what a strange "precaution" one must find oneself
in, to dispose of the amalgamation
of the past - into the "furthered" present-at-hand,
the current hyper-nostalgia
of the predilection of all things apparent
as central of a past, or, to a future,
never bothersome to stage
a history "borrowed" from epistemology -
the atomic construct of the word -
sooner: the worded construct of a world...
always bound to lazing and the lazying to and fro
between a pre-
as all that is predecessor -
and all that is to come based around an agreed
to pro- of a concensus...
wording in a manner of pampering to one's
toiletries... whether a fart is a whiff of strawberry
fields in a crowded meat wagon of
the London underground, or not...
how easily must this sort of language come,
and be spared... the cohort effort of the body
seeking: more the world-body...
and less... the thinking-parasite easychair enclave...
people of reason can be reasoned with...
but people of thought?
if only they could be: thought out...
congested. squee... squeezed out of existence...
their egos better served for the greater good
of some... obedience... and pray to god...
fertile... in order to mimic into the future a worthy
substitute... but what if...
that lineage breaks? are kings dethroned?!
will the country experience civil unrest?
is the same at the tip of my crown the same
as what crowns my phallus the... "metaphorical";
why borrow from such high-brow images
in these decaded times as if...
they were implied of nothing more...
than the exploits of sycophants?
these broken images of splendor...
the crown is... your majesty...
nothing more than a homonto...
(that neck piece of the harrowing horse
on the plough)...
your spectre: a limp phallus...
your orb? the pickled testicles of an italian
castrato...
oh the glued to glum realism of having,
of having to borrow from the past, somehow...
to have died is not enough!
one must always be found, speaking from
within the grave some hints...
some ghostly miracle jargon!
to have not cited shakespeare is to somehow...
also not have levelled the man
with a simply scottish hymn to topple
all those "debates" concerning:
sonnets? since the british aisles is all aflame...
when it celebrates St. Sylvester's Day...
it simply rings a bell when it sings
a sonnet of Shakie... no no...
i can't evin' bel'eve mein eers!
aund lang syne?!
as that man sentenced to live among monuments...
among men:
who will clearly discredit all art...
perhaps not the renaissance buggery classes...
but certainly all the modern
concerns for revising geometry...
or revising the thought that originally
came across the subconscious potential of
a triangle... how soon, this, defence...
of architecture?
now i find nostalgia to be a sigma-compromise...
a filter logistic undertaking...
does one require -open- -conclusions-
-to- -be- -made- -apparent-?
i hope niet!
to a past i am certain,
but to a past within the confines
of an intellectual exercise,
of being unable to stop the inevitable?
how about a sprinkle of disruption?
how about... this straitjacket you've been pulling
me with...
oh sure... sure...
the welfare state...
end of socialism...
as a "schizophrenic"....
can i please ask you to reopen the asylums?
i dunno... you asked michael myers how he would
fare under a jimmy saville health and safety
inspection?
we can all just so happen to cite
any worthwhile remark...
as long... as we don't cite ourselves...
always easily pleased when being heard
of as spoken, rather than reading,
to subsequently write a "conundrum"....
whatever philosophy was to come out of these isles...
sorry... not trying to be offensive:
what a general understatement of manners
in the southern regions of these isles...
to hell with this h'american freedom of speech!
i can't "hear" myself think!
can a man truly speak and think the same
thing at the same time?
i doubt it... i very much doubt it...

only until today didn't i know that it takes
8oz of butter...
melted... with some 3oz of honey...
some ...oz of buffalo sauce...
some worcestershire sauce... some lemon juice...
and of course some blue cheese dip...
to make a chicken leg,
three wings and a cob of corn...
followed by some ciders...
the perfect end to a 40+h session of
chornic insomnia...
25mg of amitriptyline + 500mg of naproxen...
if the singleton households of
free-mommies of the world will not ask...
i'm pretty sure ezra pound made it into
an asylum...

who else... em... eddie gein?
whatever came from this hellish inversion
of an arabic concept of partriarchy...
leftover spoils...
at least with the concept of a harem...
they kept the ones they fucked...
and didn't send them out like
broken goods to be picked up
by the betas...
they had to keep the ones they lived...
since there was always on grand master
matriarch ruling them...
either dildos or eunuchs allowed
when the grand master gigolo wasn't around...

fuck it... reopen the asylums...
i'll constrict myself to go in head-in-get-first...
come to think of it...
what doesn't make me a conscript of
homelessness and a waking
abortion? ah... that honeymoon trip
with my bride, death,
on the shores of lake geneva...
where i'll probably make...
those death-row cunts piss ketchup
should i tell them...
about what a perfect day of mine
would look like!

english society doesn't think i'm something
worth of a comfortable experience
in terms of... not being the complacency
that i should be.