Zombifying minds of many,
dooming them to a life rooted
in the ground. The didactic lay
forgotten, decaying in a
graveyard of tattered pages, old
typewriters, and eight-track tapes.

Monotonous drama deludes
these robots into surviving
in a reality teeming
with **** and drugs, ****** and lies.
Optimism overshadowed,
out-shined forever by filth.

But even I still succumb to
this regime, an addict to his
fixation. Plug in, power on,
and wait to retrieve the signal,
for my brain to be white noise while
potatoes grow on couches.

i hear the argument from the little yanks, i.e. the brits, the wanks, all the ****** time: learn the language, we'll welcome you in... like ******* will, unless i'm not a ****... i'm only welcome: when i displace you as the main ethnic similis... i can speak an english better than you, yet still you'll persist talking about agendas of demographic platitudes, **** the yanks, and **** the little yanks, the british wanks! i'm actually waiting for your little project to take root in the construction industry: odd... there are more women in the military, than in the construction industry! that's ****** sexist... we should have more women throwing bricks over their shoulders and being equal with men; ah wait, cows on parade! cows on parade! the military will soon be a place for women leaders on one side, and desperate lone wolves on the other... with the real battle ground, the real trenches, being the buildings under construction, in the construction industries... your new warfare agenda, has only just begun.

the brooding blood boiling: i leave no allegiance
for sure, i make no friend, as i make no foe,
i stand alone, in the waters of all that i: abhor.
a somali family of ten will sooner find housing,
a nigerian, a russian and arab millionaire,
then either i or the native sprechen
cold-touch chicken goosebump fest of hate -
and i won't be alone...
  but the moment you scheme your little
pathetic racial stereotyping incisors -
your little scheming gnat incisor gashing at
the wound that is supposedly never to heal:
i'll sell you a new testament,
since you blatantly woke too late to
correlate the secular history of the ancient times,
the unearthing of the text, and
the cushioning for a st. augustine's hierarchy
of absolution...
    rest my bone, upon a grecian lie?! never!
i will sit with whip in one hand,
and honey in the other - and speak for one
else, other than my other significant "other"
namely myself, and lead the illiterate
bludgeons: upon retezat peak -
       cutting off the bluntness of impaling
crucifix - to make a doll from those impaled -
gesticulating with arms, while the sharpened
pike slouched into their ****...
              as if imitating dolls attached to
    spiderweb threads to dance the puppets' dance...
that's crucifixion: doubled up upon.
first they tell you learn their language,
and you comply, but then they ask you learn
their crisis, and you begin to rebel saying:
i signed up to the language:
  not your bewildering existential crisis!
        
by the way, have you noticed that modern
political conversation in the west
lies heavily on the pivot side of the cartesian
sum? i've noticed it...
   political commentators hardly ever think!
all i hear is: sum this sum that, sum sum sum,
i.e. i'm a capitalists, i'm a communist,
i'm a libertarian, i'm a liberal, i'm a conservative,
i'm a socialists, **** me and the spectrum alike:
i'm really starting to think that
the heavy-sided state of affairs summons
only the cartesian *sum -
    it's beyond a q. & a. session where we
exchange badges, labels and other assortments
of pitching for a perfect freshers stall of
asking for attention: eventually
the leverage shifted from a pivotal balance
to a one-sided gesture: i am this, i am that -
what do i think of anything? none of what i
"supposedly" am, or am not.
  it's no longer what's question / answer worthy,
what is central is: what's thought-worthy?

summa summarum?

1. by talking your have the problem of defending
a "cartesian" sum - the bit where you say you
are, but can, in a lightning flash switch to otherwise:
est non primo causa; or?
2. by thinking you have the "problem" (i.e. you don't)
of "defending" (i.e. ditto)
        the kantian-aversion-of-cartesianism -
i.e. the kantian "cogito" (hence the aversion) -
      i.e. cogito in per se /
                                        cogito ex per se...
3. the kantian-descartes mongrel
    (a) the noumenon (thought)
     (b) the phenomenon ("being") -
and how many detractors have come from the latter?
a noumenon does not implode to later
explode and cause a tsunami of "worthwhile"
imitations,
  in the same vein that a phenomenon has
to implode to later explode and cause but one
imitation that starts behaving like a cloning
archetypical zombifying effect of the necessary
regurgitated, half-fed intentions...
   i can't believe the fusion of kant with descartes
seems so completely:
   by mere talk one has to shield the "being",
and become lost in labels and an appropriate
handling of data,
     the mantra of:
                      i'll walk before i'll crawl...
and so many defences, and all these conversations
ever end up sound as are: hi, my name is bill.
      
you write, you mine - you don't mime -
  the moment your stop mining: you start miming,
you enter the ancient grove of the hive -
but none of the current talks
seem to outweigh the cogito in contra to the sum,
since much of the talk is a stark cataract of
what sum could be, should the already sharpened
cogito of a blade, be met, with a sum
akin to a shield of an idiotic: scarcely knowing
the difference brain of an actor-idiot...
  hey, if philosopher-warriors are to be
distinguished: have you ever thought
that the actor-idiot is an easy task -
  did you for once think that playing an idiot's
part as an intelligent person was ever
going to be easy?
          a warrior-philosopher happened only
once, in his ability to put you off your guard.

kant in the cartesian terms of the kantian
term noumenon: thought.

    kant in the cartesian terms of the kantian
term phenomenon: "being" -
  and to boot, youth, the phenomenon of
punk, extinguished once a new zeitgeist
emerges - and the phenomenon unguarded
by thinking, but by mere imitation:
disintegrates into a fiddler-on-the-roof moment
of lacks: introspection, retrospection,
         by-invitation-only-itemisation
            relegated to stretch-armstrong televised
biographic of the zeitgeist...
          
luckily i can write this sort of rigid *******,
and enjoy a whiskey sharpshooter more.

On an early Monday morn
Into this world my mother bore me
Although I never asked her to
But still she bore me
Into a hospital
A patient
Out of the train
Onto the station
The light, the air,
The Decompression,
No wonder that my first impression
I can't remember,
My mother thought I had a temper,
The nurses watched my massive member,
They put me down as baby boomer
Yeah, I was born to be consumer
But when I'm in my old age
I hope to be if not the driver,
Then at least the passenger

Aren't we going somewhere?

On holiday, perhaps?
Where birds of paradise dance
In savage colours
And sing in dazzling trance,
Where man's institutions are far away,
Where banks don't feed on our flesh,
Away from roaring trucks with pigs
Set for slaughter,
Away from downtown Bangladesh,
Away from ugly neighbours
And their children,
Away into the sweet fresh air
With no wifi
No zombifying TV,
No bling-bling chavs with one beat one key one theme music,
Where the weather is tolerable
And the scam of social media is no more,
We will leave the choking fumes
And strange wars...
Except we won't,
Cause that isn't where we go.
Let's be realistic,
We like postmodern world
It's lovely masochistic,
It takes out minds off questions
That probe beyond statistics,
Questions we don't even know how to phrase,
But fools are always one step ahead,
Delays make them enraged baboons,
When I am in my old age
I expect to see banners on the moon
And clouds shaped by advertisers,
Robot womanisers
And insect appetisers,
New ways to use fertilisers
On human brains
Making us none the wiser
But great at analysing market value
And levels of offensiveness.
I hope you don't think that I'm implying
That you will have something to do with this.
I know you're all good people here..
It's the corporations, of course.
Those classical psychopaths:
Self interested
Manipulative
Always the best
They prefer not to compete with the rest
Nor accept responsibility,
They suffer no conscience
Feel no remorse
And present superficial versions of themselves
To the world,
To the good people
Who take on their traits
Day by day
Year by year
Generation by generation
Because .. you know ..
Market forces and ..
Hunger .. for .. something..
Progress something !...
..it's the right way!
So what would you like to change?
Is this really your pimple?
When I am in my old age
I would like to be simple
I'll have my special armchair
That will be the envy of all people,
And I'd like to hope that something will be done
About climate change
But for that Israel needs to cease to exist
As well as all the other countries,
Old and new,
And national symbolism must get relegated
To the domain of underwear, swimming trunks and bathing towels,
Where washing machines will eventually bleach it into oblivion,
And the world must become truly global,
Entering the space age
United under redefined humanity!
When I am in my old age,
I still expect to see insanity on a global scale,
People fishing in empty oceans
Sailing their way to French Polynesia
on raging 20 metre waves
only to find French Polynesia
somehow not there anymore..
I hope not to be a bore in my old age,
I hope nostalgia won't be classed as a
Disease
And heavily medicalized.
I hope suicide will be legal like bread
I hope my head won't have the texture
Of a woman's inner thigh,
I hope my neck won't look like an accordion,
I hope I won't be making involuntary noises
Every time I lie down,
And I hope to lie down between women's inner thighs
From to  time,
Yeah, I really hope this can be arranged
When I am in my old age
Even if I smell of old people
I hope the smell of old people will be ****
I guarantee it will get very messy
If they won't let me
Take my pension money out
all at once,
I intend to own the stage
Until my very last breath
When I am in my old age
I hope impending death won't make
Religious, or spiritual,
Whichever's worse..
When I am in my old age
I fully expect hats to be in vogue again
And smoking in airports
And free range drugs
When I am in my old age
Maturity will triumph
Over the teenage bugs
With naked ankles and baseball caps,
And the myth of youth will rightfully collapse,
And I will order and convincing martini,
Drive a convincing car,
Snap a convicting finger at the waiter
To the rhythm of swing played at the bar
Somewhere close to the equator
On some not-too-distant star
I will be my own dictator,
I'll be my own tsar
And all will be jolly!
Apart from all this
I really have no worries.
So let me get drunk and let the world laugh
For there is a remedy for everything
But death
(and burning cathedrals)
And as long as we are laughing
We do not weep
About the roses that we picked
That even the sweetest showers
Won't make grow again.

Telephone rings
Announcing your name
Caller ID pings
This is so insane
Selfish acts of subterfuge
Leaving us both confused
Despite the tightening noose
Calling you is what I choose-
I can’t let go

“Hi, how was your day?
What’s that you say?
Have I learned by now
How to play well with others?
What? No? I don't have to bother?”
(Your words stabbing like a shiv)
“You have your own life to live
You have your own love to give-
Just not to me?”

Somber thoughts of divorce
******* all my vital force
This will be such a blow
To the people we know
As mute as a mime
Losing track of real time
Zombifying my day
Hunting for quick getaway-
But no such luck

What shall I do thus
                    ~Telephone rings

If we fail to repair us?
                    ~Announcing your name

Lament inevitable loss?
                    ~Caller ID pings

Calculate incalculable cost?
                    ~This is so insane

I’m a solid secular success
                    ~Selfish acts of subterfuge

I’m a massive mental mess
                    ~Leaving us both confused

At least the former pays the bills
                    ~Despite the tightening noose

No use in crying when milk spills-
                    ~Calling you is what I choose

What’s done is done
                    ~I can’t let go