Where do we meet
    Oh! No He_*
Getting onto
the next courses
Oh La- La "Cheri"
K>ANSAS>>City
_ Prime spot pretty

 let's >- jump ))) To Love
Please raise the horses

What a skirt steak in her
Petticoat Junction
Going to Kansas City affection
Different tribe or breed
What needs to love me
tender Elvis meet Beavis Buthead
    More  T.L.C  
computer DOC Tick Tock
IRS taking a meat beef
chunk is everybody drunk
IOS what is really the meat
Business Politician Trump

Subscribe well done
Cooked or rare spooked
Taking a Spin City kick
She got canned and licked
The prime meat hot seat

The ******* who arrives
first class steak knifes
Ms. Pork hard chew 
Mr. Beans second rate
Dark pumpernickel
Saloon *******, he
is eating
The young tender
chicken leg

High five thigh? Hands
up Robin Fly
Save the meat "let it be"
  "Let it Be" Beatles
The beat Colonel deep fried
Grade A rare meat slicing

Eating in a board meeting
The pig meat market
of pricing

Doe a deer he loves
International beer
A very sensitive time
Slaughterhouse no way out
His poker face meets
potato heads beef jerky
Surrender Weds
maple smiles picky
The rich Syrup
Disney Mickey Mouse
Kansas City Wonder
meat house

The beauty of animals
"Moms kettle she is talking
to Parrots" meat
the market for rings riot
Six enemies making
6 rounds
Six servants 666 carats
Robin smiles heartily
"Campbells Chicken" little

He's the Beef Man stew
If you only knew
He's spitting tobacco chew
She peels the potato for the
meathead bad to the
T-bone Dachshund I Bone

Garlic knots heart of the
Sausage wearing the
meat corsage Superbowl
My sweet basil good soul
Grilling your bullhead
Pirate Ribeye steak pupils
Mr. "Billygoat" Bachelorette
Hair flat crepe Suzette

Moms Korean style fuss
coleslaw what a seesaw
Playing Porgy and Bess
 Scarlet the red rare meat
Rolling stone baking pin
Mississippi one or two
Under my meaty thumb

Comes in three-4-5-6- Lucky 7
-Crazy 8 furries
Nine meat ribs-10 babies
with bibs
Hungry Man meat when!!
Country plaid tablecloth
"Kansas Men" of the cloth
The Pig approval
Kansas City Mayor
new arrival

Family together eating
Don't eat our animals
Why is life so unfair
Feeding the poor
with cans
The bad cut of meat devil
this is not the "Grade A"
This is not a ring
circus trainer Bullseye

Robin coffee animal-friendly
Two peas in a pod I pods
  I tune like Gods
Were the luckiest people to have
animals  

The Floridian with dog murals
Palm trees green thumb
plants sunshine events
The symphony dog tails
of hunts
Whats to compare her twilight
eyes hold the moment stare
Talk to the animal's hearts care

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark innyard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me by the moonlight,
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way.

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come at the dawning; he did not come at noon,
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at the casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement,
The road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"now keep good watch!" And they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say
"Look for me by the moonlight
Watch for me by the moonlight
I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!"

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness and the hours crawled by like years!
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it!
The trigger at least was hers!

Tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs were ringing clear
Tlot-tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming!
She stood up straight and still!

Tlot in the frosty silence! Tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment! She drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it; his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were the spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding,
Riding, riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Night was falling fast
touches were being lite
up to the hut of Bess Brown
who was deemed to be a witch

They pulled her spitefully from her bed
sticks in hand they beat around the head
tying her slender hands behind her back
they cruelly dragged her back to town

A witch finder had been called
because of all the gossip told
that Bess Brown talks to her black cat
and feeds him blood from on her lap

This I knew to be not true
it was all lies from a hateful few
throwing her down on muddy ground by the town clock
some small children started kicking her to the stocks

How normal folk change in to wild beast
screaming for her blood and death
so they tied her to a pole, burnt her to the ground
that was the trial of poor Bess Brown


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

It’s a horrible feeling when you belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to you. When you don’t matter to a single soul—there is no worse feeling in the world. That feeling nagged Clem throughout much of his life. He used to walk around, wounded and broken inside. Though what he felt inside may never have shown on his tough armor that he wore in public, Clem often felt his life pretty much meant nothing. So how did he ever get to where he was today? How did he get to be so blessed? It amazed him.

Born in 1917, Clem Manning never thought he’d ever make it to one hundred years old, yet here he was. Today was his special day, though he didn’t want any fuss over it all. But he was living with his daughter, Violet, for the past few years, and she wouldn’t have it any other way but to put together a celebration to remember. With a houseful of people, some inside, some in the backyard, and some on the front porch, Clem could say that he no longer felt that he belonged to nobody and nobody belonged to him. It was a beautiful Arizona day, and the distant mountains were ablaze in a fiery purple.  It was a day made for birthdays.  

Seeing one make it to one hundred was rare and amazing sight to witness. To make it this long meant you beat the odds.  Most of all, it was amazing to good, old Clem, himself. His parents died young, long before he could remember them. If others in his family lived longer, he never would have known. The only kin he knew of was his aunt and her husband. They may have taken him in, but he certainly never felt wanted. Both of them slapped him around, punished him by locking him in closets, and prevented him from eating meals when he was bad. They also neglected his needs of decent clothing and a good bed. He had a beat up mattress on the floor or nothing but the hard floor, itself, when he was being punished.  Thankfully, somehow someone intervened, and he ended up in a boy’s home. That place wasn’t a whole lot better when it came to dodging a hard hand, but he was kept clean and with a full belly.

Clem ran away when he was fifteen from that place, and that was in the throes of the Depression. From there on, he fended for himself. His days of experiencing hunger from living at his aunt’s house helped him to be street smart. The petty thievery he learned to master—just to manage to stay alive—continued on beyond childhood.  Like many men, down on their luck and traveling the country, he rode the rails illegally. Just how did Clem survive to be so old, anyway? In his hobo days, he’s been shot at, chased by police, and bitten by dogs. He also almost drowned once in a rapid river, and had a bout with double pneumonia that made him downright delusional and on Death’s door.  

But when the second world war came about, life became easier for Clem. He found his sweetheart, Bess, married her and settled down out west. He wanted to fight in the war, but a hernia disqualified him from joining. His life was surely spared then, for many of his friends were drafted in the army, went overseas, but never made it back alive.    

It sure has been one heck of a life. Resting in his easy chair, he was thankful he still had his wits about him—had a sound noggin—and that he could see and hear still alright—with the help of coke bottle glasses and a hearing aid. Everything that surrounded him was a grand sight to look at, knowing that he helped to create all this hustle and bustle of people in his presence, those here simply to honor him.

He and Bess had three of their own children, Hank, Violet and Daisy, and they also adopted two more, Ted and Sam. It was during those days in the home for boys that Clem saw some of the luckier ones go to good families, selected by potential parents that could give them the secure homes they desperately wanted.  Clem was never picked but picked over. Because he never got that chance, he swore he’d help out those just like him, ones who felt unwanted or ignored, ones that belonged to nobody and nobody belonged to them. He did just that very thing and strove to become the best dad he could possibly be. This was a learning experience for him, and his mistakes were his teachers. Nobody showed him how to be a father, but Bess was his rock and his ally. How he longed to be with her, again.

Clem outlived all of his friends. He lost his sweet Bess fourteen years ago, and buried one of his children—his beloved firstborn child, and it wasn't easy to bury Hank. It should have been the other way around.. There were now thirteen grandchildren, and he never did remember how many great grandchildren that there were, but they were all here now. It was a miracle to have everyone under one roof, as there was family scattered all across the country. He smiled to himself as he thought about how everyone took the time out of their busy lives just for one, old geezer.  

“You better matter to someone right now”, Clem once told a good friend, “Cuz one day you’ll be long gone, and you’ll be lucky if anyone knows your name. It doesn’t matter if you are loved by one hundred people—or one person. That’s how I see it, anyways”.  

With his wife’s relations, and his children and their families, Clem knew the family tree had plenty of branches on it. His life did matter in this world. One of his grandchildren, Amber, mapped a tree out, and she made it all seem so spectacular, and put together like a royal family’s would be. Sketched around the details was a tree done in colored pencil—vivid greens and browns that were eye catching to even a old man with weak eyes—and today it was on display for everyone to inspect and talk about.  

Clem knew very well that his days were waning, that soon he’d just be a memory in the minds of his children and his grandchildren—probably not his great grandchildren who would barely remember him, if at all. Someday, he’d just be a name in the family records of that famous family tree. Like he said to his friend, his name would barely matter to anyone some day. He was simply Clem Manning, a guy who got a break in life and dodged disaster. Maybe only the good did die young, or perhaps he was just too stubborn to die.

But this wasn’t a day for having a sourpuss or for dwelling on the hard things. This was a day to remember for everyone, more than just a birthday for a lucky, old guy that beat the odds. Clem couldn’t eat much of the food made for his birthday feast—too rich or not appealing to his declining appetite—but he promised to have a nice sized slice of cake. It was red velvet with cream cheese frosting, his favorite.

Happy Birthday to you…happy birthday to you…happy birthday, dear Cle-em

Da-ad

Grand-pa

Happy Birthday to you!

There was lots of applause, cell phones out and cameras snapping for picture taking, as Clem tried to blow out the three candles—1-0-0. Thankfully, he had a bit of help from the little ones up close, for Clem wanted to still show nothing was going to beat him, especially three, little, measly candles. But those weren’t just measly candles. They represented so much of who he was.

He still couldn’t believe he made it to see this day. How on earth did he pull it off, anyway?

bess was her name,
she had soft pale skin,
scarlet red lips,
blushed pinky cheeks,
her hair long and silky,
her smile as if the sun had just ripened a mango,
well it used to be,
she no longer smiled for nothing seemed to make her happy,
from the largest mansions to the smallest flowers,
but none of it pleased her,
she no longer had friends,
after all no one wants to be with a miserable person,
she did have one secret that she was forever forbidden to tell,
No one knows to this day,
where bess is,
or her strange secret,
but just one person knows,
the mindkeeper knows,
but the mindkeeper is too hidden,
in the place not a living soul dares to go,
in a place with more and more  filling the place every time.

/notably concerning graduate education at the university of Edinburgh: why do these doctors think they can teach, who made them so, well, what's the word, useless, demeaned at having to teach? every time a doctor of chemistry was asked to teach it was like watching someone being tortured in an iron maiden... sure, a professor of chemistry could teach, just like every single post-graduate, PhD student should have taught, a doctor of chemistry didn't teach, unless he taught as Americans are prone to speaking in acronyms, and they say the Scots speak an undecipherable english... like **** they do, understood them like I might understand the zest pinch of a hobskotch chili! after all, the chemistry doctor doesn't exactly make use of his PhD students, but since they were the sheep first to the slaughter before the guillotine of knowledge, they could translate the higher tier chemistry to the undergraduates... no one sane enough would want to learn chemistry from a doctor of chemistry... those men and women are lost to their own enterprises, to their own Faustian romance, to teach chemistry at university, it would be best to be taught by those inclined to further adhere to advanced pedagogy... post-graduates ought to replace doctors in teaching undergraduate material... balanced out by the fact that the said doctors would not require the help of PhD students in research, with what already is time wasted on lecturing, what to them is, the ****** obvious... but then again... the supply and demand isn't there... even though PhD students could teach, they don't, smug chemistry doctors lecture in the guise of solipsism... theyd rather be engrossed in their research than give lectures... but since those trained PhD monkeys do all the trial and error, wasted time, which the doctors themselves could do... they waste their time on giving undergraduate lectures... because these recent protests at universities, where students complained about not having enough time spent with doctors in the field... I'd start by bemoaning not being given enough post-graduate time... after all, the people who closest to jumping over the waiting benchmark.../

in vino veritas:
due proof that snobbery
and that indie collection
of the smiths' reissue
only goes so far,
    comparatively,
Miles Davis' kind of blue
isn't overrated nor is
it overplayed,
notably a conversation
with Boris, the Russian
in Edinburgh,
who had to pick sketches
of spain as his favourite...
pop music versus ******
fetishes... people will be
ashamed of pop song guilty
pleasures than any bedroom
"deviances",
the boat the boat, whatever floats
yours...  
mine? seven years late,
Britney spears' criminal...
because John Coltrane'
a love supreme is easier
to digest than ******* brew?
fudged packed *******
and a perpetuated crescendo...
Boris could have took to
Porgy and Bess...
         or the birth of cool...
whatever it was,
high above Steppenwolf
   desiring the immortality
of a Bach... still:
       there's Händel...
but let's face it,
both sides lost something,
whatever the iron curtain
was, there was also
something akin to the,
jazz window...
                  because can you
even imagine jazz being learned
at a music liceum?
       i still don't know why
the Japanese love classical music,
or why it's Chopin rather than
List embedded in their heads,
not the gentle fingers of Satie
or Debussy...
         two Portuguese jesuits did
little to spread Christianity,
but music written by Chopin
found its atom, its universality
of translation...
                  even withe the Higgs...
something that is non-divisible,
not atomic, not sub-atomic,
                               über-atomar...
supra-atomic, which includes
the sub-atomic spectrum...
         a perpetuated ad continuum
     of ad per se, in addition to:
an addition, an addition,
        a void brimful of a lost
paraphrasing...
                          in the name of...
in the direction of (the) ortho-
   and of (the) meta-
    and of (the) para-...
                  amen.
                       the upright,
rigidness of: jump off a building,
see pancakes at the bottom...
the desire for a hier-und-nach...
well.. telegram cipher from 1930s
**** Germany,  in response
to heidegger's da-sein...
     da-nach...
                 no need to explore
the paragraph, just enough tease
to block out images of, "paradise"...
       para or besides norms,
    a phenomenon and
      an anomaly that's a res per se,
Kantian for: noumenon...
          a proposition without a school,
or tree of logic, which,
Husserl did manifest...
    in phenomenology...
              I can't help but notice
that classical music is only
relevant today because of movies...
listen to any classical music chart,
7/10 times it's music accompanying
a movie...
               comparing
kind of blue to midnight sonata?
yep, the later is overplayed...
   it's no longer a piece of music,
but a literary cliché...
      even in such wonderful books
like geek love by Katherine Dunn...
jazz is the only genre of music
that comes close to prog. rock,
    id est, no song: an album...
      even though I admit
king crimson's in the court...
     with children of men
      as a backdrop...
once upon a time the iron curtain
and the jazz window...
    rap, shmap, shpindle me dingo...
and the old man still lectures me
on work, born in 1939,
who still remembrance the Soviet army
of boy-soldiers and black-clad SS-men...
oh there was work just after the war,
given what Aries took with
the harvest just years prior...
                       woe to the aspiring poets
born in a cocoon of a father
who laboured by perfecting a trade
that, apparently,  no future Englishman
would take up! or if they did...
only via the trickling down
of the plutocratic, extended family...
and a ****** job they did too...
         well... if everyone is willing
to be and only be, a pop star entertainer...
I'd hate to imagine this piece
to be an instruction manual,
   a cohrent: whip and stirrup
demanding a gallop...
                       perhaps less cabaret voltaire,
and more jackson *******,
because why should painters be
allowed all the excuses under the sun?
and when will I see a poetry anthology
written solely by critics?
          oddly enough:
or rather, the pitfall...
     reading a poem never manifests
itself in a drive to write one myself...
an enzyme of a blank,
      a substrate of a butcher's novel...
or rather... a meaty novel, preferably
historical, notably one
that serves as an answer to Muslims
with regards to:
   remembering the Crusades,
forgotten the Golden Horde...
           and never really bothering
to look into the other crusades
against the Prussians, Lithuanians,
Kashubians et al.
                   such feral lands...
perhaps if you speak the language
as well as Norman Davies...
  you might, just might, not stand out
like a sore thumb in these parts.

Smokey Edge, Georgia.
I Wait in the diner. Not long ago Whites Only.
Now filled with black folks.
Mom would say “persons of color,”
that would include the two Hispanic truckers
and the Chinese cook.
Mom said “don’t go, no need to”.
She’s never been.
Gives me the silent treatment
while murdering Chopin on tortured keys.

Cousin Ed slides into the booth.
Across from me he glistens sweat,
wipes his forehead, grins, squeezes my hand.
“Hi cousin Citygirl, “ and adds “Chocolate au lait”!
Mocking, or teasing, I don’t care.
“Ok, double espresso” I say.

Red on white No Trespassing sign rusts in the grass.
Vine assaulted shack is all what’s left of it,
the Juke Joint where grandpa played
banjo with a bottleneck slide,
making it screech and sing.
Where the women Bess sang and danced.
The one he talked about incessantly,
when he had forgotten who we were.
How he pressed into her, ****** her behind the joint,
how she smelled and laughed and rocked the blues,
how she put her lips to the glass of bathtub gin, just so.

Short crepuscule gives way to night. Mosquitos come thick.
“Listen up Citygirl, hear the sounds, ghost drums and strings.”
I hear grandpa’s banjo, the slide’s screech, Bess sings.
I smell the funk, the sweat, ripe heat, the Blues.
I put my arm around his waist, grind into him
I want him hard, in me, lick his sweat.
He pushes me away, “hear up Citygirl,
I‘m not grandpa and you aint no Bess.”
Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth  March 2012

Veiled from the world the Queen did keep
A '*******' girl who cost her sleep
Though tethered down and kept from sight
Still she shone forth as purest light

A brazen heart (to match her hair)
Beat in the breast of 'maiden fair'
She fuelled her lusts for life with love
Of country, and of God above

She sought no spouse to guide, for she
Was wise enough for her country
As fire and ferver burned within
Ne'er a fool charmed his way in

Her sister, on her ravaged throne
Felt only fire for her betrothed
Yet failed to birth a princely son
And ruled and died in fear, undone

And thus, Bess ruled as Princes do
Absolute, and mightily too
And whether truth, or rumour stark
Purity did become her mark

For she who held her own did learn
By passion, one could easily burn
And thus she led, her heart beholden
To England; and their reign was golden

Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.

What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.

I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.

If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.

Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton

So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.

Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.

We'd run in mornings
With breath crisper than limestone.
Now her legs are stiff.

A lover to a sailor’s mast,
She’s leaving me,
…moving; fast.

Cris-crossed with linen,
Set to sail,
A relation-ship…
…I had failed.

Low-hanging moon,
Way out yonder, -there,
Glint off her spar,
So far now,
I don’t care.

Frothy seas of waves impress,
Is it a lonely beach?
Shore, sure;
I guess.

A bottle drained,
In some sadness, yes,
Fill a glass; to my Bess.

If I told you, you could have it all?
Soar the heavens, never fall.
Said my man she’d never leave,
A life of love a life achieved.

There’s your lover,
You’re manning a sailor’s mast,
Wind is blowing oh-so-fast,

Low-hanging moon,
A relationship -steeled,
Wounded heart of hers…
It had been healed.

Steady waves, a gentle rock,
Endless days since you’d had that talk.
On a course together all through life,
The happiness and the spice of nights,
Frothy seas, gentle waves, and nights they fold right into days...

If I told you,
You could have it all?
Soar the heavens,
And never fall?

Lonely empty bottle...
Rolling in the froth,
Goodbye my Bess,
my love; I’ve lost.

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
      And sair wi’ his love he did deave me;
I said there was naething I hated like men:
      The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me, believe me,
      The deuce *** wi ‘m to believe me.

He spak o’ the darts in my bonie black een,
      And vow’d for my love he was diein;
I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
      The Lord forgie me for liein, for liein,
      The Lord forgie me for liein!

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
      And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:
I never loot on that I ken’d it, or car’d,
      But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
      But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what *** ye think? in a fortnight or less,
      (The deil tak his taste to *** near her!)
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
      Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her
      Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a’ the niest week I fretted wi’ care,
      I gaed to the tryste o’ Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,
      I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock.
      I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock.

But owre my left shoulder I *** him a blink,
      Lest neibors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink,
      And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
      And vow’d I was his dear lassie.

I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet,
      Gin she had recover’d her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl’t feet—
      But, heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
      But, heavens! how he fell a swearin.

He begg’d, for gudesake, I *** be his wife,
      Or else I *** **** him wi’ sorrow:
So e’en to preserve the poor body in life,
      I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
      I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

Fitz
Fritz
Fido
Sandy
Spencer
Chaplain
Bernard
Jesse
Snoopy
Charlie
Charles
Fred
Freddy
Bones
Remmy
Ren­a
Reno
Tony
Julian
Julie
Frisco
Meghan
Addison
Robby
Buddy
Rudy
F­riedrich
Fredrick
Bernie
Rudolph
Adolf
Ferdinand
Rose
Cassie
Cassidy
Lee
Balto
Little *****
Allen
Alvin
Jake
Demi
Randy
Alex
Richard
Alexis
Kenneth
Ken­ny
Chris
Jose
Josey
Rodger
Moe
Joe
Emilio
Walt
Emily
Emma
Maddie
­Anna
Jafar
Aladin
Jasmine
Genie
******
Amber
Gracie
Ramen
Gordy
G­ordon
Jordie
James
Bucky
Huff
Manny
Sam
Samantha
Mary
Marie
Tila
­Rita
Cathy
Tammy
Mickey
Cam
Amelia
Rene
Jeb
Dan
Bagel
Tommy
Donut­
Bubbles
Blossom
Buttercup
Mark
Cody
Andy
Cristo
Andrea
Whiskers
­Mike
Bill
Billy
George
Geo
Joy
Mitch
Trigger
Tigger
Stephen
Archi­medes
Anya
Duncan
Nitro
Crash
Bub
Crystal
Egor
Bernadette
Cammy
T­immy
Antonio
Natasha
Natalia
Ivan
Abbey
Abdul
Carly
Aaron
Omega
F­inn
Nina
Debby
Tomato
Tabby
Artie
Archie
Noah
Kyle
Alfie
Alfred
Conrad
Conner
******
G­unner
Fry
Fries
*******
Constance
Connie
Frank
Fran
Candice
D­andy
Lucy
Lou
Louis
Quincy
Doogle
Dubie
Dakota
Ace
Casey
Barry
Te­rry
Trenton
Gabe
Laurie
Cornelius
Kabob
Sky
Skylar
Rufus
Louie
Ba­rton
Kimmy
Angel
Capri
Basil
Cy
Ruby
Emerald
Eleanea
Elenor
Barth­olomew
Jazz
Dreamer
Thunder
Topaz
Amethyst
Salsa
Meril
Dodo
Toto
­Eric
Barbera
Hannah
Katie
Zoey
Ben
Pinto
Squanto
Columbus
Columbo
Porgy
Bess
Clark
Savannah
Ken­dra
Marco
Leise
Toby
Trevor
Tresten
Treven
Adrienne
Caleb
Carlyn
­Ricky
Gibby
Donny
Han
Solo
Hans
Gabby
Dirk
Spot
Sebastian
Dee
Sco­oby Doo
Shaggy
Polly
Reginald
Burger
Steak Sauce
Ethan
Bradberry
Lucky
Fergie
Cheese
Boxer
Napoleon
Snowball­
Gerald
Jeremy
Benji
Gemma
Pal
Mal
Preston
Jack
Jackson
Molly
Mac­kenzie
Alexie
Alicia
Dora
Olivia
Salvador
Beast
Beauty
Oliver
Dal­e
Rim
Marley
Diego
*****
Bobby
Ralston
Zeke
Rooney
Plato
Cole
Nep­tune
Sailor
Frida
Rico
Dali
Veronica
Victor
Copeland
Swift
Riley
­Tubs
Lassie
Yo-yo
Harvey
Lemonade
Coke
Pepsi
Tanya
Camille
Token
­Laser
Beam
Seamus
Dorthy
Ian
Moby

There once was a woman named Mrs Bess
Who couldn't find her own address
She got slightly confused on the way there
And ended up at a village this side of Mayfair
Not being able to find her address stressed Mrs Bess

Yesterday, all things were dark
Like burning candles in the dusk.
Hibiscus, pear, and witches brew
And dragon's blood caught in the musk

Notions now, seemed **** then
And stealing out into the dark
I dreamt I was the highway man
After my Bess's fickle heart.

The moon above; cycloptic eye
Watched reverently as I crept
Across the mud and bracken path
Where willow trees once stooped and wept.

The musician crickets, with violin legs
Stroked their notes under the sky
And chirping peepers, peeking out
Sang louder in their sweet reply.

A long forgotten hidden grove
That bore the markers of the dead
Was where, for peace, I stopped to roam
Over the grass, to clear my head.

And there- amongst the silent mass,
Who find repose under the land-
I listened to their noiseless words
The silence, which I understand.

Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.  
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.

The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.

Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.

Everything was all
Lit candles and dusk
Hibiscus and pear
Unfurling out in smokey dragon tongues
Across my navy blanket.
Things seemed...
Sexier then
On a twin bed, surrounded by miles of
Forest.
Some nights,
Like a Highwayman
I stole away through the parting branches
The moon's cycloptic eye a beacon
Through the dead tree sea
And run to my Bess for kisses
Sweet, not-so-innocent touches
In the courtyard that overlooked
The Cemetery.

i've had a fear of asking for what i want, or being ashamed to want things. it's a strange fear in hindsight, and i still struggle w/ it
2. it's amazing i've gotten anything done with how little confidence/assertiveness i exude. i'd say mostly luck tbh.
3. i've also had an urge to be a little more social lately which also clashes with how i identify myself as introverted or shy
4. and that surprised some people because in certain contexts i can be energetic or funny but i cant control that. i dont know
5. i often blank when comin up with jokes or funny material and it feels like im not myself when that happens. its not triggered by sadness
6. its just a blank, as if you're taking a test in school that you werent prepared for.
7. this is annoying to some people so sorry but being introspective on twitter helps me when the words come easily as they so rarely do..
8. gaming has always given me a reason to travel or be socialize without having to seek company, it's just always there.
9. but i know gaming wont last forever and maybe i just seek novelty, who knows.
10. i enjoy learning but i also get bored quickly so i usually pick up small useless bits of alot of topics, ppl see me as smarter than i am
11. and i am certainly envious of people who have accomplished more than me but otoh i am surrounded by them and its kind of inspiring
12. so the ego blow of not being the smartest in the room hurt for a while but it also pays off because i see what my peers are capable of
13. and thus can see what im capable of
14. sorry again for spamming/ranting, but i hope someone can maybe learn something useful from my own bsing lol
15. the amount of ways people can express themselves is incredible and ive always been bad at it, i think cuz i fear/avoid confrontation?
16. taking up space feels like guilt alot
17. emotional attachment to outcomes have held me back, but it's hard to let ago of that. its what i feel strongest towards, accomplishment.
18. going to TBH5 and my name being known by people i never met from a place ive never been was a crazy feeling as long as ive been in the game
19. although im not sure if it was from accomplishment as much as its been that ive been around for so long
20. and i also often feel guilty when people overestimate my expertise in tech, gaming etc and i cant help them
21. because it feels like a facade i put on of being super smart when im not, even though its not something i try to fool people with
22. and when i was younger i used to resent really sociable/popular people for having what i could have. being friendlier has helped that
23. but its also weird because i still hold onto that hurt and becoming something part of what you used to hate is a odd conflict to have
24. expressing empathy beyond "i'm sorry" or similar things is something else that's difficult, i never understood it and i cant fake it
25. narcissism is a trait i've despised in people and seen in those that dont have it but i see myself getting closer to it everyday sadly
26. i can get jealous of peoples success until i realize the work they put in, they i get jealous of how they can have such strong work ethic...
27. it took me ayear after losing weight/learning how to dress to realize girls weren't mocking me when they found me attractive lol
28. i feel like i've learned alot but im also so behind on everything
29. i wonder if i'll ever truly feel like an adult or if i'm meant to feel like a fraud forever lol
30. i dont know if i force myself to be social "just because" or if its what i actually want, i also take pride in my "shy" identity
31. i've apologized for being myself alot, i've even apologized for beating people in "janky" ways in game. its a bad habit
32. people make excuses for me when i play bad too which helps the ego but hurts in the long run, again its the expectations of others...
33. i know its impossible to be the best in every pursuit i follow but it still ***** feeling like i cant even come close, idk perfectionism
34. i've been friends with all my exes afterwards even the ones who cheated on me (minus the most recent) and im not sure if i was apathetic
35. or didnt value myself enough to see their behavior as a big deal
36. i've long since accepted im the common denominator in my failed relationships/friendships but i still have no idea what causes them to
37. it'd be too easy to blame all my problems on my weird but not necessarily awful childhood though
38. i thought getting a full time stable job would solve almost all my issues and it helped alot but not in the ways i thought
39. so it makes me wonder if anything i want really matters or would help
40. i also think im coming to terms with the fact that i may be a romantic person which conflicts with how i identify as a shy or cold person
41. my laziness gets so real sometimes im too lazy to even do fun stuff, like staring at the ceiling is so much more entertaining or something
42. ranting on an open platform is probably healthier than emotionally vomitting on another person and making them deal with it?
43. ive certainly thought about if i have anxiety or things like that but i dont want to give myself an excuse even if it is valid
44. alot of mental illnessses have become a buzzword these days which is such a shame and i feel for those who really struggle with them
45. and id end up becoming part of that problem, what i deal with is super trivial compared to what most ppl deal with
46. i wish i could always be aware of myself/talk stream of consciousness like this man
47. recently i was told a group of ppl who i thought didnt think of me at all didnt actually like me, which actually made me feel good?
48. being acknowledged even if its bad is good i guess, "no such thing as bad publicity" etc
49. idk maybe i need new distractions or maybe i need to stop distracting myself? who knows
50. feel like i've co-opted my friends accomplishments in lieu of my own while simultaneously hating to talk about myself
51. ex "my friend in X field or people who do Y for a living"
52. being associated with greatness while not doing so is a convenient excuse to not do ****
53. "shoot your shot" but i'd feel guilty about it too because finding someone attractive also makes me feel bad?
54. alot of things make me feel bad but not sad. i guess guilt is the best word to describe it
55. is this how m2k lives everyday *******
56. never liked the "ironic sadness" meme on tumblr etc but the writing that comes from it such as mira gonzalez/gabby bess is ******* amazing
57. i have no idea why i randomly gets bouts of being super nervous or paranoid either, over nothing
58. went to a bar yesterday and flinched/got surprised almost everytime the bartender asked me if i wanted a drink which made her nervous too
59. or at least i think so
60. i've gotten mad at people for not having confidence in themselves but ive somehow been ok with that trait in myself for so long
61. im sure ill be embarrassed about all these feels tweets later but **** it gotta strike while the iron is hot
62. it ***** when a friend of yours is dealing with stuff that you yourself aren't equipped for and you can't help them
63. it's so hard to express that you aren't abandoning them but that you are just useless in that situation
64. sometimes just being there isn't enough, but letting yourself get dragged into their problems isn't helpful either
65. the one big step ive made in the past year is learning to not feel guilty for doing things i enjoy though so thats a start
66. also what's the difference between persistence and being annoying/stubborn? it's arbitrary?
67. ive been reading alot but i barely remember what i read recently or what it was about, and im not 100% sure of my favorite color
68. none of those are good signs >_>
69. pride isn't a useless emotion but it certainly seems to hurt more than it helps
70. maybe i'll print out and frame my tweets from the past hour or so so i can remember how to feel again!
71. i have very few SI friends compared to brooklyn manhattan or elsewhere and i wanna change that but i also wanna leave SI #feelsBadMan
72. being contextually creative (such as jokes/stories) is alot different from being creative in general or on a whim

Wutsa matter wit you?
Whirr you frumm?
You from summ furren country?
Cain’t you tawk better den at?
Murruhkunz doan tawk Inglush lie cat.
We talk good Inglush. We tawk da bess Inglush.
Ain’t nobody tawk better den us.
Irregardless of whut kine uh furriner you are
You could not tawk so ignernt.
It’s a insult tah good Murrukuhns tawkin lie cat.
You should be imburrst to tawk ataway in public.
Should be ashaymt uh yerself.

Yenno, peepo c’n perject thur ignernce
’N thur lack intelluhgunce so easy.
They jess open up thur mouths
’N let the dumbness fall out
’N thur it is, fer alll to see.
Yude thank they’d realize what dumshits they are
’N not let thur mouths write checks
Thur butts cain’t cover.
But, no. They’s flappin’ thur yaps an babblin’
‘Bout nothin’ at all, ’n actin’ the pure fool
Lack thur mamas din teach them nuthin.
Well, nuthin’ good, at lease.
Me, muhseff, I thank sumbuddy
Shoulda kicked thur butts
From here ta Sundee.

But, thass jess me.
I know thurs a buncha bleedin’ heart libralls out thur
That wanna let peepo get by with crap jess ‘cause
Sumbuddy is a Niger er ‘cause they’s Messcun
Er sum kinda ******* heathen er ‘sump’n,
But I thank thass jess wrong.
Peepo gotta talk good jess to respeck the flag
’N God n’ country. Or go home.
Yeah, go on back to whatever Godless place
You ’n your race ’n yer ideas is okay.
We rilly doan need ‘em here.
We’s good, God fearing’ peepo and hard working too.
So, if that ain’t you, *** on yer camel ’n ride
Back tah whurever you cumm frumm
Till you c’n tawk good Iinglush lack decent fokes.

As suitors go, I’m sturdy and fun, fresh faced, considerate and neat.
I’m socially literate and wear all the best shoes on my feet.

I’m looking for love and a little adventure,
a fun-loving confidante who wont over-censure.

But my dates with you have been obscenely pristine:
dancing and golfing and luncheons on Eggs Florentine,

argued law with your Father while drinking dark coffee,
and swapped coleslaw recipes with your maid in the lobby.

You’re smart and you're keen and your sleuthing is swell.
You keep only good company, sending delinquents to jail.

You’re modestly perfect in all that you do.
But I like a girl with more Hullabaloo.

And I regret to be the one who must give you this news,
but George, Bess and I are all dumping you.

well im the funky hocus pocus
emcees loose focus
cuz they know when i step to a show i blow
harder than Gillespie
aint none stoppin me droppin' me
uh true southern playalisticadicallic music
ya cant abuse it
ya thiught we was dead but resurrected injected
ya brain with a high funk overdose no syringe no pretend
our flows leave ya bent
competition just blowin'in the wind
my flow stings like misquito
enticin' west nile virus sound the chorus
dirtu ***** is what im about
we fight neva pout the gun in to snout
one shot no shout we all about
dollaz n cents i see you instense
but naw playa dont hate me
hate the suspense
as my  money gettin' thicker
and thicker
richer and richer
and ya know foes try to roll.with ya uh

yosef don't play no games
when it comes to fame
I say **** the fame
n the shame
I love black people
but hate ****** mane
detrimentAl for out mental
tv's paint a tainted reality no positivity
in the black community
they told me
if I wanna be a star performing artist
I gotta sellout
Naw never that I like raider hats and baseballs bats to gats
quick to watch ya blood splat
**** the records execs
cuz I'm a threat poetic terrorist
this ain't the summertime
but I'll show ya porgy and Bess blessed from the sessed
so I can manifest
this beautiful lyrics
so foggy you couldn't clear it
I'm on ya conscious like bad nerves
twitchin forever lynching
mind of those who ain't listening

just thought of really deliciously ridiculous mean stuff to do
Rayne fed me an onion and I almost spat it back in his face
And then he fed me a bite of his dessert on a spoon and left the spoon in my mouth
And I almost spat it on the floor
And then he was breathing out and I really wanted to burp in his face
young tongue gone dumb
from bunned girls harsh sling
delirious
here: clear he is
Romare Bearden
Forrest Bess
I’ll becoming through
The truth will soon be-coming through me
Hmmmmm. What's that? sniff sniff Smell yummy. Hmmmm. Oh! Oh! Hot! Hot hot hot hot!! blows blows hmmmm Yummy!

i don't why, but it just happens sometimes,
one minute you're listening to Ryan Adams'
self-titled album with that pillar of
rock stay with me reading the Sunday Times
style magazine after having digested
the culture magazine and the Sunday Times
magazine, bobbing along to an article about
the singer Ariana Grande, seeing her almost
kissing a pooch on a skyscraper (*****,
that tongue's been up my ***, so said the pooch)
and you don't get Ryan Adams,
****'s a gridlock, a traffic jam, it doesn't
have a care for Pearl Jam and the wilderness of
Canada... so you switch listening material
to Herbie Hancock's cantaloupe island,
and suddenly you're in Philip Larkin territory...
it's funny to say that slavery of the africans
by the english to colonise the American continent
gave us fewer princes bored by Mozart
stating 'too many notes' - well jazz has enough
too many, notes, because there's this whole impromptu
going on; in my collection of the genre?
a decent list: sonny clark's complete works,
sonny clark's cool struttin',
cannonball aderley's somethin' else,
cedric 'im' brooks united africa,
booker t & the m.g.'s green onions (~jazz),
thelonious monk's monk's blues,
thelonious monk's criss-cross,
egberto gismonti's solo, eric dolphy's out to lunch,
donald byrd's royal flush, duke ellington's soul call,
terry callier's occasional rain, guru's jazzmatazz vol. 1,
miles davis' ******* brew / sketches of spain /
kind of blue / porgy and bess / the complete birth of the cool,
hurbie hancock's takin' off / my point of view,
steve kuhn trio's wisteria, joshua redman's back east,
freddie hubbard's hub-tones, john coltraine's blue train /
a love supreme, nina simone's nina simone at the village gate,
bobby mcferrin's spontaneous innovations,
chet baker's my funny valentine, dexter gordon's go!,
us3's hand on the torch, sonny rollins' ballads,
freddie hubbard's ready for freddie,
art blakey's moanin', kenny burrell's midnight blue,
chick corea's now he sings now he sobs,
mccoy tyner's the real mccoy, dianne reeve's i remember,
duke ellington's money jungle, horace silver's song
for my father, jimmy smith's back at the chicken shack,
wayne shorter's ju lu...
so with this mind, from bukowski the baton was
passed, don't get me wrong, i appreciate classical
music, but jazz is too much poetry,
not really the makings of coupling the two like
the Beats... just that they originate with a sentiment
best stated: 'what the **** was that?'
reverse aerodynamics: actually, no, proper
aerodynamics: you see the plane and then get the score
sheet... those European composers must have
been literally mad, so many instruments encoded,
pitches, larks, stresses of a violin's specific accenting
that wouldn't never sound like a nail scratching
blackboard... i know it's horrid to compliment
slavery... but hell... without it no jazz,
just stuck in a rut with classical whitey boys...
and no jazz no blues... no future rock or pop...
if there's anything to redeem the trade it's this music,
and, let me tell you, jazz is urbanity a soul of
frank o'hara's new york, it's amplified in
a suburban environment, never did suburbia
bordering on countryside feel so cosmopolitan,
but i'm adding this amplification to have been
aided by the number of birds i can spot, lazily
from my window...
and god, i love the fact that in jazz you can
have a specific bloom for each instrument used,
you can have a horn, a sax, a drum a bass solo
all in one go, so it's not as monochromatic as in
rock music (primarily occupied with
lead guitar solos, in the 1970s the drum solos
of john bonham) - all in one go i.e.
the tactful representation of each instrument,
the sort of football match analogy where every
player gets a touch of the ball / limelight.

sliding your slippers against the wooden flooring
for the grit, the sand, the rattle, is very much like playing
the jazz drums while shaking the maracas... jazz drummers
with brushes, ever so slightly the sand-timers' expression...
horace silver's sighin' n' cryin'... it's sandy, shaky,
a 40 degree heat  off the isle of Celsius...
boom boom bara boom... ta'dum  ta'dum tapas baked at noon...
i love the all the instruments can break away from their rhythmic
roles and do a solo... everyone is minded, no one is dismissed...
everyone take a part... once the base freed from rhythm,
takes to solo, another instrument takes the leading
role in providing the rhythm, the many
handshakes in jazz, the merchant's ergonomics,
then the piano solos... then the sax,
and then the drums... while some other instrument
takes the lead for the rhythm...
maybe my love of jazz stemmed from
never getting to grips with rap: the deviation
from the puritan practices of poet-speak...
but we're far removed from philosophers...
they can take their comparisons and
arguments elsewhere...
compared to philosophers and novelists...
who **** out a constipated 600 page novels
weaving, constantly weaving...
we're journalists in the ozone layer...
poetry forgot the old grievance with philosophy,
it just said: i attire myself with journalistic ambitions,
that's where i preside, and nowhere else...
indeed, jazz means much more than it did
in the 20th century, in the 21st century we are just
about seeing it's status improved as equal to a Mozart,
adding the spontaneity... forever divorced from
mingling with poetry... because no one would
dare to mash-up a session with Mozart playing
in the background... well, adding the Operas...
no jazzy operatic would ever work, even
with Porgy & Bess...
but still, the sandy rhythm of the drums...
like rain on umbrellas, but in reality like
Sahara dropping on an umbrella in Algiers...
the laziness and fulfilment...
i simply can't despair like some poet
commenting on a Liszt performance...
i love the lazy Caribbean approach...
if it ain't broke, don't fix it...
and if it's broke, allow at least a few days of
fermentation... never be too busy as to later
bust on what life means to only relieve yourself
with a meaning: just work, therefore it works,
life just means work... they've been selling
us the Auschwitz slogan for a long time.
it wasn't a wet crash cymbal, crash or splash as such...
it was the sand-paper scratch of the brush-strokes
on the floor tom and the snare;
as some might consider arithmetic the quantum
physics of the other linear expression of counting -
quantum (a particular source of all our mental
blockages, call the plumbers of our blanks) -
so too the keeping of rhythm as superior against
keeping count... just when the two seemed identical,
keeping rhythm: 1, 1, 1, 1
            rather than keeping count: 1, 2, 3, 4...
came on top... just like 1 x 9 made more intellectual
improvements to sentence the symbols to
that hide & seek of binary (0-0, 1-1, 2-10, 3-11, 4-100, 5-101,
6-110, 7-111, 8-1000)...
keeping rhythm and the original spontaneity,
keeping count and the precursor of pre-ordained script;
i don't see what certain words should become like castles,
with moats and bridges and hot-melt poured on
the attackers... but they have become like castles...
totally deviating access with our request for accessing them...
while other words lie about like pennies on the pavement...
where everyone can pick them up and exploit them...
flick them, make them crowd gathering utensils,
shame that some words ended up so sacred as to be
commonplace in our adventure into ignorance...
while other words became the crowd-pleasing
five loaves of bread and two fish... sure enough
certain words became just that...
other words became elephants... like calculus... or
evolution... it's not that people wouldn't reach a zenith
of sustenance with them, that their stomachs would be
filled... it's that eating such words was impossible...
because they couldn't stomach / digest them...
it was really like trying to eat a whole elephant in one
go, rather than a small portion and freezing the rest...
these days people still try to compete in the eating races,
trying to eat the entire elephant in one go...
and every time they try it, they fail, by simply regurgitating
what they couldn't eat for another person to eat...
given the span of 2000 years from that famous
spectacle of 5000 x 5 x 2....we hardly know whether
1 multiplied by anything will be adequate to satiate us
to have the cement dry and
allow certainty to provide us with established norm,
and the process of forgetting the instigator of
the original idea.

Aye! Foreign Eye; tooth for a truth! you gnome eyne  sane? Troot I owe ewe nah, youths dunno, you fin nah Noll. *** eye us fin nah per se, foe Theo Theo, ewe know  O you no, enter ups shun, wot in the hex dies...  jest say? Dis' awe beast anaconda sate shun bout Intrusion. O Why? O Why? O Eye, ice bins scratch in at Maya -Maya, day yum eye, forests rail lea bane it she laid lea. Wear Aye, yum  Aye, yum  Ah! Yea, *** eyes us sane, isis slow ands dims sum.  Bess beefs be indy, indy, India, India, Far test fum  yore  deaf viand as understanding! O My! you  oft de deep and of diem, diem... dim niche holes. couldst I ask I such without such plea? Pulleys! Pull East! Scaly wax inner interim oh, honor too, ides doe no, disease?

Lo! Land **! Too old geese sirs seize dearth closure mead wits mine ***** eye; and Naughty Wit Stan Ding disown. Yet fervor from mine arenose ol' hail home, I hath ne'er be -admit I to I; and plead to thee, wizened dis' Beseecher's breeching beach! Shea jest dis' a-greased wit who sow error to dew sew... ***** nil eat.

And therefore store my old hat lore, as I cast in twos that sea...  Aye! thee, Foreign Eye! Truth for a truth, if truth it be, truth tell I, true to thee do I e'er be nah; e'er be I, true to thee from noun on; in air go, did jest *** you ditz dun to me, but now a blind eye a-see  a freed bird!
- I caste you one lass time in due thus see.  Cuss you beast an  false eye, my you still dunce see, still blind you be, be dissin' in my sir name an airy way, and mode in air gone come.. a-seaward.