some technical observations coinciding with
the platform v. publisher "debate":

weren't we all trying to escape the editors?
i look at some of these publishers...
medium.com -
poetryfoundation.org...
concerning the latter -
the editorial process is simple...
what do all their poets have in common?
if you don't have a BA or an MA in english?
forget it... if you are not a daughter
of a poet? forget it...
meritocracy doesn't rule on this site...
sure... the material is polished...
as all edited material will ever be...
passing through the editorial gates,
provided: a BA or an MA in english,
creative writing, poetry can be proven to be
of some use... and for that to be true:
well... you need editors!
no one can put together a "soviet union"
from scraps and cut corners akin
to chernobyll... and such publishing houses
really do take themselves seriously...
they are of the notion that
the internet has two prime component...
1. internet banking...
2. online shopping...
can the people who use platform awake
into a responsibility,
while the middle-men concensus bulge
start to wrestle with that bollocks line:
oh you read it on the internet...
rather then where? in a newspaper /
in a book? this dichotomy will sooner or later
disappear... perhaps people will
not... will not... use this medium so profoundly...
imagine! imagine what we have been
given! we can bypass the editorial process...
that constipated editorial process!
we can write what people might like,
however small (the smaller the better,
in all honesty)...
before we get to the atheistic conundrum
of the celestial dictatorship...
mind you: we must first get past
an editor / the editorial process...
what difference is there between
a censor and an editor / curator?
well... they're one and the same...
the latter two positions are simply milder
sounding... but they are both one
and the same... nuanced difference...
the censor works from the position
of... state authority...
the editor? personal bias...
or a concern for any impeding lawsuits...
the author doesn't see the audience...
since the editor, right in the middle...
has to "curate" to his own tastes...
or audience statistics...
can you imagine a more glorifying time?!
to bypass the editorial process!
to experience a direct communion
of the author to the audience?!
the editors are on holiday...
how few people seem to squabble
and subsequently squander this gift, this gift!
the proof won't take long...
1. medium.com (the creative cafe)...
i'm sorry... is this what the editors filtered
to make it? i'm not going to bash the efforts...
but... if i imagine an editor...
i imagine an ezra pound...
someone studious... this is just baffling...
2. poetryfoundation.org
(just look it up...
all the contributors, all the "respectable"
authors have one thing in common...
doesn't matter what they write -
although... yeah... it's there)
Natasha T. - university educated,
MA / BA in english, creative writing, poetry...
Anne C. - PhD in classics...
Jennifer R. - an MFA...
Neko C. - left school at 15 to join
a punk band... i very much doubt...
that Neko doesn't have either a mother
or a father in academia... sorry...
Benjamin V. - an MFA in poetry...
blah blah...
any scene from the godfather will do...
pages like this are required...
since outside of this mafia ring...
an MA BA MFA in this field is...
equivalent to a 5 year old genius
armed with a crayon, a piece of paper
and a fridge magnet....
sad reality... well... not exactly sad...
just... funny is the only word to come to mind...
and these quasi-editors of facebook groups
a page like wattpad.com, a poetfreak.com,
etc., are such sites curated?
no... the editor should have the first
and last say on something...
an editor wouldn't be called an editor
if he would easily capitulate to a mob...
to some angry readers...
that's why i figured: what's the real
difference between an editor / curator
and a censor? on platforms?
who pretend to act like publishers?
even newspapers show their editorial
enclaves... a disgruntled writer will
write to an editor about an article...
the article doesn't disappear...
but the disgruntled reader is acknowledged...
the author of the article is not
suddenly given the naughty stick...
because an enclave group of ardent
poetry die-hards think their poetry
is the best and the only poetry to be worth
reading...
it's so demeaning being chased off
as a leper or worse...
if the original editing filter is in place
and you pass through...
but then are chased off by an angry mob...
then there's no editing in the first
place... there's the naughty stick
and the sort of peer pressure associated
with the first adventures with drugs...
but that naughty stick...
there is nothing confusing about this...
it's just so demeaning to begin with
that explaining the mental gymnastics behind
it is so... base...
unlike a youtuber...
these fuckers never had to face a reality
of the editorial yoke...
they are experiencing the editorial process
in reverse... and obviously it's pissing them off...
i guess this is what some call
a poem sampler: an essay that didn't make it
on a poem - this then is some variation
of a reality sampler...
shouldn't we be more thankful
for bypassing the editorial process?
in a "democracy" where: "everyone" has a, "voice"?
isn't this medium being squandered by
petty squabbles?
who has the bigger readership hard-on?
who the hell even counts?!
does everyone still eat food via
counting calories...
or eats food for the taste?
i say: be more frankful for being able to bypass
the classical editorial process...
i quiet like the editors to take a break...
let the flood in...
and let the author-reader momentum
establish itself: away from any meddling
third party authority...
yet i guess an objectivity concerning words
is a far reaching dream...
after all: the objective merit of art
is bland and only appreciated by philistines
who desire their opinions to be heard...
art is and is also "too" subjective:
but that should allow a critique the transendence
of meddling so far as to demolish
the art, disintegrate it, erase it...
disgust is welcome... but damn outright
banning / suspension?
if only people could first find
a website when they can't freely publish...
and see the editorial constipation that's in place...
and then go back to their editor-free
platforms of expression...
well! hello! stashing your work in a drawer!
and yes... i know...
but even frank o'hara was able to write
a poem or two ending with a personism manifesto...
so excuse my prose cascade...
i just don't think it's yet apparent
what we have been given...
if you can bypass the editors?
you can basically write a grafitti...
and say a mighty fuck you to social formality
of a dear mr. / mrs.,
yours faithfuly / sincerely...
but i guess some people on some of
these platforms... haven't looked into...
"platforms" that are actually publications...
and they haven't experienced
the REJECTION SLIP...
they probably don't even comprehend
the stature of an editor behind a publication...
since... clearly... the "editors" on these
"publications" do not actually edit anything...
they let anything and everything through...
and then capitulate to mob rule...
i am sure to post this on hellopoetry.com
come december 15... naughty stick from
april 15? i think that's long enough for being
a "naughty boy"... don't you think?
come on! with one poem having received
over 10K reads?!
i guess that's something to be petty about...

in "saying" that...
i always drink until i start licking up some german,
usually german, if the fancy
otherwise steers me toward some
scandinavian zunge...
never the russia (i'm attributing the hellish
reminder that i'd have to read in cyrillic)...

und ich schaute und wunderte sich,
ar sie zu sein gesonnen, vereitelt,
bemitleidet... oder einfach: höhnte bei?
geduld: ich gelernt: ist nicht ein tugend...
ist: der mythologisch zwerggold...
der reinmetall... nicht etwas luft eigentum
bekannt als: tugend...

after all... i'm pretty sure that i would want
to remember the germans as anything
other than some transcended nazi of
every possible future that begins
with a definite and only third reich past...
i'm currently working on an excavation
of the erste reich: die heiligrömischreich...
notably the medieval music...
and all possible romances that would
make any Otto prior blush with jealousy
over the historical figure of Barbarossa...
because i want to imagine a Germany
without the 20th century baggage...
the ugly Germany...
where... it's not exactly German's fault...
if you were to put
king george v / king george vi /
kaiser wilhelm ii / tsar nicholas ii...
one big happy fucking family ruined the continent...
either i'm myopic... or there are key
physiogomical traits shared by all these rulers!
i wouldn't even call them world wars...
i'd call them the wars of incest...

and up went my hope for recreating
a music shop vibe... akin to high fidelity...
before streaming,
when people actually bought music:
did you know... you can buy a black vinyl...
and also receive an mp3 code for free?!

Romford - the hmv mecca... literally...
it's the only music store in london...
that i know of,
perhaps the odd indie music store just off
oxford st. heading into soho...
but... this is the last hmv in london...
Romford... and they really have catered
to the vinyl crowd...
church? bah... pub? bah...
the last remaining "nostalgia" from the 20th century...
and what i'm experimenting on minds.com,
i'm hardly someone akin
to: theNeedleDrop (anthony fantano) -
i'm not a music nerd...
god forbid if i ever write an album review...
i review music by listening to it...
after all: all the best emotions are
derived from the stomach and intestines...
the heart is just a mindless thump thump...
prime emotion? fear / nervousness?
the jitters? the only emotion a heart feels
is a tight pang of pain with an impeding
heart-attack...
all other emotions are bound to the stomach
and intestines...
proof: i remember attempting to go
to a brothel for a cozy-two-beached-whales
horny-dorry... upon walking to the door...
the excitement got to me...
so my anus spoke... as i shit my trousers...
don't ask me how i managed to get the night bus
home and then a taxi while being soiled...
brothels... your best chance at
an sure investement in an erection...
no gimmicks... no date poker...
no etiquette maneouvering...
in out... bob's your uncle.

oh but if this music shop could be anything
akin to the virgin megastore on oxford st.,
where the classical music section was sealed
off with sound proof glass...
there would have to be a section
for anyone wanting to explore medieval music:
medieval folk, medieval court music,
mythological music...
and yes, yes... jazz would be given
the same status as classical music...
please don't tell me that anything by
Philip Glass, Penderecki...
Gershwin... come on!

well... time for another whiskey and g. ale...
my solemn ms. amber in a jacuzzi...
and all the time in the world
to think about the gracious nature of prostitutes...
if it weren't for the prostitutes...
if it weren't for the prostitutes...
i'd only have 4 sour relationships
to sing about... and that wouldn't amount
to being much of worth to be sung to
begin or end with...
pieces of me lost in women that moved on...
relationships: drab...
you always leave pieces of yourself,
well, "leave"... more like they're stolen...
thank god for prostitutes...
as one said from one encounter
to the next after a period of months...
you're still the same!
yes honey bear... an honest transaction...
enlightenment!
i haven't changed because...
the investement had clarity...
an hour.... 110 quid...
no more: no less...
i didn't allow you go wild in the labyrinth
of my heart to find the minotaur
and poach a horn from my head...
i am still bewildered as to the people who
have so many relationships and never
feel a part of them is missing...
and that with the missing part...
they blindly walk into yet another relationship...
"thinking" they had the same self to
offer from the previous relationship...
21... 4 down... i gave too much...
i came to the conclusion...
i'll keep the teddy bear for the prostitutes...
i can multiply the drunk teddy bear
cat flirting naked in dim lights without that
dreaded: one night stand cocoon sex
under the bedsheets to a maximum...
but not like some don juan...
to hell with don juan...

that's another thing... when science became
ridiculous...
when philosophy was replaced by
psychology... by evolutionary psychology...
i've never seen so many people
fascinated by a monkey's ass...
it's hardly worth repeating
the Copernican discovery -
or Einstein's relativity...
or whatever M. Faraday came up with...
but evolutionary psychology
is just... that fixed narrative that everyone
is supposed to return to and keep
relevant as if some hindu mantra!
i'm bored of this one scientific theory
gaining such a narrative monopoly!
i'm tired of listening to the anglophone
darwinian bollocks! no other language
entertains such a focus on darwinism...
well i guess you have to be proud of something...
but looking up a monkey's ass? really?!
once in kenya will do it for you,
when you see monkey in the wild rather
than in captivity...
sure... all the "missing" components are there...
but not once did i decide to humble myself
before them as a:
simia similis...
how the hell did simia similis morph into
homo sapiens and the ape became
homo similis... i will never figure out -
perhaps if we didn't bother to borrow from
so many other animals? and worked
exclusively from the ape alone?
after all... wasn't monogamy and the concept
of the widow / widower not borrowed
from swans?
after all... aren't the rest of mammalian ties
more associated with communes / harems?
bears: isn't that the single mother household?
blah blah... i'm off for another
ms. amber taking a jacuzzi break.

p.s. isn't prostitution the area of society
a place where feminists do not
have their ideological jurisdiction reach?
how many stories have i heard
of feminists trying to shut down either
prostitution or strip clubs
(i still think the idea is redundant) -
i've only heard prostitutes counter
all those feminist claims...
prostitution seems to have escaped
the feminist ideological juggernaut...
what sort of jurisdiction does
a feminist have with her attempt at
a dialectic...
when a police car can drive by...
a "sauna" / "massage parlour"
and not: 1. handcuff the proprietor madam,
2. the prostitute,
3. the pundit?
even though... it is illegal in england
for the existence of a brothel proprietor...
points 2. and 3.? not illegal...
not even under the strict english laws...
no. 1 is... but even then...
the police know that the pundits
give money to prostitutes who will
drive the economy...
it would be hard to have an economy
given the pundits' spending habbits...
even in scotland!
doing something legal has never
felt so goooooooooo'd!
i'm all gooey and frivolous!
i'm within law to do what is lawfully abiding /
proper... in a place where feminist propaganda
is scorned, frowned upon!
i can be the teddy she can be
the beached whale...
or i can be the beached whale
and she can be the squeeze...
she can be the goddess with stretch marks
and i can be the hands that wash her
before and after in a shower: not essentially
penetrative sex...
i can be the teutonic monk
and she can be the postcard
that reads: wish you were here
and forever unchanging...
as i bewilder myself over people
on pedophile watch on livestreams...
and it's all just fine and dandy...
no dates... no etiquette faux pas...

over the past few days i have to realize an odd truth...
isn't the onion the only vegetable in existence
that has a consciousness?
a consciousness of it being butchered?
i swear only an onion possess this
glimmer of a birth of star,
somehow lodged between inorganic
things and organic: conscious matter...
no other vegetable behaves like an onion,
no fruit behaves like an onion...
if they managed to call it:
silence of the lambs...
where the lambs are silent because they know
they're about to be butchered...
hell... they should have called it:
the lament of the onions!
what else?
if ivan managed to gauge out
the eyes of the st. basil's architect postnik yakovlev:
in so doing subsequently telling him:
your eyes do not require to see any more
beauty than the beauty that stands before me...
st. basil's cathedral... onion domes...
the onions know all too well that you're
cutting them while they're still semi-alive...
does anyone cry from cutting any other vegetable?
garlic... fennel...
leeks? the onion knows it's being
dissected while still semi-alive!
i call it the postnik yakovlev tears...
true or not true:
science has about as much authority as it requires
to regurgitate itself onto itself...
eat itself aking to ouroboros...
or just lullaby the rest of us into
a numbed state of anaesthesia...

no other vegetable behaves like an onion...
however small the inconvenience of
a brain: dot that posits an awareness to something
external: the sun via photoperiodism -
couldn't the onion be the archetype pater noster
of all that was to be eaten
by a consciousness of itself and of not itself -
and all things non-edible in the abstract?
the onion simply behaves like anything still
semi-living (up-rooted / a fish out of the water)...
wriggling... instead the onion performing
the skunk routine of the antithesis of
selling a chanel no. 5...

two favorite things of mine to think about...
lately... prostitutes... and onions.