black feather toys (II) / フギン & ムニン

that i've come across a brick wall -
a cul de sac of ideas:
a choke of thought...

  that i have that i have: have...
over-stepping some marker...
even though my thoughts
are not a narrative
and are shrapnel
it doesn't matter when i don't
write i can find some
privacy...

too much of what's voice
is also agony:
        i'm simply tired:
this lethargy is more impassable
than impossible...
this current "democracy"
is too ugly to allow me to attain
stature of a cognitive nudist...
simply: i want more voyeurs
than readers...

  if language could come toward
something horrific...
toward animate creatures
that do not tow letters with them...
the croaking the KRA KRA
of a crow...

          from the depths of a stomach
rather than centring in the heart
or the mind...
  in the stomach and in the anus:
in the very mouth itself
and like a tongue on a guillotine...

i wanted to find alternatives
to Mandarin...
to ideograms / glyphs...
i found them although i wasn't
expecting them...

黒 (クロ)
            feza... no F...
  ha-ne (ハネ vs. ハンエ) 
            オモチャ (omocha)

was i expecting to "find" something
in these oriental loots?
no... i wasn't...
but i did find out they are
phonetic symbols...
like the Hanguel

even reading all the Beatniks
i didn't come across
  these...    タオ (tao)
       
in my life i focused on...
      probably one maxim...
a tao maxim... i am a Taoist...
the maxim stands... unshakeable as:

if you want to help the world:
- forget the world
- allow the world to forget you...
help aid whatever...
i'm starting to feel inclined
to state my cause:
beside the distinction
some make between
a lived life and an experienced, life:
i.e. life vs. existence...

existence: out of every instance...
there's this, a me and the moon...
life and all that bullock-whipping
and controversy and: the hell of others
that have strapped a crab-bucket
to their craniums calling it...
a fucking crown of the third eye...

fame without either of Odin's
フギン
                &          ムニン
                          (crows)...
is all but the same old:
c.c.t.v. cocktail with mr. paranoia
and still no red carpet avalanche
of paparazzi epileptic fits
of strobe... or...
a midnight walk...
piercing the pavement
with all the glitter of frost
with every tilting of the head...

baritone: BA-RASS
  i made up word...
        good luck writing down
the sound of a crow's croak... c-rack...
k-r-a... k-r-ah...
          for something animate
that doesn't lend itself to
using letters...
for a crow that speaks from
an inner (0, 0, 0) coordinate:

from the stomach up,
tongue and gob central...
beak and anus to boot...
man this metaphysical clown
of an organ:
a heart that's a pump
& flat tire
a brain that's a mozzarella
sponge squid...
i am by all means:
the android i became
self-conscious of: when having
to stage myself before the tragedy
of the body... i think of
something truly beside the need
of impossible...

that my thoughts are not excusable...
pardonable...
they clog my spatial-temporal-ness
which is itchy since
my memory suffers most...
before "they" came an poured
corrosive substances
of learning into my fudge-packaging
factory of a Brian...

i did the Promethean steal
of photographic memory "jargon"...
the topography of Athens?
in a blink...
how i managed Athens
in one of my soul-awakening trips
(psychosis) i will never know...
London one minute...
Athens the next...
on the streets taken by
what i presumed to be
north africans to a strip-club...
running out of money...
pissing my trousers...
a face pushed into a fat of cleavage...
i can die tomorrow...
knowing i made those
women giggle...

that's i've been to one more frequently
than the other
i.e. between a blowjob
and a haircut?
the jokes runs into:
i really don't remember
how many times
i drank a glass of whiskey
before making
a confession before a mirror...
nor how many times
i masturbated before /
into one...

  but look at my eyes
and my nose - let alone the whole
visage... with an eerie curiosity
more akin to a solipsism than
something narcissus related...
which would make
a thrill of a haircut more...
palette-able than
any of this bollocks-side
demonical dominos of fwesh-flesh...
riddle: a raw oyster of a cunt
slurped...
  the altar of the phallus
bound to horizons and arichitecture:

all low 'anging fwuit... and feet... Arable:
tinges... i was happiest
when having "tattooed" myself with
some Greek and some Cyrillic
and some runes and some Glagolitic...

fudge-packing celestial
constipations: a worth of a year's worth
of stars:
life, this bothersome loan of
things: privy of words...
that all life is a loan...
a most excruciating exercise in
peak ownership before
a grand disavowal...
           
like into a funnel:
into a recycling of matter and matters
yet to lodge themselves
into:
the invasion of space
by inanimate "beings":
can you call anything
  animate and not being?
aren't all inanimate "things": things?

classical trip-up...
between a res cogitans (thinking thing)
and a quod cogitans (thinking being)
how can i classify myself
as a "thing" if: the chair is more
animate than me in a painting (etc.)?

esse cogitans: what fluctuates?
everything!
thought is fickle: memory
has an inbuilt erasure...
          by the time i leave
all that's required for keeping
children in a process of "learning"
(i forget the "bigger" word"
to make arguments)
some might divulge into
having photographic memory
samples to aid them in
conquering foreign city
topographies...

            memory: this fickle creature:
in the presence of a "now"
how are "we" to master
"ourselves" as ever being "intact":
these inanimate "things"
that have to come across being
animated by mere...
pauper... t'inkin'?
        surds for apostrophe...
do i sound less or more...
renounced?
                                  bitter?

things don't think.
last time i heard a chair speak
i heard a hearty creaking
and a squeak...
things don't think:
by having to ascribe myself
to being:
i am change-probed: prone...
by being designated a status
of...
          res cogitans invites
the justification for...
                telepathy...
                       
                        why wouldn't it?
it's such an old such a stale rigidity
akin to someone drawing
a geometric shape
or writing a katana RO (ロ)
  or a Greek delta (Δ) -

funny... phonetic encoding units
with nouns...
a delta for a d'ee...
i abhor the Latin bollock-less...
"typos" of how:
but for all the bestest of the best
and bester: beast sounds
in song... the letters have no names...
cut-ins-and-cut-offs...

          LΓ (very fucking Pythagorean
if you might ask, me)
here's a spare hypotenuse L
            and        Γ/ :

hell awoke when a tyranny of "the" word
was finally arrived at:
people spoke much troubling
bollocks multiplied with
the shits...
a spare a conjunction...
a willingness to applause...
an investment
in looking forward:
antithesis contemporaries
was spawned...

  i look toward... 100 years from now:
no...
  i might as well have
epitaphs for maxims
to guide me: if it wasn't
for the already heaved: harvest of...
fickle analogy of like: for liking
old movies...
black & white...

amnesia flashback
come facing the mirror...
how water was erased...
how impossible
the posit of mirror
when surrendering a case
for extract ex
sea or river...

        fortress of the "mind":
this purge of the glandular sigma:
total: & purpose -
this last and latest cue
and: when memory is automated
to disgruntle itself
with:            this loan...

the invasion of inanimate things
of a space, akin to a room...
the invasion of inanimate things
of tempting: qua....
temporal...
                i hope for inanimate
things to be purely surd:
silently agitating roughage
of impossible movement...

but no...
the dog barks...
      the cat meow(s)...
            this riddle of a fiddle
plays an interlude of a S(ch)trauß...
tomorrow belongs to the world...
tomorrow is the world...
  something cyclic having erupted
without interruption...
like Pompeii was every other
yesterday...

this fickle agony of memory:
eye most erosive
come an ergonomic scrutiny
of (a) genesis:
              tow a tire tow a tiredness...
tow the blanca of what's
to become of the cliff of frau Dover...

these little details of this little
world...
strictly antithesis nomadic
these ol' prunes
these glistening gob garbs
of sizzling runny-fat
            "sires"... having to:
muster the mustard seeds
for [patience:
how someone, anyone...
would have to make themselves
"recommendable":

cue: any: agonised purpose...
    better to beast up on having
punctuation: like one might
have diacritical markers...
  to lease the least: and think just as much
of a more...

what was admired: ancient Greek...
never became the admiration
for a life-support machinery of
what was Byzantium -
hardly hymns of praises...
                  the quest of the roman empire
never teased the arousal of "my" peoples...
such pronoun jargon junctions...

some variations of "my" and "who"
and what is not...
it's not conversational hanging-leash...
it's not "in on a" privy...

the quest for the mythological blonde...
somewhat a "thing" and qua
proto germanic...
              a fucking unicorn to mind
"boot"...
        packaging mythology and
dirty socks and a quarter
of the grittiest aspect of Berlin.

                pretty girl... pretty boy...
            pretty fuck's sake of everything else.