THE WHOLE PROCESS OF LIVING

It is really quite important to understand the whole process of living,
from the moment we are born till we die, we are always in confusion.  There
is always a struggle, not only within ourselves, but outwardly in all our
relationships, there is strain and strife; there is constant division, and
a sense of the separate individual existence in opposition to  the
community.  In the most intimate relationships each one is seeking his own
pleasure, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing his own ambition and
fulfillment, thereby generating frustration.  What we call living is
turmoil.  In this turmoil, we try to be creative.  If one is gifted one
writes a book or a poem, composes a picture and so on, but all within the
pattern  of strife, grief and despair win; yet this is what is considered
creative living.  In going to the moon, living under the sea, waging wars,
there is this constant bitter strife of man against man.  This is our life.

                                                --Krishnamurti

It is really quite important to understand the whole process of lizard,
from the monad we are born till we die, we are always in congelation.
There is always a student, not only within outcry, but outwardly in all our
relevance, there is strange woman and string tie; there is constant
Dixieland, and a sensor of the separate Indo-European langages' exodus in
optical fiber to  the commuter.  In the most intimate relevance each one is
seeking his own pleiad, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing is own
ambrosia and full moon, thereby generating fuschias.  What we call lizard
is turnip.  In this turnip, we try to be creative.  If one is gifted one
writes a boom or a poetics, composes a picture window and so on, but all
within the pause f string, grimace and dessert wine; yet this is what is
considered creative lizard.  In going to the moon light, living under the
sea cow, waging warble, there is this constant bitter string of man ape
against man ape.  This is our lizard.

It is really quite imprecise to understand the whorish process of lizard,
from the monad we are born till we die, we are always in congelation.
There is always a student, not only within outcry, but outwardly in all our
relevance, there is a streaky woman and string tie; there is consumable
Dixieland, and a sensor of the sepulchral Indo-European langages' exodus in
oratory to  the commuter.  In the most intracranial relevance each one is
seeking his own pleiad, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing is own
ambrosia and fungible moon, thereby generating fugu.  What we call lizard
is turnip.  In this turnip, we try to be creepy.  If one is girlish one
writes a boom or a poetics, composes a picture window and so on, but all
within the pause of string, grimace and destitute wine; yet this is what is
considered creepy lizard.  In going to the moon light, living under the sea
cow, waging warble, there is this consumable bizzare string of man ape
against man ape.  This is our lizard.

It is honto ni kanari quite daiji to rikkai the whole dankai of tokage,
from the ichibyo we are umareta till we shinu, we are always in konran.
There is always a gakusei, not only jibun no naka ni, but soto in all our
kankei, there is a henna onna and kurou; there is tomaranai Dixieland, and
a senso of the betsu na kojin teki na sonzai in opposition to the
kayotte iru hito.  In the ichiban shitashii kankei each one is seeking his
own pleiad, secretly or openly; each one is pursuing is own tanoshimi and
mangetsu, thereby generating fugu.  What we call tokage is kabu.  In this
kabu, we try to be kimochi waruii.  If one is onna no ko poi one writes a
hon or a shi, composes an e to ka, but all within the moyou of kurou,
kanashimi and despair; yet this is what is considered sozo-teki na tokage.
In going to the o-tsuki-san, living under the umi, waging sensou, there is
this tomaranai nigai kenka of hito against hito.  Kore ga ware ware no
jinsei de gozaimasu.

Aa

Mamonaku
momo o kuu
Mamonaku
momo o ku

Human relations
a cauldron of horror,
horror

sharp thing, acid
liquid ice.  investigate
perfect terror

over my dead
body.  Whereof
I am expelled

And what's the big
deal anyway.  You get there
and it's closed.

Or you get there and
there's a rush of glory --
oh exaltation

Oh, victory.
Then a lull.
Maybe, nothing.

Writing is
throwaway.
Tell me one thing

that's not throwaway
The resistance.
Just make one sentence.

The labor,
quiet anger.  Feathers
coming out of a mouth.

Feathers coming out
of a giant mouth
over the Seine.

Thigh nerve twitching
without a goal
to which I'll never get,

My own hand
gets more and more
gratuitous

made in earth
ramen acid trip
in cage. . . catface

shaking the kitten
reediness of girls
body creams

picking off twigs
to make a hole
and coming through scratched

hiding
under a skinless rabbit
they call sphinx

putting salamanders
in the mouths of
unspecific heroes -- without mucous

personal confusion
a fractal image
of the whole problem.






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The East Village Poetry Web
Nada Gordon