Apr 2016
a day a bit like sarah mclachlan's
thumbing toward ecstasy album,
not much too it... some say frailty, some say the
plumbing, some say apathy breeds no pathologies,
well, not musical enough for rhymes,
a vast vault opens, there's a piano
inside but no pianist -
let's say without education and training
in the art someone comes to the piano
and gets a natural feel for it,
feminine hands, anaemic and frail,
thin fingers, not something a labourer
could sustain his work with...
a poet became jealous of Liszt...
but no one became jealous of Chopin...
the japanese adore him more than
his fellow countrymen... after all, they
took his heart out and entombed it
saying: 'this is your place, this is our pride,
sit here, forever!'
horrid story, akin to the one where a president
in an unfortunate plane crash received
all the honours of a kingly burial in the Wawel (vavel)
castle... not in the cemetery for presidents,
perhaps near the Belvedere (the white house
of the east) - that skromny pałacyk -
an entombing procession of faithful people,
yet no crown in sight, simply a tie noose from
the political suit... and that's why a distant
voice almost wants to trip up on the question
whether there's democracy in that shady part
of the world... or as the canadians put it:
america and it's lollipop women - tartan tarts
of criss-crossing ventures back into adolescence
and opening up a macabre wardrobe -
we have the aces, they have but four queens -
the fifty five belgium sized countries in the
mid-west... open fields and tornadoes -
but these sort of moments do not come directly
from you - it's bound to happen
upon the plough of dried ink on page 525
of the LXXX... so many influenced J. Joyce,
T.S. Eliot...and his own work rather, crudely -
left to rot in the slaughterhouse,
an animal slaughtered for no reason other than
to hang and rot... sheered by neglect,
or the ad hominem principle not understood -
obstructed - a thousand black-shirts from
the Mussolini tribe left the world in lesser rags -
it takes a lot of patience to not see certain
pop-ups of words are directing, geographically
orientating in the mind - it's not an instruction
manual sometimes, there's no 4x screws of such
and such to put-together a table... sometimes
music takes over - and the sounds escape like
helium from balloons in an air-tight room -
one person in it, maybe two -
not necessarily an instruction manual, a worth
a copy manual - but still canto LXXVII or LXXVI
were overcome like his overcoming the
cage-cell he cited in at Pisa in the heat and
wet-donkey-slobbering of the snout -
they say it's all downhill after the escape from Pisa...
well... an intelligence in an asylum will hardly
make compliments on the matter, hence a second
return to the land of ice cream and Renaissance
painting galleries... where they craft a beauty from
stone like the mountains majestic... very few geometrics
were minded for the finishing touches -
they kept the buildings low on purpose,
not unlike the sky-scraping majestic but left with
a ² grid: ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
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▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
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▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ,
where then the Roman Belshazzar? nowhere,
not even with the first roman-jewish war,
suckling up to the **** of Nero's oblivion in song
on the lyre while comparisons were made
between him and Casimir III of Poland -
in proverb:
zastał Polskę drewnianą, a zostawił murowaną -
after the great fire of 64 a.d. -
rome, rebuilt in stone and marble...
hardly a reason to claim equal the incident of
the Reichstag fire of 1933... only in remote places
where much harvest is to be done,
does a solitary house equate itself to a city -
we'll never mind the baker,
but we might as well mind the words:
we have a pretty witty king,
and whose word no man relies on,
he never said a foolish thing,
and never did a wise one -
after all, why not insult when no one recognises
the insult - for fear of being reminded
of the guillotine... no, the guillotine was yet to
be invented... imagine all the lumberjacks of
spiny bone having to desecrate an entire host
of de Pompadour all pampered - then suddenly
without wig or perfume on the scaffold.
thumbing toward ecstasy album,
not much too it... some say frailty, some say the
plumbing, some say apathy breeds no pathologies,
well, not musical enough for rhymes,
a vast vault opens, there's a piano
inside but no pianist -
let's say without education and training
in the art someone comes to the piano
and gets a natural feel for it,
feminine hands, anaemic and frail,
thin fingers, not something a labourer
could sustain his work with...
a poet became jealous of Liszt...
but no one became jealous of Chopin...
the japanese adore him more than
his fellow countrymen... after all, they
took his heart out and entombed it
saying: 'this is your place, this is our pride,
sit here, forever!'
horrid story, akin to the one where a president
in an unfortunate plane crash received
all the honours of a kingly burial in the Wawel (vavel)
castle... not in the cemetery for presidents,
perhaps near the Belvedere (the white house
of the east) - that skromny pałacyk -
an entombing procession of faithful people,
yet no crown in sight, simply a tie noose from
the political suit... and that's why a distant
voice almost wants to trip up on the question
whether there's democracy in that shady part
of the world... or as the canadians put it:
america and it's lollipop women - tartan tarts
of criss-crossing ventures back into adolescence
and opening up a macabre wardrobe -
we have the aces, they have but four queens -
the fifty five belgium sized countries in the
mid-west... open fields and tornadoes -
but these sort of moments do not come directly
from you - it's bound to happen
upon the plough of dried ink on page 525
of the LXXX... so many influenced J. Joyce,
T.S. Eliot...and his own work rather, crudely -
left to rot in the slaughterhouse,
an animal slaughtered for no reason other than
to hang and rot... sheered by neglect,
or the ad hominem principle not understood -
obstructed - a thousand black-shirts from
the Mussolini tribe left the world in lesser rags -
it takes a lot of patience to not see certain
pop-ups of words are directing, geographically
orientating in the mind - it's not an instruction
manual sometimes, there's no 4x screws of such
and such to put-together a table... sometimes
music takes over - and the sounds escape like
helium from balloons in an air-tight room -
one person in it, maybe two -
not necessarily an instruction manual, a worth
a copy manual - but still canto LXXVII or LXXVI
were overcome like his overcoming the
cage-cell he cited in at Pisa in the heat and
wet-donkey-slobbering of the snout -
they say it's all downhill after the escape from Pisa...
well... an intelligence in an asylum will hardly
make compliments on the matter, hence a second
return to the land of ice cream and Renaissance
painting galleries... where they craft a beauty from
stone like the mountains majestic... very few geometrics
were minded for the finishing touches -
they kept the buildings low on purpose,
not unlike the sky-scraping majestic but left with
a ² grid: ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢
▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ▢ ,
where then the Roman Belshazzar? nowhere,
not even with the first roman-jewish war,
suckling up to the **** of Nero's oblivion in song
on the lyre while comparisons were made
between him and Casimir III of Poland -
in proverb:
zastał Polskę drewnianą, a zostawił murowaną -
after the great fire of 64 a.d. -
rome, rebuilt in stone and marble...
hardly a reason to claim equal the incident of
the Reichstag fire of 1933... only in remote places
where much harvest is to be done,
does a solitary house equate itself to a city -
we'll never mind the baker,
but we might as well mind the words:
we have a pretty witty king,
and whose word no man relies on,
he never said a foolish thing,
and never did a wise one -
after all, why not insult when no one recognises
the insult - for fear of being reminded
of the guillotine... no, the guillotine was yet to
be invented... imagine all the lumberjacks of
spiny bone having to desecrate an entire host
of de Pompadour all pampered - then suddenly
without wig or perfume on the scaffold.
