ueber-literalist tickles

at this very moment i have a smile that looks like a joker's
so it's post-halloweeny!

tickled on the brain, pricked through the skin - Devy, stop fondling my nerves!

how am i to read economics when i read
Malthusian Trap as Freudian Slip
Solow as Soloman
Gini as Genie
mind, and body, on literary studies

konjo and all, do you choose an economist over a, um there's no word adequate for beings of such potence, let's use, 'ueber-literalist'?
how do you know what am after, when i too have little idea
just - privileged to be exposed and be stimulated

i aspire after this diachronous symphony
tickles to culmination

***
The Waste Land, T. S. Eliot (1918-21)

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering	5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,	10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,	15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

*

- how does the Great War relate; his hears and sees in Lloyds

- what state of mind translates into sick lilacs on paper - combusting potassium (oh dear K is Capital in economics and potassium in Chemistry), dull smell in the air

endless

***

True am more a fan of Pound and Joyce than Eliot

but this is the thing, the model, not economic, -al

London rode me to Heaven