Monday, April 25, 2016

北京麻雀 - New York - 8

A Poem
Bob Brue

Crummy Bistre

Dispossessed saturations corrupt fat-burning loopholes subjugated to sporadic immolations on the cusp of skinflint pestilences in the attic of combustible skitter.

Seared testosterone boosters scoff at the bloodguilt deriding incurred slurs derived from avenging stiff-necked curs.
Bloated bloodlust usurps slurps of deft quiff delving into the deadspin of erectile dysfunction in the addled wadi.
O disembowelled cerise, too precious to be rustic, raffish, or rakish.

O oafish vetch, mephitic verjuice, shallow fleek silencing the onslaught of hooey squeaks intrinsically spilling squashed perversions onto exhausted contours underneath self-conscious vignettes too lustrous to be artificial -- dude, dud.
Ineffectually splayed assertions, ripe, soon to rut, rout, rot rumpled, hardier quashed contrivances, pervasively provocative pretenses, Icarus in the uterus cowed by the dissension of distressed tresses, trembling on a scanty pedestal without a diadem, illogically chaste.

Mustered grousing, defiled facades, effaced fetters, despoiled ejecta, ripped-open ardor, unfukulated, desecrated disgrace, dismantled spoor flanked by cloudbursts, hemmed in by droll rogues kowtowing to the sappy projectiles of lurid stragglers, O eye-catching, cleavage phalanx.

Floutedly heartsick, heaped up in piles, abjectly immolated, forsook, cunctatively smelted down, I effuse the ambiguity of unsinging, chuffy-gunged cornices.

*This is not by the author


In the belly of the beast

It was there that he realized, the was no explanation for why he had come here. It was as if it were a dream that he had passed through, and he was gradually falling asleep. It was to stressful; and he was going to sleep for the last time, as if he were the character in 2001. Or even older when a body swung in a brave new world, going east to west. He remembered a story that his uncle was engaged to the niece of the famous author. But it was just a dream he thought, just a dream, at least that is what he hoped for. Even if it were a maddening kind of dream, that would be all right to, because eventually he would wake up from it, the years of relaxation under the current condition which followed the fall of something very like Robespierre were troubled by the activities of man who called himself Gracchus Babeuf.

With the directory or something like it as American style, he thought about how it had weaved in and out of his penitent moving style which was a domination of a newer style which could be traced to cross angled style that might be traced in a line to Napoleon, if only if it was the style the great rising of the bourgeois which breaking out of the futile forms of monarchy. Even if monarchy was not truly it is raison d'être . It was the style which counted. Even if Napoleon would lay on a complete discussed at the man who tried to wear the mantle.

The merchants and financiers however, loved the lucre that it brought in until it stopped in 2007, because they had learned that the poor merely needed to feed them selves, that was the mistake of 1932, and they would not repeat it again. The rich learn, if ever so slowly, what needs to be done at the top of society. Until they run into a new form creeping up from below. Because in the Windward steps of this time were called the bleeding hearts of war, made Windward through the wind sets of a fiery Angel which was born on wings of roaring thunder upon the askasce of nothingness. Because in the middle east Russia, born again from the USSR, was plotting to make a comeback. It was no longer the senior member of the alliance; that would now be China – but it had a plan which was as scheming as ever under Putin.

If all of this seems to belie the small story of a man and a woman, realize that both of them grabbed what cares they may on knowing when to jump at the first grasp. Each one of them had known When to jump on the bandwagon, and when to jump off. Because each one of them liked the perks that came with the effervescent nature of riding along with that omnibus drifting of the hands that for the moment had power. It was intoxicating mix that each one of them was drawn to, dispossessing every hold of speculation that restlessly and recklessly inflated every meantime currency and gambling on the rise and fall of the Almighty Dollar.

So here they sat, across the table from each other, in one of innumerable Starbucks, hoping that they would carefully withhold the reason for their attraction to the other: they knew that they were alike, kith and kin. They knew that they could both feel where the tides of politics were taking them, even though they knew that the one's who were attracted to power were not; it was a strange thing that those who held on to power did not realize where the power was taking them, but they hoped they would hold on to it for as long as they might have. And some of them would do so.

A Poem by Ismael Soumare

For a lissome hush, resignedly I wished
Nearly just, my very own

Forbearance alone
As reciprocity to inclination ís wager
Mayn ít follow triceís crinoline

So to hesitancy,
Of ken nor remorse an apogee,
From atop, the singeing cry, mist amid-
To this indifference, clemency announced

Which modestly,

Euphony strokes, when chutes a tearís bead alas
The unsightly exactitude within a Claudeís glass.

After of last resort, contiguity deduced
Often, ball and chain suggests it-
Rests fecund, that which is left in hind

So needs muttered, to remain, the kin or courtesanís brimmed largesse
Otherwise with due opacity, made an exception out of,
A deceitful ideal, in a place, was.
Ever seemed proposing the brummagem of selfless inquisition,
Systolic to surety ís lust, and their life granting must
As the welcoming aDieu from a pepsisí dawning wings

Such a time, an exhumed incumbency, looking upon
I straddled lightly to fash idleness
Both ambush and an oasis
But to this illocutionary mandate, a zeugma acquaints with-
The receding closure of disposition ís alms,
Then less quaintly sought ñ from a soft one ís awakening cut, furtive qualms

*This, also, is not by the author.

“Shusai, Master of Go, 21st in the line of succession, died in Atumi.” As the west count the year, it was 1940 – in the year of the great crisis. Meijin, Yasunari Kawabata. Daniel I. A. Cohen owned the book, but his real work was as a professor of Comp Sci.

You do not know the work, but in Nippon, it is a great modern classic. And like Medea – by Euripides, in case you do not know because your reading this text having stolen it from your betters, though you should be reading something more appropriate, for example Batman – it was truly neglected by the many, though a few thought it the finest work. In Medea case it was the pinnacle of a structure when Jason please add the bottom of line 675, the exact midway of the play – around which there is symmetry except for Jason, who appears only once - I got this somewhere from one of the other Archopods.
In the master of go it is the white 100 play where the master said that he could play a little more, he thought. And they would seal the move to take it up eventually. This has the same equipoise – the turning from dark to light as Jason does in Medea by Euripides.

But that is not what I really wish to say either. The truth is madness, madness I tell you.
Madness. As if the sum of two cubes could be found out.

1729, 4104, 13832, 20683, 32832, 39312, 40033, 46683, 64232, 65728, 110656, 110808, 134379, 149389, 165464, 171288, 195841, 216027, 216125, 262656, 314496, 320264, 327763, 373464, 402597, 439101, 443889, 513000, 513856, 515375, 525824, 558441, 593047, 684019, 704977

But that is jusr Ta(2,x), where as Ta(3,x) begins with 87539319, and with supercompters 3 more are found: 6963472309248, 48988659276962496, 24153319581254312065344. That is 4, 5, and 6.

And people do spend the time on this, from the days before it was all just a dream. when quoted in One,Two, Three, Infinity, the book he was reading as he waited in the long lines in the airports that ate up his time.