PSALM NO. 2
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tinGphhnl7o:
since there's a Hamlet on herr doktor's couch... this man - will certainly be not - bound achilles to the tabernacle of history and of time - from one fictive victor to this: fictive pauper - all attired for "war"... in slippers and a dressing gown... but at least the music gives more gravity to the expression... like a horror movie: a horror movie is exclusively the music, later, the ghouls and goblins... but first? the sharpnel mirror incissor cuts: and that best first date... when we left the movie in awe and yawn... as to why we could find ourself in a labyrinth in well-trodden streets... and because sex was last for her... and middle-ground for me... what was... that movie we walked about from? i can still remember her name... yes... i am yet to fathom dreams - but being so discontent with a lack of them: i should rejoice by the given sleep... if dreams are to become a plague: i imagine the guilty parties to be riddled by them... and i: bound to the agape yawn and the churn of the church of shadows... for "no imagination" would be a better bite to task myself with: for an explanation... yet no... i dream so little when others will dream so much... because i have no wish to escape this: real-sense-doom of the - surrounded by objects i have no telekinetic boundaries to transcend with... so much for my cartesian debauchery - wasn't i who locked schizophrenic symptoms in the res extensa? attempting to keep the shrapnel remains of the res cogitans intact? i blame: the music came much later... if the music was alive when... we did the unforgivable cliche of focusing on romeo and juliet... something memorable outside the realm of the curriculum? always... Dante for starters... Stendhal for: mustard after the meal was over... to clean the palette...
all by the name of dogs: the valu'd file distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,
the housekeeper, the hunter, every one according to the gift which bounteous nature
hath him clos'd; whereby he does receive particular addition, from the bill
that write them all alike; and so of men...
- who wear our health but sickly in his life,
which in his death were perfect?
dare i say... isn't or rather: shouldn't Hamlet be... an over-excused curation crux of
focus for... any in between letter between a constant in: marred Beth?
the music is enough to read the play, listen to the music...
and not watch the film... certainly not audio-book this... experience...
to have to celebrate transcending naiveness: with cunning - and i have failed this one lesson i was born to pass: 2nd time, fail... the universe and no god alive gave me the gratitude of the grand haven of objectivity: the fox excused me to learn the same lesson: a third time... i was naive... i didn't learn cunning... then cunning them unto me: personified - i have since learned to accept the Tao impression of life... perhaps: as much is worse celebrating, or defending... but i am trodding among "readers"... people who would rather spare their ears on things being read: rather than being seen aking to a Belshazzar: strapped stiff toward the horror: astounded! anew! it's not enough to listen to words: when you don't see them... and not bask in music... and instead... i see words because i tire of seeing forms, i see the words: bowing blessed... because i do not care to see the mountain... i rather see: gesticulating circumflexion before the ouroboros of pride... to see something aking to: (being) humble and that synonym requiring... honor... the mountain can remain distant, a postcard fiction... someone my feet will never make testminony over... and it will be: enough...
as it stands: i am - not so much robbed of sleep as i am robbed of dreams...
it would be truly bothersome to sleep and be bound to a recurrence of a dream, worse... a dream that requires an erosion of memory - dreams as dreams per se...but since i vaguely dream: but most certainly sleep the worthy 8h diet... and i find myself... of knowledge that others dreams... their most illustrious conduits: that they are known unto the gods... and i am... a blank slate... a darkness within a darkness within a night looking at a mirror formed from a shadow... if one is able to dream: one is well known to the gods... i can see no other explanation as to why: one should always be found, so well entertained when one can simply, otherwise or no otherwise, simply suckle at the teat of sleep.
the "gods": vague chaser of descriptions not given... but i do like my 3rd party sources... when i know that the 1st person narrative is exhausted... to the point of having to write this... the 2nd party is content at being inclined to sentiment luck... and thus... the 3rd party... a medium of epitomes, epithets... sorbiquet litanies of "promises" / divine interventions via no demigods but only promises on the omni- litany?! "/" implying a to-and-fro exchange of verbiage... what else? solo ex nihil (alone out of nothing)... and then back into nothing... if only such a reality was constructed by a res vanus impetus... an empty thing... alas... given the res cogitans impetus: the thinking thing is... pulverized by the senses... 5 agitators... and a 6th in his sleep...
philosophical bollocks... given? no rhyme would follow and make itself appear: spontaneously! i will not rape rhyme to give it the form of poetry! rhymes by chance... not a measure of "res omni" (all things)... not to identify a sonnet or some other infernal count... to: be the sparrow in a cage... where a rubric riddled budgerigar should otherwise be! bound to form! if by narrative i escape the form - solids of rhyme and imitations of water! so be it! rhyme as spontaneity... not as clarifying... to call it: verse... to call it... pwetty pwetty pwease poo'et... poo'etc. this is my... paslm no. 2