For Young Artists, Musicians, Scientists, Poets, and Philosophers

Be strong in your Pixies, for some will say
That you are wasting your time on fantasy
When you should be laboring hard all day
As servant to some old master’s machinery

Be strong in your Pixies, yes, even when
You are all grown up, and have a great career
Dream still again each magic forest and glen
And keep your Pixie-knowledge close and clear

Be strong in your Pixies, and sometimes glance
Back to that moonlit realm, where Pixies dance

We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...



There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.

they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,

or so the tale goes...

if i was a pearl i’d feel itchy scratchy stuck inside an oyster shell if i was a tree i’d  be a big fat redwood fantasizing about Julia Butterfly Hill living and peeing around me if i was a dog i’d be a Catahoula hound if i was Italian i’d be Sicilian if i was pasta i’d be spaghetti if i was Icelandic i’d be Bjork if i was a rock star i’d be Elvis Presley Bob Dylan Jimi Hendrix Jim Morrison John Lennon Bruce Spingsteen Maynard James Keenan if i was i writer i’d be Herman Melville Mark Twain James Joyce William Faulkner Thomas Bernhard Yukio Mishima Naguib Mahfouz Phillip K. **** Gabriel Garcia Marquez Annie Proulx Lydia Davis if i was a poet i’d be Walt Whitman Sylvia Plath Ted Hughes Gwendolyn Brooks Pablo Neruda  Heather McHugh Carl Sandburg Robert Frost Arthur Rimbaud Dante Alighieri Homer if i was a painter i’d be Leonardo Da Vinci Michelangelo da Caravaggio Johan Vermeer Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Cezanne Marcel Duchamp Jackson ******* Mark Rothko Ad Reinhardt Anselm Kiefer Susan Rothenberg if i was a photographer i’d be Man Ray Ansel Adams Edward Weston Diane Arbus Robert Mapplethorpe Sally Mann Helmut Newton Richard Avedon Annie Leibovitz if i was a philosopher i’d be Socrates Plato Aristotle Jean Jacques Rousseau Sören Kierkegaard Immanuel Kant Karl Marx Georg Hegel Friedrich Nietzsche Henry David Thoreau Ralph Waldo Emerson  Jean-Paul Sartre Jean Baudrillard Michel Foucault if i was a singer i’d be Woody Guthrie Otis Redding Grace Slick Bob Marley Joni Mitchell Marvin Gaye Johnny Cash Patsy Cline June Carter Patti Smith Chrissie Hinde Nick Cave P J Harvey Beyonce if i wa a band i’d be Velvet Underground Ramones *** Pistols Clash Cure Smiths Joy Division Uncle Tupelo Pixies Nirvana Nine Inch Nails Madrugada Sigur Ros White Stripes Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra Justice of the Unicorns if i was a boot i’d be Chippewa Frye Ariat Red Wing Tony Lama Wellington if i was a shoe i’d be Christian Louboutin Jimmy Choo Kedds Chaco Chuck Taylor p f flyer if i was a dress i’d be Channel Dolce & Gabbanna Giorgio Armani Marc Jacobs Comme des Garçons if i was a cowboy shirt i’d be H bar C Rockmount Temp Tex Karman Wrangler Levis Strauss Lee if i was a hat i’d be a Stetson Borsalino Stephen Jones if i was a fruit i’d be a mango apple banana blackberry if i was an scent i’d smell like fresh perspiration jasmine sandalwood ylang ylang the ocean if i was a doctor i’d be a gynecologist neurosurgeon if i was a flower i’d be a hibiscus rose orchard if i was a stone i’d be a sparkling ruby diamond opal if i was a knife i’d be a k-bar switch-blade machete if i was a gun i’d be a Remington Winchester Beretta Glock AK-47 if i was a car i’d be a Lamborghini Ferrari BMW Saab Volkswagen GTO Ford Mustang Dodge Challenger if i was a  TV show i’d be Law and Order if i was actor i’d be Charlie Chaplin Humphrey Bogart Steve McQueen Robert De Niro Ed Norton Shawn Penn if i was an actress i’d be Marlene Dietrich Ingrid Bergman Natalie Wood Audrey Hepburn Marilyn Monroe Helen Mirren  Meryil Streep Brigette Fonda Robin Wright Julianne Moore Angie Harmon if i was a female comedian i’d be Gilda Radner Lily Tomlin Nora Dunn Joan Cusack Sarah Silverman Tina Fey if i was a  football player i’d be Sid Luckman George Blanda Walter Payton **** Butkus Mike Singletary Joe Montana Jerry Rice Payton Manning LaDanian Tomlinson  Drew Breeze if i was a celebrity i’d be Charlotte Gainsbourg if i was a rapper i’d be Tupac Shakur if i was a movie director i’d be Sam Peckinpah Robert Altman Stanley Kubrick Roman Polanski Werner Herzog Rainer Fassbinder Louis Bunuel Alfred Hitchcock Jean-Luc Godard François Truffaut if i was a bird i’d be a eagle hawk sparrow bluebird if i was a fish i’d be a dolphin shark narwhal Charlie the tuna if i was breakfast i’d be a French toast pancake folded in half with 2 strips of bacon in between if i was a cold cereal i’d be snap crackle popping rice crispies shredded wheat cheerios oatmeal if i was tea i’d be Japanese green matcha Irish breakfast Tulsi Thai holy basil Lapsang souchong Luzianne Lipton if i was a soap i’d be French hand milled ayurvedic Avon Ivory Dove Pears Aveda  if i was a man i’d be a football basketball baseball tennis swimmer athlete if i was a woman i’d be a track star runner writer painter gardener doctor nurse yoga mom i'm just scratching the surface and the beat goes on lahdy dah dah

Through the sunlit valley they dance and sing
smiling with constant purity in the arms of spring
in the dales, new born lambs are bleating
daffodils push up to the sun, kindly beating

The buttercup pixies start to find worm holes
to pop there little seeds in threes into
then by night and day they watch the seedlings grow
underneath the shelter of a nearby toadstool

Then at six in the morning
when most folks are yawning
they gather their red hats as a team
and skip to the nearby crystal stream

Then with hats in hand scoop up the water
no more then just over a quarter
then bound back to water their seedlings
sweetly fastidious and tending with feeling


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

Down in the Glen at the end of the day
when the night's on the move
are the pixies at play.
I have seen them
dancing when
they thought nobody saw
I have seen them
and the clothes that they wore
were so bright
against the onset of night and the Queen
I have seen her sweet and demure
I have seen her
of that I am sure.

When the grass lays still aside the base of the hill
and the chill in the air
has a certain cool charm
take my arm.
Let us not tarry
let us not slide
for we must away to hide
stay silent and bide with me
we will assuredly see
the procession of lights.

And the Pixies set seal
between the true and unreal
and appeared as the Sun hid away
I watched as they ate
until the evening was late and the magic was high.
When you've got to ask why
because you don't really know
if what you see isn't part of some elaborate show
and you think it's a hoax
the joke's on you.
Pixies are true to belief
and believe it or not
Pixies have got their own world that very few see.

I have seen them
when down in the glen
when the day's slipped away
and often I pray that I'll see them again.
But silently see, that the Pixies will be
timid and shy.
I don't know how
don't know why
but this understanding that stands under his sky
is my joy.

Pixied fairies
Druid pixies
Swinging on breathe and trees
Loosing themselves to each other
Solace place
No hate no greed
No distrusting
No talking of others
Best friends verily in love
Gangsters of mad Lovers
Sitting on stilts of no guilt but hugs!!

Goodnight green eyes,
Your dreams await you in Silver-Lined skies,
Dreams of dragons, and fairies, and me,
and hopefully just a touch of mystery.
The sliding colors slipping silently through silky seas,
gliding gracefully over gallant gull wings,
whisking you away with a gentle breeze.
You see dragons and pirates,
fairies and gypsies,
tricksy little gnomes,
and flamboyant pixies,
you see them all tucking away,
hiding in there homes as their thoughts start to stray.
and as you glide gracefully over the sea,
your thoughts start to wonder what tomorrow will be,
will there be adventures or heart ache and loss,
or maybe even a romp through the moss,
you might not know now,
but theres something you do,
that someone you love,
is waiting for you.

AWAKENING

Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell

12 DELIRIA

1st Delirium: COLLAPSES

Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice

2nd Delirium: DESCENTS

Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted ***
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb

3rd Delirium: FATES

Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks

4th Delirium: LOST SOULS

Sunken cities, pilgrims peering... gawking,
squinting eyeballs, blazing sun
Janus facing, shepherds chasing... stalking,
friends embrace before they shun
Tearooms steaming, tumult teeming... talking,
lovers listen, poets pun
Broken stones unanchored, quaking... rocking,
slipping, falling, one by one
Beaten pathways, footsteps marking... mocking,
wedged in webs which spiders spun
Circus shelters, big tops tumbling... locking,
people pacing, soon they’re none
Numbered exits, zeros numbing... knocking,
midnight daylight’s days undone
Moon blood shackles, shivers shaming... shocking,
starlight striders streaking, stun
Hushed but harried hermits waiting... walking,
restless rainbows on the run
Pixies, elves, and echoes bouncing... balking,
fading fast when dawn’s begun
Bantum butterflies are flitting... flocking
sometimes conquered, overrun
Hocus pokus, seers focus... squawking,
voodoo wavered, witchcraft won

5th Delirium: INTROSPECTION

Sundown furnace, fires fading... coughing,
dusky dew drops drain the air
Empty chalice, sipped in silence... quaffing,
thirsting shadows unaware
Looking glass and lattice scorning... scoffing,
local loser gapes and stares
Faces covered, dancing naked... doffing,
peering inside, hope despairs

6th Delirium: THE VOID

Tales of taboos, mystic mythos... missing,
windows shuttered, bolted door
Kindled candles, tongues and anvils... hissing,
heavy hammers, echoes roar
Dark deceivers, raven charmers... kissing,
draging demons from the shore
Hopeless hollows filled with doubters... dissing
standing empty - nevermore

7th Delirium: SEARCHING

Martyred monks haunt runic ruins ... waiting,
banging broken bells below
Vaulted hallways, voided voices... grating,
churning Chinese chimes aglow
Granite graveyards, spectres spooking... skating,
blackened bushes, roses grow
****** dwarfs seek mutant migrants... mating,
packing parcels, ice and snow

8th Delirium: NIGHTTIME

Throbbing drumheads, fingers blazing... steaming,
coins of copper, beggars plea
Rusty residues of resin... streaming,
opal amber filigree
Orphan shades in shallow shadows... teeming,
steeping twigs in twilight tea
Cloister doorsteps, Prophets gaming... scheming,
tracing tracks of destiny
Blacksmiths blanching, horseshoes glowing... gleaming,
partially sheathed in black debris
Phantoms feigning, nightmares scathing... screaming,
dusty dreamers drifting free

9th Delerium: EMPTYNESS

Water wheels in wastelands... turning,
drowning relics in the slum
Rumpled rags of fashioned burlap... burning,
lit by bandits blind and dumb
Pastured prisons, ponies bridled ... yearning,
forest fairies under thumb
Sounds inside of cauldrons coughing... churning,
blaring bugles, tattooed drum

10th Delirium: ALIENATION

Rain unravelling, wistfully weeping... falling,
treacle trickling, fickle sky
Mushrooms sprinkled, visions sprouting... sprawling,
seagulls drowning, dolphins die
Rabble gasping, spirits broken... crawling,
lonely lonesome swallows cry
Babbling brooks and breakers ebbing... bawling
puppies paddle, puppets sigh
People passing ripple past me... calling,
rainbow colours, collars high
Chaos seething, lepers looting... stalling,
stealing stallions on the sly
Pencils pausing, scholars scrambling... scrawling,
scratching scribbles, asking why

11th Delirium: JETSAM

Silver sails sway pallid pirates... prowling,
Jolly Rogers, wind and sound
Parrots perching, tattered feathers... fouling,
tethered talons, tied and bound
Shipwrecked foghorns, trumpets stranded... howling,
spiral springs of time unwound
Magic moonlight, shimmers shaking... scowling,
burnt out matchsticks washed aground
Prairie wolfs, coyotes calling... yowling,
witching hours, midnight hounds
Tightrope walkers, grizzlies grunting... growling,
seeking islands, lost and found

12th Delirium: RELIEF

Slumber shattered, vapours captive... haunting,
chained in mirrors, breaking free
Scarlet skylines, daylight dawning... daunting,
rivers rushing to the sea
Silence softens, sandmen whisper... wanting,
piercing rafters, turning keys
Shadows shudder, notions fluster... flaunting,
moonbeam bullets meant for me
Mind in migraine, meadows trembling... taunting,
sparrows speak in harmony

REAWAKENING

Pitter patter, teardrops paling... pearling,
salting scarves in secret drawers
Mist amongst us, smoke rings rising... curling,
climbing from the ocean floors
See-saw circles, senses swerving... swirling,
swept away with silver oars
Courtyard jesters, sceptres twisting... twirling,
push the past to foreign shores
Passing pangs of passions heaving... hurling,
burning bridges, closing doors
Roses wither, icons waning... whirling,
time decays and time restores

There's a meadow past the village
On a hill...where magic swarms
You can see it on a summer night
When the clouds predict the storms
Life from time eternal
Starts appearing in the field
Gnomes and bluebell fairies
and the magic that they yield

You can see them from the village
Dancing in the moonlights glow
You can see the lightning jumping
You can see the ebb and flow
The pixies and the fairies
Folk who are part of their own world
Light up the distant meadow
As the magic is unfurled

Daisies and soft bluebells
fill the meadow in the sun
there is clover and some dragonflies
And young children having fun
The magic folk are hiding
Lights are hid, and tucked away
Until the humans in their world
Pack to end the day

It's then, from down the village
That the meadow lights begin
Where the magic lights the sky up
In the early gloaming din
If a human breaks the borders
Coming out and much too near
The lights go dark...and silent
For the magic world has ears

There are sentries in the meadow
All unseen to you
That alert the makers of the lights
When the humans are in view
there is magic in the meadow
magic lanterns are set free
where the world becomes a canvas
Of dancing lights for all to see

The gnomes sang and danced while the faeries all pranced
and the elfins got drunk by the fire
The pixies hummed tunes and got ****** on mushrooms
I can't remember what happened to the choir.

Sethark the lord of the dark was roused from his sleep by the din
the djinn in the lamp though he at first appeared camp
wished up the drawbridge and pulled in the ramp.

This gathering, like babies were safe in the glades
while Sethark from Hades was sharpening the blades.
But it all fizzled out when Sethark gave a shout
to a beautifully jewelled little lady
and they tarried away somewhere deep in the hay
and the result was a devilish imp of a baby.

The party goes on though the pixies have gone
because too many mushrooms had doomed them
and now they're doomed to the glens
banished from the fens
No longer to hum or strum on guitars
nor sing sweet melodies to the brightest of stars
sad tales are told by old faeries and gnomes
of pixies evicted from family homes
but they know in their bones that it should have been them in the glen
but say nothing of this thing
or bad luck they will bring on you.
The story that's told is quite true
Believe if you wish
and if you wish it
it's true.

Dibble bubble bubble
Written on shitely mearce
A stake to plunder crunch
Of politician Pierce
Colligan
To hollagans
Collagen appeal
Maketh dartboards out of heart boards
Wherein innocence tis real
Foughty daughty submarines
Climbs to ****** coarse
Follitine
Dreamers
Plot success Morse
Coffee beans
To livered spleens
Pains to shock the trike
Childress of a virtue
Seaps of anothers life
Trigulues
And bedulues
Smiling at the air
Drommatice
And romisis
Promises don't care
Foughty immense Brice
Pickled to shickled biles
***** of settle keaster ways
A blighty for the smile
Libertinth
And minants tint
Flight to bagbird heads
Crucifixed pixies
Twilight up ahead!!!

A pixie marching band took their show on the road.
17 tiny horn players and a drummer
with a button for a snare.
Across the water they walked,
regimented in three lines,
playing "Has The Day So Quickly Ended" to the rhythm of water splashing
on finely cobbled pixie shoes.
Tireless they moved forward
across an entire ocean
seeking comfort and solitude of Icelandic shores.
Unnoticed by the many captains of the many ships they slipped by, their music nothing more than crickets chirping or the ringing in their ears.

It was a long journey and they never stopped playing once.
Seven hundred and seventy-six songs in their repertoire
they played each one at least twice as days turned to night
and the cycle would need to be repeated
Every pixie musician in the band had every one of those songs memorized
you could call the tune
at any time
day or night
he would pick up his pixie instrument and play it note perfect.
Not a single mistake.

Legendary songs of pixie lore, like "Call The Wild Dogs to Anglicize", "Too Many Curtains" and "Fill Your Cup With Salty Seltzer".
Popular pixie songs all pixies knew, like "Bertha You're a Hard Act to Follow", "Dropped My Horn in the Bay of Pigs", "Livestock", "Ain't No One Answerin' the Phone" and "Drop Yer Pillow, Samuel".
Sacred pixie songs celebrated their common faith in the one true God, like "God, There Ain't No Other God", "Our God Sails the Seven Seas" and "God Help the Fool Who Fools His God".
Pixie drinking songs, "Bottoms Up", "Can You Hear the Weeping Warm Beer?", "1-2-3 Let's All Get Drunk", "Pixie Drinking Song" and "Hustle That Swill".

A lot of songs.
A lot of moods.
A lot of reasons to go  home to Iceland,
as if they needed any besides the food.

The pixie band was pushing three-quarters of the marching journey across the ocean
when Big Jim Pixie turned around and scolded Billy Joe the trombone player.

"Bill, you clumsy *******!" barked Big Jim. "You just about hit me in the back of the head with that ******* trombone slide! Do I have to tell you what I'm going to do to you if you actually graze me with that spit-drippin' thang?"

Billy Joe, typically soft spoken, was not having any of this.

"It was a flying fish that whisked up 'gainst the side of yer noggin, not my slide. If I was of a mind to bean you with this here slide you'd be rubbing the back of your head right now and you'd be so shook up you wouldn't even know it was me that done it."

"You sure do talk tough now, don't ye?" asked Big Jim, reluctantly realizing that it could well have been a flying fish but not yet willing to let the trombone player off the hook. "Don't make me turn around cuz if I do you are going to be in the market for a new trombone."

"That's a well may be, Jim-Jim, but the hand that holds the pen that signs the check that pays for it is going to be yours. Let that stand as a natural fact."

If there's one thing in the world Big Jim didn't like being called
it was Jim-Jim.
Billy Joe was always calling him Jim-Jim because he knew it bugged him.
The pixies in the company had all used variations on his name when referring to him in the past  
Jimbo Johnson,
Johnny Jimson,
Little Jim Big Jim,
Jimmy Jolson,
George Jimson,
Son James the Ham Chef,
Carl Jim Has Been,
King James Version Abridged,
James Wainright Teller,
Jim the Traitor,
Jim the Christ Killer,
Jim the Destroyer of the World,
Jim the Enemy of the Known Universe  
each one of these appellations rankled him but none so thoroughly as the simple
Jim Jim
that Billy Joe would call him.

"I ain't payin' a ******* cent, trombone player."

"Then you ain't breakin' my trombone, Jimmy Jack Jehosaphath."

"Don't test me, you may have to arrest me."

"I'll bring you a file so you can get out of jail, Jim Jim".

"Well that's mighty white of you, pixie. Now what are you gonna do if that spit valve was leakin' and you got some of your nasty ebola saliva on the back of m'neck? You gonna come visit me in the hospital?"

"I might. But then again I might just wait and come visit your grave when they put you down."

"Joe, if we weren't still marchin' I swear to almighty God I would turn around and beat you so bad they'll be countin' a man short when we finally get home."

"Jim Jim, them's fightin' words but you ain't never fought nothing no tougher than the urge to **** in public. You ain't gonna do no permanent damage to me nor my trombone here. So why don't you put your money where your mouth is or keep that mouth shut?"

Big Jim turned around
hit Little Joe hard square between the eyes.
He heard and felt bone crack.

Joe looked stunned.
He'd never call that mean ******* Jim Jim again.
No,
never again
because he hit the water hard and sank down as the band marched right over him,
most not even noticing.

Jim looked for as long as he could then turned around and proceeded to march the rest of the way to Iceland.

"Don't call me Jim Jim," he said, speaking only to himself.

Then he heard a voice in the back of his head.
It was loud enough to be heard over the
music
and
the waves
and
the ocean breeze.

It was HIS voice,
but he had no control over it whatsoever.

"Jim Jim."

"Jim Jim."

"Jim Jim."

...and so it was Big Jim, whose trumpet playing had practically defined the style of this particular pixie band, lost his mind, eventually taking up residence in a Reykjavik sanitarium screaming every night, keeping up the attendants and making things worse.

"Little Joe Jangly Hops! Come here you ******* I got a lollipop for ya."

"Joe Joe Deathgrip Toenail! I'm gonna light your mama on fire!"

"Little Joe Clamfry, somebody took a **** in your bed!"

On and on he went until the people in the kitchen stopped giving him bananas. Then he stopped for awhile.

But only for awhile.

And after that I am still a hollow where the
fairies hide from darkness and poisons. I
am still growing flowers out of my womb
and that is why they stink like *******.

And after that your disbelief kills all my
sparky pixies and after that I cannot be
anything more than a hollow hollow. But
yeah I am still growing flowers out of my
wound and that is why I scream and cry
when you touch them.

And after that the stillness of the air inside
me and the remnant echo of morning songs
attract the darkness to come. And after that
I think she may feel lonely so I invite
poisons to also come along.

And after that I am still growing flowers
out of the wound on my womb. They still
stink like ******* and after that
vomitting feels like womanhood thing. And
after that my flowers are still immortal and
that is why sometimes you see blood clot
floating around the moon.

Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.

The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.

The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.

Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.

My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.  

Daddy is a shaman.

He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.

I watch him inhale.

                          His breath
                                               stiff
                            as a braid of mangroves.

                      He exhales a ligneous cough.

                              I don’t mind,
                                                   much.

i like you.

i shouldn't like you,
it makes my life harder
and leaves me confused and jealous
but i like you
and it feels good.
i like how casual we are--
so casual that i don't even have to use capitals--
and how you touch me just to make me shiver,
how you steal small kisses
and then laugh because you know you shouldn't have

i like how i tell you everything
and you don't even flinch:
if i ran up to you tomorrow,
threw my arms around your neck
and screamed in your ear
"i have leprosy and a brain tumor!!!"
i know you would rough up my short short hair
and say
"****, that's probably serious."
and then buy me a cup of coffee
while i told you my leprosy and brain tumor troubles

i like how you put your hand on the small of my back
as if you own me,
as if you won me,
as if you're pretending to shout to the world
that i'm yours now, and you know how i take my coffee,
and you know which shirt is my favorite, and you know how to make love to me
and that they should all take that into account
when looking at us together
as we walk through the aquarium or the park or the restaurant

i'll never admit it
but i like it when you get frustrated;
"just kiss me," you say
and i always say "i can't"
but secretly i'm thinking about that crooked tooth of yours
and if i could taste what we had for lunch
and if our glasses would make a plastic noise
when they collide, frame to frame,
snuggling like we are
and it makes me smile a secret smile
that i have just for you
and no one else


and yes, i sleep next to someone else,
someone i love more than life itself,
someone i made a home with,
someone i won't leave

but i like you.

Alice was walking
At the back of her yard
when she spotted a gnome
well....standing guard
she knew she was gnomeless
she had a ball and a stone
but there in her garden
was a short, stocky gnome
he knew that she saw him
he tried not to blink
he stopped all his breathing
this'll fool her i think
she walked down the garden
stopped ten feet away
looking close at this person
who was dressed in green gray
she thought, this is crazy
a gnome in my yard
it was then that he moved
and he held out his card
she looked at the writing
it did her no good
it was written in gnomish
and only gnomes understood
the stare off continued
and then she asked loud
who are you, you gnome you
standing so proud
he said, i am biffles
at your service i am
in the back of your garden
here in East Ham
she said, why my garden
what is special to you
about my dear roses
and my runner beans too
he said, that a meeting
of the higher up gnomes
was being held there that night
there were elves and some pixies
and some twenty odd sprite
they were there all around her
though they couldn't be seen
watching her closely
in ten shades of green
well, biffles ...young sir
what is your job while here
you aren't at the meetings
what do you do my dear
i am sargeant at arms
when we're here or at home
i guess you could call me
(wait for it)
yep...i'm a guardin' gnome

you're turning me into lights, i'm glowing in the dark
you put them inside of my eyes and then you called them stars
you used them to make constellations, i am so very complacent
'cause i just need your radiation, and i'm so caught up in this rotation
oh, gravitational pull, your laughter's such a moon when it's full
your intergalactic soul is home here,
you're well-known here, and i've got no fears, no not yet

when life gets a lot more than a little bit heavy,
i could fly to the moon, bring back the zero gravity,
and everyone's so serious and grave,
buried six feet under pain.
but i assure you, you will always have me

you're turning me into lights, i'm glowing in the dark
you put them inside of my eyes and then you called them stars
you used them to make constellations, i am so very complacent
'cause i just need your radiation, and i'm so caught up in this rotation
oh, gravitational pull, your laughter's such a moon when it's full
your intergalactic soul is home here,
you're well-known here, and i've got no fears, no not yet

when life seems to fade into a greyish breeze,
i could fly into space, bring you the colours of the galaxies
and everyone's gone so numb
ten degree burns, and black hole suns.
but the look on your face has been dusted by pixies.

you're turning me into lights, i'm glowing in the dark
you put them inside of my eyes and then you called them stars
you used them to make constellations, i am so very complacent
'cause i just need your radiation, and i'm so caught up in this rotation
oh, gravitational pull, your laughter's such a moon when it's full
your intergalactic soul is home here,
you're well-known here, and i've got no fears, no not yet

when life's like a cloud of rain, no silver linings,
and you feel like you down pain without even trying,
and everything's gone so dark,
come on, let us make a spark.
our souls can mingle in the air we'll be flying.

you're turning me into lights, i'm glowing in the dark
you put them inside of my eyes and then you called them stars
you used them to make constellations, i am so very complacent
'cause i just need your radiation, and i'm so caught up in this rotation
oh, gravitational pull, your laughter's such a moon when it's full
your intergalactic soul is home here,
you're well-known here, and i've got no fears, no not yet

With the fields of flowers swept by warm southern breezes, the pixies come to life. They twirl and jump from blossom to blossom spreading their magic as they draw nectar from each bloom. Jumping high into the sun in colors of every shade, they spread their wings and glisten like diamonds. For a few brief moments they dazzle nature, putting all other things to shame with their grace and colorful displays. From mid-day until the final rays of the sun, they prance and play. Then as the south wind fades and night falls, they fade as distant shadows and become one with the landscape again. Until once more they are enticed forth from their hiding places, by a brisk southern wind and the warmth of a golden sun.

Only one eyed pixies dance with glee and in seeing half of what I see,when it's ten past three to me it's only twenty five to two to those who dance with glee,did you follow that feat of maths?
well
pixies glow when it is dark to light the pathways in the park so they can play as if it's day,if you glow you'll know it's true 'cause you will be a pixie too.
It's simple really so deal me in,spin me in a pixie twist,I want to be kissed by the Queen of them all,the belle of the ball,
call me a dreamer.call me a fool but I graduated from the pixies high school.
And if I dance,and dance with glee with a beautiful one eyed she pixie, will she only see the good side of me?

We were all there
The anime girl and the flower child
Surf boy and the Queen of the Pixies
The lads with the tattoos and ***** in pink coolers
And many others with us
And many many more around us
Holding beer cans and buckets of Hot Chip(s)
Stuffed into The Flaming Lips
We sat on the hill where the sun sat next to us
Smoked grass in the grass
By our Beach House
People sliding up and down the hill like a Flume
With a Boy & Bear for company
And a First Aid Kit
And the Village Brass Band
From Pleasureland
We had to hand it to them
They knew how to use those horns in the wee hours
As we marauded around the hillside
The valley and the Enchanted Forest
With its lemmings and white tigers, kookaburras and pixies
All vying for the title of the Best Sense of Humour
Where the sun came up between the trees
And everything went pink
You couldn't tell the canopy from the clouds
In the alien sky
With the moon in dark night at one end
And the ****** first light at the other
Until the light wins and day Falls

Under the Babylonian sea
Lives a place hid from you and me
And in this place, broken in two in the sand,
Known as a fault line cursing the land,
Is the place where we return again.

You and me, citizens of the earth - we’re people from the center of
The earth
And we search out to the stars
To try and find our birth.
All while the truth lies under our feet.
But don’t ask me.
This is the mystery you see.
The mystery of me.

Not to make the story all revolve around me,
But I lived for lifetimes as nature’s pulse,
A most high pixie maintaining the roses,
All the little vines and terraces,
And I was whimsical and wise
And greatly cherished.
I lived to be about a thousand years,
And died of self-sacrifice
In 2005.
As our planet grew more and more technical,
Avoiding the organic, skeptical,
It was for a simple reason:
The present goes in two directions.
The present goes forward and
The present goes backward.
And somewhere in between
We have our fate,
Our choices.
Free will drives this place.
Don’t think too much of gravity
Or relativity.
Free will is the ingredient in this Universe
Holding it all together.

So the extraterrestrials that guard this planet,
They guard like a gourd
Rotting on a hot Saturday.
They guard like a hound
Pitched on a chain
To its little box of a house.
They guard like an abusive stepfather.
Like they are the way.
And I know them.
They killed all the mermaids,
When I reigned as Queen.
That is for another tale,
Or tail?
I forget what sort of humor is
Current at this age,
But puns are a sign of great wit,
So with them, I’ll spit.

I reigned as Queen of the Mermaid people and indeed all of the people. I reigned when there were humanoids
Similar to you, but stouter.
It was before your race mated with
My race.
We raced
Towards death.
You captured my people with the utmost brutality.
I see it done to my cousins,
The porpoises and whales,
And it hurts me
To see it happen again.
You stab these creatures in their blowholes,
Just like you stabbed my sisters
And eventually, me,
In our wombs.
The pregnant ones howled the loudest.
You brutally desecrated my people.
You did it again on the land
To the people we were most connected to,
The original tribes of North America.
And not that it’s you, people of the land.
I am one of you.
That will not change in this lifetime.
As Earth Mother for a thousand years
I obtained the Earthly information,
The muscle memory
Of the plants.

We call it a planet
And terra,
Like Mother Earth is a plant.
We see her as affectionate
And beautiful,
But some has seen her wrath.
She shakes,
She fears the madness
That lives on her skin,
And burrows into her,
Deeper and deeper,
Searching for her heart.
But I, as Queen fairy,
Took the honor
Of self-sacrifice
And took her heart
And hid it
In an average baby girl.
Will she realize her goddess heritage?
Wiped her mind and by-passed the sacred
Earth Mother heart.

Baby girl grows up in Babylon.
The chances of her
Freeing her Beast
Are as low as it goes.
Half of the pixies wept
Half of the pixies cheered.
Then they chose sides
And the positions, they veered.

"You're the Ariel to my Prospero"
He says grinning
with dagger pearl teeth
that could nibble my ear
or easily rip out my heart.

Ignorant of his mundanity
He does not know of those
who came before.
Names are relative.
"You're the Puck to my Oberon"
"You're the Tink to my Peter Pan"
Heard 'em all.
Plight of the Manic Pixie
Not Dream Girl.

Charming Sassy Childish
girl.
Sidekick Extraordinaire.
But lower than Robin to his Batman.
Messenger, Trickster, Mischief Maker.
Companion.
Adventurer.
with a temper ten times his size.
A power unnamed. Unused.
Never Enough.

Never enough
to Want to challenge her master.
ProsperoOberonPeter

I will drink the poison for you.
I will sink the ship.
I will find the ****** flower
and enchant the Fairy queen.
Follow orders, then twist them.
With some glittler and a devilish smile.

Crazy Tiny
girl.
Too pixie to hold on to
Catch me Boy!
Alreadycaughtnoneedtocatch.

Little ****** Manic Pixie
Yearning for a kiss
a touch
a word.

When you're a manic pixie
there's no trio
no male sidekick to choose
over
the hero.
But the hero gets the girl.
Manic Pixies live to serve.

Not dignified or wise enough for Royal Athena.
Not ruthless enough for the Dangerous Diana.
Without the darkness of the Morrigan.
Virginity isn't a choice.
It's part of the job description.

Could I be your ladybird?

In my head,

Two pixies,

With tiny hammers,

Thrashing, smashing, crushing,

Stones.

Behind my eyes.

Mauling, bruising, punishing,

Bones.

Honing, forging a new wry,

Spoor.

A new ****,

To drip my thoughts,

To flood my mind,

To gouge a moor.

silly things thought the tiny little thingummies
one thought it strange to place the couch so close to the door
with no agreement in sight
and yet, with one puff
****
everything is as, how and where it should be

Following nectar,
Tiny Gods humming southward,
March of the faeries.

Fairy charming daisy
Streaming in from the east
Fairy charming daisy
Where do you live in the east?

I guess you came from the pixies
Those who dwell in the village of the beauties
Who dance in the night
And feast in the morning light
Under the babbling brooks
Reading love stories from fairy books.

Hey! You are now doing your bewitching smile?
Fairy charming daisy
How beautifully you smile.
Fairy charming daisy
I love you so!

You smile well because
You have been born so to do
And brought forth to please the sun
But hold up your face
And I will kiss you true.

Suddenly it stops raining:
The woodpecker doesn’t mind,
he keeps on hammering lofts –
he’s kind of loopy. That’s his nature.
And that’s his beauty.
The poet doesn’t stop hammering
on his keyboard, always looking for
meaning, nonsense and love-at-first-write.
He’s kind of loopy too.
Shall we call him paperpecker?
That’s his nature. And that’s his beauty.
And the paper starts revealing all kind of things:
Bulls in china shops, bilingual pixies,
and look! – on the left a cancerous person
even finds lucky clover –
1up! if this were a video-game,
but life has more than three dimensions.
Hmmm… Let’s put some tea-lights
and drift-bottles into puddles.
Someone definitely will smile and reply.

The warden’s bewildered, the keeper’s amazed
as the gate gapes behind us, a hole in the haze.
Our steps seem uncertain, the cobblestones crazed,
pearly stars burn above us like pinwheels ablaze.
Though lanterns hang vacant in streets staring blind,
broken paths paved in puzzles compel me to roam,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The cannons keep calling, the piccolos shriek
and the druids drift, drumming, while pale pagans speak.
They’re urging me forward, my senses they’ve mined,
and the trail is erupting, come hie to the hills
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The looking glass glistens, a firefly glows,
and the brownies leap lightly on tiny tip toes
for the twilight’s collapsing, which serves to remind
that as dusk turns to dust, with no time for farewells,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The ponies of plunder prance, passing nearby,
as crusaders on stallions cast stones from the sky.
The figments they’re facing have paid them no mind,
but our broncos are bolting. Corral what you need,
                                        I’ll not leave you behind.

My visions are swirling, they flash from the crown,
from the rainbows of summer, the tinsel in town.
While the compass wheel’s spinning, the minutes unwind
inside evening’s auroras – so cling to my cape,  
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

Drooping droplets of wax adorn pinched candle wicks
while the vampire steeple’s cathedral clock ticks
of the terrors in tombs where ****** flames lie reclined
with their flickers fast fading – abandon the glim,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The orphans and widows lean into the breeze
watching horrified hangmen descend to their knees
for the angel of mercy’s no longer inclined
to forgive vengeful  phantoms (oh Furies of night!) ,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The bandits are brazen, the highwaymen lurk,
some imbibing dark brews of a hag’s handiwork,
mostly gulping from goblets like goblins maligned.
Woman! Widen your wings, catching wisps of the wind
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The lepers laugh, leaping from tombstones of steel
chasing rollaway caskets on luminous wheels;
while their shadows shake, shrouded, twixt trees intertwined,
twisted time melts at midnight, take hold of my hand,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The gremlins *****, grinning face down in the dust,
while the sprites and the pixies are watching nonplussed.
They sling bolted arrows at spectres enshrined
within winds somewhat flustered, just fly from your fears
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The tattered toy teddies and raggedy Anns
have escaped to the skyways in kid caravans
but now, spellbound by fancies, know not that they’ll find
their parade’s evanesced into echoes of dawn –
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The wind’s my enchantress, beguiles and commands
me to search for my fortune in faraway lands
and whispers her mysteries of passions entwined,
for the wind is Isolde – unfurling my sails
                                        I’ll not leave you behind.

Emasculate Feud,
take his ******* and *****;
so that you can travel the Jungian road
of unicorns, rainbows, and pixies
with no ******.

Uncle Al Crowley
he died deranged like you-
-your very existence.
--Out of context--
like your quote of James Madison:

To fulfill your nihilist message
of hope without a ******.

Freud who knew you all to well,
needs no ***** or *******
to think,
unlike you.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor

Wishing I could live in a fairytale land
Where singing my feelings
Would be a common feat;
Dancing through the streets,
Meeting my soul mate
Knowing that we were forever.

Feeling enchanted and believing
In magic; these are the things
My heart sincerely desires.
I don’t want to settle for the mundane
Seemingly normal life,
That everyone robotically lives.

I want to traverse the ocean,
Experiencing the wonders
Of art and ancient civilizations.
I want to believe in pixies.
Believing the stories of gypsies
That traveled spewing tales of magic.

I want to live on Middle Earth
Where there are many types of “human”
Including the one I grew up to be.
I want to be an elf that lives forever
And is exceptionally good at archery;
With a dwarf for a best friend.

I want to believe in Greek gods
With their magic and the powers
They hold in everything.
My heart longs for so much more.
I’m afraid that this world
Won’t be able to offer it to me.

This world seems broken
Beyond the ability to repair.
It’s too scientific.
I’m afraid that all the magic
That is left, is just that;
Empty fairytales.

It started when I looked at the clock:

                       9:17

The coffee maker convinced me to stay
Had I planned to leave?
Yes, of course, the channel
I left it on

She's there. Again?
Wait, I heard that!
Who's there?

#“Could find my way to Marianna---ahah--ah”

The sine wave! That's it!
I left them in the car.
These fibers are congregating
They want to get me,
But I am just a flea!

It started when I looked at the clock:

                      9:18

I sat down with Earth and ate Earl's burrito
Saturn bent down and showed me tomorrow
The radio crackled as the molecules throttled

^“We're all Immigrants and hypocrites, delusionals and sycophants”

I saw my fingers start to disappear
Then my hands, my arms
Even my ears! My EARS!

I loved those ears...

It started when I looked at the clock:

                    9:16

They're here, aren't they?
Radio crackles, you heard them!
They're audible!

               (3333333)

The gorilla near the out goes strut, strut, strut
I felt the universe collapse inside my gold tux

Could you watch my fish for me?


Marked stuff borrowed from:

# Pixies- Wave of Mutilation
^Star ******* Hipsters- Immigrants and Hypocrites

I felt like it, that's why.

I want to be a pixie
Not a fairy,
Pixies are sensual
Beautiful tricksters
They flit around
From tree to tree
Tempt and taunt
And tease
And have no queen

Fairies on the other hand
Are innocent
And cute
They flit around
And do good
And listen to their queen
How adorable,
But not for me
I want to be a pixie.

it's a common theme, a pastoral even... a sing-along with the words: when i was in Rotherham... i was never in England... when i was a Rotherham i was never going to imagine myself eating falafel. yes, it's that ****** ugly, which is why i'm hardly a premature ejaculator into assembling myself as bulldog Brit - use the language: well, obviously... but assemble the other bits and bobs? can't happen... it's like asking: tell a Jew to not be a Jew by sitting in one place for a long period of time... the nomad in him will evidently counter that proposal and say: **** it! see you on Mars! and to think that i could have actually invested my life into a diameter that's Poland... people still find it a bit odd: oh, wait, are they back on the map? that's us, Jews of the north... can't believe we're being blamed for the failure of the treaty of Rome: all because the English stopped flirting with the idea of Turkey being in the union: even though they dabble in a lamb kebab after binging on *****... but hey, no one want to be a hypocrite these days... that's of course provisional given your Jose Mourinho relationship: is as special as you suppose with the lady and the trump; someone tell Disney to stop writing those ****** scripts! how thoughtful of a prophet-merchant (merchant of Mecca, Shakespeare should have written that one) to have encouraged the sigma-bleaching-project: one world, one book, one something or other: either the telescope or the microscope answers: otherwise evolving into ****-naked baboons and elsewhere furry Gucci to strut the feline ****; it's not like i want to go back to the past, but i certainly don't want to experience a Monday in the year 2086 either.

i wouldn't have been one of them, their services required
a nobility, which i can partially claim,
but partially discredit as:
a family squabble, where the Eden
project would have flourished -
because of the lies -
         but you know, no biggie,
or the notorious -
one part of my family actually did
settle in america with my seven
tongued great-grandfather *sprechen güt
it's necessarily applied here:
hence it's not gút: miracles!
                     who would have thought
that trigonometry bit into the *****
of those pixy, foxy whatever clot in the
English department....
that's the thing with immigration and
integration and ethnic cleansing:
when i write,
    the desk is as rickety as a bed when
i **** a *******
and she tells me i'm a decent chap -
and says a variant of awe because i paid
£10 extra to pucker her floral arrangement
and she feels ashamed at having had
an ******: and all the feminists are
out there, in the cold, with their banter
     slogans that reach Zeno via
turtle, as snail, to compete with Achilles:
yeah, that hurt, because you enjoyed it
on the hobnob you call a job.
******* pretty enough for you now?
   well: two ***** and a smoking ****** later:
it better be!
               people think that you can just
"integrate" into a foreign land...
they coerce a foretfulfulnes that you
sometimes practice etymology -
        and find yourself a bit like a Jew
but more of a Slav, feeling at most romantic about
the land that is cleft to your ***** in terms
of language patriotism still leech-like,
because you can't forget the asking
that's already there: from the Baltic Sea
toward the Black Sea: our commonwealth was,
and could have been!
          globalisation is so Emi ******* M -
you bleach throughout, and so suddenly,
people get bothered -
         like a Cluedo but unlike who did it?
who's who?
             i write this on a rickety table,
like i might **** an Amsterdam dame of the credo
in all that's left: red -
       baby, that brickwork with your chub
layers does it for me: always a Puerto Rican to
have a laugh with...
20+ years in England and the roses are still
roses, but nettles in some obscure Greece island
designated for offshore debauchery -
hey, no one is a saint: but give a little -
   have at least the remote humanity in you
to breed the ******* Beatles rather than an antiquated
variation of Breivik.
                obviously not to be.
i payed because i wasn't getting any:
hands up, sycamore! so scythe so more -
i just feel uprooted and Jew -
  dispositioned like i have to have an inferiority
complex tattooed on my **** designated for
halal butchers -
           there's a problem though...
i have patriotism with regards to the tongue:
but to the people? a true Conrad (minus the Joseph)
would sell you out, like you already
have: to the highest Saudi bidder -
           ethnicity reemerges - strangely enough:
even after all that ethnic cleansing that's politely
called globalisation: because English cultural
emphasis is plain said: ****!
                      a bunch of fairies say i can't feel
a certain way because it will hardly become economised
and benefit an inbreeding:
so i outsourced you there,
   Dover Monsieur without his Turk and Mongol
invaders -
                   you could call it romantic:
but i'm not writing from an ivory tower within
framework of the land that needs tilling by
a familiar hand,
                 the last time i spoke to a Pollack -
it was in a shady alley at night, debating the clues
to making a living on Ebay -
                  so much for the romantics -
fair game in learning the tongue, but to attack
ethnicity? you have to be ******* me...
they call it the exotica in England:
all that coconut milk went to their heads -
   Baltic coconuts? sure... once you start eating
the pickled herrings like us: quasi-Scandi devils.
     so ******* twinned with Israel:
they said Amsterdam was the Venice of the north
they said Edinburgh was the Athens of the north
they might as well call it Tel Aviv Warsaw
and Jerusalem Krakow - too little to be said
otherwise.
             you could say Moscow and St. Petersburg:
oh sure, seen a bit of the world: ought to be
a *******...           really?
       does the world need another Golgotha
congregation? i just don't see why i require
to give more than linguistic acumen -
i'd never sing god save the queen
because i'd probably sing queen save the taxman...
and it really is a shame i can't engage in
any sort of nationalism - whether over there
or over here, it's a true shame...
           well i do have a grand history to aspire to,
variously interpreted with what gets my heart
thumping:
          ogniem i mieczem - hussaria ginie
(with fire and with sword - winged hussars die) /
          krzesimir dębski:
which i also translate in feeling within
the framework of Górecki's (3rd symphony?
fun-*******-tastic reassembling jazz's double
base, or bees, or other variations of humming
drones: anti-thesis of the crescendo)
three olden pieces, no. ii -
and yes: without cinema classical music would
be dead... the only classical music these days
is cinematic transcript -
                 the complexity of a Liszt or a Chopin
is frowned at, what has remained and endured
is a Satie yawn - a brushing of a piano like
a dustmaid: a sort of accenting the silence -
nothing with a technical claustrophobia of
smug finger litanies of the abacus:
that swamp women's feelings with eerie ahs
and yesses in would be marriage proposals.
   i wish i could be a lazy Welshman
or a Scot that forgot Celtic in order to glorify
a Glaswegian idiosyncratic-syllabalisation
    of wee, as in small: high off my rockers
on the Afghani thought train that's *****.
  i wish i were that ****** lazy...
  as to simply let go of where i was and where
i wasn't...
       as someone in Cardiff once said:
never been to London -
or as someone in Glasgow once said:
           a banch of ****** all with the Edinburgh
Judases.
              i don't think i could ever
have enough lost self-respect to not play the ethnic
joker card without a romantic agitation -
but it's still the piano that truly survives in
the modern world of pop **** trance i-wish-i-were-shot,
any other name from american beauty -
once again: the minimalism is self-explanatory.
no, i don't think i could ever fully integrate:
and happy are those who have their
lives filled with the existentially trivial:
never moved home, never descended a class below
or rise a class above their parent's status -
what a grand scheme of lotto!
                    i love these squamish pixies -
i love them so much that i experience nausea when
hearing about their lot in life...
  after which i turn to a lullaby, handpicked,
christopher young's - something to think about
from the hellraiser franchise, or as i like to call it:
i like these sort of tracks, these life infuriating
   chattering:
              like throwing yourself into either
nouns or onomatopoeias:
                           and yes, art is difficult:
because it's supposedly lazy -
                   oh the plumber in me that never was,
oh the roofer of industrial sized roofs in me that
somehow was, but then wasn't...
            the part of me that writes like Joseph Conrad
but actually wants to scream:
                       zzé skury odrzeć! (variant: ob-      +
-drzec)    to strip the skin.
                 a z tym: nadać ducha gniew alter solo
wbrew temu co mówi, czyli: razem;
                    nawet katedra św. piotra nie jest
                   minimalizm zwany: Golgota.
              (and with this: give the ghost's anger
alter solo, against that, which says,
namely: together; even st. peter's cathedral
                 isn't the minimalism of Golgotha).