.i (am) giddity giddity getting it... lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment in reality.

blow backs and...
i've never heard so much
politics on the citizenry level of
implementing the discovery
of politics...
    
    i love Tuesday nights in
these parts of the world...
German army jacket, hood...
walking really slow,
drinking a beer,
smoking a cigarette...
tense upper-body frame,
not moving my hands
that much,
intimidating posture...

  passing cars don't count...
**** me...
like a scene fro the Vanilla Sky
beginning...
in Times Sq.....
but this is Romford,
the outback that somehow
constitutes London...
i made a count...
how many people did i spot?
3... and that includes me...

i love Tuesday nights...
and then making lunch
for my father going to work...

next time i hear the following...
all these internet bums
imploring for donations...
they're...working?
making ******* videos?!
that's work?!
  that's work?!
and me writing is what...
Stephen King ***
David Koontz?!

they're working?!
right... making existentialist
quasi-*******
with a return of: how else
to be a consumer?!
that's work?!
    work... come to think of it...
what's work?
low unemployment levels...
yeah... go figure...
but the jobs on offer...
aren't they, just a tad bit
*******?!
         the sort of work that
is summarized by ctrl + c
              and a cntrl + p?
if there is so much work available,
sure as **** the work is "work",
i.e. it's *******...
it's not a plumbing spot...
it's... the sort of work
that... could also come with
a contraceptive message,
a ****** career...
            why even bother doing this,
this... "job" when you can align
yourself to making contraceptive
precautions?!
so... you want me...
to do this, "job"...
this waste of time bollocking of
the lesser actor?
        no ******* chance...

unemployment is down...
well of course it is...
more meaningless jobs
have been re-imagined!
    no wonder!

i'd understand a cinema cashier,
there was a sense of aura,
notably with the popcorn scent...
but now?

no... over-population isn't
a problem...
but meaningless jobs are...
a ******* problem...
    ******* attempting to suffice
my escapism with a meaningless
function that is...
about as much a trade
as a peanut is a watermelon...
*******!

i'll huff... and i'll puff...
and... ****... forgot the cucumber...
make my father
the sort of lunch that
kings dream of...
   yeah... but just sandwiches?
and only sandwiches?
  ****... forgot the cucumber...
      a thai cucumber pineapple salad...
oh no... you little ***** bank donation
******* and *******...
you get to rent...
       you get to rent a flat...
coughing up money to the most
deplorable people... your landlords...
should have thought about your
teenage tantrums...
   and thought about
  talking to your parents differently...
incidence...
i dated a Russian girl once...
and she told me...
that her grandmother was her mother,
and that her mother was her sister...
a ******* confusing relationship...
**** yeah that it ended!

well... evidently the retards coughing
up money into strangers' coffers
will deem me ******...
    then again...
only in the west there's the parental thesis
of being a child, and subsequently
an adult... only if: you are ashamed
of having parents to begin with;

hello, test-tube Dan,
frozen egg Hilary,
           IVF... Peaches?!

counter argument: well...
i could live in a shack in a forest,
or call my shadow a roof,
lingering on the paved streets...
then again...
my neighbors lied that
they bought a house,
and they're... what... 30 something?
saying they're renting it out...
and yet...
  they have house parties
under their parents' roof...
and smoke **** in their car...

lying is an economic policy that
exhausts all investment by reality;
i do not find lying
to be a moral encompass,
more an economic bypass...
      lying, simply doesn't make any
economic sense...
  "morally" (in question)
      advantageous in
the short term...
   but economically...
lying is exhausting...
            given that it's a lived
fiction... rather than
a non-lived fiction of a book...
i don't lie...
  because...
              what one cannot love,
one better be ashamed of...
****... does that even make sense?!
to be denied a love,
     one can at least bask in the shame,
that the truth of denial entails...
yeah... that sounds better.

draw crow draw raven blackbird fly o yassss
bro brow blow brah still high b'y
time to spit the real maritime flow
so tired miss the ocean yea
central central city
livin' so-so

We raise hell where mighty buildings fell,
Steal their bricks to build new walls,
As the silence that we heard so well,
Hangs with pride in empty halls,

Like photographs of those now lost,
We faded with the touch of time,
Arms outstretched with fingers crossed,
The only victims of this crime,

In the cool shade of complacency,
Where only distance grew,
Disaster came and went so patiently,
I’m just glad that it was you,

Now twilight toasts to yet another year,
That we’ll regret before it’s gone,
As the glory with which we disappear,
Become the price of moving on.

You gave me all the affection
all the affirmations
made me feel secure, seen
sure
all the while
full of doubts that you stored
quietly under the rug
the one we bought together
for our new home
the one I threw out today
in hopes of learning how to unlove

Quand je pense à l'extrême je plonge mes yeux dans l'extrême horizon de mes propres extrémités inférieures comme supérieures et j'essaie de matérialiser par des bouées les champs sémantiques des extrêmes. L'orient extrême, l'occident extrême, l'extrême couchant alias extrême ponant et l'extrême levant.

Me voici donc bien installé sur l'estran, cowboy anachronique en selle sur une vague appelée Jolly Jumper, la moitié de mes extrémités enfoncée sous mon poids dans le sable, entouré de trous de crabes et de pélicans plongeurs qui me dévisagent au **** sur cette Grande Anse du Far West Indies. Je ne vois guère que leurs traces fugitives, pattes et becs qui ricanent dans le sable mouillé . Je suis aux frontières de l' extrême. Les extrêmes sont à la mode. LES EXTRÊMES SONT TENDANCE. Le mot extrême qui s'utilisait jadis en antéposition dans ses constructions lexicales comme dans les formulations comme l'Extrême-Orient, extrême-droite, extrême-gauche, extrême-onction, s'utilise désormais en postposition comme pour en adoucir les traits, nous la retirer de l'horizon lointain, du Far West pour la rendre plus visible dans le centre extrême ou l'extrême insoumission que d'aucuns appellent de leurs vœux comme dernière extrémité pour sauver les démocraties de l'extrême-onction programmée.

Mais revenons aux sens premiers d'extrême. A travers deux proverbes :

"Aux maux extrêmes les extrêmes remèdes."

"Les extrêmes se touchent."

Extrême, dixit le Cntrl, tiré du latin extremus, superlatif de exter, en dehors. Signifiant le plus à l'extérieur, le dernier, le pire, l'extrême.

Oh je sais, tout n'est affaire que de proportion puisque, nous disent par ailleurs les arithméticiens, le produit des extrêmes est égal aux produits des moyens.

Les frontières de l'extrême reculent sans arrêt. Il y a une surenchère permanente. Plus le sport est extrême plus il attire la jeunesse, Plus le discours est extrême plus il attire le chaland.

Je suis né moi-même dans l'extrême, puisque né à EXTRA-MUROS. EN DEHORS DES MURS, EN DEHORS DU BOURG. DEWO. L'extrême extase de l'en-dehors...

i've been trying to purge myself from
having read a novel:
      at almost 1000 pages -
it's hard not to:
                 i was told: easier to watch
the movie-adaptation...
        but i'm reading a different book now
and i'm stuttering...
  i have to claim the fallacy
of philosophical literature as being riddled
with the competition of fictional
prose: i keep "stuttering" -
i.e. rereading what is obliviously
there to either absorb or accept -
           not in or with a high-mindedness
i write the following words:
i abhor a need to strutter reading
a work of philosophy...
               it's already painful encompassing
a paragraph, let alone rereading
        a single sentence -
         i assure you: you will not recite
a work of such kind with a belief that
doesn't allow me to question, whether you
are, or that you aren't an: actor.
             oh, sure - we write about what
we read, but there are so many out there who
write about: what they never read...
an uncomfortable word for me,
notably due to the past participle red -
   and to do so in the moment: reed...
         some sort of glitch in the grapheme
æ - ash - something truly gravitates a "soul"
to agitate a body into writing this...
for all the perfections of the modern world
there is a verbal anomaly...
       as pedant i am prone to spot a bulging
crevice... and the shrinking dreihundret...
    i know i will visit my grandfather's
house only once...
      as told to throw the rose into
the fresh burial ground of my great-grandmother
i said: NEIN...
  and later took it home,
put it under a candle inspection,
and gently burned the red into purple,
to later gnash and grind my teeth's
worth of chipping one of them,
just after the wake, sitting alone in a kitchen,
drinking *****...
               i have no germanic affiliation
but it pains me to see them this way,
this medieval masochistic...
                   so i sometimes utter
a few words in german: for no reason
and for no concern for posterity -
  no Berliner can assign me a lineage...
     prior to the chipping of the tooth
there was the laughter on the bus
while the priest did his: evading the status
of a common women who died -
   in the meantime, just recently i solved
what first appeared an unspectacular
"plagiarism" of a ***- puzzle...
  hyphen? forgot the spelling of the rest...
   and in the two number blocks:
  alternatively odd / even numbers, i.e.

3 | 4  1 | 5  6 | 2
2  1 | 6  3 | 4  5
4 | 6  5 | 2  3 | 1
5  2 | 3  4 | 1  6
1 | 3  2 | 6  5 | 4
6  5 | 4  1 | 2  3

just like the sudoku - although alternatively
even / odd in the brackets...
   i attempted it with a sense of failure:
there are three isolated instances:

3 |                       | 2
...................................
4 |                        | 1
...................................
1|                         | 4
..................................

     by comparison sudoku was easy...

+++ 3, 3, 3
++ 3, 3, 0
+ 3, 0, 0
- 3
                      or something like that:

plus the        | via _
                                             x x x
                                             x x x
                                             x x x...

and how many times i wished to be
H'eh-sooz from Barcelona -
        too many to count the number of springs
i already count to: 31...
     well then...
              
    does the following allow me manliness
or armour?

              ****'s a bit wonky...
   funky wonky... but still: dual-stirrup on
that eight legged donkey!
   apparently drinking doesn't allow you to:
"properly" count...
                        
           for if i had an apple i could
press ******* a key and not let go and
it wouldn't be a ctrl c cntrl p scenario
having to copy "eccentric" markings added
onto letters from the HTTP beast...

name an instance?

                 súdòkū -

well no, if i'm being deviant why establish
the study of orthography?

           yes, the -niece word can be contained
with a samurai blade sharpness
    mono-syllable...
            hai...
                      but slow it down?
this is what slow motion looks like...
slow motion in terms of applying
diacritical marks...
     you can almost be thankful that
the english-speaking world has
to only contend with:

                    a. punctuation marks
                    b. hyphenated words
                    as reconstruction of
                        a germanic genesis -
                       missing in chemistry...
                  
hydrochrloric acid is best condensed
and not left as shrapnel...

          -             -      so best to huddle
and count the space between your fingers
when waving like a... ******* idiot.

but i am still going to "stutter" when
reading a philosophy book -
    which is a BIG X (a ******* twist
of +) -
                 plus...
            because i've heard of women who
have reread entire books...
    well... **** two birds with one stone...
read a philosophy book:
     you'll be reading it twice in a single
sitting...
             no point rereading if you're
already rereading it already -
i.e. making cogito scriptums -
   mental notes...
                    
   and then when you get a chance
to hound a blank echo tunic worth of
a page? hell becomes: democratic -
       and each has his own: say...

        why wouldn't want to play around
with punctuation marks in a language
that has no diacritical precedence as bound
to Latin - with the only insinuation
being the lost artefact of carving graphemes?

     already pointed out:
    cheap and short -
   spot the graphemes!
             because, sure as ****,
     there's a difference in cattle heap
       and summer hornets...
                
to imagine: i've learned a language in order
to unlearn it, or better still: relearn it,
   and become a pedantic aesthetician...
  
wel... but if the germans can make S S
     into a ß - ah... the noun game -
   it's a digraph and not a grapheme because
the two letters are twins worth
merging and
not siamese akin to... worth cutting apart:
             is that not just a B, but also
nuanced as merely Zet?via
                      gro-z-es - vizier?
        where is that H to catch the O
   prior to anticipating the hyphen?
      back with god...
              i have to conceed a remark though:
something really made the jews smart
if what smart meant was: hiding vowels,
or rather making vowels into
diacritical marks akin...
       which i can't say the same about arabs...
  lucky the oil's there...
  
     this riddle will exhaust me
and i will never write a decent effort to
satisfy me...
     thus i rather leave it at that:
having exhausted, rather than abadoned
  this palace of a former blank space...
there are bound to be squatters ready
to inherit a peel of an orange for zest
of an orange i just ate.

   but i still manged to drink alone:
under the banner of to-ast!
    and that really is the distinguishable
desire to apply diacritical marks
when to and too are indistinguishable
    when otherwise: pool and pol(l)
are apparent -
         something is honestly wriggling
in english trying to get out...
maybe a death of a certain bilingualism.

i never imagined
that a vinyl playing
on a gramaphone
could instill
such a peace of mind...

literally:
you put the record on,
comes the scratching,
and then...
sound...

i found myself
entertained by
the walls of a room:
needing no painting,

the ceiling:
needing no sky
and this gem of
technology sitting
next to me...

mind you:
          this is not
a mid-life crisis
observation,
sure, the records
are expensive:
but this is not exactly
a ******* yacht...

and i thought to myself:
why no "poems"
so worthless to me
that i write them,
but subsequently
delete them...

to...
   build up a thick skin,
after all...
given the internet
is becoming a ****-show
and very much akin
to a ghetto
of would-be
public intellectuals...

well...
i still find the most
potent expression
in the Bible to be...
what Pontius Pilate
did...

   nihil supra iam
qua annoto...

     nothing
beyond what already
is already condemned...

and how i wish i was
a pompous *******,
but...
to be honest?

  technology is moving
too quickly for me
to want to keep up,
it's already grinding
against a platitude
where every new
         "improvement"
will be nothing
more than the
nuisance of a software
update...

so? the gramaphone
is the perfect
antithesis...
mind you:
jazz or classical
doesn't sound at all
as good as
   on vinyl...
it's the raw physicality
of the instrument:

an opera in a hall,
a gramaphone,
a room,
no headphones...

and...
learning to purposively
lose things,
these, scribbles,
write, leave for some
prying eyes:
and then delete...

or not delete...

       only back in 2018
the internet still
had some allure for me,
enough to binge
drinking whiskey
and staying up at night
getting "informed"...

2019 is going
to be the year of the gramaphone,
and...
   in all honesty:
i don't mind the fate
of Rimbaud...
even if writing dies
in me,
   i'll have one less ******
to deal with:
namely myself...

plus the current topics
are too...
well...
do i have to have an
opinion about matters
that, even if they affected me...

might as well
concentrate on something
that will give me
less grievance
concerned with
the numbers:
subscribers,
view-counts...

  i'll be happy after a month
of so...
if not more...
finishing
Charles Dickens'
the pickwick papers,
drinking less,
and being in the possession
of a fine collection
of either jazz or classical
records...

it was fun for
a while, this whole internet
thing...
but in honesty -
the infrastructure of
the internet was
always: primo on
the cards...

banking,
buying & selling,
mailing...
   bureaucracy...

how some of us became
duped into thinking
that there was
something more to this,
sure, there was...

what a grand plot:
bypassing "puiblishers",
yes... "publishers"
who, for the most part,
didn't include
in their html code
the inability to
ctrl + c / cntrl + p
the text...
with one exception:
wattpad...
but they're ******* so:
woo-hoo?

a much finer evening...
no one should
suffer for art,
at least i could come
to the conclusion:
better it died in
me than i died because
of it...

   still...
might as well write
a few poems...
let them simmer...
and then flush them
into the abyss...
how else to live
the mortal life?