the death of subjectivity... there's nothing to it,
once upon a time,
in the background - there would emerge
a... coliseum...
it would be of rank: something... unthinkable...
people we stunned by it...
they awed... they stood rooted and awed...
mouths agape like some curious
crows looking up...
waiting for squadron of pigeons to shit
into their pecking gobs;
i write, not because i want to write,
i want to forget about writing,
i don't seem to embody the luxury of writing
in order to forget...
or to dream...
but there is no douglas murray: "the strange"
death of europe...
to me it was strange finding myself with
a speech-impediment...
stuttering impromptu...
into an urban recruitement agency...
nurses only... try the job center...
i was told by a cleverly inclined secretary
with a barrage of words...
my sweet darling... etc.,
i stuttered...
then i bought a coffee and spoke what
needed to be spoken...
i walked some bit more...
round and round like some Dante...
but i don't want to write this...

i just want to drink...

"once upin a time" i'd salvage from
this wreck of life bound to a day...
and i'd drink and repay my dues: sort of speak...
now? nothing is quiet as spectacular...
needing to be "saved"...
or even worth... "living"...
i can admire people who can fathom
retiring... i am more inclined to fathom:
is that two years forward ending
in the crescendo... via hanging? or via disembolwing?
i sipped my coffee and did my numero uno
role... of... pretending the local Muslim
2nd cousin retards didn't interest me...
nature would be oh so cruel...
nature is oh so cruel...
languishing window-lickers of the neu-Mecca
assemble...
bound to the periphery...
either in Poland or elsewhere...
but i sometimes incline myself for the nostalgia
of: "no one looking in" among the skin-heads...
i once had a friend who cited this
"phenomenon"... proper irish...
and he cited some obscure ref. point...
and i was like... so what do you want me
to do with it? nothing is any much better
in East Germany either...
i'm supposed to somehow whip out
a bunch of fucking pansies, or something:
to make it all goo'?
custard friendly bollock and itch? itchy itchy...
perhaps the only reason why i grew
a beard wa to compensate not being able
to plain the violin...
so i fiddle with it... amused in that:
there's no wisdom derived: thereof...
i just don't know where i am...
i am pretty sure that god didn't die..
europe is heaving...
to me? subjectivity died...
we can fathom both the atoms and the celestial
orbs of planets...
but when "modernity" gives us,
some variation of ease...
oysters upon the Beijing march: crescendo -
abiding by the sugar...
of addiction...
i simply "can't" imagine the stupid of pre-atom
and the pre-heliocentric man...
i guess... or at least i want to guess...
in the background when subjectivity was rife...
in the background came a dawn of
some "miracle"...
there was a congregation of purpose...
by "our" standards:

these people culminated enough
stupidity for later ages to gasp at...
but there was something less exhauasting in the air...
but there was something less exhausting in the air...
there was not premature harvest
at death's door, knocking without impediment
for the semi-sane and the semi-intelligent...
the tip-toe zenith of the IQ curve...
it's a sad affair... having to lay the laurels
on the deathbed of subjectivity...
many a profound, yet, empty words...
fussing over mediocre content...
point being: i just want to drink...
if not fat? chances are... to be found...
dead... and fat... and hanging...
but there's absolutely no need to somehow
stage a counter to what has becomes...
going forward is a heroin for the truly
audacious and the stupid...
retracting? also a fate for the "intelligent" and
the truly "analytical"...
i too am, part of the dodo project...
it's just exhausting to not have any subjectivity
left in me... all the time:
subjectivity = theology = god =
subjectivity = low i.q. and the plethora of
inbred facets...
when Muslim 2nd cousin-inbreeding
and window lickers unite is paraded
on "my" stroll?
o.k., so i'm also retard...
i'm tired of pandering to what is,
but otherwise has the necessity for: the mediocre...
buddhism: the way of the middle...
is to satiate the mediocre...
am i to chase death prior to chasing
this burning sensation of mediocre in me...
perhaps retard is not so bad, after all...
crab sushi... or no realisation of either self or god...
bufferzone nature,
most cruel bitch daughter:
but there are some things that become
overtly demanding being...
conscious: i.e. subjective...
it's not a Warsaw tram with a guy huddling
a fucking accordion seemingly encompassing
both his hands and his legs
to spell out: O Y S T E R S H E L L...
this bother me in the slightest...
no... not at all...
of course by the said circumstance...
i'm nibbling... at the "original" concern...
i should be so lucky...
and i should...
but this circus hits you like a Munch painting...
the idiotic smiling face passing you...
the expression of syllables
but no knowledge of a vowel to consonant
differentiation...
just the integral: MA-H U-GH T'OW T'AH...
they said: tell jokes when depressed...
they never said: who wouldn't want
to watch an incest porno?
does this incline me to think of euthenasia -
i'm 1st on the list...
life has become... something less lived...
and something more inclined to...
being... exhausted...
but everywhere this parading of taxing others with
crossed boundaries...
that were to be less riddled -
and certainly less ridiculed...
in the stashed heap kept with the retirees...
perhaps i should have been
mistaken for a walking person -
perhaps there was a ghost playing an actor...
inviting these legs to walk...
perhaps i was always to be made guilty
when someone's sex drive...
when encountering mother nature...
would have encountered
a moloch esque parasite pit of "justice"...
perhaps we did "bend" nature so far that
we had to find, otherwise, stale...
imaginings of god...
what "god" is there under this dichotomy of
"nature"...
can't stomach this brute?
stomach the leper...
can't stomach the leper...
i don't see what alternatives there are...
to make... "counters"...
i am subjectively dead...
objectively? sure... i'm "alive" (more or less aligned)...
yet i am: subject to...
i am subjected to... the wind...
objective sensibility doesn't deserve a pardon...
i am subject to so many things:
i have to incline myself toward
a subjectivity... why would i be objective
about the fucking weather: should it rain...
without arming myself... with a... fucking umbrella?!
there's a "rationality" concerning:
being subjected to...
you can't even fathom this simple sentence via:
being objected to...
you can be objectionable...
oh... right... being subjective about the rain
(and not being armed with an umbrella)...
and yes, "right"... being objective about the rain...

i am being subjected to rain:
therefore i object! with an umbrella!

i am being subjected to the sun:
therefore i object! with a suntan lotion -
while continuing to keep myself
subjected to the sun!

i am: because no one ever says:
i am being objected...
4D fucking chess and all...
why then this "death" of subjectivity?

well the sensible "quest" is that...
being objective about something is to be sensible
about it...
being subjective about something is to be insensible:
to give a narrative to something...
great... lobotomy free-for-all...

i just want to drink...
good samaritan conclave and no: buts...
conquest of the prefix sub-!
comprehensive lessons in the english
language... my kind of: verb-attaché -
noun-focus...
oh most certainly pronouns...

this is certainly not something i want
to be questioned over...
more like: for me to only see?
would be worthwhile enough to forget:
and have to simply have thought it...
but i do want it to have existed...
hence my need to move outside
the realm of: stashing it in the drawer...
i think it: but no one else sees it?
it never existed...
i think it: i write it...
appeal to the highest tier
of voyeurism? it somehow manifests
itself in the medium of:
having existed...

i have managed to "translate" something...
i feel less guilty about it...
i fathom the incremental pulse
of a franction of a 7th billion in someone
to parallel my inverted fingertips and eyes...

as ever... there is nothing to be proud of,
nor ashamed of...
there's only a "beyond":
in that retracting toward a "sensibility" is to
be minded...
as is always the prune dance in english...
prudish is the... "alleviating" word...

citing shakespeare is always
governed by a... bonus.