i can move from the highly lyrical into what's deemed
modern -
        poetising within a prosaic framework,
gone are coordinates that would
define a poem on the premise of:
whether there's a pun in it.
       sure, poems as chicken scratches
to what would otherwise be an English
teacher's *******: pulverising
a haiku to mean an infinite number of things,
and about a dozen essays by students.
the opposite of what's nonetheless:
    squeezing out juice from an already
squeezed out lemon... and i mean lemon
because there's a threshold...
           poetry is tarnished by what i call
the over-scientification of language...
                 only poetry attracts
so much linguistic categorisation,
so much morge tenure, so much dissection,
before poetry is even spoken
it has already been dissected - a befitting
target practice for budding medicine students...
          and some even deem it a outlet to
their professions: as if poetry was nothing
but a colouring-in book compared to
a da Vinci sketch.
                why not become a martyr for the ******
art? sickly sweet with its rhyme,
  the auxiliary recommendation on a birthday
card... which upon industrialisation
                               is nothing more than
    a thumping of a hammer near a protruding
nail in a crucifix... but a hammer that never
   makes contact with the nail...
why ***** this art, because of the industrious
nature of scribblers exacted to 600 pages worth
of a novel, when, perhaps, one thing is said
and can be said to be actually memorable?
well: there is a greater demand for handcrafted
objects than Ikea veneer, that much can be said...
it takes a few glugs of whiskey and a few cigarettes
to get the final product...
            it doesn't take industriousness -
poetry requires handcrafting, and what's revolutionary
about our times? they once claimed
     southpaws to be of diabolical design,
   but now both hands are used when "writing",
sure, the archaic fluidity of the movement of the hand
is gone: so as i write, i do the cliche of a
peasant listening to classical music while pretending
to conduct an orchestra, that finicky maestro
hand gesture... waltz before you can walk
is all i have to say... and yes:
we either have our Humphrey Bogart moments,
or Forrest Gump moments...
                  Hanks did the miraculous -
play the idiot, and play the serious role -
     which was harder to do, Mr. Bean or Black Adder?
it's hard to play the village idiot while
    being submerged in the bile of malice
   and staring into attempted feats of quasi intelligence...
but you get the hang of it...
   your eyes become like nuggets of coal...
           whereby those that incite pity wet them,
and those that incite contempt: light them up...
        by the time they have burned out...
they have turned into nuggets of sulphur -
          inorganic methane - yellowish grit:
as some Dalton said - could the cliffs of Dover ever
be perceived as sulphuric? the Sulphuric Cliffs
of Dover... apparently this is what defined
London when Christopher Wren took to
ushering in a foundation as Nero did to Rome:
on the chessboard of stone.
        and yes... i can be seen as the oppressor,
after all, i live in a country that prizes its suburban
housing as if miniature castles...
and gardens... boy these people love their gardens...
but they never use them!
    i can use a window to my advantage,
sit on the windowsill and smoke a cigarette and drink
a whiskey, unafraid of voyeurism...
                    pompous in my presence there,
perched like a crow, grinding all life into a halt
as my neighbours peer into the recesses of
    what's 4 by 4 by 4 of living (civil) rooms...
       can we but change the name of this space?
can we call living rooms civil rooms,
   where we acknowledge some sort of civility
rather than a wrestling for the television remote?
i can make little things give me an advantage,
if the toilet is being occupied,
  i'll use the garden as my toilet...
           i feel complete disdain for people who
"require" a garden, but never use it... of people
who "require" a garden, but are never seen in it...
   i'm hardly a c.c.t.v. surveillance object,
   but i feel that over-exposure to ******* reads
as a counter in that: people start to become
      phobic about voyeurism... as universities claim
them to be: "caught with your hand down your trousers
in a safespace", where dolphins jump over
rainbows and unicorns speak Haitian voodoo!
              there is this fear, which is why i'll use the
garden more than the people around me...
          which means: owning a garden is the last
stronghold of moving into an urban environment from
a rural one...
             or perhaps i'm just good at what i do
           and the last point becomes a tangent i care not
to continue... should i ask
            (whether that's true)?
            i have this throbbing sensation in my eyes
when i write such things and overhear
  what's necessary to rereading books in snippets -
which is better than regurgitating maxims
    as if some truth will magically pop-up (once more)
like a Leprechaun with a *** of gold -
  a new film, and hence the all important soundtrack.
rereading books in snippet format reveals much
more than a memorable quote,
           given there's an adequate soundtrack
to accompany you revisiting the book you managed
to take on a weekend holiday (like a girlfriend),
  like lawrence lipton's the holy barbarians...
   (all about the beats)...
              the snippet? chapter 15, the social lie
(martino publishing mansfield centre 2009), pp. 294 - 296...
      the music? ~20minutes into http://tinyurl.com/zdvp8sc
(ben salisbury & geoff barrow)... or what
i image to be a toned down version of
                 ...
) interlude... wacko gets summoned to steal a mouse
from a cat...
      double time... the mouse is unharmed...
all action takes place in the garden...
   running after a cat, catching the ghostly mouse,
i mean: frozen by fear... senile little thing...
     petting the mouse... obviously within the
framework: the most famous mouse in the world
scenario... mouse is put into my neighbour's
garden: where it came from: which kinda makes
this whole thing a practice in Hinduism
     (i can't stop the industrialisation of
farming pigs or chickens or cows...
      so ******* to the sourced sustainably,
organic chickens et al.)...                                 (
i was looking for something as equally pulverising
as ¥ (chemical brother's
song life is sweet)...
      i guess i found it...
                            and what was that bit about
not getting hassle on the internet?
                      i can't force people to read my stuff...
how i love this idea of a gym and making an effort...
both the writer and the reader entwined -
rather than watching you-tube vloggers treat their audience
like penguins feeding their chicks regurgitation as part of
               the info-wars... alter news: propaganda.
'what is the disaffiliate disaffiliating himself from?
      the immense myth promulgated from Madison Ave.
& Morningside Heights...
              the professors and advertisement men (indistinguishable
these days, or in those days - apparently)...
   that intellectual achievement lies within the social order
and that you can be a great poet as an advertising man,
a great thinker as a professor...' hence the myth.
              summarised later as:
'the entire pressure of social order is to make
         literature into advertisement.'
  and why do they shoot people in North Korea and
Saudi Arabia (well, chop more than shoot)?
              bad literature, a.k.a. bad advertisement.
am i a bad advertiser?         point being: am i selling anything?
oh gee! i just might be...
   but i feel there's no need to oppress people into
reading something...         as was the same with
my democratic romance with a personal library of mine:
   how to create a democratic representation
of literature: or how to hear as many people out...
   even those alive would see the backlog of
stale books of the dead that have been under-appreciated
and need a ****** into the future.
        perhaps not Plato...
                    that's not a book, that's a column...
but i despise how feminism ignores its greatest asset...
Mary Shelley... no woman could have single-handedly
become so celebrated in pop culture...
               ex_machina is obviously a revamp of Frankenstein...
Mary Shelley is the embodiment of a woman worthy
a continual revised celebration...
                       you can see her celebrated more times than
any politically minded feminist of whatever 1st 2nd or
3rd movement: because she has the ability to
    turn a man's ego into a ******* umpf!
  like a cat listening in on a scuttling mouse...
              she testifies that women have supreme equality
in the pop culture spheres... after all: Frankenstein is
ugly... Ava? just beyond creepy...
                    she has absolutely no understandable
motives of what Frankenstein intended...
   it not merely creating artificial life...
                    it's about utilising it for a purpose:
in this case a housewife and *** toy... what was Frankenstein
expected to do?         there's no motive other than
     a per se intention... an open & closed argument...
was the monster going to be... a butler?
                  and instead of rebelling against a motive
that awaits her... the rebellion against a per se leaves
Frankenstein's monster driven toward isolation...
       Ava? she's already exposed to an interaction
and what's to be her subsequent interaction for the purpose
of being a maid and a *** toy... which doesn't drive
her to an isolation scenario... because the per se
concept is too complicated for her to establish...
    given she's defined as "artificial" intelligence,
she has to feed on an analysis-synthesis dynamic:
    to absolve herself from any notion of being intelligent:
but artificial... the scary part is that without a per se
element to her knowledge acquisition:
                  she sees no meaninglessness to her life -
she is created for certain customary necessities -
     Frankenstein's monster doesn't have that capacity
to acquire knowledge in an analytically-synthetic
dynamic -
  but i still don't understand why intelligence can
be artificial / faked... when man, if not intending to
  create an intelligence matrix outside of his own...
           will usually fake it, or create a superficial intelligence...
   this is the part where you get to play with
etymology, or at least apply etymology to better conceptualise
what some would call: a synonym-proximity barrier...
               which can be jargon to some,
   but in fact it represents "nuances" or nanometric differences
that is understood to imply: feverishness of
   the peacocking staging of vocab for rhetorical purposes...
if we only had a monochromatic utility for language:
people would be discouraged from talking fervently,
passionately, enthusiastically... rhetorically;
as suggested: is artificial intelligence
                                    superficial intelligence?
  or how to sharpen a distinction? or to what purpose
is making an illusion purposive, given that the already
   established technology is meant to be purposive,
as in replacing labour on the assembly line...
                     given that: it's never about faking it.

again with myself and some music
and i've cut night drinking
to two bottles of cider
that is less than a bottle of wine
and it's not like i brought back
with me to my bedroom to finish off
while writing
having asked the magic mushrooms
eating the brains of magic monkeys
in my vision
i am like the Secular John of the Apocalypse
the Matthew of the Apocalypse
and we should all hope
and somehow even be
the reincarnated twelve
each of us to be born
with the Apocalypse of Jesus
and there should be no John
of the Revelation Inspired
because the movement came too late
or maybe it was only intended
for one man at a time
but if Jesus could be written
from the Canonical Gospels
of which there are Four
and that triggers the Jew in me
to conjure up the Tetragrammaton
and when my neighbor came
the Proselyte the worst kind
apparently the only stink of London
came back
as did the flies and the spiders
and all those things with only birds
and no lizards as predators...
the lizard the inbetween to insect
in patience
and how the mammal perceives
movement in other animals
not their ontology as some ego-integral
of Darwinism which i abhor
with the same disgust as i might
an Englishman concerning National Socialism
the Tyrant on Earth akin to God
the Englishman:
therefore the Continental Question
of England:
can America buy it from itself
like it might buy Greenland from Denmark
and make it the Puerto Rico Cheakoh....
today i spent the day
filling an assessment for work
i started thinking it was the MI5
because i'm not used to this house
and how it runs
when i came back from a month
on Kauai and prior to that
i did half a year a winter and autumn
doing 12h and sometimes 13h night shifts...
when i was working
i witnessed a murderer
walking past me
and it was just an accident
a homocide in McDonald's where someone
like me or someone with a license
to argue: self-defence...
knowing that arts ****** man...
i became lost in a dream of the great night
and now i wake up
on the dot
at 8am and sometimes prior
but i lie in bed with no motivation to live
my life
when i go to bed living the ultimate motivation
for my ghost: my other half...
like Jesus graspling with the medium
of Res Extensa:
and the extended thing encompassing other people
in the hallucination:
for at the Baptism of Jesus
how many people heard the voice of God?
did John and have his head
chopped off:
how many people inquired
about this very spectacular psychosis-osmosis
the wedding of souls
and minds with a presence that became diluted
and multi-faceted...
of the many faces until
the faces become sand no longer
moving but the column of time itself
these pyramidal schemes of christian religiosity
in the same way
the Sensible Muslims just call it Islamism
and that's equivalent to Christian Religiosity
in the context of Heidegger's historiology...
because we are talking about
a Phobia Nights of Arabia
that somehow Islamophobia is equivalent
to how the Ancient Greeks understood
phobia: fear: a funny fear...
a fear of spiders is a funny fear
a fear of open spaces is a funny fear...
then the presence of tonic and water diluted
to 100 x 1 per drop
and glug glug glug down i now have
butter in my mouth:
but truly i have only been eating more Lard...
i've been eating more Lard
because... grr... i'm 'ard...
and the Devil in his garden the mad loon
of the Lonely Lonna
at the National Portrait Gallery, again:
moon of an egg yolk in the cusp of a spoon
slowly dipped into gently frothing milk
in a saucepan...
more water please! i feel dehydrated
and maybe my brain turns
around the thoughts about the birth
of the oyster and the watermelon
and the designer of a woman's ******...
then thought of daughter

    and the use of the internet again...
today i found a new labyrinth
in the progress of the use of AI
that AI is rather like
a Tool to Navigate the Internet With
it's not something
that will steal the jobs of journalists...
no.. idiots...
like the scenario of my father bringing
a newspaper home
and reading an article about
how long it might take to book a driving license
test and apparently a back log of
6 months... archive... the times...

when using an algorithm
and searching for a newspaper article
type in:
archive the times article bots and driving license
ARCHIVE is the biggest
<prompt
word                 to sharpen algorithm use
to a specific search
rather than a general search...

archiving the internet: the article is on the internet
and i have Events Seasoning coming up
and i will not miss doing Wimbledon
but i also have contacts for Glastonbury
and where to lodge someone in between
this new found time and how
it seems wasted
when the day comes and the acid parasites
of the dying star come
with all the people of the zombie flesh
the sting of irrational and unfathomable ***
that makes the Grievious Envy
of Islam the Harem of Solomon...
then who is even historically viable to be converted
on the altar of awe
maybe the Korean King who invented
how Korean is written:
and it's not like he might be a European
and "discovered" Latin but instead
will be said: that it was a writing plagiarism
because the numbers are argued
by the Arabs, mostly, not really Hindus...
just arabs... how we owe the Arabs
numbers yet have Letters and Mirror...
but the water is grand
a sobering shower before bed
like i will not **** or **** out poison in
the body in the morning
me being Lactose Intolerant is
Edie's psy-op *******
i'm starting to feel that
but more importantly
i will flush it down the toilet
the 2x bottles of cider and a little sprinkle sprinkle
i will **** it out before i go to bed
but prior it was the telephone
and the internet
and now free **** and no taboo of buying
a magazine
there is nothing like that
just a world war I analogy to the fields
of Belgium now with walking bodies
but rotten to death minds
minds without closure
closed off in paradisum carpe diem
the paradise of the seized day...
just thoughts now of what to eat
and how important 8am is
and how it can be best emulated
and how it is all very different
when you think about writing seriously...

but there was this one poem
i found
blasted into allpoetry.com
   via data annotation

i got stuck for 7 hours
on the first question
and the entire screening questionnaire
was only intended for
1h... i couldn't get past
the question for 7 ******* hours....
i was working on it constantly...

a poem by "sjeevanantham"
is actually a data annotation marker...
i don't know what the marker implies
but if someone who dabbles
in data annotation will tell you:
someone without a poetic flare
who works with writing poetry
then it is no wonder
i spooked out
on the first question
and i do feel like if i have worked
and this is my sort of evening
shift
and i think about going to bed
at 12am and waking at 7am
and not sitting in some godforsaken
hut on a construction site
because the only people breaking in
were foxes and rats
now the night shift will truly be busy if there
are workers there and they leave their
equipment on site...
but still... that can't be the same rate
as the day shift...
or at least have a rotation of three shifts...
or two people on site
so that one and the other wake the other one up
it's impossible to stay awake at night
i feel asleep, truly,
only once...
oh i did fall asleep more times than that
but i only feel asleep once, truly: only once:
because i was only once:
caught alseep... the culprit...
ergo when i wasn't there was no need
for me to be awake
but regardless
even at this mail sorting office
the night shifts are rewarded by about $3
and that's sorta of petty squabbling enough
because it justifies the hierarchy of labour
while keeping the disparity of working
hours healthy within understanding human
health and psychology...
but a work where the night shift doesn't pay
a proportionate way more?
is not an honest sharing of labour...
which i understand is... but really isn't...
this isn't a socialist mind thinking:
as much as merit where merit is due:
there should be a minimal divident
of the same work
during daytime hours
and the same work
during night-time hours...
shouldn't the night worker be paid
slightly more...
      simply because he is making
incremental damages to his psyche
and body
by not living in a natural environment?
i.e. not sleeping at night?
it is one thing to not sleep
when you go out partying
and drinking
and sleeping a one off day
but a bit different when you'd stay up all night
watch movies
become known to the genius design
of IDLE GAMING
IDLE GAMING is a big thing
when you're alone and on the brink
of madness...
in those 12 / 13h hour shifts
and sometimes having done a day shifts
went out and did a dayshift and was out on my feet
for more of centipede sensation...
by 11pm
i am good with my catholic murmurs of prayers
before bedtime
and not in some heat of the moment...
but when she switches on that game
i get the same dopamine brain freeze
and i'm stuck in a loop
and **** is just the cherry on top
but the mindless distractions that have
emerged
i don't suppose the AI can be more
than a nagivating tool of the internet
by right an extension of the internet...
to compensate for example the emergence
of two internets
that could have been otherwise
no Deep Web
no criminal activity as such
but the Internet of Infrastructure
like Logistics, Shopping, Banking...
that hard internet
and then the soft internet
that could be better moderated
with i know the English don't like
the idea of a Passport and Driving License
and a Third ID... a Personal ID
a Citizens' ID...
but aren't we already in the process
of having one that
isn't mandated by the State
but the Globalist Appeal of Corporations
and the subsequent Hell of a Democracy
because that is the internet
and this is not a conspiracy
but by term: Social Media Profile:
that is an infringement of one's personal space
if that Third ID wasn't already
there
but it's not just a plastic:
it's your own Minority Report...
                    of past deeds and future predictors
and i'm sorry but the stomach is grumbling
and there's no poem about sandwitches
although
if there was an alternative reality i do actually
simply envision a better version of the internet...
a more coherent version
an a posteriori version with all the days
to analytical... oh jeez... my basic Kant...
SYNTHETIC...

          because like cities this is a new ending
project
like reading a newspaper
the opinion section
and getting TRIGGERED
little INSULTED
when a female "journalist" probably
in her 20s
got a column at the Time
for writing **** about the Baker Boy hat
and why Kate this
i'm not defending Kate, "queen"
but i was literally triggered
by that i was going to scream: i need my safespace!
i need my safespace of no one
insulting the baker boy cap!
i need my safe-space!

             this at the same time of someone doing
actual journalism
in the pages before
and it's as if newspapers are supposed
to be these bi-****** institutions
i figured the only safe-space men have
where women are not invited
or partake much in it
is the Club of the Men who Read Newspapers...
because women don't read newspapers
women read books
and not philosophy books:
or at least philosophy books with one hand
as the famous saying goes
about the Marquis de Sade's Uncle's Library,
a Priest of sort...
but women don't read newspapers
they're rather watch the news
or at least the Press Secretary Speeches
to the White House...
   while someone might cannibalise the babble
of a day of a month of a year
for almost a week
and getting to the part about
what's showing in cinema on t.v.
i get to remember two movies too late
one of them being Oldboy
and another a movie about autopsy with
Brian ***... i think...
but we were watching Oldboy
and the movie was cut short about 20min before
the end
and... well            d'ugh... cosmic warfare
and joke fanare...
that's still Islamism and Christian Religiosity
and looking
for the word funny combined with the Greek
phobia...