he's either really fat,
or just simply
goliath...
stark naked
i just nudge him,
telling him:
move a tad bit;
he expects me to
circumstance a
non-aggresion pact
of "mutual understanding"
in that i accept
his non-conformity
to the request,
as, on my behalf,
some disroted case of a
faux pas.
/ extract from nothing
of anyone's concern...

did i mention that i sometimes watch
youtube videos with a "concern" for
critique?

there i was, thinking i could skip
heidegger's ponderings vii - xi
and engage sartre's: being and nothingness:

semblance: nothing is ultimate,
nothingness licks the wounds
of adjectives - it's a quality inspection:
this being and nothingness...
it's hardly quantity orientated...

modern journalism... comparison,
two youtube channels...
this scot: Surviving Life
"contra" Tim Pool...
well, well... and not oh so well...
one is journalism,
compiling information,
never slipping into an "editorial"
opinion piece...
i don't want a journalist with
opinions, i want a journalist with
facts... Tim Pool is an apologist...
he's opinion central...
in defence of who? in defence of himself!
of course in the age of
quasi-capitalism...
he has the views,
he has the comments...
but he's not a journalist:
he doesn't compile evidence in line
with the offshoot of the court system...
a journalist is also a lawyer
and is also a prosecutor...
he's not an opinion-piece ditto-head...

a journalist will probably find himself
empathetic with the culprit...
paradox or just plain Camus?
the fun part of existentialism
is its fictive brain-child: the absurd...
i never respected the beanie man
and his vulture journalism:
mate! i can read too!
what's the point of listening to someone
regurgitating an article,
with an overload of opinion to
present, and keep, a centrist bastion?

it's a boxing ring scenario,
i'm simply pitting off the sort of journalism
presented by Surviving Life and
the quasi-journalism (vulture journalism)
of a Tim Pool...
regurgitating the news...
no original journalism...
i too can read the news...
about as original as:
a broad-bean telling you it's a fucking
asparagus stalk...
clown without make-up
is a hard gig to follow if you're aiming
for coulrophobia...
mind you: depeche mode stopped being
anything related to kinky sex party background:
ambient refrigerator sound fuzz...
and after finishing v. nabokov's Lolita...
fine cover story: a lepidopterist talks about
the premature fading of youth...
i was a child once...
i know the state of hyper-sexuality...
it's not the sort of hyper-sexuality that breeds
the necessity for exploitation...
it's a shy curiosity...
so no, not pedophilic...
unless the child is a pedophile to begin
with... after all... aged 8 and jerking off?
that's pretty early...
currently? aged 33...
a lolita is somewhere between the ages of
16 and 21...
tough crowd to break...
below 16 and you're talking about
the generic androgynous baby face...
and that's probably what pedophiles tap into...
well, the already given...
come 3:30pm in england and the school children
walk home... the girls are so sexually challenged...
well... yeah... akin to mentally...
retarded... they have managed to swallow
being hyper-sexualised...
their skirts never touch their knees...
it's a sickness with a fertility of
gamorrah to reincarnate itself...
and imagine how that goes is a moral question
is to be imposed...
pillar of salt and incest with the daughters
for that old old man...
again: a lolita? somewhere between 16
and 21...
but this really was about:
"journalism"...
vulture journalism of: someone else doing
the leg-work... you just regurgitating
the already written script and covering
"said" article with opinion upon opinion
like some fetish editor without a writing staff...
e.g. Tim Pool...
Surviving Life? pulling out documentary
footage... scanning the dark web...
that's journalism...
i don't like these...
bums of the internet begging for donations
for merely: reading already investigated articles...
what sort of journalistic integrity is left
if they're simply reading already published
articles?!
if that's what journalism has become
on the alt. side of what's described as fake news,
lamestream media... 24h insomnia reels
in 30 minute "breaking news" slots?!
sorry... i'm out...

journalism...
journalism? compared to Marie Colvin?
more like a keyboard warrior...
at least Surviving Life has a sense
of journalistic integrity...
we're talking "journalists" vs. dittoheads...
and these colt "journalists" are attacking
dittoheads... talking-heads, whatever ever you
want to call them...
smiling faces emoji central whitened teeth
presenters... flagship facade props...
this modern youthful "journalism":
what?! reading an article...
and making a comment... a very centrist comment?
the no-man's land bullshit that
only humpty-dumpty align themselves with?

oh look... i too can pull up the same
article (link in the description #reelnews) -
and have my own opinion too: to boot!
journalists that listen to police advice
about stockholm's "unsafe zones" -
people cooties in general...
journalism: in vitro -
vulture "journalism"...
safe journalism, closely associated
with the sunday times magazine / editorial pieces...
news review summaries...
never the sort of journalism associated with:
in vivo realism...
like... dyslexic crossword answers...
shitty, distorted lives, yet somehow associated
with the cohort of a 9 to 5 efforts that drag
the body and mind from a monday through
to a friday...

i'm not really defending either side:
i just want my old jukebox that was youtube back...
indie content creators, mainstream news outlets...
whatever... i still read the best script for a sunday's
worth of "procrastination": the sunday times...
but when book reviews come with
"toxic masculinity" badges of integrity?
i, switch, off...
where's my jukebox, fiends!

was this written out of bitterness,
jealousy?
ask me again if i get kicked off, my...
4th attempt to capture an eager audience...
however large, however small...
this just comes from a sense of...
force multiplied by rape of a blank canvas...
if i can't wriggle in like a wasp embryo
and eat my way out from a butterfly larva...
who else will?

three moths deciding to make
my bedroom into a motel from the night terrors
of spiders and other creatures that would eat
them...
pissing while constricting the shaft for
an extended pleasure never before associated
with ejaculation: mind you... the foreskin helps
to gratify pissing, like a woman might
self-gratify herself using the shower-head
while fingering herself... all that running water...
snippets of crab autographs pinching
with every pressurized droplet of water:
weaving the clitoris between fingers...
and the cat playing the cerberus role
drenched in dilated pupils inspecting the night,
perched as also a sphinx on the windowsill...

#inlocalnewstoday...

p.s. yes yes, i know... d'uh...
close proximity of cerberus and sphinx...
what can you do... drift into bad writing
hygiene... but it's not a harlequin saga from
scandinavia, either... is it?!
that's what listening to depeche mode on
repeat does to the brain...
plus: a cut-off point to a poem?
very hard to find... esp. if there's no middle
or beginning with that overt follow-through
drama of instagram poetics:
where...
every line, every word...
counts...
as if... it were...
to topple: each and every...
maxim... in existence...
the sort of: elevated haiku...
mind you... a haiku always feeds one with
a dissatisfaction... a haiku will never leave
you satisfied...
it's supposed to leave you as such:
barren, hungry...
or whatever is relevant to being: full...
it's not a blown into balloon...
it's a balloon that reminds you of exhaling...
after all... if a haiku was about
blowing into it... you'd probably
prefer to blow helium into it...
alas... a haiku is the postcard reality
of blowing carbon dioxide into it...
and... a balloon without helium but only
carbon dioxide? if a sorry sight as it
sinks... bottom-heavy carbon dioxide...
gravity... well even top-light helium
is still guarded by gravity...
it doesn't fly endlessly up, does it?
talk about a terrible sense of style...
westerners imitating haikus...
they spew them like those h'american
street celebrations using confetti...
the old dragons did spew haikus...
one every 10 years apart,
or something as ridiculous as that.