i could be considered "rich": because i can make my own deep fried chicken wings in a deep fryer... hell... i should be considered "rich": since i own a cold war arsenal of hindu spices... i own as many nukes as is required to stash cardamom, coriander seeds, cloves, mustard seeds, star of anise, black cardamom, black mustard seeds, black pepper seeds... romanic cumin, fennel seeds... i'm just a "rich" white boy with an arsenal of blue raj indian spices... otherwise known as your standard indian cuisine fixation: no i don't eat out... i'll bomb the shit out of kashmir with the S-bomb... that secret weapon i've been brewing: the... SPICE-... all of a sudden everything sounds better in german when using english... forget the fwench gimmick: würzenbombe! spicebomb! woo-r (forgot the trill? remember the trill... the night club gorilla reiterates) woor-zen'bombe! i'm rich...yeah... i'm rich because i own a 30 quid deep fryer... and an ice cream machine... minus the blowjobs of broken ribs: i don't have to leave the house... the party of woodland pigeons decide to make my garden their nest, then comes a crow, a seagull, a kestrel... a sparrow a blackbird... i want to be rich and be bothered... fuck.... all i have is a cheap deep fryer machine and a cheap ice cream maker! and that's because and how the sq. mile of london's chelsea was made? well yeah... i'm rich... i am in possession of an arsenal of blue indian culinary gun-powder... i'll muster out a stench-bomb if you ask me.... given the consistent hindu siamese twins: ground cumin and ground coriander... sure... i'm rich... i never eat out....i like the "idea" of eating food... when i first see the hands being washed of the person who cooks the food, as much as i love seeing the ingredients being treated in the same way as the hands... i like what i eat being washed, prior. since? the best food you will ever eat, is the food you prepare yourself... which makes the concept of a restaurant? completely pointless for me.

the days can come and pass -
suffocating me with their,
seemingly indifferent repetitions -

i have two most certain
companions in my "ivory tower"...
either a spider i tell:
let us not feel too comfortable
in that web yours...

or a moth, which i tell:
you are quiet frankly flying too close
to my library...
just be aware that i might
mummify you snap shut in
a book like i would
mummifying a flower for a bookmark...

and the days will come,
and the day will pass -
and all that is dross in this world
will eventually "confuse" me
as to whether apply:
a diffrential rule...
or whether to apply:
the rule of integration...

will that somehow change
the nature of time -
time accelerates when it is not minded...
and when it is?
a cognitive second can
occupy a plethora of a lifetime
of psychiatric study...
until the hour is reached...
and upon reaching the crucible...

there only seems to be a concern
for either authority or applause!

me? i rather occupy myself
with alt. cinema...
me: cameo role prime...
the cinema? memory...
the soundtrack?
kasabian: take aim...

i had a friend in the form of the moon
dressed as a scythe...
and the night,
with it's missing constellations...
and all the sweating insomnias
beget... with no imagination
to await waiting...
such was the conundrum:
first come first served...
but with any waiting involved?
how else to pursue the ideal
gravy, sauce,
if not being forced to wait?

we had such vision as to ensure
a perfectly trimmed green
of a garden for us to stroke...
or play golf on...
which we would never stroke
of play golf on...
weren't we seeking...
the shady fuck-trips to the forest
for an altar sacrifice of
a never-shut gob of a whore
via a gang-bang?

well... imagination does migrate...
it's puritanical 1950s disney one
minute... it's hentai sex fetishes
from japan the next...

give me a women enveloped
as an oyster: that meaty bit you gulp...
and then i'll give you
the architecture of the shell...
i figured: what a "mystery"...
until i noticed a baby snail...
the snail was there...
so was the shell...
but the shell was still soft...
even translucent...

no mystery...
considering the reality of teeth and bones...
what awe is left...
to stage philosophy akin
to a Shakespearean play?
when everything is so grounded
and biased in scientific orthodoxy /
certainty?

what awe is left?
i can only stage one worthwhile reminder
of awe: faking awe...
imitating ignorance... staging ignorance...
for a private cinema experience...

why didn't i think about snails and their shells
in the same way: self-evidently in
association with man and bones?!

don't ask me... i'm in... awe!
blinded! ignorant!
too many rigid scientific facts and i'm
seeing cul de sac entertain:
multiplication!

if philosophy does begin in awe...
no awe here...
if philosophy would begin in awe...
then surely there is a limit
of awe... of the unexplored...
before philosophy reaching
a factual plateau...
then a revision would have to grip
philosophy...
and that revision would have
to arrive at:
placebo ignorance...
you really have to fake it from
here on in...
i don't care...
being gobsmacked again and again
all of a sudden is not going
to work!

sure... you once had a bicycle route
worth over 50km with one pit-stop...
you had a chance to buy goats milk
from an old woman living alone
on a farm...

great!
again: how many times can you phrase
the word philosophy in order
to make emphasis of something:
you're not really talking / thinking about?

quiet a lot, i imagine.

philosophy: such a hot-air balloon...
such an over-inflated word...
anything can be, as long as it has to be: 1 + 1 = 2.

duped borrow of a schizoid narrative:
the thesis -
the antithesis...

as i decided to wear a scythe moon as a smile,
one of odin's crows as a c.c.t.v. outpost
on london,
and swapped my tongue...
for that other crow... scouting for what
was best appropriate on the canvas
of self-censorship to mind the mob...
"easily" turned into backstreet boys
groupie jizzers... splash! splash! splash!
the story went...

and they lived, and (so) they died...
and in the immediate sense
of either life or death...
or in a sense: postponed...
they were never prone to
have to... assert... an oil and water affair...
they lived as if they were already
dead...
and they died: just the sort of death
their life was worth -
no... not unto others...
but unto themselves...
how obscure is this?
it is equivalent to whether evil is pure,
or whether it is necessary...
the theatre requires an audience...
who can digest the company of someone
in need of company?

such words... such questions...
the same sort of "wisdom" can be attested
by a thrown stone sinking into the depths
of a lake...
or a crow's feather thrown
into the whirlwind of a passing guest.