lose...
    so... win-win? yes?
since, to me...
bragging-rights...
and... the fertile ground
of solipsism
to expand...
                into
a virology stature...
  before the authentic
autists will arrive...
grinding us down
to size...
     but i will not eat
a meal with...
but i will not
do the alphabet's worth
of this, that & the other...
and...
happily...
continuing with
     quasi-bravado...
the last remaining
day's worth
of keeping up with...
faking, escapism...
and... upon this route?
to no return...
unlike an englishman...
i am no actor,
i forget to be two-faced...
the german knew
what a ****** was...
the sort of man
that said:
i go in, i do,
   i am done,
i come out...
                     you
do the paperwork,
i treat a television
set like a fireplace...
   what's the problem?
you want me to
build on this simple
fabric of chores...
an existentialist
philosophy that...
ascribes sole
purpose of you...
not having began
where either
German or French
existentialist
philosophers ended?

           well...
                      good luck!

st. valentines' wouldn't
be anything,
quiet like...
         oh... only a few months
ago...
a ******* prescribed
me a remedy
for love...

               and she said...
it began with...
        'ensuring to not
keep a narrative'...
      so i figured...
ah... less magic... more grip...
oh but that isn't
what she said...
she only said: 'you're nice'
when i forgot to use
my genital parts
and paid 110 quid for kissing
her...

        i'll try to remember
more things to forget
                        in my life...

a European goes
to a brothel...
"forgets" to take a Saudi Arabian
meter of competition
with him,
to compete through
the existence of
a harem...

or a European cooks
a Raj curry...
and "forgets" to take a Raj
meter worth of competition
for the number
of chilies being used
in the sauce...

then the resonating vibration,
and a quasi-eloquence
being allowed a voice:
there's someone, alive,
right, now,
that...
               i just want to make
porch chops of,
and... by making them...
do not want to eat...
but, rather...
not evem dare
to feed 'em to the same pigs...
'ey 'ame 'om,
flush,
and 'ake up...
             sewage composite.

what awaits me?
dying the most,
                  unsatisfied man...
naunced rigor...
a conscience prescribed
insomnia...
           that, acted
in reverse...
               to what was
"supposed" to be...
    
                  all... and nothing
at all...
to be worth the scrutiny of
enduring to fathom
imitation.

i have no idea why i'm entrenched in this community
of sops...
                    ooh me me me...
                           how the **** did this come about?
where were my testosterone levels?
          what happened to this natural aphrodisiac...
i could literally curse my fore-fathers by selling
their daughters: all because they had their ethnic
counter-part on the throne of the vatican...
                              deceit! liars! usurpers! deserters!
and back home he's some sort of a deity...
let me tell you: you can't have a saint and a demigod
in one person... it doesn't work!
the whole concept crumbles into ****!
              oh look: i'm about to pull out a pseudo-kippah,
white, of the pope: from my ***!
       it's a hellhole that men don't realise:
oh you're supposed to be a plumber, not a "poet"...
i could have been: had not a woman decided to
drop a baby into my lap while i wasn't aware of
her scheming ways: because she was abused as
a child... then i have a bunch of psychiatrists
applying regression tactics and doing communist-like
****: in western europe! of all places!
                then yeah... what's with this thing... snowflakes?
i'm a snowflake?
                             i think we're sadists... or becoming so:
what with the care home scandals...
              the middle generation have high hopes...
and basically 1mm depths of puddles for our concerns...
"but it wasn't easy"... do i look like a ******* clown
that said it was?
                          i really can't stop laughing at
the robin williams broadway show...
                                  he basically had just a few jokes
up his sleeve...
                       but unlike a magician with a few
tricks up his sleeve... the jokes could be studied via
virology... he tells the same jokes on a chat show
years later (parkinson's)... and then i watch the show
and i'm still laughing...
                 people always say: rather blind or deaf?
does that even attract moral relativism?
                       i'm no einstein... but there's the case
of subjectivity that's crucial here...
                             what with everyone doing the crazy
the bangles': walk like an egyptian...
  and there's robin williams telling the same jokes:
because he knows the drill... and he knows fame...
  and he needs to same the **** over and over again to
as many people...
                  but that's the objective... it really becomes
a but fuzzy as to what is better or what isn't...
   how about subjective-objective akin to einstein's
   drool over the earth dipped into some parabola of time-space?
           is this ******* still being discussed?
i thought the two concepts were inseparable?
   are they? really?!    so what's the point of the time-space
concept?
                                  ah... free speech and the many
surprises... you'll figure it out at the end that
Kierkegaard protected the freedom of thought and
paved the way for totalitarian-liberalism by protecting
the freedom of thought, rather than speech.
               it's still staggering that people these days
allowed a schizophrenia to creep-up on them...
in that they have really allowed two arguments,
  and can't conceive a compound of subject-object...
akin to time-space...
                                       because obviously you get
muddle somewhere in the middle... and experience something
unexpected... like violence...
                     well: at least we can vow to pretend
we're not dinosaurs and no meteor is coming to get
us.
         it's still fuzzy... why am i in this community
when everyone around here is so ******* sensitive?
     so this half-asian girl says she loves dave chappelle...
(again, chopin? or is that CHOP CHOP v. SHOP SHOP?) -
what a mystery!
                      i'll grant eddie murphy... but i just
don't understand black comedians...
                 lee evans or robbie? any day any time
in whatever position: lying down or standing or sitting
i can laugh... it's the tragic element in them
                          that's the aphrodisiac for me to exhale ha ha; ha.
quasi-slapstick isn't that stupid, given "witty" comedy
requires canned laughter to spur you on.

London should be a no go zone
it should be boarded up
feed it to the Zombies,
the final act of a virology department,
Don't ever start again
plug up the Thames
turn the whole place into a desert
allow the foxes to be unfazed
attack attack feral humans

it feels, given the current commentary
that i not stomping through time
writing history, grunting
the minotaur's hot ooze of breath -
what i think? one word answer -
incompetence -
        like a ******* inheritor of a
fortune, expressing a cul de sac of
said, genetic events...
                there's an aversion to
the original freudian concept of,
castration...
                    there's another,
it lies in the basin of the easily agitate
sphere of divorcing ethnicity
with history...
                              the hot-flush
of unease is ever present...
            there's nothing to think about,
really, in all certainty of the certainty
of thought...
            i am not stomping through
history, at the same time making it...
architect supreme...
         what i feel is that i am walking
on egg-shells,
             ballerina of the shadows -
    i'm not making history,
i am either into being nostalgic about
it, or am tired of studying it...
                    the question of women
is past... provided the allowances
of chess...
               medieval women were more
cut-throat than the men...
              scurrying rats is just an image,
and never an analogy...
             imagery metaphor analogue -
contradictory trinity it would seem...
        but i am still inclined to
retain the image of walking on egg shells
rather than stomping, subsequently crushing
human bones...
               the audacity of the forefathers
does not credit me, nor am i their inheritor...
i am balancing on making history:
without actually making one...
                    the eeriness of impotence
that plagues me is of english birth,
and having perfected this tongue,
marking it with the decisive origins shows
me that i cannot fathom it completely...
only in snapshot...
                           it breeds a trans-ethnic
superstition that is advertised,
                               not exactly undue...
but there this: "castration" discomfort
in speaking english without an accent that
might be distinguishable...
notably: conversations where you are
questioned, and never accepted of
the gravity of an answer being undisputed -
namely the lack of etiquette -
whereby in atomic terms:
party a. resembles ?
  while party b. resembles ! -
                           you can only ask so
many questions before there's no question
left, and the narrative leads into:
                                                      nihil / nothing.
i feel, and that is always more valuable
than i think, that i live in un-historical times,
primarily for the lack of nostalgia...
but at the same time the:
  anaemic actors who have no vitality
and merely spread the weißplage -
the white plague...
                who is to wonder why
there shouldn't be an interest in premature
depression of the young that overshadows
the scarcity of premature dementia,
when premature dementia exposes
the seemingly unreachable strata of vocab?
   to me schizophrenia implies:
inhibition, a repression...
                    the budding flower arising
from decay... a fungus growth on a ****...
but premature depression...
       these kids haven't accomplished anything!
i can understand an old man being
hypochondria-prone and melancholic in
having achieved something!
            i call forth the: weißplage...
the white plague...
                           i ought to be a man
stomping with a minotaur's hoof into
history...
                   instead i am a ballerina "dancing"
through a floor of egg shells,
attempting to not make a pipsqueak akin
to a mouse...
               i'd settle for a rat's gnashing jaw chew...
but no...
                     having acquired this language
i've also acquired its historical ailments...
i've overcome the strata of class-theory,
but i've been unable to overcome
the pathology of using this language -
even if i feel castrated for but a split second,
i am, otherwise, dragged down -
ziehennachunten...
                     it's a white plague -
      a mental virus -
  and i too was one of the people who
believe that a solipsistic membrane actually
existed, and that mental illness didn't
have a contagious element to it,
that mental illness had nothing to do with
virology... how wrong i was...
                    with the abandonment of
respecting asylums, western society
has actually invested in a lunatic contagion...
the spread of islam onto the continent
is merely a compliment of the scythe moon
emblem on a flag...
                 and it happens oh so innocently,
an ex-girlfriend calls you up while
you're on the roof, roofing,
  and she cites: hearing voices...
                    i really wish to find someone
who's interested in the virological nature
of the transmission of mental disorders...
               to finally, ******* bury,
this misconception of a rock-solid-****'s-worth
of argument to idealise on a dualism,
but actually engage with the real problem
within a dichotomy...
                 the mind-body to a mind
is no disparity -
                            the body to a mind is
an automaton rather than a mind-body...
              there is a virology and a toxicology
involved in mental illness...
    you know why charles manson exherted
more influence than all the other serial killers?!
   he played the pawns...
    he was the pontius pilate,
he washed his hands clean,
even though they were bloodied...
       in the end there is a messianic connection,
although on the roman side...
                  whereas others bloodied their
hands, he played a mind game...
             be played with plasticine -
                 which just shows history at its most
animate: with hindsight.
he was but a syringe incision,
   and a tsunami of time...
                  while the others were
   a tsunami barrage of **** -
   and in terms of time: a drop in the ocean...
which will always be barely recognisable or
heard by the waiting echo.
                         that sort of model is
the antithesis of Sisyphus...
  a gentle **** of the stone...
   and just watch the avalanche form...
hardly a mein kampf to speak of...
         he figured out the downhill -
because there was never any uphill
                 to begin with...
          my: a tsunami of time...
                      located in a space
              made by a mere needle incision.

We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist

Its headlines that read like this
“As Biden nears victory, worlds hopes
For end to American isolationism

It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie, rather than to surrender?

When the American truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views:  He pen is waiting
to announce the winner, (who would it be)

Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
But to a mad scientist: it says progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientists should be held responsible for his action.

As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as  the world  acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come

it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power: is that what we voted for?
is this what we are dying for? Is that most people dreams?

Trumps , Biden supporters face off in Detroit
Headlines like these make a poet pen trembles..

"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"
We are still waiting for the winner..

dissect in the ranks... would you believe it:
the english way of drinking black tea with
a dollop of milk is not somehow unique
to the english... it is known to be practised
in Siberia...

now... how did i learn to write?
i write like my english teacher conducted lessons...
a Glaswegian by the name of
Thomas Bunce...
i almost took the King's Road all the way
from London to St. Andrew's...
i was accepted into Bristol: for
a course in virology... i passed...
seeing Edinburgh for the first time...
felt like seeing Paris for the first time...

but this English teacher taught by digression
alone... that was his tactic... overflowing
with anecdotes...
of course i wasn't going to elevate my
English by learning from strict English
teaching English types...
i would require myself to be immersed
in a people who "forgot" speaking Gaelic...
who... had Gaelic accents:
the trilled R... the general sing-along
clarity of syllables... the Scots don't speak:
they sing...
none of this English bulldog saliva custard
pie of consonants eating vowels
and consonants eating consonants...
come on... Trainspotting was written in
a "dialect": a Scottish accent alias for:
there should be some Gaelic in you...
no? the Welsh subservient cucks of all people
still managed to pull it off...
why... not... you?
the accent is enough?
i guess that's why the Welsh kept their tongue
and didn't mind having any bother
for an accent... generic... Middlesex...
home counties safe... sort of an outlet...

oh i'm not going to drink black tea with a dollop
of milk for some time...
i've turned to... something from Paraguay:
Para-g'why...
           YERBA MATE...
of all the major tea drinkers of the world...
the English... the Russians... the Turks...
eh... one coffee is enough...
but something after dinner...
something in the morning...
i'm still all for milk...
although i'm easing into finding too much
of it as unpalatable...
not constipated not diarrhoea prone...
just... bloated...
if you ever had a chance to... ahem...
"suffer" from classical bulimia... the ancient Rome
type where you'd shove the index and middle
finger into your mouth and wait
for the oesophagus reflex
you'd know that milk upon impact with
the "creative" juices of the stomach
becomes curd cheese shrapnel...
the rest is a yellowish water of lactose...

dissent in the ranks: i'm not going to drink
any more of this cow-squirt tea profanity!
this Siberian tea for milking first mothers...
that's another name: i missed the original term
for tea drank this way:
BAVARKA... tea drank by lactating women...
of Siberia...

- pulverising digression... imitation of
blitzkrieg... one wave after another... and another...
until... XAOS...
or chaos... it's spelled differently:
it's hardly CHasing orders... is it?
K-O-Y-S...
     why no why?
i wouldn't learn anything about the English zunge
in Bristol...
i might pick up a western land accent
at best... but among a people that
didn't tend to their Gaelic garden...

ol' Thomas Bunce knew how to digress...
he spoke with a collage impetus...
one "thing" led to another...
and he would speak...
and speak... Shakespeare was ol' Shaky
for 'im... i can't imagine if it was also a pear...
he introduced me to jazz...
i introduced myself to jachie mittoo myself...
(jackie? no... judge: itch with an i.e. "me too" #)

i can't help it... every time i visit a
brothel is reeks of bourbon...
the best sort of bourbon...
the air in a brothel is suffocating you
with bourbon... that's of course
until you arrive at the "pearly gates" of
a woman's naked body...
hence? the flood...
all the painting can cower and find:
redemption in a shade and some blinking
eye...
befriending a horse...
riding a horse at a gallop...
a lover-boy of a cat cuddling up to you
in bed while ******* off while you
find your sweet spot falling asleep on your
side...
walking a dog without a leash...
riding a bicycle on a stretch of the A12
or calculating spacing & timing on
the Gallows Corner roundabout...
it fits... sure... it fits...

- hyphen before a newly arrived sentence?
i couldn't write a novel...
too much time in between...
one smooth cut: one pristine use of the axe:
there's no need to chop at a neck
of Mary Antoinette with a blunted blade...
paragraphs are: congested bile...
myopia...
bogus labyrinths of follow-up linear:
non-patterns...

thinking of Brazil i think of the pristine
post-racial society of mulattos...
it works... i can see it clearly...
my white... sandpaper skin will bleach
any Kenyan d.n.a. in a matter of...
two generations of interracial *******...
truth... not paper...
but no European, ahem... "nation":
h'america will try and try will fail:
whatever "racism" is there is merely:
a focus for the integrity of what can ever
be allowed to be kept...
too much history... esp. history written down...

if there was a Friedrich Barbarossa...
then there must be a Conrad Bartablondine...
schnurrbartblond...
(sznur - rope)

there's still a bottle of wine ahead of me...
-bart- hair... rope-hair... blonde...
i must look Danish at this point:
god... those... handsome *******...

every time i leave the brothel
i have an image in my mind...
William Blake's
           the ***** of Babylon riding
some schizoid creature...
looted... looted...
i'm curious about the concern for identity
theft since... Nietzsche began:
at least he posited the origins in ******...
deluded as he was:
my advice? it's no advice:
i can prescribe anyone going mad
early on in life:
point being: it's a double-jeopardy game
after the first time
i.e. you can't go mad twice...
the second time you're suspected
of "going mad": you have only achieved
a: tunnel-vision...
horse gallop with blinders...
ladies... gentlemen... we're digging trenches...
say all you want:
Vietnam had the best soundtrack...
and it was the first war proper:
it was proper because it was staged
against guerrilla warfare...

i leave the brothel and put fire to that ol'
painting of Blake's:
while i hope to listen to some
KMFDM - JEZEBEL! (juke joint)
ah.... i'm still stinking of bourbon even though
i haven't drank any...

point being: England would have won
that football match...
if only their woke-ness led to a woke-insomnia:
if they took the second knee into
perspective: like a Catholics do during mass...
one knee wasn't going to cut it...
sorry... it would require: two...

but then... where was the Eucharist?
ghost god limb on the ghost mouth nibble?
come to think of it... it's no longer a metaphor
for a "king without a crown":
unless the lazy crown of laurels
is your thing when Horace is usurped
by someone donning a crown of myrrh...
how about: your average Joe...
having a hard-on proper:
but not donning a strap-on ***** to his
forehead...
because... some woman somewhere
might think him as being: "always in the mood":
retractable possession... some Duracell bunny type:
typo... a universal plumber taboo topic of:
"that" spanner...

thus: seated at the left hand of the father...
herr joke-a-lot... and this is even before i leave
a mark on my closure:
a weak-bladder i can feel the sense
of excitement at it not being a premature *******
contest...
i forget to time writing what i write
and drinking what i drink
and prior to the zenith...
i scribbled something down...

i'm still begging for closure...
if his birth was governed by the slaughter of
the innocents to plagiarise the birth
of Moses... Herod's lust...
Chernobyl seems pretty, ******* tame...
oddly enough i'm turning "woke":
the rest have been galvanised:
insomniac of proto-protein shakes
and amphetamines... and teasing some...
gwammar... itches...
you know... the usual...

all this before me intended: intent...
i tried it with her... this Romanian mare...
i couldn't get a *******...
i tried and tried: i probably drank too much
to give me a limb status of whittle 'itch-ard...
so i began to point at her body parts...
i wanted to know the noun
for eyes in Romanian... freckle...
collar-bone...

i'm not going to sit around and ****
Nigerian **** while i'm at studying
the geography of a woman's body...
a naked body of mine: but most assuredly hers...
will sink any man to any extreme
of finding a revived purpose...
i'll go blind with rage:
with a rage most associated with lust...
how paradoxical it must be...
when circumstanced with the oath
of Hippocrates...
oddly enough: modern psychiatry is alien
to anything to do with Hippocrates...
psychiatry is pseudo-medicine...
it's a bit like giving surgical license to...
butchers!
i have no respect for these: cre-a-tures...
of their own fancy: their own benevolent
twist-and-turn of sadism...

the worst lot of man and... the best lot of man...
enters these confines of scrutiny...
my brain some chemical soup...
**** 'em... give me the sort of Vietnam
with the soundtrack already provided...

but at least a ******* touched me...
he fiddled with my beard: played the *******
metaphor of violin with it...
there was even a goodluck charm
by her way of fiddling with it
just so a leprechaun would be conjured up
like a mushroom in the night!
like a spaghetti twister of an octopus might
conjure a spine!
enough dead-weight for a decapitation
sequence with ol' Ollie Cromwell being
invited... a football match with
Robespierre's head being kicked about!

yes... i started to read more Charles Olson
and deviated from all that's Bukowski
and all the Beat poets...
we're living in a democracy...
we're not living in a democracy?!
is my worth of worth a worth
of stale bread, somehow?

- so much trash from a people who have a
complete disrespect for the:
livestock market... of where their "canvas"
of brushstrokes is coming from:
seemingly from some "afar"...

the original transcript...

   languages are only fascinating within the confines
of nouns:
                                 )
                                             )  Buddha smiles
                                 )

                                 (
                                            )    hieroglyphic
                                 (                 rock-god... agitates
                                               the eyebrows to take a wink...
wink...

   (etymology grieves... while Darwinism is...
nothing more than a bombast return to "form"...
ulterior... cubism and.... Bra-bra-zeal!)

  (eyes: not: to impression oneself on
the "other" with a... "look")...

romanian - ochi
finnish - silmät
****** - oczy
english - eyes
german - augen (blick...
trust the germans to fathom
noun as verb and in reverse.. blick)
italian - oculus per oculus (occhi)
greek - μάτια...

oddly enough verbs are less fascinating
when... there's all that "compensation"
concerning nouns...
foremost: verbs are not etymologically
      "gathered"...
        there is not etymological "rooting"
in verbs... but there is... concerning nouns...
verbs have no etymological rooting...
nouns do...
but whatever the zodiac-esque importune...
that we place on nouns...
to fulfil the meaning of our name
Matthias - gift (of) god... not from...
Conrad - wise council...
prepositions are shrapnel...
   w (in) do (to)
   z (with) o (about)
vowels that also act like
prepositions
      i (and) zza (from... behind...
                 the Tartar mountains... Czech republic)...
    za (for)...

also... eyes... ayes... how many eyes do i have
to say: yes... parliamentary...
English s unique in that...
you can say say two things once...
but also say them twice...
the encoding divergence of "spelling":
ayes vs. eyes...
                see through to sea...

i must be a king turned pawn:
the queen's all bishop creek...
hallows aat the rook...
i must be lamenting:
the best ******* i ever received
came from someone i paid for...
dumb-smart is the next best thing:
of outsmarting the mythological:
mantis...
chimp craze with mantis
antics...
      well... who's superior
who's who?
                     "milk" some other  bull
for all that genocidal ***** juicing...
hello brick-wall: hello...
alpha what?!
harem posits?

                 i walk into a tornado...
i walk into a "grieving" sea...
       sooner i come across these creatures
than if i were to come across the ferocity of
a neglected woman!
this neglected beast... look at her...
how exfoliating mantis she suddenly
come with added bad english gwammar...
it almost looks like a stand-off in Velsh!

the maxim of my late grandfarther starts ring:
there are no ugly women in this world...
there are onbly neglected ones.

.apparently, always, originating from the sort of people who have a major disdain for Phil Collins, and, what could be considered a branch virology - i.e. - the infectious nature of pop music, and the lack of any sort of antibiotics, to counter the infectious nature of this stuff...

namely? the genius of U2...
yes, Bono this, Bono  that....

             whatever...

while cooking dinner...

     the early U2 esp.,

     the subtle rhythm section of
the guitar, not exactly riffs,
or encompassing chords...

more akin to titillating you with
shy solo... or rather: no solo to begin
with... a rhythm based on
what could be a solo...

consistent drumming...
  and like any band that respects
the bass guitar
   (unlike some bands... ahem,
Metallica, where the bass guitar
is inaudible...
        i guess after Cliff Burton's
death... the bass also died
in the production apparatus of
the album)...

but i know, i've seen the face of
fear when walking in
the night...
                i'm a tourist,
what can i say...
              i like snooping for
ontological oddities...
           and i also know the face
of shame,
                 but you wouldn't think
it could come from
the place i'm about to point out...

the guilty pleasure pop song...
****... people are more precious
about their sometimes lacking
eclectic taste in music that...
well... it's staggering
   esp. when, say... compensating
other, frivolous activity deviance(s)
in the bedroom department...

alt. i'll stop being a ******,
if your girls stop being such exhibitionists,
           savvy?

**** this *** tastes better than
the sight of the current afternoon,
and all that... vanilla sky.

We all love a good story.
With a good ending,
What is going on today is not a story
It is the reality, of mad virology scientist

It’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to pieces
It’s easier to live a lie,
however,the truth needs no translation
The poet became an unhappy Ambassador,
he believe in worldly- views:

Nothing is final to a poet eyes and ears
. But to a mad scientist: it say progressivism
To him man or language wasn’t created equally
Every poet should be responsible for his poetic language
while every scientist should be held responsible for his action.

As well as his emotion and excretion
either from the mouths, or from the other end
the smell, textures even the tones
as long as  the world  acknowledges
them as the Lever of things to come

it’s hard to say it out loud without breaking in to piece
where there is action they will be a reaction
Leadership money and power
is this what we are dying for


"Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue
keeps his soul from troubles"

/                                       i own a bed...

   yet i prefer to lay

myself on

a hard, wooden floor...

so...

    what's up with this pluralism
of "thought"

     compensated

  by an "ego"

    within the strait-jacket
explanation of

                  cognitive virology?

that concept can
                be accounted for, yes?

i remember being infected...
it's like a.i.d.s.:
              without the a.d.h.d.

yes, i drink,
  i drink:
   because, once upon a time:
          i "think" that i truly loved someone.

to hell with p.c. Ęngland!
nein mehr (no more):
schaukeln der boot (rocking
the boat):
der boot ist das: unterseeboot!
ha ha!
ist versenkung -
never mind rocking
the boat! the boat is sinking!
was i the cherub...
and satyr... at the unfolding
of the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth: like...
too little butter.. spread...
over too much bread...
like... a lebanese *** *****...
this be... Beirut...
          who was i... to judge...
the pretense... of... a fathom...
presupposition bullshitting
myself, via... statement...
the russians have / did not
appreciate diacritical markers:
or orthography...
give them unto the anglo-saxon
medley of: metssphysics...
no... this horror game...
****- the prefix...
comes after the suffix: -asian...
not -state related...
the rose of england...
by now: it doesn't matter...
red or white...
           might as well be prune knee
deep in purple...
     bruises... plums i sayz...
цeppelinß... und lard...
        you... me... on a sly: privy...
no matter!
me in... england...
goat-herding... proper sober...
sober judge... clemency & audit...
of a jury!
wait for it...
                    *******!      
romanian veg pickers and
your women toys 'r' us...
and your ****-****-khaki
snowflakes of panda!
once upon a time...
i too thought:
**** implies no...
like... the niqab solved the "matter":
i.e. the debate... as far north
as... Helsinki!
no?!
          it would take
two masters... the godfather stalin
and the madman adoolph...
and... england...
a place... not conquered:
pillaged or... "sorted" since...
by stealth then...
by... tux and a crescendo of
stiff...
the genghis khan
microcosm of virology...
since... the last time...
a jihadi mowing john...
sparked a thrill with an attack...
every'oon woz woke...
nowz? ******* soviet sleeper cells...
(ras)putin chess pieces
flying off the shelves...
with no: future in:
their, former...
assorted... "selves"...
******* tier-up!
             over-shot the mark...
should have studied at Leeds university...
over-did it...
went across the border...
landed in Edinburgh...
               kind'ah: oops?!