.*you're using all the right words: for all the wrong reasons... and let's face it: if women own the monopoly on reproductive avenues... then men hold the ego-key, to slot their presence, through a door, that curbs or gives allowances, to what is thought... sex was nether a transluçent enterprise... oh look... the Roma sigma pops up... dire straits: de profundis - money for nothing riff - boogie boogie... milkshakes from the 1950s 'n' all... you know what my biggest pet peeve is? the englih language imitating ancient Latin, i.e. not applying diacritical "punctuation" markers to close in on syllables and make the language atomic (i.e. H is hydrogen, He is helium)... fuck me... the same Brits who lived in the 19th century, are not the same Brits living in the 21st century... no wonder the fertility rate is s goddam low.... try fucking an english bride... no thank you; i'd rather fuck a female gorilla.*

the milkman passes my house
at, circa, 3am...
see the van skid around the bend
up the hill...

i listen to music at volumes
equivalent to my father working
the construction site -
i'll be deaf by the time i'm 50...
and guess what:
for the music i'm listening
to? it'll be worth it...

dittoing out:
have the criticism of post-modernists
ever suffer?
*doubt*: doubt, is the modern
relief from existentialist
*negation*...

why is doubt being attacked?
doubt is half than that outright
cocksucker of *denial*
proposed by French existentialists...
doubt is good in that it's
tornado of emotions,
you want to imitate Christ on
Golgotha?
you doubt, and achieve the pinnacle
of the passion...
you start negating?
you're, nowhere...

on your own...

came the noun-phobia of philosophers -
the tinkers and tailors
of a.. what seems to be:
a noun-phobia
guaranteed with *fog*...
and *thing*..

the term
"thing" presupposes
the supposition of *tree*...
which subsequently serves
the proposition: let's hide in it!

philosophy and its infamous
noun-phobia -
*thing*...
and it's *nihil*...
its nothing...

a fucking cul de sac -
epigram -
of quasi morse encoding -
braille to boot -
September is coming -
van Morrison (moondance) -
hiding autumnal chill -
pan-Europeanism:
proto-"africa": either in Hindustan -
or Siberia;

suppose a moon, suppose a shadow by
candlelight, some edgy urban solo -
as a bricklayer i could raise kids
and crux on a woman -
chicken / doctoral itching with
a blunt nail are called scratchings -
hand-writing:
less digits in the digital
formatting - and more
calligraphy...
the rotten handwriting
of general practitioners...
Hippocrates might have made an oath...
but in terms of a handwritten cipher?
no clue...
the canvas of a monkey
onomatopoeia within the confines
of a custard of a lexicon...
a mouth thus opens -
a month begins -
instead of a tongue ejected from
the ivory temple -
a sludge crescendo of a quasi
cascade of sludge gluing the
whole theater into
a replica of a Russian drinking game...

.... ⠞⠓
... ⠑⠁⠑
... ⠞⠑
............ ⠞
... ⠥ ⠎
: : : - ⠎
........ : .... ⠕?

100 wolves of the continent...
for, but 1, fox,
of the English isles...
i'll settle for that ratio...
and then i'll bite to ensure
a signature!

howl all you want...
but have you ever found seagulls
annoying up the river?
more annoying than magpies
or crows?
the wolves can howl
all they want..
ever endear the ear
to hear a fox "laughing"?
no?
might as well listen to me.
i cradle that sound,
above the chariots
of a human newborn...
i grieve!
i am... sombre gsture...
a past, a passing,
a future, a wicker man within:
torch...
banquette of souls!

let's interlude -

*touko "tom" laaksonen* -
how can people "do" sober
when entertaining such
extravagances....
is it empathy, or sympathy?
in the name of the either,
with either being the sum
of what wll never be a sum
allowance,....
to gain from...
why not
piss-ease up the anus
for a zeppelin-esque
bomb drop -
(minor the Nagasaki) -
and hand-piked anal
with the cusp of your hand -
throne of thrones -
flagship?
"king of kings":
like fuck...
the holy trinity of
the no. 1, as the no. 2,
and subsequently the no. 3:
piss (father),
take a shit (son)...
jerk off (the holy ghosts)...
king of kings,
never sat on the throne
of thrones...
i always hated "artists"...
painters -
plagiarists -
cheque sketchers...
plagiarists...
middle finger indentation
from holding a pen to add to having
exposure to a grammatical examination...
quality cinema:
panorama take on a versus of
heavy editing...
and there was a time
frame to encompass dialogue...
somehow it fits:
the verbal myopic -
the entire pre-
& post- canvas of a blinking eye...
always the question of the
pre-industrialißed sketch;
words predating metaphor
akin to -
words versus metaphor
in genesis -
format? anecdotal.

in writing:
by one hand alone,
made into two...
my, my...
what a weirdo self-portrait
"assumption"...
a self-portrait...
a wish for color,
with nothing to show,
but the relief of encompassed bones;
that become a disembodied
skeleton - minus a purpose
of tendon attachments...

∟ "contra" Δ -
equilateral my ass...

a few days spent within the confines
of a Promethean bosom,
there be, elemental insomnia
of an electric bespoke...
if Prometheus stole fire,
who, in in all for fuck's sake
stole the saber of Zeus,
the thunderbolt -
electricity, who?
who craved the insomnia?!
this Frankenstein-esque
insomnia-zombification -
white as is white:
with all the dermatological
copper take on broken shins...
should ivory coco -
come between piglet cum copper
auburn in terms of autumn...
fucker...
fuck you!

take your nigger ass elsewhere,
and then... start spelling
it with a missing G...
when citing Niger...
you do the double dip of the NBA...
you count the second dip...
why do i love Batman as the best
superhero?
not of his superhero powers,
he has none...
his enemies are
the only interesting
counter-factoids of
having implemented an existence
for.
there is no exacting of
a superhero,..
but there is enough
to mind an antithesis...

*tylko wieśniak
by wydział film w tym,
bo sie nie rusze -
cegła, kamień -
pień - mur -
i by mówił - w tym
co zamarzło -
to co ostygłe -
w co z tym samym -
meine filmisch -
i skakaniem świec -
od i na nagim cieniem -
pytać nad pyche -
tanz! tanz!
moje iskry słów...
sto! i lat,
o wielbłąd churem o
grzbiet da, i da,
iskra; alfabetu!
bogiem impromptu
o czym warty: -gień.*

- suppose a moon, suppose a shadow,
by candlelight - within the confines of
mercury - that quickened silver -
some edgy urban solo -

as a bricklayer or a cobbler -
shoes that deviate from ushering
an echo -
i could raise children and keep
a woman: only if she decided
upon not allowing me
a leash -
what a saddening affair
of minds and freedom...
chicken doctoral -
i don't know: vanity of the impossible
mortal gain...

the monkey onomatopoeia
within the confines of a custard
of lexicon....

that Victorian image proof
source of envisioned Braille in
the confines of a primate...

handwriting:
itches, scratches, chicken esque
clucking... which is what
handwriting looks like these days,
what, with the coding...
semi plumber,
half the electrician...
and certainly null when it comes
to calligraphic invigoration...

- homosexuality was always a contingency
escapade to release suppressed yearnings -
a sudden but a non-fulfillment questioning
celibacy...

you can enforce curbing homosexuality,
but then there are two outlets...
the perversity: or the question...
of Ayn and Sophia...

greeks fucked the hebrews in the hole
without an outlet - zee heed: with a missing A...
Ayn - Aleph -
twin Adam -
perhaps a Siamese abomination...

mind you... the forbidden fruit?
sounds more like... the forbidden flesh...

thee burdensome walking
the already burdened earth: as the fruit,
somewhere between the flesh of man's last predator,
contained, on land, and his hidden desire
for revenge and introspection,
a denial of commonality and shared purpose -
thou shall not consume
that which also hunts you -
little or no concern with equal
measure of forbidding, that which you pet...
the forbidden "fruit",
in between the flesh of a sabertooth tiger,
and Cain's fruit of famine and incompetence:
cannibalism...

and why would you think about
drinking a ms. amber with pepsi...
pepsi! to coca -
and not slide in a slice of lemon
while you're at it?
terrible mistake...
well... one way to get y'er vit amins...

and why is it that all the best
movies these days are about homosexuals?
the dutch girl for starters...
me, drinking, watching t.v.?
either damn good drama,
a western,
or a movie about a fucking
homosexual...
did i mention that i think that
homosexuality is an auxiliary escapade plan?
natural, of course,
but i'd hate to have to life
a doubled up life -
then again...
perhaps i would...
me? i have a new girlfriend -
Sophia - and her pimp: Philip -
so am i expected to make demands
for the child they might end up
called Ayn, or Aleph?
- the Wahhabi hypocrisy
concerning music, or rather, censoring it...
but... but i thought the *adhan*:
the call to prayer: was sung,
rather than abiding by the catholic
credo murmur?
no?
my bad... you know better...
i'll send you a postcard from
the Galapagos Islands,
if i find the time, to find:
that 4th dimensional concept doing
the trigonometric shoom! elsewhere -
on a tangen "bias": fuck knows where -
like a comet - missing a tail -
shoom! gone.

shrapnel:

not enough thrills for a hard-on...
... images... drawings...
apparently fine art is not enough
stimulation to jerk off to for these Arabs...
porn? ..... in general?
cartoons.... cartoons of women....
... because?
well... apparently the niqab...
extends beyond the realm of...
readily available attire...
women on the street?
pornographic "actresses"?
you see the cartoon?
it's all fucking Hentai...
oh don't get me wrong...
*amy adams*?
buff as an exploding Hindenburg...
the pale ginger - *milchskin*...
- unrelated:
how about i sneak a skunk into
a coco chanel perfumery -
while advocating that people will still
call it a: scent just shy of roses and strawberries.

- people have heard of incels -
but have they heard of Vcels?
huh?!
yeah, yeah... voluntary celibacy -
i know what a virgin sounds and looks like -
and, to be honest?
there's hardly any rhetorical sex
involved -
a bit like jerking off...
monkish chants -
Byzantine -
the fear of man,
when his own inability flourishes:
in a woman...

these acts have become well trodden...
so well trodden that i'm
authentically surprised that anyone
would still goosestep them into
their mundane plagiarism's existence...
replica invigoration:
turns out...

*zeit ist nicht gerade, aber
kreisförmig*...

touko "tom" laaksonen...
i.e. tom of finland...
question: you think a macron over
one of those As
would do the trick in terms
of spelling correction?

*touko "tom" laaksonen*...
you seriously can only watch European cinema
while drinking...
again... invigorating the english language:
one baby step at a time -
a simple grapheme -

the vater's S Z interchangeability -
synchronised contra synchronized -
settled -
synchronißed -
sometimes the slithering S
of a snake -
otherwise the rigid totem with
a torso of a zebra...
hardly a major investment -
but when i see English having moved
from the Elizabethan Shaky Steward of
thou etc. -
imitating ancient Latin -
coordinating the Greenwich study of
dyslexia...
Joyce...
no diacritical application?
hell...
might as well release a bull
into a China shop...
or a rottweiler into chicken shack...
still... why is there an orthographic aesthetic
in practice, hovering over I and J,
when there's no difference, as suggested
in CAPiTAL letterIng?
ah... i see...
the english "think" they can bypass the para-
frontier, and the orthographic frontier
and race down to the metaphysics...
first?
you explain why it's i and not ι,
and why it's j and not ȷ.
______________________________________

p.s. i am thoroughly a leftist when it comes
to a "critique" of capitalism
from the confines of psychiatry -
that one branch medicine that heavily relied
on subjectivity than some
bogus "objective" questionnaires...
easily boxed, easily caged:
easily vermin...
the left only makes senses from the perspective
of psychiatry...
while watching this
en masse psychosis - this sydenham's chorea:
this st. vitus' dance...
turning into violence rather than
an encore: more song! more song!
keep us dancing in this spasm for a while:
longer!
lucky me, lucky you...
when a individual's psychosis disintegrates
into either a bipolar disorder
or schizophrenia...
mind you:
i'm quiet lucky! bipolar disorders are
affected by mood swings...
what aids my diagnosis as a schizophrenic?
apart from king crimson's song:
21st century schizoid man song?
i'm also bilingual...
so i'm less schizoid and more...
ah ha ha: quadratic!
i like to play games...
language: primarily orthography and the lack
of its presence in the english language:
no viable diacrtical markers: well then:
no indications for "change", are there?

i love the left from the perspective of
individualism, and the left knows individualism
under the meticulous scrutiny of psychiatry,
after all... didn't the soviets just love
interrogation via the sleep-deprivation
torture mecca?

the left sounds about right,
no, almost certainly right in an asylum...
comrade stand-off!
pan komisarz! (you do say the rz,
ready to be a latin grapheme in fwench...
je... je suis!)
bratek nie radek!

imagine my surprise...
a psychiatrist tells someone educated in
chemistry: there's a chemical imbalance
in your brain... chemical imbalance?
then watch the fear of the psychiatrists:
this man can still explore empathy...
this man reads Kierkegaard and Heidegger!

the man turns around and has to resort
to asking his shadow: so what's wrong with me?
the shadow replies: the self is yet to be
formed in the fathomable sense of a predictable
ontology... they're shooting blanks...
they're aiming with crooked rifles...
they think the "problem" is worth the individual's
concern, but not the concern of the collective...
that the problem can be fathomed,
caged, relieved... zoologically determined...
equivalent to a slothful predator...
being regularlly fed...
satiated without a sense of being content...
or being per se: for that matter...

i watch these people being so apprehensive
about going mad, and so few do...
and so many could, but never do...
me? well, if a diagnosis is any proof...
but i haven't been admitted to a mental
hospital...
lucky me they let me run wild...
i even have a decent soundtrack...
but no, i recently attended a health check interview
with the WPC...
lucky me i some titilate
the sadist... i showed them my hands...
with cigarette burns on the knuckles:
raw to the bone...
but as i once explained:
someonetimes - pain... the sort of pain that connects
the braille dots to the nervous system,
and shyes away from the pleasures of
a full stomach, a thoughtless mind,
an orgasm... that thin blurry line of experience...

i once walked to the supermarket at night
for my dosage of the sedative ms. amber
finding a stone carved into a shape of a heart,
i picked it up, and have ever since kept
it in secret and above all in safety...
i have no intention of grappling with
intimacy with a women ever again,
after all... i spent two weeks in the Taize community
in France... i know what a monk's life looks
like... i am most impressed at the serenity
gravitating each life to the certainity of both
beginning and end...
if it weren't for the music,
i would be long gone from this society, this hive,
this whatever "this" is...

but the right doesn't burden itself with studying
psychiatry... the right is petrified by psychiatry...
literally...
it would appear the left is the only
fathomable entry point & posit to enter
and leave with a dialectic akin to: anti-oedipus
by Félix Guattari and Gilles Deleuze...
a really decent read...
given?

profit ≠ savings...
"odd" but not funny...
profit = credit...
but why does it not equal debit?
well, the capitalist insinuation is that:
more has to be spent than is earned...
hence the constant need for profit!
profit is not treated as savings is not treated
as debit... hence? talk of deficit and talk of
debt...
debit ≠ debt...
credit = debt...
ergo? profit = credit = debt...
otherwise?
ask any pensioner...
savings = debit = rationing...
it's not complex mathematics if you were to ask me
again...
from the asylum:
well... "asylum" given that i haven't been sectioned,
that i'm allowed to roam free in a society:
that feels like an asylum...
i once owned a credit card...
i didn't see the point of owning one,
given that i always paid back the money due...
and never allowed the usury % gollem to get involved...
oh sure, capitalism is great: i mean -
what are the alternatives?
but credit capitalism is not the same
as debit capitalism...
credit breeds usury... debit? the sanctified:
bite as much as you can chew...
but i just can't see eye-to-eye with the right
wing politics of today from the perspective
of the "mad"... the left have this problem covered...
after all... the right's dialectical standpoint
rests upon: gas 'em or 'ang 'em...
and would you believe it?
muhammad was conscious of the mad,
yes, that prophet...
he implored people to explore
that madmen's avenue for added perspective...
western man and the chains and the cages
and the circus of laundering one fiction after another
via the asylum... how petrified the busy-bodies
of this world must be...
when... someone comes back...
and... exfoliates in one aspect of communicating back
the equivalent of: but one small step for man,
a giant leap for mankind...
but how else can "we" move into
a solely debit capitalism away from credit capitalism?
debit capitalism works...
but then... it doesn't: since who's to feed
the gullible glutton, the gullible advert friendly
fast-spender?
the supply doesn't equate itself to the demand...
because of profits...
gluttony capitalism is credit capitalism...
there will never be an alternative to socialism
in the form of debit capitalism...
again, again, again and again:
that usury % baron gollem...
borrow a quid... pay back quid fifty...
a phantom fraction multiplier...
the divisible 0...
lucky for me...
i can't spend more than i get...
but that's also a major problem...
since i don't want to be in debt -
i want to spend on a debit basis -
rather than a credit must...
so what is profit?
profit ≠ debit
profit = credit...
people make / orientate themselves around
profit for lavish expressions of wealth
orientated around: less survival and more...
ebullience - profit breeds games,
profit breeds gambling...
since what is profit already covers
the survival debit...
the rest of it must feed the lower gluttony of
gambling... there is no survival credit...
there's only: the excesses needed to be allocated
to their requisite circuses of: the great gatsby
pastimes in the fanfare of frivoloties!
to make profit is to earn the necessary debit
to survive -
but to also earn a credit -
which is - an excess amount of money
"manufactured" to be spent without
it having to be spent...
to be wasted... ultimately
an economic model that prides itself
on profit prides itself upon
credit - which subsequently shuns the sensible
debit model of capitalism...
debit capitalism is sense & sensibility
to every pride & prejudice of
credit capitalism.