die nacht  aus alle verewigung -
verewigung die nacht - in immigrant German
spoken - not spoken, hälfte, hälfte,
pork-chops go go got taken with Australian *******...
cos selling the body saved you with the crucifix from
selling something like your soul, hence the accord to
be ready for critique of selling the magic potion of drinking
iodine... i was a fetus back then... when the atom
**** got the plastic elasticity of tangling
to wanking a didgeridoo... magician's syndrome:
**** that tightened fist and i'll assure you
you'll get the white flag of piracy's peace:
meaning they never robbed the rich men, pirates
just robbed the artists... hey wooden plank,
knock knock... don't make me into a wooden chair...
take a creaking floorboard and make it into
a shimmy toothpick... knock knock... who's there?
Jude? Jude who? hey i'm Jude? Judy Jew who?
a Jew who chewed propaganda and hid Jude.
fair enough, Jude's the everyday Jew.
no, she's the Rabbi! Rabbi who?
the Sabbatical who knows who.
some say i know god.
well, good luck with that, mostly asserted
on death row.
at least that place is given a fabric of a team effort.
by the time i think about next week's trash
i'll have written something akin to it being
taken out into a pig's trough of what resembled
the dating scene in New York...
hardly reminiscent of the gay Utopia:
so much anger yet still only the vote,
so much anger yet still only the vote...
           the intelligence poured in, but the
quiff only wanted the algebra of x
to match it up to a presidential race success with some donor's
y, and later + and squared and equals to make
those family holidays affordable.
- winter-night... deutschekaiser....
i swear it would be cheaper to build a wall
around the middle east...
like the European Union really
wanted to invest in dates... cos we were
ready to make a Sabbath from a Ramadan...
like we waited for the loss of % on added debt...
we waited, and waited... and waited...
we got McDonald's instead... and that was all
in the inventory... and that was all in
whatever we got, if we got anything:
deutsche schmutzig machen... is that perfect
German muddy - herrbzigg - or alter
Philanthropist zigzag - howdy howdy **?
dots the avenue...
and the many riches coming your way...
make muddy, or muddied already,
takes one swipe of the credit card,
ends up with 110 to nil streaks of ****
bothered about Star Trek... and the cellphone...
and the extraterrestrials of Mexico (or he co & co; huh i?)...
got the gangrene green if you
like the Licorice tangle of blank Ovid saying:
mahogany, mahogany, mahoney... mama got all da
honey... n she got the 2Pac shaky shaky core blues;
mind the albino in the hood:
or Mars the red planet, Earth the brown planet,
scary they thought of dinosaurs with dragons prior...
didn't think of Martian life prior to government
conspiracies, way before Darwinism and crowd control...
life on Mars: well, it was once there,
long before dinosaurs, and bacteria and yogurt...
long before the circus, and the commuter caterpillar...
i believe that there was life on Mars,
given the timescale... it was there...
but it ain't there anymore...
                           which might explain the U.F.O.s....
don't believe the government's audacity to have
created something so phosphorescent Zulu
as to invoke an engraving of lawless Voodoo...
before we knew of dinosaur remains we drew dragons...
before we explored Mars we were given
the proofs... life existed on Mars, long before
Earth was made the 2nd laboratory of a deity...
then it died, given the life-cycle of stars...
Mars is rocky... earth is rocky...
whatever life existed on Mars in its full potential
is long gone... is this really as weird
as what pop culture makes of man and monkey?
kettle and carpal muscles evolving from
oysters? we really can become equally ridiculous to
the extent that we turn on each other...
it didn't take much to divide Hindu from Muslim
into India and Pakistan... this won't take much thought either...
i'm just trying to counter scientific negativism,
and counter the timescale of both physicists' big bang
theory and the anti-historical Darwinism...
i'm starting with life on Mars, at a time when
Earth was inhospitable... volcanic... i might be among
the many people treated as being "mentally ill"
when the government claims to be so advanced as to practice
such projections of phosphorescent objects,
when it's dumb as Donald *****... because NASA is
not theoretical enough... and the government seeks
control by claiming NASA isn't the end result...
the usual suspects: lies... and more lies...
the Venusian Art... the pick-up artists...
i read it, never tried it... wish i did... but i also wished
for a herd of goats too...
but that's the best explanation of sighting a UFO i have...
before Earth was made habitable, Mars came prior...
Mars is rocky... is Earth... our fantasy is about discovering
life on Mars... life on Mars left a long time ago...
it's gone... gone gone gone...
the sun is cooling down before it becomes a dwarf...
before the perfection of this glasshouse of plants and animals
Mars came before us... and it was perfect...
later came this whole God and Devil debacle and plagiarism...
the first supreme, the second mildly similar...
but altogether worse... i told you, a phosphorescent object
in the night is hardly a government project...
the government is not capable of such things...
if they are, then they're like a man with a 4 inch
***** telling a girl he's a millionaire and has a fetish for
watching his girlfriend get ****** by a stranger with a 12 inch ****...
do the match... get a mud-bath.
the Welsh drew dragons and the Chinese too,
long before the dinosaurs usurped the happy-times
next to a bonfire... i'm just like that...
life existed on Mars long before we decided to look
for microbes on that red Ayers orb...
i'd be looking for sodium rather than twin oxygen trapped
into liquid by hydrogen, then always alienating laws
by ice, the said liquid and vapour...
my theory is that the original life on Mars,
didn't experience hydro sodium chloride... i.e. the seas...
Mars had only sweet life form... given the Devil
plagiarised Mars with earth, we received the seas...
we received the hydro sodium chloride... salty waters...
so if i was heading to Mars, i'd be mostly interested
in finding sodium chloride (salt) than anything...
not life... if i was heading to Mars i'd be trying to find salt...
not life... salt... salt... salt... Angie Jolie film (2010)? Salt.
because we forgot our individual intuition,
and we chose to have individual intellect that might be
easily swayed, because of this we allowed
collective intuition to arise... which we couldn't
intellectualise, because a collective intuition gave rise
premonition, prophecy and such artefacts of similar attention...
no collective intellect could ever be grasped:
atheism and Christianity and Islam and etc.
are such examples of what we lost... once we gave up
individual intuition, to replace it with a collective intellect,
we couldn't revise individual intuition with an individual
intellect (how many adherents of Marx does it
take to change a light-bulb?) - so we invested in
a collective intuition, whatever you call it, it's maxim
is still unshaken with the words: the sun will rise tomorrow.
a line from Heidegger concerning this observation:
every man is born as many men and dies as a single one -
like me, how i discovered the difference between
the man and the mass, intuition and intellect...
how man reversed the intuitive continuum of animals
to converse with an anti-animal invigoration of
intellect, and transcend the continuum of replicas,
and therefore invest in embryo, or the book of Genesis,
"original", in that, also a continuum by ontological inspection:
i.e. continually revisionist... Einstein preceding Newton...
Orangutan Joe preceding King Kong was never
really going to happen.

.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...
  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)
mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.

I have hairy legs.
The dishwasher is broken.
I have been reading books.
I have been solving stupid math equations

I have to wash the food crusted dishes.
I’m writing a novella
I’m also researching sodium chloride
My novella is only six pages single-spaced so far.

Comment vous appelez-vous?

Why doesn’t anyone participate
In the
Wash Your Own **** Dishes Program?
I’m studying French.
-b +/- Square root of b2 – 4 (a)(b) over 2(a)

Anyways.
I have been teaching myself
How to play my
Black
Stretchy
Accordion.
[I don’t know why,
But it’s stretchy
Like mozzarella cheese]

I have to help my sister-in-law move
Into my house.
Into the basement.
Heh heh heh.

Daiya non-dairy cheese:
“Melts and stretches!”

Now I have to scrape the
Black tar gunk
Off the plates, because
Mother told me to do so.

Oh, the odium of sodium!

There is
No more time
For me
To shave
My legs.

the pitch dark symmetry
of spiral engraved
glossy jet black
vinyl

the ***** claws
and webbed spiders;
graced with impeccable
scratch

words come back around
from dog day afternoon;
entwined in ritual
beatology

technique absorbed in prowess
dedication assimilated by passion;
human form and synthetic resin becomes
overlayed

polyvinyl chloride or
unsaturated hydrocarbon radicals;
a derivative by any other
name

I'll leave that nugget for the pub quiz
and relax, post-Christmas stress;
the street scramble bustle,
embrace a pint of
black magic

Two lovers died tonight.
Together they sipped glasses of potassium chloride.
To others their love was unjust,
to each other, their deaths were a must.

In a jungle of segregation,
they were forced for permanent separation
one that they both could not adjust.
To each other, their deaths were a must.

They decided to take a firm stand,
held glasses of sorrow in each hand
and as they both had discussed
to each other, their deaths were a must.

Two lovers died tonight,
to each other, their deaths were a must.

i saw you last night in my dream.
we held tattoo guns.
we wrote the definition of friendship on each others' back.
when i finished,
your back read 'a refuge from the world.
somewhere you don't have to think about painful things.'
when i looked in the mirror, my back read
'a version of intimacy with less lying.
a way to share bruises.
a shared blood bank.'
sometimes the way you speak
makes me think you're composing letters to someone else in your head.
sometimes i think you only approached me because
you like small birds -
robins and sparrows
and wrens.
i like attack dogs.
i try not to project that onto people.
you said your name was the product of shame.
you said every syllable was a lie.
when time changes every letter of your name to different variations of
"bare legs and
brick pyramids and
ball and socket joints"
you will tell me to pronounce each syllable anew -
someone should have told you
not to build your body from bricks
when you're standing on a fault line.
don't you know california's known for its earthquakes.
don't you know subduction zones aren't just metaphors for you
and your latest lover.
stand up.
get off the floor,
stop crying.
it's not my fault you chose to love somebody.
your knees are raw and the bruises sink deep.
you laid persian rugs over all your linoleum floors
and the rugburn on your lips pays testament to your dedication.
while i am with you
you fall to the floor and whisper.
you replay every word you said to them
and fashion better lines, -here,-
-i'll show you that i love you, my tongue's between your teeth, i trust you not to bite-
you say -listen to me, listen:-
-there's a hell. i know it.-
-let's go find it.-
i keep replying but you just kiss the carpet.
when i started smoking you said you were worried about my health.
funny how you only notice something's wrong when something starts to burn.
funny how you didn't notice my white knuckles when you spoke.
funny how you didn't notice when i stopped replying.
i stripped all the color from my hair last night
i meant to dye it the color of your eyes
to remind myself of your
good points,
remind myself why i once wanted to speak to you,
but you know,
i think achromatism suits me.
hair the color of mist and smog.
i never learned the difference between smoke and fog,
i keep trying to smother clouds.
on cold mornings i close my mouth,
cover my nose,
try to starve whatever it is burning inside of me .
i suppose you'd appreciate that,
in your mind,
fire is a synonym for death.
you ***** all the candles that i light.
when i put an ember in my mouth you say -what's wrong.-
-tell me,-
-it's not healthy-
-to keep all that smoke in your mouth.-
-you can tell me about anything.-
i wonder,
who told you that spreading a forest fire
helped it to die?
i wonder who told you sharing sadness was the only way to be intimate.
well here, let's share misery. let's spread it like an infection, like an std.
1. when i am alone in crowds,
i find myself searching for faces of people i despise
that i haven't seen in years.
somehow i want them there more than the people i love.
2. i am a background character.
my only line is, 'let's get out of here.'
3.  i wonder a lot how happy i could be
if i wasn't here to drag me down.
i wonder a lot how i would have grown up in a cleaner town.
would i still be terrified of safety?
4. the only constellation i recognize is orion.
the only constellation i recognize is a hunter,
a human killed by gods,
a man slaughtered for the jealousy of the brightest god.
i tried to learn others,
but they never stuck.
never seemed quite real.
5. in a catholic classroom they taught me that G. O. D.
loved the smell of burnt flesh.
on interstate 580 my father told me never trust
a smiling god.
6. epinephrine and endorphins. epinephrine and endorphins. epinephrine. epinephrine. epinephri
7. my mother told me i was sugar and stardust and i
bled for five years
to prove her wrong:
copper and hemoglobin
and chloride.
8.  every boy looks like family i've never met.
every girl looks like a better version of myself.
9. i collect memories of girls
waiting at bus stops at night,
alone.
heads between their knees,
hollow but not empty,
trying to stay steady.
bleach sloshing in excavated ribs.  
10. sometime in the last half-year,
i have learned to despise you.
i am an american firearm and you give me another bullet every time you make your presence known.
i am a hammerhead  shark.
you poured wax into my gills
and tried to leave your seal on me.
congratulations! congratulations. you left a mark on me. you made yourself more than a friend,
you made me hate you.
do you feel significant now? do you feel special.
you can see the ugly parts now, when i spit in your face i won't make it pretty.
-you don't have to hide from me.-
-i want to see what you don't show-
merry ******* christmas! time to make good on your claims,
hope you were truthful because here.
i brought you my gangrene. i unwrapped all the bandages just for you.
sorry it's not quite as pretty
as those carpets you laid over your cheap floors.
i'll be standing by your fireplace,
lighting every candle i can find,
illuminating my body from every angle.
hope intimacy is everything you imagined it'd be.

I can't know what having nerves is like.
I don't want anything anymore.
I was never told by my mother to clean my room.
My room has been ***** ever since just so one day I hope she comes in raising hell just so I'll clean up.
My room remains close friends with the dump because I'm still waiting for that day so I can make it spotless.
I never knew what to do with those mother's day cards I was forced to make in school.
Maybe they were delivered to her by some divine mail man that never showed up.
Maybe I wasn't on their map, maybe I'm not on the map, maybe I shouldn't be on the map, maybe I should burn that map down with cliches of passion, maybe I should make my own map of the hills I've crossed, the ones I never tried to cross, the places I've been, the places I've never been, the place I was yesterday, the place I was today, the place I'll go tomorrow, and where it all ends.
X marks the spot.
I've stood upon the soil she cried on.
Up grew the tongues of people that could tell me "what really happened."
I chose to spray pesticides on those beautiful plants.
Instead I let weeds grow there.
They told me the truth, but too much of one thing is filling.
So in return I fed them salt so nothing would grow there ever again.
Sodium Chloride silenced the truth, I realized later that the soil sat in my ears and I made myself deaf and shot my foot off.
Sodium Chloride was the cyanide to my soil.
I drew a map of that soil.
It turned into a maze that I never did figure out how to get out of.
I still don't know how to feel, I can't even feel the crumpled map you threw out on how to reach me.

My eyes feel like acid,
Last night’s tears still hurt.

I think of seawater
because of its briny tang,
because when,
by accident,
it trips into my mouth,
coats the inside of my cheeks
in a clear, chloride gloss.

I think of seawater
because of the way
it blooms along the shore,
dazzling white jewels
slinking up our toes,
our feet left with a glimmer,
slippery and clean.

I think of seawater
because your hair was soaked,
chestnut brown trickles
wriggling down your face
and I could smell the beach
in the pool of your neck,
fresh and transparent

at the crook of your lips.

We took a bus to Wilmington
And skipped a dream or two
In order to be cognizant—
When the “Are we there yet’s”
Rebounded void of “yet.”

We parked the bus adjacent to
The paint-peeling facade
Of lonely temple Wilmington—
Threatening no demon of the sky
With a keenly polished death spike.

It had no spendthrift window of
Christ Jesus with the sick
And poor, neglected derelicts—
Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride
For His altruistic charities.

Across its door was fastened tight
A rusted iron chain
Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls—
Who loitered at the barrier’s feet
Waiting on God to warrant entry.

But we who were of cogent view
Detached deterring catch
And entered with our chins *****—
A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary
Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew.

And down a velvet aisle stood
A lonely, weeping priest
Inhaling in unblemished palms—
That not a single pious doubter
Would dare inspect.

“Welcome to my church,” he said
With breathless, choking sobs,
“I am the congregation here—
The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher
Of Wilmington Church of Reason.”

Inquired we what hidden woe
Enlaced with torment cast
Those salt discharged convulsions—
Quaking the sanctity of exultation
In the House of Apollo.

And with concise, unleavened words
He justified his tears
And whispered to our weary troop—,
“Alone, alone am I,
Isolated within this box of omitted truth.

“O, give me soothing slumber deep
And strip these sentient eyes
From ghastly sheaths of consciousness—
Repair this mended paradigm,
Or tell me that I am mistaken.

“Imaginary friends and foes
Make wretched hearts a wreath
Of roses red and mistletoe—
And bird of paradise to keep
Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…”

So each of us, a brimming cup
Of empathy, remained
To keep old pastor Wilmington—
Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington
Alive and awake and well.

I am loved to be
Strong in relationships
Like common salt
We daily use
Sodium Chloride(NaCl)
Ionic bonding
But, I am afraid of
Water (H2O)
Can have
Strength to
Break us
How strong we are
Making situation worse

They put her in a
Curtained cubicle
Surrounded by
Beeping machines
And all types of
Wires and terminals
A trashcan and
A dripping faucet

When they rolled her in
They gave her
Morphine
Sodium chloride
And a pat on the head

"She's lucky"
The nurse said
As he lowered the gurney
"A lot of people have
No one show up"

And he left the room
Pulled the curtain closed
We were left with the
Tranquil beeping of
Faceless terminals
And the dripping faucet

Another nurse came in
With a clipboard
And started asking us
Questions
Apologizing for
The beeping
"It's like Chinese
Water torture"

Then she left
Pulled the curtain closed
And when the
Heart monitor
Started beeping
We pushed the
Silence button like
They showed us

We were left with
The sterile squeaking
Of the soles of sneakers
And hollow whispers
In the hallway
And the dripping faucet

so limp,
so frail.
so dead.

inject potassium chloride
into me next.
please.

maybe that'll finally stop
my already dead
heart.

Vernarth passed his house, opening his skylight, he soon felt that his parents were fighting, being able to realize that those aggressive words came from generational hindrances that anticipated the luminous tubular Omega, in the global level split from its lower part, (ω) above and it happens at the beginning of a beginning based on the end of a beginning a thousand times more than a threshold based on hundreds, appropriate from the metric unit of the numeral Myriaz = ten thousand, three times more than the Falangists, one thousand less than the Peltasts and three thousand less than the horsemen, total thirty-seven thousand less than the fighting forces in Gaugamela out of a total of forty-seven thousand, under the myriad Myriaz of Falangists undermined by their Xifos in the area of the right instep of each man faithful under his command, before facing the Achaemenides. Being Omega and Micrón in the warlike primer of their cause, within the prophetic in all necropolis of tiny omega (ω), towards an Omega that reaffirmed the upright hand in Saint John the Apostle to rewrite the Apocalypse twice, being the same one but with the voice of Vernarth commanding the ten thousand Falangists, who made up the inter-generational gaps, but of camouflaged alien ancestors. For this purpose, he opened the windows with their pillars sheathed with tetrachloride chloride, at solid angles of Ω, in what was Virgo institutionum / Oarion-entity that was intruded by the projections and leaks that converged on the strut of the omphalos of his celestial father dealing in frequency and bleeding of immortality, becoming from a helper to the planes of subconscious reprogramming and perspective. With his arms raised, and in each hand a sword raised to pierce the vanishing point, between the spaces that were assigned, under the solid projection, from an observer that inhibits ad limit the biomass in all the masses of aqueous filter and lumens, towards the throne of the angelic guardian of avant-guard by the stereotype and the sclerosis of Zeus in dissociated physicality, even though it is an amorphous entity and with pulverized magnitudes, between Pi and Golden numbers, fading away without area or volume. Vernarth in his humanoid apocalypse transfigured from a solid point in Hyperdisis as a direct escape settlement to Oarion, towards a conical vestige surface in three-dimensionality towards Andromeda, the Milky Way, and the shoulder of Betelgeuse.

Vernarth distracted the emeritus stars in the corner of his room and in the convexality of the points of his celestial parents in conical spheres of perenniality, leaving only solid angles in each of the two parts of space-delimited by two semi-planes that start from his common edge, under the ideal geometric concept and that it is only possible to partially represent it as duplication in parallelograms with a common side, symbolizing two half-planes, making from all distances seclusion of visions as a culmination of imagination and apparent angles, viewed from any point the Celestial Vault in invisible counterpoint.

The decalcified cells of Vernarth sang with Sophocles in choruses after the victory of Salamis. Already being a tragedy in the next act of the prologue and their friendship bordering on his tragedy, he continues to exist in energetic arms to write, and Vernarth to dispute the characters from a regular prologue writing the hemo-verses with his own blood, which traveled meters and that shrunk from the anti-verses, scarring their declaimed intra-breath, in choruses that only the wind clarifies of what precedes and happens towards suffering, in the metrics of the Areimos chorus that lectured anti-verses, which they tried to ****** from his hands to Sophocles, in the immortality that refined him by abandoning him in sub-units. With masks and mythical cycles he mixed the metaphorical facsimile of the momentum of separation of friendship with him, seeing it in an episode of his works, and instead of Vernarth's transcript, sheltering origins of volatilization in his choirs, converted into physical waves of a dramatic order -oracular. Gods re-transformed into divination and futuristic germination, who hid asleep and forgotten in a time of subconsciousness of the Selenite heritage, felt in Colossi of signs of parliamentary, where the oracle leans on the lines of the vibrational words and how they cough their " páthis ”in the place that speaks the language dissociated from the heart nucleus. In misguided divination, the oracular mantic brought the cold of solitude and the heat of fire that divines the forests on laurels of oracular daphnomancy, towards the ironies that banish the degrading systematized of frantic nervous suffering, burning in defaults of neurasthenia, before an omega elixir and neuro-analysis, given the ontogenetic passions, before cutting the nasal protrusion that crosses the fallopian tube, for the healing by fragmenting with the smell the existence of other genetic amphibologies of myth-genia, and that bifurcate the challenge of anger and disappointment of taking him with him in this suffering, taken from smell to disenchantment after thousands of unfortunate lunations against the tósigo that fills with appetite and perfidious reptile, on who walks on our destiny without knowing who it is that creeps.
Vernarth omega sets himself up as a versatile column that temporalizes the threads of his organic brain, creating synaptic logos in Pashkein on the alert of abandoning the arm that rewrites his heroic Sophoclean and tragediographic biography of ancients traveling in disintegrated emotionality and ****** Hellenic neurotransmission, “Two men omega in omega speedometers, carrying neurons from ankylosed and frustrated herd of pleasure for tripartite meso-form and roughing of routine Alzheimer's losses, lost in routines of the sympathetic and para-sympathetic, with the probability of loss of Hellenic gray matter; that is to say, of all memory that does not sin of ignorance in the ancient world, in more than nineteen hours and hours of vehemence, with brightened dangers of reliving umpteenth times in the twilight of omega, transcript and biological bend towards the man heavy with anguish, and more distant in all the lacerated ones that have mutilated or almost mutilated the conversion of the sternocleidomastoid, crushing the shoulders and the magical healing on the nasal sinuses, which strangle the pains in the face of selective suffering, indicative of rational martyrdom and temporary unhappiness in " extreme combat of dissatisfaction ”, allowing to channel resilient neurons that transit towards the neck for reasons that not even the neck understands, lobbing as it is not foreshadowed, neither in oracle, nor in its frustrating focal matter.
Vernarth, was already narrowing on the tracóntero Eurídice, to save his pains, deposed in terms that would renew anti economies of supplying unsustainable liquefactions and synaptic melts, extra energized of molds of purely natural law of the eyebrows and lunation that rests in the inter millennium, beating with ecstasy in the Buddhist Suttas, and in the adaptation of the flesh in the hypersonic fissures of the Metelmi and in the attachments that still beat on the dermis of pain. Vernarth draws his sword Xifos of phenomenal structure and cuts it over the Sutta or sermon that imitated the lunation to the compass, making this a sabotage of redemption and anti-verse from the court of Sophocles, as a myth-saboteur and anti-value, overestimating the tricks of the same utilitarian tragedy, defeating itself in the curtain of mourning and sadness, unguarded and overcome by the stoic duel of joy.
From here Vernarth opens the gates of hell, eight hundred times going mad with omega value, which by reiterating omeganymy, creates the numbering of the anti-verse and the suffering that does not even sleep further from the departure of a soul and in a body-only Asleep of omega concavity, superimposed on golden transfinite chests, which rearrange the natural numerals with those of transfinite ordinal omega, but on frictionless wheels of other omegas that break the recirculation rules on Alpha, on supra Omega levels like Parados -Estásimos- Episode and paradigmatic Exodus Vernarth-Omega.

Prologue Omega I:

Once upon a time, amidst the rain of clouds full of drama, in a time that was of the oriented regime of the Subacal of Betelgeuse and Aorion, 334 BC, it was the penultimate breeze of Tsambika, in the spiritual devotion that hovered over the unison voice in the magnanimous Zeusian chorus, as an alternating event of imprisoning past and future in an episode of the present act. The expectant was curious about the retouched makeup and superlative consonant of the drama, in a disembodied place, but with a good narrative source to bring it to fruition. Here the myth is plausible, among everything mythical, more than all the super sums of expectations of the Isimous.

Párodo I: "For the submissive words in the proscenium of the trident fire, where I have to warm my hands with ashes of eternal fire"
(Directing the scenes through the coripheum, there is the master lord who, in flames by unequal numbers, peoned in the Aulos and piccolos, whose bare feet bordered the risk of the bellies of the Maenad damsels united in processions, between princes, powers
and Dionysian dances holding on to the Pufios; in Baquiana and ceremonial liturgy near Vernarth, taking every seven minutes a glass of animadversion, in the tasting of his little finger, which screamed of organic pimping, together with the dancers raising one arm and directing the palm towards the sky, while the other remained down with the palm facing the ground; in this position that was already like Vernarth buried by the tides of Patmos wandering him in times that marked the entrance from Mars to Jupiter and from autumn to winter in fifteen times agreed with Sophocles, hanging from the third to last towards the entrance with his trembling voice desalted..., swallowing in his own tragedy)

Esthasimo II: "Through the right half body, Vernarth intoned what his laterality exposed him in harsh gloom, as Hera brandished oats and sweets clouds over his existentialism, which in the homily liturgy personified the stasis, in between coral bearing his hands enraged with tragic passion in his frenzy, unleashing oratory of self-blame, unraveling drama-tragic, and in each pause the emotion that was accompanied in new episodes of stirring up "

(Vernarth says: “submitted to parts that are not its parts because my pain has blinded me, where it has embittered the conflict of ethical interest if the stars as an applauded public are invested, who sentence the opposition of other lesser stars than They cheer what does not shine. The principle of the voice violates the normal parenthesis, which is governed by the omega voice, mocked in a modal by four magistrates, in the martyrdom of an idea of the procession, each one wearing his toga of super deprivation, before me that I will not be the one who recognizes if I will be who I am, on the seventh judgment of my surviving ethics)

Episode I: "Vernarth extrapolates the values of the judgment, of him that they annul the first, the coryphaeus directs his promenade from the countryside on his Alikanto Horse"

(Vernarth says: “I have instantiated the steps that in the future my chestnut crossed with you if I am to sing with a sorrowful voice, no choir will be able to follow me when you are no longer there. However, I have to guide what personifies who more than a thousand miles carries with him the chandelier that opens the light of your gazapa gaze... "

Alikanto wailing says: "From the luster of your heartbeats, I dazzled the jailer from your ribs, for the preference of those who take you even further in stormy prose pro-agonist"

Exodus I: “Sometimes the endings smell like lavender fields, where the call of the almighty is heard, to take him over his loaded plantations, which are emerging from the afternoon dialogues with their twilight, as well as stanzas that smell of anointing of lavenders, separated into syllables and tonic that arch my charm, not to say that I was anointed with Lavender as a child "
(In fifteen times, and syllables and rakes, they are sterilized in the sentences of their paragraphs, leaving the audience speechless, without a gesture or word that emanates from a sacred paradise, rather from the stasis that never purged the omission of the syllable that is not proscenium or trident, but it is umlauts on Omega, between syllables of fire that burn from its proscenium)

He sprinkles salt in my wounds, gently, as every word digs deeper and deeper
He deprives my life of flavor, saving it like ammo for the next fresh water war
He buries me in a pile of crystals
Shining, sparkling, dazzling, until they dehydrate every ounce of ambrosial hope
He throws salt over his shoulder for 'good luck', leaving anything and everything behind him burning, withering
Like binging and purging, the ocean rolling in and out, he's suffocating me under what he claimed was sugar
Like the mastermind behind water-boarding, he jerks me left and right, pure and tainted, innocent and soiled
He promises that this time it's Confectioner's
He promises the water he's leading me to is fresh
But every time it's salt
And I'm the definition of insane, constantly falling for the same look in his eyes, the same half smile
And every grain is one hundred lies,
And every grain brings another ten-year war
Sodium chloride might as well be cyanide
Simple table salt bottles may as well be containers of gunpowder
We're fighting through the desert, sand turned into his favorite compound
We're losing, bleeding, lacerated, with only his promises as bandages
I'm betrayed by my own body, as I wipe my tears and realize their chemical makeup
I'm trying to explain why I panic if my dish is too salty, why I panic if I'm near the ocean
I'm rebuilding my pallet, substitution after substitution
I'm learning to use other spices
I'm remembering the taste of a simpler world.
I'm washing over my scars with water I filtered myself.

Vinyl Chloride

I will never believe
in you again,
There is harm in
trusting a delusive
person like you;
Your damage replays,
others can see the
debris from your mistakes;
if only I were made of bricks,
then maybe, you
wouldn't weigh as much,
but because I'm
not made of bricks,
I'm vulnerable,*
starring tired flesh
and equally tired heart.

1 a.m.
"sylvia plath aesthetics" on google search
overwhelmed by the pages excerpts
click a link
close the tabs
tosca curtains
tv sound
smoking brothers
polka dot pajamas matching the face
wonder if the mirror would break today
religious villa
wide glass windows not high enough
useless hills
some are sleeping
shy ghosts
panic attacks
catch breath like solar cells
sunless
penniless
nostalgic sourness
hydrogen chloride solution in water
stomachache
period 4 days late
muscle spasms
skeletal recreation
fireworks
involuntary flow of old stale traumas
haven the escapee
banana diet and menopause
blank tombstone: a perfect biography

It quickly became clear that I had to stop the chase
So I turned my back and felt the tears stream down my face

I didn't want to let go, to move on to some new boy
To show another love and admiration
But it became apparent, like when the sun's fingers touch my skin, that I had to.

So I began to walk and let myself crumble, let my walls tumble
I tried hard not to trip and fumble, but I failed and stumbled

I had to look back, just had to. Would I my atoms change form and become Chloride and Sodium, bond together to turn me to a pillar of salt?  Would looking into his eyes halt my heart and turn in cold as my muscles, bones, and blood turned to rough granite?

I turned to face him, turned to his direction
The chance of stay live was grim but I need to see his complexion

And I saw it
And I saw him
And I saw his eyes
And.....

lost ardor, long hidden beneath these initial wastes
pinpointing the mines and matters, estimations and worth
your excavation operating on the surface of my bereavement
without any evaluation of its dolorous costs or the extent
of these ductile veins, rivers through our subterranean natures
your shadow requirements, eroded and befouled

now, neither my eyes nor I much love your dark
epicardial secrets, projecting deposits of debris, the chloride fragrance
of our secrets, hidden fires underground; your love, all and away
digging, mining proposed new lovers out of us both; gravels and
pain and gas; ferrous exploration; uranium reclamation anew via
caustic layers of ore and deposits of once-flowing love

alloys of dead flowers and waste form my rocks
seething into scabrous life like bantling cacti after a lover has risen
such risks always require a proportion of love be livid, recoverable;
threads of passion dissolved in the complexities of the body
grains of unconsolidated minerals evoking love and potash
yes, secret metallurgists like you pose acidic dangers
to my soft endocardial things

Vinyl Chloride*

I try to soothe
my haggard mind
late at night,
I try to run from you,
because your damage
soaked all my bones
and all the happiness I owned.
Your name dug my grave
ahead of time,
I'm sorry, but you crossed a line;
You cannot trespass my heart,
you cannot say you loved me most
because when I bled in the dark,
your presence was a ghost.

2 major anomalies that i didn't even
scratch upon, whatever university
education taught me with regards to
chemistry: i still don't know the
chemical formulae / formulas of
sea water... and timber -
                          carbon is obviously
included in the latter -
               but how the hell does Na-Cl
(sodium chloride) bind to water?
  the secret is in the quantity of it apparent,
but it's a ****** mystery to me -
as is the adequate formula for wood -
no one taught me that... mainly because
no one at university took an interest
in these two concern of mine... well,
now they're also your concerns;
which suggests that arguing the existence
of god, precipitates simpler argument
for something else,
while arguing against... precipitates shallow
comparisons, akin to statistical improbabilities -
added to the fact that paternal or maternal
theologies end in disaster - or crucifixions
and atom bombs - argued: i'll hang on
the cross until my words come true:
and people will cling to my words and
follow up my predictions with an atom bomb:
much easier to make satire with someone
sitting on a throne, or the throne of
thrones: a toilet.

on clear occasion, by each lunar
apparition, each thought apparent like
a twitching eyelid making sight a memorable
case of solitude, thus come the
frozen nuances and what not,
thus by canto LXXIV you get the point,
if any canto, this canto,
forgive the excesses of conjunctions,
such words are forgiveable, even in excess,
it's like a man drowning grabbing
razorblades as he does so,
aura of gushing blood, mingling
with soluble crystals of sodium,
a chloride derivative of what's a standard
disinfectant,
but among these pages, in the pristine
sober night, where sleep is not appreciated
and all credit to apparently working
(well, it's a form of work however you
mind it) - i know, i too wish to have
written that verse, but no use
complaining via trying, and subsequently
failing a bad case of plagiarism,
i did, after all, point out the diadem
shrapnel of composition: many conjunctions
later, it's still but a finite procedure
allowing only one memorable line:
a name and surname with a maxim
is far greater than a name and surname
with an epitaph... no one owns epitaphs
and if they do, they're only ascribed
to someone's tombstone... maxims are derived
for a need to rejuvenate as if the dead
be living, rather than... dead...
a rotting flower blossoms in the nose
and not the eye... reverse if you're
talking about the optical palette...
a rotting flower blossoms in the nose
and not the eye.
the first word usually disorientates the story,
unless it be as random as possible,
as small as possible, and as irrelevant as possible,
there's hardly a reason to use a rectangular
base / canvas for what's to be meddled with:
like trying to force two akin charges of magnet-metal
to perform a binding act monogamy
that works fine with noble swans, but hardly
with harem-loving mammals like humans,
i said like binding akin charges of magnets
with each other, just to peer into the invisible
constructs (και οι επτα αγγελοι εσαγπισαν;
γαια - γαια - γαια αια-ε), or how morbidly
the latins will defend their christianity with
innumerable saints and ******,
because they know they are trojans in disguise,
and having plagiarised greek polytheism
(jupiter synonym zeus, or pluto née hades)
had to resort to an invigorated cause;
and still with lxxiv's account of things,
i dare not compete for such things memorable as:
'we have not yet calculated the sum     gorilla + bayonet',
and the canto after, like was the required due
of writers back then, who now, whether
poet novelist or a simple paperback carrying donkey
could cite you a transcript of an opera?
i know i can't, perfect examples of the times
when you wrote in letters and read music scripts,
the trinity that i know of: e. pound, s. beckett, j. joyce;
and indeed there is much of a personal interest
in the mentioned canto... much almost acronym
detail that would require a resurrection
and direct confrontation to mind, or understand,
outside the pleasures of simply laying aside
and sounding it, with a sparrow's ease
each fortnight, within reach of the full moon.

Not a word I say
As long as the salt is okay.

It really makes little sense
Depend on salt my goodness and patience.

The sooner it goes wrong
Sparks fly from my evil tongue.

As if a little less salt is good cause
To bare myself in fangs and claws.

In fuming anger and blind of sight
Forget the times when it was alright
Once in ten when salt goes less
Monster takes the human’s place.

I console myself it’s an ingrained fault
In man to flare up for less grain of salt.

The beast in us can no longer hide
When deficient of sodium chloride.

In these what I read makes me darkly brood

*For the love of salt I couldn’t ever be good!

Punished by the sun
in a desert of our love.

Slipshod the sailing stones,
how dispassion speckles the playa floor,
salt pans dissolve motivating force.

I'm a man returning to his ground.
You're a woman seeking refuge
in the cracked crevices of my rib cage.

So far below sea level,
where does love go from here to survive?

Perhaps, Chloride City
and the grave of a James McKay?

Maybe at Bottle House in Rhyolite,
the "Queen City"?

Either way, this sensation has become an unsacred mirage:

the watering hole, a leadfield,
with which we can only look back from.

Praying the sulfur in the sky
passes on from this place,

before we turn into something sodium, something akin to
Lot's careless wife.

I don't know

Whether sky plays earth!

Water running in circles

As if it's inhaled

Or ****** by earthy lips

And so clouds also

move along as ribs

In a breathing chest


You pass your legs into water

"how it is cold and fresh!"

and Sun, is hotter than blood

Feeding the sandy flesh


Your eyes're green at night

sunny in the afternoon

And honey in the early morning

My own are really dark!

I cannot clearly see

where poems are born


They say that neurons

Sink in a salty water

-sodium and chloride-

Just like the sea


I look at those blackish

Brainy rocky islands

And think  :

Only sweet water

Could dig its own way

Through this earth's wound

gathering lonely colors :

"Schwarz, Grün , und Gelb"

On either banks of the Nile

passing by the cataract.


1st August 2017,
Aswan - Luxor