arabs talking about fascism like it's some sort of variant
of a bar mitzvah...
just like the joker said to bru-bru-bruce wayne:
ale tantß mit ha-tayvln (zen dayn shotn?)
arayan ha bleykh levonelikht?
ever danced with the devil in
the pale moonlight?
catch me at the right time,
and the roofs come early autumn and mid-winter...
are dripping with a lustre of quicksilver polish
come the mid-night hours or the moon's full
illumination... when the moon radiates its glare...
and the rooftops are near melting...
silver but above all:
borrowed sheen from mercury...
well... if plato can be declassified as a planet?
so can mercury... it's a moon...
not a planet...
and the sun is a "planet"...
mind you... how did people figure out
that the sun is "simply" a H-He (hydrogen-helium)
interaction?
i'm not even worried about the answer:
since i'm expecting an obvious one...
yiddish by my concern:
freyd baynakht:
baytog praktish inyen...

herr weimar:

when will people stop ascribing
poetical techniques
to mental disorders
in their casual, informal,
ascription sequences?
psychosis does not translate
into psychopathy...
just because the two words share
the same prefix,
doesn't imply that -
"somehow" they're one and the same...
melancholy:
lethargy, and a lost sense of cognitive
"will"... automated thinking...
how many times during
the day do i imagine throwing
myself under a train?
for the hard-on about 20 times
before i get out of bed...
which is 20 times less than
when i stood on a roof,
on an industrially sized complex,
notably the scottish widows hq
near st. paul's and thought
about jumping...
and pancakes...
and the thrill of the fall...
and then the initial shock
of impact, followed by a pause...
and then the sigma of pain rushing
into my body...
schizophrenia is a different
version of lethargy,
most mental conditions are
lethargy inducing,
or quasi-paralyzing...
one psychosis can last a year,
or years, another, can last a week...
but when your thought patterns,
are subverted by auditory hallucinations,
psychosis: the trip for champions,
l.s.d. trip will not do justice
to a psychosis "trip",
alcohol helps as both
a sedative... & a pentothal derivative...
it's: disinhibiting...
but not to the point
where i send someone a fucking dick-pic...
what sicko would do such a thing?
a psychopath would...
psychopaths do not have
enough emotional "intelligence" /
gradation to encounter an ego-dissociation,
last time i heard:
instead of a healthy dosage of
serotonin,
they have a pathological dosage
of dopamine: or some shit,
equivalent to that...
if i were an expert on this matter,
i'd be paid...
and since i'm not,
i'm simply concentrating my attention
of the general public vernacular,
namely:
why are psychiatric conditions,
spoken of,
in such poetic terms,
heavily reliant
on the technique of metaphor?
we already have the phenomenon
of premature depression,
which seems to coincide with
the 19th century phenomenon
of premature dementia (schizophrenia)...
psychiatric literature is my thing,
when i went to a psychiatrist
i was told: 'you have good insight
into your condition'...
i just nodded, kept my mouth shut,
when i went to the prostitute,
i was told: 'you're nice'...
"forgot" my genitals and smooched
for an hour,
i just forgot the fun part of kissing,
got bored of looking down on fellatio
and the gymnastics of genital
interaction...
when i was supposed to go
to the priest... i...
funny story...
i walked into an empty church...
paranoid as fuck,
smoked a joint, walked around central
London, cowered into a church
near Camden Town
(opposite the postal service
hangar - near to the King's Cross
Station) -
went to the side altar,
took a white sheet from the altar,
lay under the altar,
and heard... a descending choir...
got up... started running around
the empty church...
without saying a word...
then a great wind...
a breath that imbued me with a fear
much greater than what i was
experiencing on my psychotic "trip"
on the street...
i thought, yeah "thought"
of one word: SATAN...
and the 40 days and nights spent
fasting in the desert,
i called my ex-girlfriend
when i got out of the church:
while some Spaniard was walking in,
sat on the curb, phoned her,
and said: 'can you come over to
X location, and bring me some bread
and water?'
whatever they say about
the sort of marijuana extra-strong
chemically enchanced skunk
of England? you can... become psychotic...
if you smoke, and walk in public,
and put nothing into your gob.
conversion? what?
just plain honesty...
no wonder i kept my mouth
and didn't want to convince people,
i still don't... shit happens...
this was, when?
oh... back in 2007... when i was 21...
now it's 2019...
i rarely recount this event,
it's too much of an existential shell-shock...
i'd compare it to a suicide bomber
detonating his vest on the bus...
and you're, literally just taken a sip
of coffee while walking down a street...
do i believe "god" exists?
i don't have to...
do i have to convince other
people that "god" exists?
no... not really...
i'm glad i kept that event
to myself for so long...
but it just gets on my nerves
when people mingle an outlier,
like me,
with psychopathic individuals...
if you've never experienced a psychotic
"trip"...
you know jack-shit...
take some l.s.d. and...
look at the bright colours and the sparkling
neon lights...
the end...
given that i know of no drug
that allows you experience
auditory hallucinations...
funny... isn't it... given how auditory
hallucinations are...
by my estimation...
the sort of "pain"
that would leave some
wishing for a fucking toothache;
it's the sort of "claustrophobia"
with the only "room" is your own head...
and your ego is being flushed
down the toilet of a shy hive of "spectators"...
as i've aged: fuck me... 12 years...
yeah... i can tell when it's stable,
and when it's not...
once i walked from Romford...
to the Dartford Crossing,
then toward Barking...
somehow managed to catch a bus...
left the house at 12am,
came home at 11pm...
blisters on my feet...
just because i had a vivid dream
of sleeping on a couch downstairs,
and an ominous shadow figure standing
outside the window...
i was kicked into this trance-paranoia
state where i had to walk it off...
i had to translate this mental pain
into a physical pain...
that's how i began knowing that
physical pain can alleviate the symptoms
of mental "pain"...
which probably explains
why the pwetty pwetty teenage girls
choose to self-harm...
just saying: it's not right,
but now i can sort of understand
the justification...
an old man is able to justify
melancholy...
his life is at its end,
the house has been built...
but this current phenomenon
of premature depression?
speculation after speculation,
after some more speculation...
but i've heard it time and time again,
acribing the wrong kind of outliers
with: psychiatric diagnoses as metaphors
to ease the colloquial for
abhorrence of an act...
fact of the matter:
it doesn't help if these subjects
are a taboo: within a taboo...
who else to look out for?
p.t.s.d. soldiers?
same bag of crisps...
________
herr weimar!

what is there to be learned,
what to be inherited,
and what: deserves to be lost...

i stand before a canvas
of an open wound,
and a womb,
and at the same time:
a canyon...
will this void find
me to be a man and, subsequently,
to find a child borne from
the depth of my idle pleasures,
into a chaining to succumb
to the higher values of life?!

i hardly think it will,
why, succumb,
to surprise? i came as a walking
abortion,
i will leave, as a walking
abortion,
and all that man kept sacred
in woman,
i will, by her allowance:
leave... desecrate...

barren land:
unfruchtbarboden...
what man was never in need...
to place a straight shadow
behind an erected cross...
once the nag hammadi
library was unearthed,
what is nietzsche to me?!
nichts!
nein! nein! nein! nein!
ich haben zu warten!
fetish for the saxon german:
i.e.,
swabian german,
with anglo-saxon grammar:
ich haben zu warten!
you know what one
mad-woman with a university
degree said to me?
that i resembled: brad pitt
in the film troy...
nice...
i was, engaged once,
to a russian sex liberation
skank...
she re-married,
thank god i was only engaged to
her...
she ended up fucking
around...
divorced,
more tattoos...
re-married...
just my luck...
that i visisted prostitutes
in the time consuming period
of "would-be life"...
i still retained my fetish for
deutsche...

ihre Bastille, ihre aßyl!

roserot: red rose...
this, post-apocalyptic grammatical
inversion of latin,
to these people, of the pagan lands...
unlike the semites who
write right to left,
this grammar, left to right right to left...
grinsentod...
mein: oder ihre deutschland...
nicht über,
nicht alles...

jesus christ died for me back
in 1945, when the nag hammadi library
was unearthed from the desert in
egypt by some shepherd...

he has died a solemn death,
and i, don't have the will
to reincarnate myself in this
neu-lehre...
i don't have the blind
will to compose myself
to the message...
chinese whispers borrowed
from the gospel of st. thomas?
yeah... thanks... but no thanks...

resort to Islam?
why so? there's an older devil
in play... Judaism...
at least Judaism gives me the required
prejudices,
a strict obligation to the upkeep
of literacy...
and...
perhaps the monkey came prior
to man,
but then we're only talking forms...
came the first man...
who encoded the sound akin
to O(h)... wrote the sound,
then came the idea for a wheel...
and so the wheels of time
sped forward.

categorical imperative?
furthest from god, all the more closer to the word,
re. (revised to a reiteration):
furthest from god, all the more closer to language...
bastion, satan,
watchful of islamic
predictability of rubric...
deutsche: bitte...
am weitesten von gott, alles die mehr näher
zu die wort...
am weitesten von gott, alles die mehr zu sprache:
zu denken...
für ein gott: ich nicht beten...
ich... nein mantra tag-zu-tag blödsinn...
ich lieber denken von ein gott...
als beten zu die gott...

i miss being 21...
so innocently placed in being so: justly trustworhy...
perhaps once i make it to Prague...
i'll get to showcase the whole Russian fetish
with the devils, the foreigners,
the chamaleon orthography masters...
the whole:
oh sure... no nostalgia for gen x'rs nine inch nails...
guns 'n' roses... silverchair...
and when i owned my first dobberman:
when it was still legal to slit their ears
so they would be pointy?
what else was i going to call him?
AXEL... i.e. ax'l...
the sort of nostalgia that
can be permitted is the nostalgia of what has remained
of what the child has become...
devoid, namely?
i'm nostalgic... of the 1990s...
i was born in 1986 though...
i'm nostalgic about as much as 1990s had
to offer...
as... the child was already offering to begin with.