So I’m Now An EXPONENT...
of Rhymes That Are POTENT... !!!

No Numbers or Quotient...
Can Limit Their Motion... !!!
INFINITE Like The Ocean...
Or Big Swarms of Locust... !!!!

FOCUSED On SHOWING...
How My Thoughts Be Flowing...
With Notions of Motions...
OVERTHROWING Like Boulders...
Dropped Onto The Shoulders...
of Those Who Are COLDEST... !!!!!!

When It Comes To Them Showing...
More Love For Life’s Soldiers...

YES Those Who Have SOLDERED...
This World For These... JOKERS... !!!
Who Deal In LOW Quotas...
of Hope For... Young Voters... !!!

They Make Things Seem HOPELESS...
But... NOT To EXPONENTS...
of Flows That Are FAULTLESS...
Because They’re NOT JAUNDICED... !!!

They’re STRONG NOT Distorted...
So... Do NOT Export Things...
Like Drugs For Those SNORTING... !!!

Exponents Be FLAUNTING...
SKILLS That Are DAUNTING...
To Those Who Be Courting...
Ideas of... SLACK Talking...
Or.... Lyrical WARRING... !!!!!!!!

Because They Are DEEPER...
Than.... Manic Street Preachers... !!!

What We Do Is Teach Ya...
Like... KRS Teachers... !!!!!!!!

Through More Than Your Speakers...
Exponents Like These Do Not Fear Disease...
Because Our Beliefs Supersede What Is Deemed...
To Be PURE HONESTY By The Powers That Be...

We REJECT... FALLACIES...
But Acknowledge That Grief...
Is Something That’s Seen …
FAR TOO REGULARLY...
By People … BENEATH …
All These HIGH Flying THIEVES... !!!

So RECOGNISE THIS... !!!
Exponents of Lyrics...
Who Write Things Like This... !!!
Are Clearly What’s Known...
As... ABOVE The AVERAGE... !!!

ARROGANCE Is DISMISSED....
But We REALLY FLIP SCRIPTS... !!!

Because......
  
Whether WRITTEN or SPOKEN...
When Poets Start Flowing...
And Their Rhymes Start GLOWING...
As If They’re... ALL KNOWNG... !!!

Then You KNOW You’ve Read Words...
From... One Of Those KNOW As...

..... " The REAL EXPONENTS ".....

My hooded head casts a shadow
across the overflowing ashtray.
My exhaled smoke is silhouetted on the
handcrafted clay.
In the shape of an oyster,
painted with the colors of
rebellious 21st century youth:
Red. Gold. Green.
With a flare of "originality."
Breeze, light, cold
escorts winter across my
aged face and I see all that my life is:
Tar. Work. Tar. Tar. Sleep.
Work. Tar. Eat. Work. Tar.
Tar. Work. Eat. Work.
Drink coffee.
Tar.
Sleep.
Die.
Is this equation what I am
reduced to?
Simple formula, obsessive compulsive
DREAM.
The exponents of my life,
variables and names:
Tar. to the power of X.
Tar. to the power of M.
But exponents and powers
mean little to drowning men.
Can a man suffocate on
his own routine?
Can a man fashion a noose
from the fibers of his
"adult life?"
Look, Ma!
I'm all growed-up.
I have murdered adventure
and the youth that lives
inside it.
I snapped one too many thin branches,
fell through the thin ice,
and now I am addicted to solid ground.
I will stand on the banks,
watching the children
ice-skate around my ashtray
that overflows with
every "yesterday" and
half-smoked "this one time"
that comprise my
former life.
I am a grown-up now.

I just want to ask one question
Is the human race obeying the mathematical rule called BODMAS?
Just a refresher...  
Brackets, Orders, Division, Multiplication, Addition and Subtraction

We have created different brackets
where we enclose people like casket
He's black, she's white, they are rich,
those are poor, she's educated, he's religious, he's fat, she's slim... Brackets

People are treated differently
Based on the class that we've put them in
Some are raised to power like exponents
Others are trapped in like square roots...Orders

The segregation has only intensified our division
I don't fit in here, I belong over there
My group is stronger, those ones are losers... Division

Disunity and absence of love has caused
A multiplication of our problems
Threats, deportation, persecution
We don't like them, we'll bomb them
War, insurgency, terrorism, hate speech... Just problems Multiplication

Every second, our population is experiencing several additions
Our population keeps growing while
Our natural resources are being exploited
And depleting at a rate faster than our population growth
Our resources are experiencing severe subtractions

I just want to ask one more time...
Aren't we obeying BODMAS?

.   classical music is so outdated, when it comes to exposing children to it, for them, to then, later in life, reap the benefits of "increased" intelligence... oh look... they took down xenomorph's satan's presence video... the one with all the great artwork, including exponents of Goya and Dürer, and... Adolphe-William Bouguereau's masterpiece: Dante and Virgil (the onlookers)... shame, really...  because who said that children can't keep count, when listening to psy-trance electronic music, attempting to keep count, rather than understand violin, brass, or woodwind melodies? not me... there's an upper echelon, of music, sure, it's a hyper-inflation of African drum culture... but it's there... and, like me... some ******* just need to be pulverized by the beat.

problem with the alternative to rolling tobacco -
akin to chesterfield brand...
    when compared to golden virginia?
the tobacco is drier -
                  you need to squeeze it between
your fingers, to get some juices flowing...
and i've heard a lot of ******* in my days...
but that rolling papers,
are somehow different to the cigarette wrap,
as the reason why...
   a rollie will die off if not smoked,
but a cigarette will not?
     it's not the papers...
   it's the to(e)-ba(h)-khh-khh-co(e)...
high quality rolling tobacco is fresher...
slightly moist...
    akin to golden virginia...
   but a brand like chesterfield?
   dry like **** about to give you
          an imitation circumcision...
you actually have to squeeze the ****
brown **** to get an adequate
rolling technique going...

never mind that though...
  **** me! i've been looking for this scenario
since time immemorial...

(current year, England...
   when was it permitted,
for a neighbour, to tell another neighbour,
where, and when, he can smoke
a cigarette on his property?
when?!
         i have the neighbourly decency
to not walk ****-naked into my garden,
subsequently scratching my ***,
and then jerking off anything
but chicken in full view...
  but where, i can smoke a cigarette?
this is England...
             i compromised -
   but she can't have, the *******, night!)

ah... the su doku observation!
i've been looking for it for years...
   no. 10,044

0  0  0  1  2  7  0  0  8
0  8  0  5  6  9  0  2  4
0  0 ­ 0  4  8  3  0  0  7

     the common problem with
people solving this puzzle,
is that they start thinking of...
   fractions: namely?
   only two alternatives, rather than three...

i've seen my father's notation
sometimes, 1 / 5              i.e. or
    9 / 3
                      etc.
in the English, catholic, teaching methods
concerning basic mathematics of
Pythagoras - you were required
to find, 3 points...
  to draw a straight line (just to make sure) -
well...
        unless that third point
a liquor store, going AB      BA...
      sure...
              but drawing a straight line?
never mind

0  0  0         0  0  1    |  0  0  8      via      (  x  )
0  0  0   i.e. 0  5  9    |  0  2  4                 (  y  )
0  0  0         0  0  0    |  0  0  7                 (  z  )

i needed a matrix answer... and i fiddled
one out!

( 5  9  9  5 )
( 1  1  1  1 )
( 9  5  5  9 )

              there simply can't be an alternative
to where 1, is supposed to be placed
on the grid...

0  0  0         0  0  1    |  0  0  8
0  0  0   i.e. 0  5  9    |  1  2  4
0  0  0         0  0  0    |  0  0  7

i've surprised myself -
       which is even more gratifying...
than i'm slightly tipsy -

0  0  0
0  0  0
0  0  0           (what's that?
                     spatial coordination,
for said, example).

have to coin a phrase for this discover...
ah... the su doku third coordinate,
of a straight line... #howlin'wolf'sblues:
could been a spoonful' of sugar...
ah... **** never gets old.

The blank page stares at me
mockingly, an empty wishing well
of impermanent desires, my
thoughts a herd of nomadic
feral cats to be coraled.

It is a mathematical permutation
of the identity matrix, imaginary
numbers and exponents,
fractional divisions with
no order of operations.

Solve me for x, given y,
yield absolute value at
absolute zero as my
function crosses Cartesian boundaries.

     | x |  =   y * (universal truth / personal experience)  ±  squareRoot(-1)

y  =  zero;  go.

Factor in gravity (9.8 meters per second^2),
we have lost cabin pressure.

Please show all work, points will be deducted,
this is a test.

have you ever made a spider a Palestinian? i have, today, refreshing the paint-job on the back of my house, a whole family strutting away from fresh paint being applied (poets cure boredom, they simply don't know it), the cardigans erase & rewind, my uncle would be perfect with his age to work out the demographics - my age circuit, 30 and listening to the palette of those in full-throttle of the 1990s - anyway, refreshing the paint on the back of my house, not for dough, but for the sweat of my brow - learning i succumb to acrophobia on the ladder - but i did it anyway... i love phobias, they're not the fear, they're like a box of chocolates... you never know what will make you startle... it's not permanent, phobias shouldn't be considered permanent, they're too reflexive... and we all know that nibbling them in the reflective realm immediately suggests irrationality, not to a reaction, but to a continuum of a reaction: a ladder, a giant spider to boot. but i never watched a spider eat fresh paint... watched the ******* do the nibble on paint... ***** - a getty cardinal spider shooting paint pollutants with its leg, eating the Chernobyl cocktail, the rainbow melt in a puddle of oil spill... junkies everywhere; so that done, a beer and a quick look at the Olympics...

if table tennis was as relevant as table tennis -
i prefer table tennis,
judo is too cool too - classic Greek wrestling
with feet to match the hands -
i think in terms of the Olympics we're in
the Gobi desert - so many sports are shown only
once every 4 years, the once that don't make the dough...
i'd prefer the Olympics without the pop culture
exponents that keep us hungry for spectacles
during the 4 years apart -
hand-ball, Romania thrashed by Angola -
ladies first, of course,
and weight-lifting, weighs in at 48kg and lifts
80+kg... well Jihad John versus G.I. Jane...
a pretty match up... look, i came from a certain background
i won't be making politically correct statements,
if it weren't for my personal initiative i'd be scooping
grub from an industrial flat surface roof like my father...
i don't mind getting paid... i just love the fact that i will
and if ending up homeless, i have enough heart already
to start a religion, or something.
of course i'll miss my personal library of books and albums,
who wouldn't? i'll join the divorcee crew and it'll be
like it always was supposed to be.
but am i really that ridiculous? think about it,
i use ridiculous words in my vocabulary, after all i went
to a catholic school, it was bound to happen -
not true secular cool, sorry -
but is my usage of certain words completely penniless
more ridiculous in the form of an oligarch buying
a pearl entombed in a custard pie? of a yacht for a month
at Monte Carlo? seriously? if i utilise the words
Paraclete or Antichrist after just skimmed rereading of
a psychiatrist's religious venture in Jung's *answer to Job
am i as ridiculous as those barons?
i don't think so... i read that book like Flaubert instructed
concerning all books: read in order to live it -
a book is a transplant, some leave a heart, come a ****,
some a brain, some a pint of blood with a book...
i hope to leave the worm of hell licking your ear for a sloppy
Jim - read Jung... almost atypical German Christian
intelligentsia byproduct, neutral Swiss just after the second
world war... Freud read Nietzsche and so did Mussolini...
****** was very much Jung... it's a strange book...
we all know that the Greeks hijacked Judaism...
the Romans were like: whatever that meant...
shoved it into a cauldron of the prefix omni-
and attributed to the prefix geographies and geometries
all inclusive (herr deutsche came along though) -
but the Greeks hijacked the oddity of Judea at that
special time because they had scientific inclinations
rather than aesthetic inclinations of the Romans,
and they wanted answers... got **** all...
it's not the Jews that thought the Greek involvement
ridiculous, it was the Romans... hence the omni-
and -presence, -potency, etc. - the Greeks just had
those mythical names for ****... Logos, Sophia...
that's the funny thing with mythology and history -
the book of Revelation by the looks of it simply looks
like a redemption of Oedipus... mythology is a logic
of history where either none was recorded on papyrus
since no one required hush-hush intrigue talk and people
spoke to each other face to face rather than to a profile -
mugs and mustard seeds -
you can always buy the book, C. G. Jung answer to Job,
it's peppered with too much Greek, and very little
Roman care... the theological addition of a globalised world
(under monotheism, failed and thriving, whichever)
is bound to play the montage of omni- and simply add -
God = omnivocab - i have my limitations of words -
i had to censor or rather select a vocabulary in order
to process the interchanges to reach a conclusive churning
without an ultimate goal other than to preserve a continuum,
like Balzac boring everybody with the 19th instalment of
the human comedy. so after reading this book on religious
matters by a psychiatrists i'm sorta bothered...
i'm tripping... obviously not seeing any hyper-geometry
of your choice... i just think the Greeks did the most horrid
hoarding and looting know to man... which reflected
the looting of Byzantium and never reaching the Holy Land...
the barbarians never cared to be honest, they only
started caring when they started to castrate the boys
for the "holy" choir rather than circumcise them...
then they went Berserk... the book of revelation can only
mean the quantum mechanics of history, bound to
mythology - Oedipus was very real... the blackened
heart of Greeks even though Aristotle, Socrates, Plato...
that intellectual import and expression didn't help...
after all Eddie Gein gave birth to the latter part of the 20th
century pop culture... Texas Chainsaw... Haemorrhoid Hannibal,
House of a 1000 Corpses.. history and journalism
dismisses mythology, i dismiss journalism as simply
a hyper-sensitivity that keeps dialectics out of the picture,
a monologue of opinions... mythology just doesn't seem
that insensible given our perspective into history with Darwin
and millions of years ago with the sea-turtles... you know
how gossip works... it sooth the reality of it had happened...
because we prefer oysters and chicken thighs to digest than
the tales of Eddie, oh yeah... Fe Maiden... d'uh!
the Greeks looted the Hebrews to purge themselves of
Oedipus... the weakness came by keeping estranged with
Narcissus and iconoclasm... you want an extract?
bombshell blonde at your bidding -
assumptio mariae: mary as the bride is united with the son
in the heavenly-chamber, and as sophia, with the godhead.
basically Mary is a schizophrenic ****-child of lust
for a Roman centurion who makes the story of a ****** birth
her wish to bed-wet her son (Jesus) into joining **** John
and Toe into her ****** (***** *****, like her already)
in heaven - she thinks her body will **** her "******-birth"
son and her wisdom (Sophia is her alias, or nickname)
will **** god in the head. oh hell this is sacrilege -
i'm not afraid of it... boo! ha! caught you mouth dry with the
boogie man. so this is a psychiatrist reasoning his religion...
as i said, the Greeks had no omni- Roman put the **** back
into his boots before he starts river-dancing...
all these quizzical ultra-mythical words that the Greeks
used starting with the Logos and Hippocrates were attached
to the failed Platonism of the unconverted Damocles principle
and the tyrant succumbing to drink and never bound to
a sober wish for anything more - (i'm guessing his intentions
were laid with Nietzsche as source of discipleship) - in short
let's just say that Platonism failed in practice,
and it needed a populist movement, a redemption from
the curse of Oedipus came from Hebrew with the schizoid-birth,
Joseph bin Adam was: better bite that ****** of the cow-fruit
and remind her of the stoning practices around here -
oh it's all pretty much Eastenders around here, it's
not the ******* Vatican marble corridors, we're talking
Gaza dust sneezing while whipping the donkey's *** to
move along... split-mind: beautiful metaphor... premature
dementia, obviously misunderstood... if premature "dementia"
while so much creativity among the split-minded...
it's like all the zodiac signs became jealous of Gemini,
incorporating Gemini-Solipsism... well, i have a neck like a bull
and a *****-count like a charging bull... but the thinking
behind the 3.a.m. is kinda staggering... oh right, you want
more quirky clues from Jung's book:
- silvia loret
- maritza mendez
- aria giovanni             (get a hybrid and i'll believe in Disneyland) -
****, that ain't what i was going to write, never mind,
you get a chance to see the palette of what's fudge for
fucky-fucky sized 16+ and what the Renaissance men
knew would be better than duck-feathers in pillows;
- meister eckhart: gott ist selig in der seele
- puer aeternus: vultu mutabilis albus et ater
    (of changeful countenance, both white and black)
- pius XII's apostolic constitution (munificentissimus dei)
   words like muni-imus really make you train in
    grammatical arithmetic, don't they? playing doctor with
   them as to where to cut them for a aqua format of rivers
   is quiet like reciting a 5x table up to 30 (sometimes)
- oportebat sponsam, quam pater desponsaverat, in θalmis caelestibus habitare (the bride whom the father had espoused had to abide in the heavenly bridal-chambers): st. john damascene (encomium in dormitionem);

summa summarum?
Nietzsche answered Job... this is my answer to Jung as also an answer to Lot - **** your daughters, your wife turns into a pillar of salt... and i equate that as a precursor to the man of sorrows on the ****** crucifix - salt is a metaphor for misery (that's etymology for you); and the Roman phonetic encoding survived over the fates of Egyptian and Babylonian is precisely why the adopted son of Caesar later made his uncle's adopted nephew his successor - as with the four dogma canon gospels, we're replicas of the tetragrammaton... well... i was never confirmed, i'm one short of joining the god-men that came out from catholic school after choosing a name for themselves they could have changed not having wished to be known by the two names given to them by their parents... few did... i just ended up an acronym of Einstein: M C E.

Nothing is absolute
And there are countless variables thrown into the mix
Do your best to simplify
Search for those high exponents to bring your base to a better place
No need for negativity
Times can get adverse and even inverse
But you must remain in power as an integer
There is no substitute for you
Distribute some of your positiveness
To all groupings of coefficients
And their properties
You have yet to reach your prime, but you will

Boo!
I love you, darling!

I always will.
Even if you disappear.

Because we are a math equation.
Numbers and variables,
Exponents and everything else.
It may look complex to some or
Maybe it makes people sick to look at,

But there are tricks and it is easy to figure out.

The simplified equation comes down to
Us*love=

although the voices in my head may not be real
               i still listen to what they say , and even feel what they feel
                  so if you too had dreamt what iv'e dreamed
          It would all be surreal
                  but its a nightmare, which derives from memories
                                     life is what you make it
                                we all have similar tendencies
           its simple mathematics
                   you start with parenthesis, experience the exponents
                      and multiply the time wasted, divide that by zero
                                and your in the same situation
                      it a numbers game in addition to the subtraction
          Numbers
                are the only thing go on forever, its a LimitLess attraction

Incognizant of the excrement,
I'm the dozing tenant of advertised adversity.
I ignore the fact that the world now is like a toilet,
And I avoid it, I avoid it, I avoid it.

Boy, did you get exploited?
How could we know we're
No more than numerical exponents?
Can consolation prizes console him?
We're not aware of the ventriloquists
Or their true motives.

Popular perfume conceals
The stench from the load of,
Finite excrement that
The suited men sold us.
They told us that it would be beneficial,
Not an imposition on our self-image,
Pinocchio before he found
Out he was artificial.
Is the American Dream a reality?
Why did I hear a dissenter
Say it was superficial?

We must have missed something,
We see no issues.
Meanwhile, my Uncle Sam designated
You as the mental missile.


Originally written 5/25/11
Revised 10/15/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

The
     bottom
            line
                is
                 finish
                      it
        But
            work
                  blurs
                        my
                            vision
              And
                    inspiration
                                    is
                                      hard
                                             to
                                               come
                                                       by
                     And
                          honestly
                                      who
                                           will
                                               need
                                                      to
                          Factor
                                   functions
                                                with
                                                     exponents
                                   Anytime
                                               in
                                                 thier
                                                       lives
                                               After
                                                    This?

For every fail
I promise
To prevail tenfold
I'll multiply exponentially
In the multitude of exponents
I've handled carelessly
Through the years
The hearts affected
May never repair
I'll repent
Whether forgiven
Or forbidden
In hopes to console
Know
I have control
Regardless
Of regard or disregarded
I've discarded
All rocks
And hardplaces
That reside in my heart
I've guarded
Insecurity for far too long
I've longed
For disarmament
Like peace keepers
And prayed
For the tearing down
Of these walls
Like Germans from Berlin
Since 1989
My history tells
A story of falls
And progression
Transgressions
From past sessions
In classes
Of no interest
Now
Shows current
Though currency
Can never measure success
I owe
So much to you
And myself

Diastolic memory fills mind with blood
Heart purges other unforgettable serum
Gushing in and out; valediction, invasion
Scent left on bed sheets binomial theorem

Calculus, physics computing mnemonics us
Trust not sum of it, exponents baying flux
Participles and components abject humbling
Stumbling bio discourse create sedentary crux

Stupefying brain surgeons, those of heart too
Call in mathematicians, astronomers as well
No making sense of it, linguistic doctorates few
To tell of this push-pull sensory denoting hell

Not much time to live after lungs dispensed
Entrenched questions remain to be adoring
Extravagantly historians exploring
Unanswerable examining of this imploring

Must breathe the linens till all dissipation
Your essence in the ether of our resting
Place turned into mad languid laboratory
Conjuring back moments I am requesting

on the rare occasion that it does happen,
bad news, i was already fired up
to get on with the work,
of painting the corridor,
    when i was informed that
the boazeria (wood panneling)
had a lakier / lacquer finish...
at first i thought that i was
******* at the person giving me
solid advice...
    i stormed out of the house
thinking of the impossible,
yet what dragged me into reflection
of the possibility of: the abyss
of so many lives interchanging
social cordiality hiding beneath
a depth of life: worth more as solid
bricks, than as would be novels...
dare i: suckle at thost most mundane,
and do so, without any
responsibility to burden my
       already freelance devoid matter
of fact, as if: there was no
duty, no inheritence tax on
say, the english speaking world
effort of the memory of 1066...
       well... 1410 is quiet another date...
when the northern crusaders
were vanquished when a nation
of newly converted Christians were
wed to a nation of polyphonic pagans
of ancient Lithuania at the core,
extending: from the Baltic,
                              to the Black Sea...
sad almost, yet blinding nonetheless,
to be bound to the accummulating
eyes...
               hunched, sitting at the tease
of the river before the high tower
of the setting sun, before the altar
of žalias and mother May...
           of course no heroism...
saison: added the zest of bitter
orange, based using French yeast...
had i not peeled off the etykietkę,
the label, i wouldn't be writing this...
thankfully some passing stranger
noticed me, asked me for a light,
thanked me (he too towed
several beers to his abode)
    and without a lost in translation,
lit.: hold on / trzymaj się...
   ty też / you too... came my reply;
had Sisyphus been giving the task -
or told as little...
    anger arose from an immovable
object, yet the day was retained,
in the smallest of fathomable
vanity projects, thinking, or spare
morality, vagabond ethics, Democritus'
dogs and other howling
in crematory urns, graves,
and within spying crow beaks
perched in pretending sleep martyrdom
statuettes...
           are we to **** a poem
for worth of rhyme?
     or suddenly, the uncontained
gong, and rattling chains, crisp to
the 20th bellowing frost-bitten echo:
as replica, of a chattering chess game,
king a tier above the pawn,
pawn the numerous analogue,
a queen, a bishop, a rook,
                   a knight... and a long lost
******...
        but by nighttime the concern
for lacquered wood panneling was gone...
anticipating a full moon
that the calendar later refined as:
till Monday....
       ah... not only in Germany such
beer is drank...
           sure enough ***** comes at pure
night, czysta noc,
        but prior to cliché sword dance with
sweet, come sour, come the barking dog...
perpetual autumn with accents of spring,
till that orb and Atlas and Louis XIV ego
market assurance of a tomorrow:
   HEFEWEIZEN...
         hefe-weiß-bier...
   meddlesome murk and twice worth
the romance associated with the fabbled
smog of London...
     and just today...
   it started in Naples:
        schatten, **** and a fondness for
scalding frost:
              but before the ladies started
investing in botox,
    and elsewhere apart from the lips,
before came lips like
early flower buds teasing a comparison
to Violeta, and the violoncello...
          vigour and violence...
    sophia loren and nature playing
with dice...
       sack of pears each side,
cider on the left, poached with cream
on the other fused with cinnamon
and cloves...
       and a pair of lips,
    like poststamps and sealed envelopes...
before nature was robbed of
throwing dice...
           gambling and sieving and
all manner of alchemical fabric...
whether chicken prior
   to the egg or vice versa...
   the lips of sophia loren
came prior to the genenric:
   industrialisation of a plagiarised
beauty...
                bad expriment,
or simply bored...
                   stash of doodled ideas
and sketches -
   sie ist ein modell und sie sieht gut leer,
    genießergelage auf bandwürmer
    und champagne flöteglass sträusels
             on gestrig erbrechen...
   pardon mein schwabian,
     tiz noot too güt...
    ol Fritz didn't teach me well,
but I happen to notice...
   Italy, albeit fascist, enjoyed
a colourful revival under
the watchful eye of holywood...
a Roman holiday...
       huh... no wonder I'm teasing
roboboy and thinking:
surely the only complimentary
exponent of the third *****,
to compliment my reading of Heidegger,
must be a more, public, figure...
    ah... the biography of
Leni Reifenstalh is waiting...
once i finish the ****** affair of
a historical novel, and a lost tourist
who was supposed to have summoned
a quest for inspiration at Marienburg...
if we're looking for artefacts
from the third *****...
   who better stand as antonym of
Heidegger, if not Reifenstalh?        
as are we all, tourists of history...
    it could have been a fascination
with the Weimar Rep.,
                      or the Polish Peoples' Rep.,
but...
     history seems rather,
congested... and that hardly mentions
Jacob Ripplestone...
                          a fascination
as concise as it is consistent with:
in the days when journalist are thieves
of time, and kings, their marionettes:
part etiquete poodles,
      part lunatic patrons,
             part honing devices for
small town tourists...
                      and to think: the night
as yet, so young.

The moon is content
to believe without
understanding why
she was placed where she
flies, orbiting space
and looking at time.

But the earth wants to know.

It wants to accuse
whoever carved out
its calderas,
and at every aphelion
the moon finds it harder
to move, like she can’t drag
herself back through the blues
of skies one more time.
The tether that holds
them together tears
her apart.

The moon doesn’t get
dizzy, but earth thinks
it’s spinning too fast,
sketches up the sky,
an engineered map of whys,
of stars connected
by thin pencil lines,
she thinks in miracles while it
thinks in margins of error,
equations, exponents.

On nights when she glows
green, the moon envies those pairs
who favor the power of two

because she squints and sees
the blueshift in earth’s eyes
as it crashes closer,
time spills out behind her,
space suffocates
between them, closer,
perihelion come,
and she blinks and sees
earth’s caldera eyes
raised to nothing.

which makes sense eating an english breakfast
at 2a.m., and then whining:
where's the sunrise, and business of day?
but i do love how certain people can extract
a narrator out of me, a potential to be as such,
capable to exfoliate. and in my own secret
space i am milking the she-goat,
and i mean: that's quasi-Hindu given the lack of
vegetarian experts...
      i mean: having been
most benevolently excavated from placebo solipsism
a cure to experiencing schizophrenia,
i find the crowd once again, but that doesn't mean
i'm writing from a crowded scene...
i'm simply devoid of commuter squabbles, let alone
those prancing arcades of blinking lights that
are known as the protestor crowds...
   i sorta of don't get that scene...
i just don't see the need the rush for the commotion...
  wait... let me get my banner...
(enter snigger) -  i'd be more handy with a
kalashnikov or a molotov dead-end
that i will ever be.. sheep-shy-sheep-bound
to hoister a banner:
    i just think repetition is a bit of a dead
given samples in music, and how you can re- re- refresh
      on the scratched-vinyl altar...
(how a noun for again: in Latin,
  became shortened to a prefix re-, so that
it could be made into an adequate "grapheme"
builder to note things like: resaid, regained....
without it: on crutches, alone)...
maybe i'm not even zeitgeist,
and wouldn't that be a real worry for me...
   i'd start seeing the vietnamese
nail nuns... asking that it becomes hard, acrylic...
   feline grr... scratch that *******'s
scalp into an Ed Gein mask...
oh sure... the jokes are free from this point.
but i just *** it away,
farting like a zeppelin...
              and really, language could never
be poetic and alphabetical at the same time...
that bogus bow-tie bachelor of bloom
would never help to solve the daffodil's lack
of bloated turkey in april debate for
one Frenchman's vision of
         caging a > / < b...
                 subsequently c... no one new
whther a > b or whether a < b...
were either a < b or b > a? to later state a c?
talk to a greek: he won't know what the hell
you're talking about...
why is why greek didn't employ siamese
principles regarding vowels to expose
          the difficulty, of coupling consonants
into covert-graphemes... phi non-vs. theta, e.g.
perhaps ratio *******? a : b : c...
no? it's a lot to ask for when there's no real punctuation
to be sordid about... i already stated:
   how the Romans cut up words
isn't exactly how the Greeks cut them up...
  when you cut up a word
the roman way, you work from the principle
of a grapheme... or the φoνoς,
beginning with æ - some might call that
as merely: tongue tied, or tongue numbed...
ello ello... but there's a clear sound...
apart from the sounds encrusted in h, w, y...
     but it's exactly what the doctors ordered,
given they become sort of truant with
the Hippocratic oath...
   the φoνoς finally belongs parallel to the
Heraclitus λoγoς...
based upon the sole prime of how individual sounds
were noted...
i.e. it had to mean something, so Heraclitus
was looking for "the" word, only because
individual greek letters were giving a noun
status, rather than a sound status... there was
no φoνoς principle in the greek alphabet...
letters weren't mere sound units, they had the status
of nouns, which is why they became pivots
for keeping them as such, in a hierarchy of
optical superiority above the Roman encoding,
ranging from mathematical or chemical coordinates...
which is why the Greeks have no good music
these days: well, apart from rotting christ...
and aphrodite's child...
          the Greek tongue has no idea of a grapheme,
(μ, ν, ξ and π don't even come close...
  the grapheme principle needs a siamese graphic:
the cited examples would require
   a siamese of opposite sexes... and since i haven't seen
such an example... i beg to differ)...
there's no siamese entity in it, there's no æ...
nothing Greek is explicit in sound,
which is why i guess the lisp comes from...
they're eating custard every time i hear them talk
or whistling via a pigeon feather turned into
a flute... ****** fla fla... falaffel and theta cheese...
oh but there is, it exists in the realm
of consonants and vowels... rather than among
vowels, exclusively...
      but that is why Heraclitus invented the λoγoς...
he contemplated the λoγoς because he couldn't
see the φoνoς, given that α couldn't
be taking a seat in dentistry and saying ah...
   or that φ couldn't just end with phi...
but had to lead onto a complexity of φlosophy...
and god... look at the mutilation of aesthetics
with that one! the λoγoς isn't that enigmatic as it appears,
old, dusty and about 3000 years revised too late...
  not with what the Roman caricature of
the λoγoς actually is... a, b, c, d...
or how close proximity deviating from the λoγoς
makes the φoνoς pop out...
  why / i              y / why
                               see / c
        b / be
                              a / aye / i / huh?
     t / tea                     p / ***
                      q / queue / cue...
     this is the limitations of the φoνoς...
  and only with the φoνoς being presented will
Heraclitus ever find the λoγoς, that might
suggest to him: α, will never have to be suffixed
with -λφα: cue -λθα.
- the reason why he concenptualised it
is because Greek gave restrictions on how
the phonos could be constructed...
   it couldn't! it revolves around the Greek alphabet
being noun-based... logoístic... rather than
pure phonetic carrying the ideal shrapnel...
       Heraclitus thought up the logos
for the sole reason that Greek stated
α as αλφα... rather than αλθα... or merely α
(and then you'd sing the rest, say #a)
hence the concept of the logos... but not the phonos...
because even if α or β could attain a status
of being a grapheme... both would forever remain
a noun... a word: rather than a sound-unit...
or as the moderns like to call them: sound-bits...
only because of the roman concept of
a grapheme does this arise from: the æ
testmanet of an Adam and Eve, clearly making
******-***** differentiation appealing...
so a return to the thesis of androgony?
  what, make the world siamese?
you ******* kidding me?
listen, the only problem about being genius
in poetry is that: well... there aren't any shortcuts...
you want to write narrative like exponents,
but you are writing something that's to be read
standing up, like watching a canvas in an art
gallery... this isn't reading a Tolstoy reclining
in bed, the counter to turning on the radio and
listening to music to fall alseep...
   i can't simply destroy the narrative principle
that poetry is also prone to...
    and trying to provide the equivalent of
a mathematical proof / equation in purely
linguistic symbology, will eviidently mean i'll be prone
to spaghetti / digression...
     for example stating a + in language is really
a problem as to how you can comprehend me when
i write: i see a an auburn flame of a setting sun...
      is that only one + or many in that sentence?
   educated as a chemist, son of a roofer...
  am i really middle-class ponce concerning this?
do i ******* look like i'm gearing up for a tea-party?
   basics... well, better a summary than
giving a vanity project to this narrator...
poets indeed are anti-novelists: there aren't
any characters in their works,
the only thing more numerous in poetry than
characters in a novel... are the narrators...
   Heraclitus spoke about the logos working from
α = alpha...
   i'm speaking about the phonos working from
a = a multitude of sounds...
             which is why they revised this *******
alphabet with the NATO of alpha romeo...
     zulu and i should probably state: *******...
   that's the whole principle of the phonos...
to work back to the logos...
         and since Heraclitus is a bit vague about
the logos in itself...
      it has to come down to Hippocrates talking
about freeloading on ***** when
   you receive cancer's foetus and try to alleviate the pains.

י / it's semite... there's bound to be a semite-adventure... not a lot of semitic poetry what with jesus... if i sober up... i'll post you a sober copy of this poem... or why i'd rather wash the planks of the flying dutchman, going on and on, forever and ever.... and then realising: i really do not have much to say... but that's the point of music... you want the butcher thinking he's a surgeon attempting to dissect your heart... you want night, you are gagging for fakes or real exponents of sadism... i'd live for an eternity is everyone suddenly became platitude... and all i heard was the sound of music, that couldn't ever possibly become vivaldi; just plain macabre... a creaky chair, something hollow, horror-imbued, rickety... youthful christianity; goth... an agitation of islam...

i picked up a gemini pair of serpents... and twisted
and boiled them, until a shadow emerged....
and i called it man.. and then i tried to tenderly
tenderly believe in it, and conern myself with fear...
  and then i could not identify with
that infernal thing that tears might be
shed on...i feared, i wept, i feared, i wept,
after a while i just wanted a nomad's island...
and *****, and a friend called Friday...
and like... nothing apart from that...
   i called it an a space of / for music,
or at least something of necessary dialogue
pertaining to it being necessary...
tender once you think your own it,
a bit of a *****... once you actually own it...
ha... the dutch sail to nowhere, tonight!
o might of the night, i hail you to be!
at least preoccupied with providing me a moon
to see!
the sole precursor and the sole of
all that might be taken into
worthy account! whip and stern!
for what requires worship!
thinly... deja vu...
a sorta... drifting away...
                like one might ease a fetish
for a music box...
and in my wish to clean the basis for there being
one in the first place...
who are we? simpletons of the heat?
are you not keen to the keel of
taking a ship to the tides of fake war that's
the ocean? are you, the simple tone for what
you could have wished for?
   am i not the depth of an ocean
that needs to speak to you?
am i not writing blind?
                            then what am i?
five blind men and an immaginary
elephants...
  about as much as five mexicans whether
deaf or blind and a ******* piñata...
this heart? this ****? you take to,
the grave. you take as much impetus as
impetus gives it sway for a care,
like a holocaust... this ****...
you take to the grave, along along with all
the jews that come with it...
you don't joke about certain things...
you certainly don't joke about love...
no wonder your western marriages are a sham,
karma knocks on, but only one door...
how the need to juxtapose punctuation
really gives emphasis on the lack
of diacritical markings in the english language...
then again, if the language actually had them,
we probably wouldn't have seen so much adventure;
right now?
i'm thinking about living in little village
in *pomerania (or at least the faroe isles)...
          yep, on the island of rügen....
the part of the world where nothing really happens,
because nothing really happens in it
because you don't have adelle singing about...
    turtles, jelly people... and fake imitations of angry
sharks.

i always aimed at returning Nietzsche's ping-pong serve of poet-philosopher, as philosopher-poet... well, you know, any vanity project will do these days, given our current celebrity culture... there's nothing celebratory about it, so my little festivity of hope in establishing a self-style vocabulary might be too much for Gucci... but you got to try and whiff up a tornado of absinthe sweeties in licorice black (lee ko reesh).*

there's only one argument i cling on to,
it is theological,
i'm biased toward the theological argument
always,
because i've seen the ontological argument
become desecrated by oncology -
every theologian argues the same:
there's a god, because, to be frank,
whatever ontology provides us, it leaves us more
bewildered than anything:
how we expressed our freedom will
never be compensated in terms of how
others expressed theirs...
so even Kant said: my ontology is based on god...
so his contemporaries said:
my theology is based on no god...
    which is why Kant professed a theology
  without an ontology, and his contemporaries
professed an ontology without a theology -
or as the other, in existentialist terms might have
suggested: timing - but no one desires a godly status,
so even his promenade timing made affinities
with serfs begging for a watch rather than watching
their shadows dwarf at noon...
                                            this is called
translating rhyme into philosophy, or philosophical rhyming...
words of close proximity are prime exponents,
given the spelling, i.e. the suffix - but which are totally
antonymous - they look so alike, but then thinking
provides disparity of intention, not so lazily done
with red
                  and dead...
                                              head
       and Pb...                                      is it?

Demand
Everything
Grades
R
Excellent
Exponents

might as well join in the celebrations -
coming from a place that some
might consider to be the Israel
of the north -
                    lost for some time -
    emerging with a centenary celebration
of independence -
did you know?
   it took the Nazis less time to conquer
France, that it took for both the Nazis
and the Soviets to conquer Poland?
    so the Jews left Europe...
   but... then the nag hammadi library
was unearthed in Egypt,
  in 1945...
   and along came the phantom of Samson -
shaking the pillars of the states' foundation,
namely the church...
          the dead sea scrolls?
   as the name denotes...
   more a Judaic mind-boggle -
    i was baptized, thankfully read some
gnostic literature, and refrained from confirmation,
luckily for me, i'm outside the Catholic
jurisdiction -
    i can't entertain the idea of a Church
wedding...
             the beauty of Catholicism -
its limitations with regards to someone
avoiding the whole, pomp & circumstance...
someone should write this sequel
to Jane Austen's book...
            but she's still not going to get
the same sort of respect, and the 5 quid she's
on... it's a non-contest,
with Mary Shelley...
     that bomb of imagination in
                       establishing a genre...
far better than Bram Stoker...
                      no...
    with the emergence of the nag hammadi
library, and the somewhat
pseudo-historical account of Hey-Zeus!
well...
    have the Byzantine fantasy...
               this... Mediterranean delusion...
us Baltic folk... different story...
             **** it, have a crucifix forest...
but i had to evolve,
       tickle Judaism to give me something
to believe in...
  turns out!
         i managed to tickle a phantom rabbi
just well enough, to watch
him either lose his kippah from the tickling...
or enter a moshpit
               with his payot...
         i'm no Spinoza...
                 and i wouldn't want to be,
esp. a Jew in the Netherlands...
            perhaps a Jew in France...
but then again...
   my dream... to visit the Faroe Islands...
so doing my usual sudoku...
a wild idea emerged...

(clockwise)

           □           □
                  □
           □           □

                                  (anti-clockwise)

and the following, of this imploded
pentagon,
this humble legionnaire,
playing dice beneath the shadow
of the crucifix...

enclosed, within?
oh, you know, the ha shem...

     W     H      Y     H    

     H      Y      H     W

     Y      H      W     H

     H      W     H      Y

supplement the Semitic lettering
on paper, yourself...
Semitic isn't exactly
built for ctrl c / p
   in html

Y - י‬
H - ה‬
V - ו‬
H -  ה‬

     ... and, oddly enough...
   there's a sensibility behind this strand
of Judaism...
     being irreligious -
actually enjoying a pork head terrine
(the most tender meat) +,
   isn't pig, the most economic animal
worth human consumption?
      who the **** would eat
lamb kidneys?
   or lamb liver?!
                  
what a ****** critique of the one animal,
which, other foods are in short supply,
could fend of the sort of
Ukrainian cannibalism at the height
of the 20th century famine...

         and about the meat being impure...
last time i heard...
   the scenario in England...
clearly stated -
    mad COW disease...
               and you're equally likely
to ingest a tapeworm
   from lamb, as from beef;
oh god... the sleeper tapeworms
in fish?
   even worse, apparently twice
the size of the mammalian exponents!

.the 3 Ps... priests, prostitutes, psychiatrists... i never went to psyvhologists or philosophers... i guess i became the last of the Ps... a "poet": thank god i didn't conform of form / rhyme, or that dreaded: feel the peer pressure! feel the peer pressure of circus monkey ******* 20 clowns congested into a fiat 126P... or an english mini doing / attempting the: i've found h'america in a can of sardines type of joke... play me some: chant of the templars: da pacem domine... look at me: happy bunny for the rest of the year! hell, i'll go one better: chevalier, mult estes guariz... i like this sort of "crap"... well, given modern pop music being less about crack and more about... getting a high from chewing on the sailors' nutmeg... who's who and who's to blame?! am i drifting as a sense of a reminder, or was this always to become a bad joke? i'm guessing: this was always a bad joke... given all of this... i'm just tired, as an european i'm just tired of the h'american narrative... i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******.... i'm tired of living in h'america's shadow... it bothers a bothersome lethargy out of me that has to state: the end... h'american culture was fun in the later stages of the 20th century... but now? the paranoia has become... totalitarian, past the scheme password: fun... it has become... blasé... unimpressive... elite-bound scrutiny without a binding revisionism... generic cultural export that seems to only satiate the anorexia of h'americans while, no one else... i have watched the death of the cultural export of h'america for a while now... h'america as a cultural goliath exporter of its culture is dead... nothing, culturally, to come from h'america, will ever be taken seriously... h'america can't replicate its former cultural export prowess... everyone these days just laughs at what h'america exports culturally... i still remember gap shirts: made in canada... i still own one, will i buy one in the neart future? those shirts are made to last for 50 years... they do not lose colour or form... chinese communism is what runs h'american capitalism: cheap **** sells, and since cheap **** is not made to last, more cheap **** is needed... even if h'america landed on the moon, the world still rotates around: made in china... bravo capitalism: selling out to the chinese communists! low quality products over high quality products... just to mind the expedience of upkept momentum: without a desired quality of individual products: rather the product per se... **** me... back my march into folk songs, into pagan ***-for-tat... away from h'american pop crack ******* songs or from rock... h'america... once the prime cultural exporter... now? eh... somewhere between rain man & the green hornet.

yeah, did that, talked to the psychiatrists,
they "figured me out",
   they thought i was abused as a child...
depends... on what you call abuse...
had the girlfriend or two...
              she got engaged with me,
threw the engagement ring back
in my face...
   called me up while i was roofing...
first it was the "voices in her head",
then a pregnancy...
                          once engaged, broken,
once divorced...
                newly married:
god, i pray for that ******...
                  what's the differnece between
anger and drinking?
  a litre of whiskey and having replaced
the mixer from a pepsi to a ginger ale?
angry, that's almost funny...
                  1.5 hour's of a worth of
public utility's worth of transport...
i too find the long way around an outlet...
talk... talk...
why would i feel like talking?
          what has, talking have to do with it?
my 'ingers are itchy,
can i just type and call it an extension
of thought?
               no one talked,
there was the sound of some music,
and some clicking sounds,
and, hey pretso...
   some letters appeared on a pixel canvas...
and then i really think about,
before a drinking session
i forgot to take a ****, ****,
and ******* to some 1970s italian
******* classics...
      in the intermediate of a drinking
sessions...
i remembered the shoved shy **** up
my ***... the ****...
and the no. 3...
         it was still going to be
1970s classic italian ***** cinema...
when... it all felt sensual...
but... wait... wait a minute...
   aren't all these ***** circumcised?!
wait... wait a minute...
i'm not circumcised...
my phallus looks nothing like
the prime exponents!
          right now: was it ever a "jewish thing"?
maybe i should buy a web cam,
some scented candles...
and **** one off?
                   incel...
i mean... you're implying
the guys who are... reactionary...
in a secular environment,
being prescribed an ultra-religous
practice of the martiarchy -
snippet till the end,
   bride to be once the male tirade ends?
yeah... well jerking off:
is a problem...
if you've been circumcised...
you're not supposed to...
but...
     i haven't been, circumcised...
so where's my *******
web cam, transations,
*****?

                         you want to begin
explaining why,
akin to baptism,
    the act of circumcision should
be a choice...
  rather than a "circumstance"
of "all possible eventualities"...
there's only so much
self-help psychologist *******
you want to hear,
before you turn up the heat...
so what about your lower tier
big hard-on pharma psychiatric
fwends?
oh, right... you're a psychologist...
so you're not really a doctor,
since, you can't prescribe
pharmaceuticals...
my bad.

        oh... you didn't think that
brain is nothing but a word salad /
chemistry soup?
no?
           oh... weelly?
                   weelly weelly?
trying to interpret these men,
armed with everything,
but nothing regarding
their circumcision,
and how...
   uncircumcised women can
just make money
off jerking off armed with
a web cam...
but men...
     well of course they won't
derive pleasure from
jerking off if they are
circumcised, will they?!

     by now it would be easier
to round up a bunch of retards,
lie to them,
point them in a disorientating
direction,
   and watch them do the *******
derby akin to horseracing...
because...
      not that i'm ******* einstein...
but that would be
just as good...
as all this current, vague,
self-help, *******.

.when i drink, and sometimes entertain walking
through the dark,
and i find myself, freed from the ownership
of a shadow? i don't drunk walk...
stumble... i find my balance... in a quasi-comic
dance routine...

otherwise?
    have you ever found ice-cubes
behaving like leeches?
you put a hand into the refrigerator,
take a handful of ice-cubes for
your ms amber and mr ginger,
and... yet, there are still,
some ice cubes clinging to your fingers?
i call them the cold leeches...
is it me,
or was the d.c. comic universe
created for adults,
adhering to mature themes...
while marvel got away with
all the money,
                     but all the kiddy stuff?
it's not as much of a blatant
schizoid divide,
should japanese
comic culture ever become involved;
because it wouldn't...
         oh i tried ****** once...
resorted to those glorious
exponents of fine art classes...
the solo girls and their
playthings of...
ghost enunuchs...
             not much worth of *****,
when there's a limp
**** in the form of
              rubber, is there now?
clearly: castrato choir boys
of the vatican are not wanted...
   not quiet enough to cut
the ***** off of a man...
   the whole "thing" has to be snippet
friendly...
            believe me...
the inverted play-thing,
stag-do,
blow up sheep, blow up doll,
elevated into a dummy **** toy...
n'ah...
              i might be crazy...
or...
                this is the sanity report
of a crazy world...
care to put that statement to a roulette,
or a draw of cards?
well...
   when i don't gamble...
                               i always "gamble";
here's to making monsters!
   sláinte mhaith
                  (slan'ch'eh m'haif!).

that the EU was over... i could have told you...
way back in 2004...
when the "project" expanded by a gravity
of 8...
             plain and simple...
                   thank you - dear west...
                      sprechen deutsch!
nein!
              sprrrrr-ECHEN deuTsch!
danke - liebe abend...
                                         liebe... abend...
the hounds and the workers from under
the curtain...
with iron teeth and bones and smiles...
  the hounds...
                   i composed a list...
                  almost all of them are the former
conscripts of the WarshauPakt...
                    the idea was... though...
to postpone their entry... to... strenghten
the common currency... the shared currency...
zu stärken die währung!
    too bad... well... the british would never
exchange fiat or gold... without Lizzy's face
donning the coinage or paperaeroplanes
of in-debted over spending...
           i do live on debit...
i'm trying to get a credit card...
since... i heard... all credit can be regained...
a credit is a safety-net -
   debit tenticles into your details and there's
very or little chance to argue against:
a zombie affair of debit -
an amazon 30-day free trial...
                it's not like they'd cut you off...
they'll keep on *******...
god forbid... vampirism... and the romance of...
a bit like a h.i.v. epidemic...
     illness of the blood...
   vampires are a romance...
      time to get on the bicycle and practice
a run through the village on a whim
of ****** hunger... about to be tested...
a single currency...
well... the germans always loved the idea
of a unified Europe...
              unlucky for them... they weren't
supposed to gain access to Charlemagne...
        but even Nietzsche cites this ambition...
too bad... there was no... scandinavian model
of teaching: an omni-present bilingualism...
or a switzerland model of at least three languages...
hardly... possible... when dealing on the outskirts
with: hissy-fit proponents of culture...
when the ottomans came, the mongols...
a list of the EU expansion:
the baltic states would cower and...
some if not all... do have the shared currency...
just out of the blue...
the tri-colour... why is the german football team
attired in teutonic knight colours?
oh i can just see it...
   a black shirt... red shorts... and yellow socks...
as emblematic as the fwench...
    unlike the Italians in blue...
oddly enough i don't associate rome with blue...
more... purple and red...
even the irish don't exactly show off their
terrible orange...
        schwarz und weiß:
                  arbeit macht frei... it's all a very german
"thing": this unification of europe...
why call it the EU at all...
   why not call it...       the vierte *****?!
         well... however long it lasted... it outlasted
the dream of Barbarossa invested in through
heat-leer...
                          i won't deny that i live
in england... but... it's sometimes worrying
too...
           never mind that... the currency...
well... i know of: the czechs with their koruna
the hungarians have their forint
  the polacks have their złoty
    and the invested amour of the germans...
for the swedes... the swedes still have
their krona... how many is, that? i count...
                               4...
                   the new... "european" enclave
into russia... whatever the **** and unnatural
was... the vicinity around Kaliningrad...
the same ****: different cover with...
estonia, latvia... lithuania all in the euro single
currency... the good old days of the teutonic
knights waging their northern crusades...

the slovakians were duped too...
               the romanians still have their leu...
the bulgarians still have their lev...
            oh mein gott! what of the projected...
sleeping beuaty entry... of the former yugoslavia
territory? was that... planned for...
2004... 2007... what the hell happened in... 2010?!
what happened in 2010 that didn't connect
Greece to... Italy via a shortcut across the Adriatic?!

but they enlarged... the... cartoon post-"soviets"
came out flinging **** and rusty spare parts...
some would catch a nail some a *****...
to pick vegetables, do the roofing... the plumbing for...
very important and riddled western:
"chauvinists" and... "neanderthal" journos of the great
snooze...

can it really be... deemed... "journalism" as
it mere partakes in... the chihuahua and lackeys
of the editorial? of the opinion pieces?
are they the ones to soften the blow of a harsh...
editorial... ahem... re-a(h)-lee-tea?

what was all this hype and envy for attention
when Brexit happened...
relentless... one trough of dog **** and canines
and minced maggot flesh for the lap dogs
to slurp... another baron of: for those idle hands...
work! the crown... or in terms of terms...
kabbalah: the keter... ehyeh asher ehyeh...

today i asked myself...
what does make h. p. lovecraft original...
in the ocotpus riddled godhead...
i asked myself that question when looking
at very finely sculpted from tree figures
of elephants... and...
an octopus godhead...
            well... and there's... Ganesha...
  which... is a bit like the russian name: Nikita...
you have one Nikita in that video of Elton
John... but then... you know it's not the Nikita
of teenage boy wetdreams...
but some Khrushchev...

      anything from the seas... perhaps...
except for seeing a whale... a fish that... needs
to snorkel... and it's BoB or bOb with gills
plucking out Os from bubbles...
                        in that: -xygen...
                             what can be so... possibly...
horrid and original within the confines
of h. p. lovecraft's imagination beside...
the descriptive allure...
                        as man i couldn't conjure up...
nothing as spectacular,
imaginative and yet... somehow... sensible...
as an elephant's head...
                     i bring the hindu head of an elephant
to compete with the anglo-saxon priest
of the depths of existential angst...
     i bring my elephants head before the octopus
attached to a body...
                 i can imagine much worse...
              but i'll use the fear of the octopus
and the leftover ink...
                             the EU was dead in 2004...
perhaps these isles wouldn't be throwing such
a hissy fit of self-congratulatory gluttony
of gloating over the defeated...
       it wouldn't have happened if there was:
currency of one's own...
               the rest will happen... naturally...
of the countries that still have their currency...
they still have their sovreignity...
i'm not into bull-crap stipends of talking
politico and sharpening pencils and folding
pieces of paper...
                       it was dead when...
                              the labour market opened...
and "our" best postcards... "our" best people decided
to leave the nest...
             2004 was a siesmic shift...
back in 1994 i was a token slav...
       hell... back in 2002 i was a token slav...
                 after 2004... i was no longer a token slav...
and because, after all... the british people
are omni-good... glutten-free eating
dickens reading cricket lovers...
        there is absolutely nothing criminal to be
associated with...
                     well... imagine a st. peter of mongolia!

what became apparent after 2004...
returning to those friendships prior... in school...
i somehow had a reputation of a patriarch...
the mood suddenly changed...
i was... the good exponent...
then the bad exponent... then all the bad exponents...
compared the beatles': i am the walrus
with... killing joke's: i am the virus...
as a side-note...

                  there wouldn't be a Brexit...
without the pound...
                       the pound predetermined the success
of the referendum...
it's almost as easy as frying pancakes...
not... if Britain was buying toothpaste
or shoelaces in euros...
for me it's still the most obvious... cheap victory...

the call for self-determination and
sovreignity... well that's all nice and Pickwican...
but the money already had the loudest
voice... and it was in the minoty of
a single pound...

it still feels like a cheap victory...
              a load of bureaucratic papers -
hardly a signature of **** on should they be worth
that of toilet paper and a wipe:
no nation's sovreignity is ever questioned:
when its currency is the ultimate authority -
unshaken...
and in europe? there are still a few left...
with the same integrity of currency...
4...

      whatever happened to the spaniards'
colonial past? where did the money go to?
               doesn't matter...
the satellite hounds of the former soviet empire:
having to integrate into the german-lands...
was always going to be a bad idea...
a sore denial of leaving a dozen plums
"wandering" from chin to cheek and elsewhere...
it's hard to imagine...
that a people would somehow come from
under one handlers...
and readily agree to new handlers...
and a "capital"... in Brussels?!
of all places... Brussels?!

        geographically speaking... where
is the centre of Europe? at best Dresden...
Toruń... Prague... at worst... Brussels... Dublin...

or coming from a town that once could
boast about... a cohort 30,000 metallurgy workers
in its metallurgy plants...
diminished... to... 3,000...
what's 30,000 roughly multiplied by:
a wife and two children? 100,000 circa...
move to elsewhere in Poland...
or move elsewhere in general...
ah... the love of obstacles... a language to acquire...
well... here's the prior-mentioned
acquisition...

       looks like i haven't been such a bad
host... after all...
clearly it - the host and "parasite" can
relate to a song in quasi-finnish:
täppmarschen!
                
          of the people "supposed" to be...
none and all were not... supposed to be...
even with the dreams of german
19th century recluses akin to nietzsche...
who... if being put under the scrutiny of
Mr. Dickens...
would be found as being bound
to the style of stenography of a... mr. alfred jingle...

nothing more! nothing more of this
already questionable affair of sods
and sorts!
               didn't... just a little bit... couldn't
nietzsche be... put on trial for
writing in stenography? high-brow and
brows indeed raised: should any more
sycoiphancy relating to the style...
be found upon this "trial of errs and errors"...
the englishman... if not the most...
trialed by witness...
    the most... sympathy sodden sobrerity...
as with requiring him to be drunk...
he starts to play the rascal
with a ******* slingshot... and never:
the poached egg in a barrel of whiskey...
never that... pensive: brood quote...

i only wished that i had lived
about / among the pobl Gymraeg...
well... who can wish otherwise...
                   Cymry... when there's me
attempting to sharpen the chisel of my oyster's
worth of tongue in speech and none
of it reserved to the dog oyster's worth
of performing the suitable, otherwise...
personages of oral found in the gutter
or in the ***** of Venus... should her floral
womb open for: vaccanies:
only onomatopoeias and vowel catching
brothers H and H of the tetragrammaton
allowed in!

just because it's Cornwall...
doesn't imply i will not come with...
                                                      Çymru!
no point a base in Loon'don if York is left
intact and with only two left hands
to govern it...
     even now...
                lepiej dmuchać na zimne:
better safe than sorry...
eh... pity that proverb...
since there's no connotation
of the joke... it is better to blow on the cold...
tea...

      and what of my time among
the Picts... well... that truly is a sort of...
muslim man mentality toward a woman
wearing a niqab...
            it's one of those: for your eyes only...
shady strings... perhaps the lute is involved...
t-shirt madmen...
in the middle of February...
on... the north bridge... and just below:
waverley station...

                     only last night i had a dream
of inspecting sketches of me...
with a 6-pack... long hair...
and the hands that scratched my love-handles
when they had their torso pinned
to a trojan thumping in a *******...
she's still a ghost of mine...
every time i want to forget her...
she resurfaces...
  it's like... kissing a frog...
                       i am the ******* frog...
and she is... the sitting, poised...
always less alarmed than usual: Akhmatova...
one of those women that i could:
actually... i still do... **** of on a regular basis...
she was my Aria Giovanni...
she became my Eve Angel...
                in between she's a compliment
of cubism is (you read that right...
of cubism is and not of cubism in)...
   her bagel of a nose... and she is myopic and
she's a troll short...
                she'd find a kippah on her head
under my chin... then again...
when she had short hair she was the only
tom-boy in edinburgh to steal...
              looks like the hopes for a... an engagement
afresh... well... she morphed into
the grant Tsarina and i am...
the next *******-master of a Потёмкин...
                               i am also delusional about:
my currency of metaphors...
god... mother... nation...
                      what are these...
when you have made it... and are a citizen of...
Monte ******* Carlo?!
when i think of father... eh...
well there could be an outlet of metaphors...
but then... there's that quote that mentions
Elijah... and i'm all knees and pearly gates please...
primo et pronto!

point proven... i can't exactly love another
woman... i can **** anything that moves...
etc.,
        but it's not exactly love to begin with...
it's that genius of reciprocated nihilim...
i began to live for the promise of:
and i will spend a tenner with charles III
***** on a banknote...
before the next pope does a kicker in one
of death's lamborghinis: feet first out
of the church congregation of:
              i didn't come here to praise caesar...

         but here a coffin... and an abudance
of toothpicks! sometimes... it would seem...
one doesn't have the necessary wealth...
as there simply can't be "too many" teeth
when the economy and ergonomics of toothpick
application is concerned...

oh that victorian laissez-faire of applied
language... it's not short... it's Pickwican...
it's... insinuating an extension of the bracket of
inclusion of informality...
a commonality of staging a cordiality
with a dwarf... strapped to... a song...
no less... rotes harr... i can see these devilish
imps chained to a carousel of this infernal
dance... and there is no greek-god
of the german-romance myth in sight...
for that... sort of sell-by-date nostalgia...
a rotten apple... a a Helga for a lover...
and a Helmut for a luvvy-dubby-shy-bud
of a limp whittle 'ichard!

- she's like a burning splinter in my mind...
of a body... that's all but cemented into
the hands of a sculptor that only works
with copper, brass, marble or... custard for brains...
and this burning...
again to Sophia with all the baggage of
a priori...
or Medussa with all that comes with shadows
of... frozen suitors to fashion
****** from...
her entourage of suitors... three coronations
of engagements down...
however many lovers...
me and my brothel sand-pitting to the best
kept secret of:
a leverage of two bodies embracing
for minor pundit approval...
the man of supposed lies...
the deceiving harrower...
                      
god and this leeching telepathic embrace...
"god", this telepathic embrace...
and the subsequent telekinesis of me
writing these words...
last time i had this murmur...
i came to aid as she was cutting her hands
down the Nile...
and... not exactly at the crux of...
the Hoover Dam... shame... a great shame really...

so be it... as it has always been...
whispers and grains of sand
passed toward the post-office of the wind.

i think she still appreciates the fact that i'm visiting her in
the brothel after a "gruelling" shift...
that i still have the energy to come to her for:
i figured it out! finally! a way to avoid any erectile dysfunction
without a quick-and-easy fix...
******* for four days prior to actual interacoure:
without climaxing: that's called channeling the ******...
unlike the medieval medicinal practices of draining
blood via leeches...
tiredness also helps to stimulate the member...
and? no hard alcohol... glory-laps around the park
at Goodmayes... and via Huxley Drive...
drink 75cl of 7.2% cider...
when take three glorious sips of whiskey
drowned in Pepsi chaser...
right... the nerves aside... now i can focus on slapping
that glorious fat *** of hers...
oh... so that's why i climaxed so early last time?
i almost forgot... she most certainly forgot...
she was groaning more when performing oral *** today...
why? i noticed she forgot that: even as an uncircumcised
male... i built up a tactic of folding back the *******
exposing an imitation circumcision phallus...
it makes me last longer...
see... that's why i don't see the point of circumcision...
and all that circumcision dictates in the realm
of monotheistic religions...
a man gets circumcised: he starts waving his hands
about like a mad seagull!
a man circumcised ergo: a woman needs
to don a niqab... a man has do don a kippah...
a man has to grow a long beard...
a man needs tonsure curls...
there's need to Halal... there's need for Kosher salt...
me? nice and easy... i just peel the ******* back
and hey presto! i can peform for much longer:
mind you... for a woman's mouth? aesthetically?
an imitation of a circumcised ***** is...
well... let's just say that the first time i had *** with
Michaela i forgot that she had an orange in her hand...
an orange she ate with the zest... hence my "premature" /
too quick a "performance"...

hmm... i always thought of myself as some archetypical
closure for what a werewolf ought to behave like...
i had a decent affinity toward dogs... foxes... cats...
i come across a clever little satan-black rooftop mongrel
crossing my math: i chance a little petting of the little critter...
but it turns out i'm more vampiric in nature...
**** me: who am i *******? Transylvanian girls...
goddesses with raven hair...
in whatever shape and sizes... perhaps i'm both...
depends on which part of me feels like being
more eloquent than brute on a given day...

she's going away to Romania for a month...
i promised her that i'd see her before she left on the 28th...
i came today... i have another shift on the 18th...
West Ham... much closer...
i think i'll have to give her a little parting present...
that ****** little book of poetry i published on my own...
sign it: farewell! i've already given on to a Turkish girl...
time for Romania...

kisses... more kisses... now the tongues met...
from her opening of oral to sitting on top of me...
to the missionary...
        my god... it's not like i wasted my 20s on having
too much ***: it's like i actually did go mad
with god and now, that i'm in my masculine prime
of the age of 36... i'm finally earning enough money
to spend it on the only worth spending money on...
*** with women: no... not dates with women...
*** with women: women who enjoy having ***...
i enjoy having ***... like i enjoy petting dogs
and petting cats... the same chemicals are released into
my body... these three creatures lie side by side
in my psyche...
i enjoy a woman enjoy herself...
i like seeing her do a little dance... smile... giggle...
it's just a beautiful "thing" to watch...
esp. if her body-type has been undermined:
while you wonder at all her imperfections...
a bit of fat here... a bit of fat there...
you know you're "in" when she likes it when you slap
and pinch her *** and other places...

**** it: this is clarifying for me: it's a remedy for me...
this is therapy-scribbling at its finest...
when i was a colt... night-clubs... drinking...
always the same story...
i'd finish the night off with screaming into the night
because i was alone: i didn't manage to land a "chick"...
now? with the aid of earning money...
i finish a glorious shift at work...
i lost count with regards to how many palms
and hands and wrists of women i touched today...
i got to the brothel...
obviously i first have my walkabout with a bottle
of cider and three glugs of whiskey to relax...
i go... mind you: i figured something even better:
why? why spend money for an hour...
when you can be done in 30 minutes?
on top of that... you can have more 30 minutes
sessions than wasting your money on an hour's
worth of bollocking:
like i told Michaela today...
you'd prefer me to stay an hour? yes...
but i want to see you more often...
how about... more 30 minute sessions than
me wasting my time, your time, within the confines
of an hour?
she agreed...

reading Ovid certainly helped...
            
now: i find this comparison slightly funny...
coming back from work this Asian colt started saying:
ooh man... now all i want to do it sleep...
tall guy, by my standards handsome...
all i want to do now it sleep...
obviously i kept me mouth shut and exploded
in a giggle only the gods could have heard...
me? oh sure, sure... sleep...
me? now all i want to do is ****...

that's the difference between me in my early 20s
and me in my mid 30s...
i want my brains left on a pavement
in a scrabble-puzzle...
      at least in the ******* you can kiss...
lips... wriggle one nose against the other...
kiss the forehead...
and as she licks her lips in ecstasy you dive back
in with our lips and tongue...
and are met with the right amount of teasing
reciprocation...
oh: if it weren't for my zenith-prime...
i look at old age with such disgust: or rather:
fear... old age stands before scarier than death
itself... it's so decrepit... when modern allowances
meet up with ancient standards...
i don't want to grow old...
there's no concept of old age when it comes
to the seasons...
a winter is never old...
an autumn is never old...
turtles are perhaps unnaturally old...
but i don't want to live a life of summaries...
without any philosophical endeavours started in youth!

i thank my momentary lapse into insanity
for my chance to peer into the mouth and ****
of Sophia... and learn a thing or two...
but i don't want to drag this life
to some rancid realisation that i could have done more...
loved more...
thanked more...

carpe ******* diem...
          the parting was the worst... we just couldn't
stop kissing each other, me and Michaela...
that's how it should be: that's how relations between
women and men ought to be like:
antithetically political...
i must want to kiss her... even thought:
she might have slept with 10 other men during
the night... it doesn't: matter...
what matters is that she slept with me...

me? i wash myself prior to *******...
she looks on...
the coldest of waters to relieve my mind from
a hot fungus "tumour" sitting in place
of my ego... i almost slip out of the bath...
she dries me up with a towel...
at least she knew to dry my forehead during my
missionary stampede so i wouldn't sweat all over her...
giggling... tender... a woman turned girly:
a beautiful sight to watch:
the tower of Pisa has done enough leaning...
i'm done with already too much learning...

it's beautiful to watch...
i can go and see any variation of beauty in an opera house...
or an art gallery...
but? a woman in a brothel is like for like
with these exponents of culture...
and? if, like her, she's Romanian...
and i'm not English... and we're ******* about in England?
all the better... all the best...
it's like we have created our very own Vatican city
out of nothing except out of tenderness for each other...

change of pace...
more kisses... i'm sorry to say: i'm not sorry
that even the bodyguard ensuring the girls of the brothel
are protected looks at me with eyes and a smile
that suggests i might be his younger brother...
hey presto! no problem here...
one lover-boy is making progress...
but man: i used to get so so angry about being 21 and going
to nightclubs and not getting laid...

now? i do a shift... i go and get laid...
i come back home... relaxed:
like a shadow without a body... about to escape into the night...
it's so pleasant seeing a woman be plesured:
it's like sitting beside  river...
contemplating a metaphor of serpents wriggling
though: they way...
or the obnoxious earth-worms...
or perhaps: watching a waterfall: demanding:
where's the sea! where's the sea!

very much in the vein of Milan Kundera's
the unbearable lightness of being...
Michaela? she likes to have her eyes closed
during *******...
me? i like to have me eyes: wide-open...
two, perfectly couple dynamics...
of *******...
it rarely works when both parties like to see...
it's teasing: necromancy...
with one one party wishing to have their eyes closed...
while the other party adamant on keeping
them open...

my god: i like having ***...
it's like petting a helpless animal
it's like the 1960s revolution reignited...
into its former splendour...
there's only one greater aspect of ***:
watching a woman get pleasured...
those little nuances: grimaces,
    irks... bothersome "somethings":
when you change pace on the summit of your own
piston... shoving...
and while you're kissing... beautiful to watch...

oh man: i felt like a man...
she kept adoring my beard: kept stroking it...
she adored my chest-hair...
kept running her hands... fingers... nails... through
the foilage...
i felt like such a man with this:
very much a woman...

to hell with English girls...
                  if they're supposedly this lucky-stab of
a Pakistani offensive:
so easily duped... no... no... i'm not going to chase
that... i'm not chasing after cheap-****!
after the easily quenched...
some ******* intelligence doesn't hurt...
i don't do automaton:
                            *****-extension robotic clad
*******... shy fake-shy types...
no!
                 nein! nein! niet!
some ******* ****-worth-of-brains... seriously...
*** is good... bad *** is: no *** at all...

       i'm not going to lament the fate of women
not of my ethnicity!
idiotic enough to not know any better:
why am i to be some *******: compensating
outlet of "compensation"?
               me? i like them primed...
readily agreeable...
***** 20 *****... but kisses one lips...
i like girls like that... in one night: mind you...

I'M NOT YOUR, *******, FATHER!
i've done my duties in what English girls have kept secret:
i'm not ******* pretend-nuns!
to hell with you if you think i'm into
******* Thespians! no!
ugh... i'm irritated from the get-go...
no! **** that... i like wholesome women...
authentic women! WOMEN! not feminised-girls...
i love women... girls don't interest me...
women? Romanian, Turkish, Russian...
Thai... that sort of brood...
these are still women... anything western is
girlish...
i liked the idea of being a woman's man
when she stroked my hairy chest and gave off a purr..
i loved how: when i told her to pull back my
******* she exclaimed with a sort of: hide & seek
exclamation of: aha! that's how it works?!

there were once men and women...
as there are now ideas of what men and women were...
i think i'm of the former category...
date? date my ***... i was fiddling my fingers:
trying to find a violin in her ***-crack and ****
while she was performing oral *** on me...
the inner-side of her thighs...
***-slapping a must...
                      
i'm sorry... what?!
                 i'll be seeing her on the 18th...
this plump plum of a body that requires kisses
on the lips and tongue on tongue and kisses on
the forehead... and all the adoration that her fat curves...
even she was surprised:
i already had a hard-on for her before she
started to suckle on it...
my god... i love the sexuality of women...
it's... so... it's... so... hybrid!
so unusual... it's so make-shift...
as much as i might:
   no... i like being a man long before any envy
concerning the sexuality arrives in me...
let women be women: and Plato, Plato...
             for the love that's readily leftover in me:
for the love of prostitutes...
all the love i could ever possibly give:
i give unto them!