that inveterate dreamer;
muscled invention of wisdom
arch-angel of chaos
and gusting with breath from a different life
I shit all the theories designed for the future
by the blind mouths who like to blind eyes
fucking useless philosophers
of the modern library
your words in print are dry semen stains from your masturbation with the truth, you treat like a whore...
which is a drop in the infinite glory of the deluge
which doesn't fall at all
and has no direction, nevertheless is wet.
I own no theory non-what-so-ever
than the contradiction of my inherent shape,
as a human
and once again i am under dictation
that these words don't belong to me
but i belong to them.
A poet needs no theories.
It's whom you should be afraid of
because his occupation is not to mingle and adore language like you,
it's to destory and pull down the curtain which sits before your
eyes which belong to others...
so perfectly sustained at a correct point in history
a philosopher is the epitome of the cancerous state
the gnawing chin,
the incompetent personage who is not a proper man
who cries at the inception of beauty
and moreover he is a fucking wanker
as far as I am concerned
and I concern myself with everything
by the way of awakening.

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