Let's Sit Down And Have Tea On A Massif
Let's Revitalise Around Some Herbal Leaf
Find A Nice Spot In Hampstead Heath
Recite Words Of Joy Under A Sheath

Sometimes its a shame to be black
We claim we're in it together
But the unity we lack

We belittle each other
Even though we all came
From the same father

Our ancestors fought to bring us to where are now
But how we choose to separate each other is foul

Light skins and dark skins
Doesn't matter we still have black skin
We need to begin
To listen

Build our race
So that every black person is safe
Racism is still real
And I cannot begin to explain how I feel

The black race is still frowned upon
Because our values are lost and gone

Let us begin to better each other
Build each other
Help one another
To get farther

Teamwork is essential
We have to realise our potential

It is a shame
How we let each other suffer
It breaks my heart
To see hungry child lost by a mother
When we have rich people
Who are greedy
In their fast cars speeding
Having no conscience or feelings
Because they won't even give to the needy
Lord Jesus I'm screaming
Please change the world
Make everyone start believing
That africa can rise
If we stop ignoring the cries
Of the poor
Revitalise the land
Before it dies
I know we can
If we keep our eyes on the prize

We can build africa
Make africa a staple
If only we work together
Bring something bigger to the table

We were blessed to be born on this beautiful land
So let us join hands
And make africa
As big as we can

A new dawn has surfaced,
I woke up and realised I was wrapped tightly in your warm embrace,
I gently pushed your arms away,
Headed to our brightly lit kitchen,
Fixed you marshmallows, pancakes, muffins,
Marmalade,
Everything that could revitalise your day,
And then I remembered what you said,
'Babe, never leave me more than 5 inches away'.
I giggled and decided to return to your warm embrace,
But there you were standing,
Shambling like a Haiti Zombie,
Hair messy,
Breath as foul as Smaug and Shrek,
But there I was wanting to close our 2 metres gap,
Till' no spaces between us were left,
But I halted from my tracks, and said,
‘Baby, would you like some coffee to ease your groggy state?’
‘Who knows what tomorrow’s dawn may bring’
‘But my love for you will never dwindle from change’

I wept as the last pages of your diary was soaked in red,
From the sliced vein of my wrist when I was in a fit of rage,
With the broken glasses of our photo frame,
Taken whilst we were at the Carpathian cliffs,
Alas I could not capture your fall,
And I could not stop recalling how your hands gently slip away from my palm,
You ended up in a coma, failing to respond despite my desperate calls,
Nor from kisses that could awake you magically like Snow White with her company of dwarves,
Know that I am forever yours,
The same bespectacled spectre, Always haunting the campus halls,
Waiting to steal your attention and leave me petrified,
From your Basilisk and Medusa like gaze,
You were a personified patriot of beauty,
With hazel scarf, scarlet hair, pink lips,
Seraphim in disguise,
And what an angel you must be, to fall from the atmosphere,
And defy society’s tainted rules of attraction to fall for an underdog,
Though I find it ironic that your name was Dawn,
It seems like my sorrow was fated all along,
But I do not wish to survive another dawn without me in your arms,
How silly am I to forget about the running water in the tub,
The portal to bridge our gaps,
Not another step was taken,
When I felt a familiar warmth behind my back,
Followed by a disembodied voice which sounded like a ‘Hello’
Or was it,

‘*******’.

reinventing the resurrection of the Roman Empire with
a pseudo-Christ in tow will prove fatal -
or simply propelled to an established
norm for all the wrong reasons
other than a quasi-Narcissism fully embracing
fetishes beyond the standardised
practises of human evolutionary concerns -
see how Darwinism is incubator
of fatalist vocabulary? too much arrogance -
they're nothing more than Spanish
Inquisition leeches - because when was
atheism intended as a fashion statement
with mismatched socks and matching
loafers? probably never.
we already sought to put atheistic economics
on the guillotine tablature -
the temple named: all men are born equal
was always Samson's prize for demolition's
just escapade, in or anywhere outside of
a Glasgow housing estate -
a Scot making a joke about Scots:
how was copper wire invented?
two Scots arguing over a 2 pence coin...
a stretch Armstrong moment i'd like to see.
all we need is Hillary for the unholy alliance
to materialise - the birth of horse racing
and womanised politics -
and are you the baby tarantula on the back
of mama tarantula? no? oh... don't
expect much from mama tarantula
if you're not part of her family and genetic vector.
the resurrection of the Roman empire as cited
by Divine John has a major fault...
the original intention prior to the authority of
Augustus was based on republicanism -
not democracy - the autocracy evolved from
republicanism, not democracy -
and if this be the McDonald model of work
ethic and success, it will be hard finding a few wise
old men to quench a rise in despotism -
the naive-expectation will over-power them -
we could see America as our safety laboratory once -
where the fates of Greek democracy and Roman
republicanism were played out -
rule of the many v. rule of the informed worthy few -
if elections came about the former would
have a lot of numbers anonymously signed X -
while the latter a few numbers but identified with
articulate signatures - democracy is basically
a stab in the dark, that precipitates to a vote of
no confidence - and an immediate imitation of
Pontius Pilate's quest for conscience and washing his
hands in pseudo-Dostoyevsky's the machinist,
with bleach - ****** courtroom -
when older poets recite their republicanism knowing how,
the newer ones recite their democracy knowing neither
how or why - thus the resurrection of Rome built
around democracy and not republicanism -
the washing of the hands and loss of conscience -
this prophesied resurrection of Rome was not based
on republicanism but on democracy, for the simple
fact that democracy had its martyr - a republican member
should another be fixed to compete with him -
no Platonic notation of the idea behind the republic
was ever established - but indeed a lot was noted
concerning democracy - which in practice wasn't
a practice in dialectics, but in dichotomy -
the polarisation of opinions in the simplest terms:
man v. woman, old v. young...
the republicans only had one dialectics ruining them:
the dichotomy between one man and the many -
is man to be as automated as insect or Satanically
rebellious and in his own sway "himself"?
there need not be a conjuring of biblical myths with
this concern - man was not temped for insight
into the disparity of good and evil and subsequent
confusion of attributing each its invested share
of expression in the world of choice -
but man was made an ontological alliance with
the famous villain (i too, akin to Milton's sympathy
a pledged allegiance do make an oath to consummate
a rival marriage, kindred of celibacy shared
by truth or perception, royal, named Elizabeth I) -
for if not by rebellion Satanic not make elemental conquests
or at least improve on them?
Francis Bacon died attempting to conjure up
a refrigerator with a dead chicken - dying from
hypothermia, or a really bad cold; never mind that,
if the resurrection of a united pseudo-Rome is to be
established it cannot take root in democracy -
but it already has, and is doomed to fail
given one of its former provinces risked all to exit -
it has to be rooted in the origin, in republicanism -
but it can't take root there, given the lost vitality of ancient
old age and modern old age leaving behind
only disparity - audacity of youth in every sphere
of life - and the blatantly over-stretched comforts of
old age - the American experiment of having
democracy v. republicanism staged failed -
that was the intention - to see which one was more the success
story of the revival - i appears neither or precisely both -
in that democracy has fuelled the city-states once again:
globalisation and the city-states: London, Paris, Germany...
they exist as separate entities in a web segregating
themselves from national politics and associating themselves
in global politics with only their counterparts -
the Greek city states have been revived by such dynamic;
so if democracy fuelled that, then surely republicanism
has fuelled what happened in the British exit from the union?
coup d'état in Turkey (on the waiting list, joining in
2020 along with Serbia and Albania etc.) - if you can't see
xenophobia and a choice of politically correct vocabulary
you don't see the naivety of Polish pensioners and English
pensioners - Turks at home in Germany - but let's revitalise
the memory the Iraqis share with Mongols and the sacking
of Baghdad and the Siege of Vienna between Turks and Poles -
i've assimilated into British society i don't identify with
such ethnic historicity - i was taught history including Roman
conquests; do i think the Scots will break from the Union?
i think they'll break for ethnic moral - that's
the other member of the unholy alliance, a real cat fight,
2nd Ms. Thatcher in Downing Street? the youth voted
in - the old voted out - when they were concentrating
on the gender gap a milieu gap was convening -
outside of London the impression of the family environment
suggested the youth didn't vote, in the urban environment
youth mingled with youth, to later hear their parents
or grandparents were dying ****-stained in care-homes...
strange: you always seem to wish to be part of a Mongolian
horde in such times for the oddest but the most blatant
reasons... oh yeah, and i read 5 books today...
well, i told you, once you read enough books of your
own choice you end up reading poems and reviews to
give yourself some slack...
- les parisiennes by Anne Sebba (review by Daisy Goodwin)
  (always women reading books by women,
   and men reading books by men... what sexism
   in this post-sexist culture of FEMININE EQUAL)
- Paper: passing through history by Mark Kurlansky
    (review by John Sutherland) p.s. best citations
    from this review... maybe some other time...
-  The Age of Bowie: how david bowie made a world of
     difference by Paul Morley (review by Will Hodgkinson)
-  the Girl who Beat Isis: my story by Farida K(h)alaf with
    Andrea C. Hoffman trans. by Jamie Bulloch (review by
    Catherine Philp)
-  Pinpoint: how GPS is changing our World by Greg Milner
    (review by Damian Whitworth)
and finally...
- All things made New: writing on the Reformation by
    Diarmaid MacCulloch (review by Robert Tombs)...
                                indeed,
                                 the terrible has
                                 already happened;
never leverage on
a positive thought when
working from Pompeii -
as the lessons of failure
from the past magnify -
there is nothing
but hindsight and pessimism
in the past to unearth -
while uncertainty and optimism
toward the future readying
itself for the burial rites
of the already unearthed artefacts
in continuum imito (in a continuum of imitation).

Sweet and charming she may be,
What you see is not meant to be.
Lovely nymph born with the gift of gab,
Emotional vampire fills the gap.

Manipulative mind behind those lovely eyes,
Entrenching her prey in her web of lies.
Loving her man as deeply as illusion permits,
Keeping her man as lonely as a hermit.

Come the day the illusion dies,
Her man's love for her revitalise.
Black Widow continued to act,
Lest her man violently react.

Tears and mucus drenched her face,
She wiped it off without a trace.
Cold and heartless are her traits,
For she reigns supreme in the straits.

Looking West, I think I can see you
In summer clothes, in sunshine, in light
Surroundings that fit and embrace you
Yet, hoping your eyes search for mine

I can't tell if you are looking Eastward
I don't expect you could pray to the East
On a globe, which horizon is forward?
Which sacrifice will guarantee the yield?

And meantime you shimmer on coastlines
On sand, and at parties, in bars
But I recall you when you were all mine
Quietly answering each other's prayers

Your love is scaffolding built overnight
Surrounding, supporting weathered stone
An unexpected artisan, you revitalise
You renovate and salvage and own

Own me, and this immobile cathedral
Impervious rock to skilled test
A sanctuary for prayers that come Eastward
A place where our love can be blessed

sometimes i just have a few words masquerading as cobweb
and spider in my mind,
      sure, they're custard, clogging it up,
but then i wonder why Einstein was
such a big deal with the two worldly
distractions, and was necessarily dubbed:
still wrong.
             then as solomon predicted,
all is vanity, including the necessary 15 minutes
of it, could F. Sinatra ever cling to
such a forthcoming?
                   yes, all is vanity,
and only a few of us experience sanity
(that rhymes on purpose) -
so away from what's overly-prefixated
with words like un-, anti-, contra-, neo-, sub-...
     anglophone intellectualism is basically
a fixation on using prefixes as one might
use adjective, in that the former case
doesn't formulise the arguments,
in fact, trying to revitalise dialectics
seems a bit like finally saying: so democratically
speaking, we had no disagreement to keep
zoologically best kept hidden,
       because we said democracy and how
tribalism left a small minority roaming
the Amazonian rainforest (as if we were visiting
a Vishnu temple on Mars ping-ponging a huh?),
            people hate the queen ant as much as
they hate the rebellious worker ant...
       since the latter extends into a despotism
  the former outrightly allows,
        as long as the herd: alter. name for republic
and democracy survives and is left unchanged...
no cognitive virology can affect us...
        this is where the Cartesian model (originally
thought of as a dualism) becomes monistic,
or monastic... hmm hum hmm: mongolian harmonica...
        can there be case for cognitive virology?
if there is, where's the placebo? the standard base
in saying 0, 0, 0 is the basis for all big-bang coordinates?
that's like asking Copernicus where's east!
        the beauty within the eye-of-the-beholder has
to accept 1 fact, but still favour fact 2 to coordinate
successfully... it needs a spherical earth to not look
barbarian... or simply dim... but it also needs
a flat earth for an atlas and a "pseudo" truth to transverse
from A. to B., because, as it turns out:
satellite navigation personalised can lead a group
of Japanese tourists steering their rental car into the sea...
  like me... i have a few words floating about in my mind,
and they won't go away until i write them...
   pomocnik / labourer / helper
         nocnik / chamberpot
             noc / nacht... night...
    inżynier / engineer...
               the ridiculed version?
           pomagier, cow-eyed slacker
    who pretends to labour under or not under
                           a scrutinous eye of big baron Bartholomew...
      polymathic expeditions are one thing,
but to really explore globalisation you need
bilingual entrenchment... it gets psychological,
there any sort of economic sensibility in applying
two languages to a single cause...
    and being polymathic is a just excuse to
be, actually quite useful...
         quit quiet and quite... that's the q. q. q.
session without an answerable rubric...
                that's one proof of what happens when
diacritical marks aren't used...
             we're all bound to collide with the re
to our ego... it's only that poets and writers have
the topic enshrined in them as: now you should
feel ashamed... trying to not conceive a south
to a sunset, trying to not conceive a west to a simile,
not taking precautions that allow deja vus...
                  well? what the **** can a plumber say?
sure, it might be a marble rather than a ceramic toilet,
but it's clogged-up just the same...
                   and when writers realise they're not
St. Augustine of this world, they'll knuckle down
and write a Stephen King oeuvre...
         and by that time writing will become everything that
butchering a cow takes...
the title though, it means something...
           rumbles, in a well...
  (you always need to insert the a / the
     articles... a chair has to be asexual in English,
but you do need to orientate yourself by either pointing
at it - definitely - or "abstracting" it - namely
becoming a pioneer in suggesting it,
because Farsi akimbo by a Japanese table was never
quite right, as with due the revision of chopsticks)...
      dudnienie... see: once again the stutter...
          akin to lekki... just short of k-he... or khi...
or ghee...
                      even i thought the alkaline metals were
the pinnacle of hypersensitivity when dipped in water...
try language dipped in haemoglobin...
                    dudnienie? a noumenon expression,
as in: in itself... a far far away grumbling in a far far away
removed space for out pithy concerns...
            studnia? never mind studies and studs...
or Scandinavia...
                       the cork of the sewer system...
the tip of the iceberg...                
     and i appreciate the fact that all wars waged these days
are based on a retaliation against the mono-linguistic
parley of globalisation...
  the Arabs were naturally going to rebel against the endorsement
  of proto-Latin given the "popularity" of English...
some call it the remnants of the Empire...
           stresses on the q... as is due for desert folk:
m'qaba... it's almost glutton-bound nasal...
    it will take more than McDonalds to make them give up
their tongue... as hard as skimming across Lake Geneva
the Ayers Rock...
                           that's the one thing you can't take
from people: with what language they speak, no matter
how gravy that Father Crimbo is...
       gravy (groovy)...    you just won't extract bleach
from these people... basically: my great great great great great
great grandfather rode a camel from Mecca to Medina...
therefore my great great great great great great grandson
will also ride a camel from Medina to Mecca
    and say the words and mean them in saying them:
al' habbu Deqa; a bit like saying plandeka
   when saying tarpaulin - and is that tar-pau-leen
or tar-pau-lyn?                       hence the ambiguity,
given that people made of iota (ι) a necessarily invoked
diacritical certainty, without having judged:
or could it be umlaut... or acute?
              well... if i managed to complicate language,
i'm as fastidious in asserting that i have
                   as Shiva might be to answering Vishnu...
    someone was bound to write something like this...
having grasp of the language without questioning it
would eventually summarise itself in a perpetuated
yawn...             but wasn't it obvious?
   for the same alphabet to be formidable across an
"empire" that never slept, and for the same alphabet
to be written "naked" without auto-insinuating accents?
       anyone could pick the **** thing up,
and talk Bindi-Hindi bud-bud in Bollywood,
                      as they might talk the Texan drawl
                                    and cowboyish ye-ha! in Hollywood.
how many Hindus does it take to unscrew a lightbulb?
    dance *******! just, dánce! (yep, posh-boyo club,
      daaa'     beatbox um'pss um'pss wet-snare rockafellar
   fat boy never slims             'ys - mind you yoyo back
that variation of Lyn and Mince).
                                             **** me! Zukofsky.

Negativity is a bane
Don’t feed it your pain
It will grow manifold
And leave not a trace
******* you into its vile vines

The goodness in you, a boon
Revitalise the seeds
Nurture well, and see them flourish
To be cherished on a sunny day
Or a chilly winter’s night

Christ,

I left my head in
the haze of sweeteners

I left my stomach in
An ocean of skimmed milk

I left my faith in
Your warm embrace

I feel a unicorn's horn
Piercing an entire canyon
In my mind

If I have a third eye
Then Christ, it's calcified


(I must purge this curse
Wash it in white dye

I must revitalise
Unless I'll die)

to follow up on a citation from

art & fear by
david bales and ted orland:

/ it seems that while the “quantity” group
was busily churning out piles of work -
and learning from their mistakes —
 the “quality” group had sat theorizing
about perfection, and in the end had
little more to show for their efforts
than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay. /

imagine asking a mozart to appeal
to both a quality and a quantity,
point being,
    quality will always remain
POP... while quantity will shut itself
off in  king crimson song,

    take what you're given
and stop acting like a pretentious
communist that even the Soviets would
have hated, as this overt censor
who censored so much,
   that he turned an ancient oak
into a toothpick, and not 10,000,000
packets if not more...

much easier to call in a
quality surveyor when it comes
to carpentry: you sit on a chair
and it doesn't break:
     give us 10,000 more replicas...
"apparently" rushed...

a mirage of qua (as being)
      and quo (where?)

        almost indistinguishable
after enough practice, and,
patience... but some much for these
little words...

             that sequence of a tree
made into a single toothpick?
     loony toons,  foghorn leghorn
episode...

  quality is a spare
   of what dedication to quantity
arrives at...
           quality is a byproduct
not the product itself...
        
don't ask me how capitalism rings
a bell, seeing how it's exhausted
       in pumping out quality,
and quantity simultaneously,
having to tap into a.i. & algorithms
because, apparently:
   human creativity is without
an imagination lax,
there are, apparently,  
   25,000 ways of reinventing
the hammer and the nail...
  given that the fear of the hammer
and the he sickle disappeared...
  Columbus discovering America
in a ******* can of sardines...
woo, hoo, honk honk.

sarcasm is not an easy humour,
witty people hardly notice
that wit and sarcasm are the Hanzel
und Gretyl of the comedy spree...
dry, martini, fixations on the image of:
getting away with easing out
a wet ****,  only because attired
in what Rene Magritte would wear
when painting.

oh wait... **** **** ****....

   both instances mind th3 qua-
prefix...
     mind you, etymology of suffixes
with a strong latin prefix?
not my strong point...
   -lity contra -ntity are not my strong...
     what point of intrest
and: the most certain points
worth debating over?

we are summoned by the fickle nature
of: whatever comes our way,
much easier had it been but
a crude snout of a dog
with only a howling or a barking
to emerge from within:
so curse the mind the tongue the thumb,
and the spine,
    or however else you might
want to evaporate expanding the senses
and not clinging to these pillars...

thing about quantity...
    beggars at the feet of spontaneity,
never for a minute in need of:
attempting to perfect a square...
beside a rhombus?
       a bonsai everest of cow dung,
towed by 12 horses and one donkey,
dubbed: Γołgoθa -
      seems Pythagoras was an Aussie...

what with the up-side down right angle
like a swallow nest on a barn...

******* yob mismatched: oi oi oi...

how else to end it if not
with John Frusciante?
        
                       it really takes but one song
to cite, warm tape...
           THAT CHORUS, IZ...
            how do I put it...
the point of helium trapped in a ******?
    the point of
   mixing the dentist high on helium
and the patient high off nitrous oxide?
I mean, **** me,
   is it to remain of matter of
hiding a higher realism in unachievable
cartoon sketches?
    
             a theological dull and grey,
any day, compared to
man's phantasmagorical taste of colour
to revitalise urbanity with
a Braille reading of Vivaldi scores...
no clichés at this point,
even with the behemoths,
given the already exhausted and fly-riddled
moonlight sonnata...

hell, red hot chilli peppers, ooh, pop,
john frusciante, not carvel...
warm tape chorus:
  remnants of...
     pierdolone, baz'groły...

           since how can the artist be
not deemed a pretentious ****,
if he perfects by sole theorising,
and not by making a *** note...
    take an artist and a carpenter...
    after a while the two concepts
are indistinguishable,
a bit like reading the tedium that
is the overburdened suicide explanation
lost in Zen and the art of motorcycle
maintanence...

   QUA, sure, but then what?
        10000000000 contra 1.0000000001?
numbing terminology,
contra: litany prospectus?
          
elsewhere in the discussion,
waiting rooms with jazz, rather than muzak
playing in the background,
qua-qua intersectionability...
     no categorical imperative,
or an imperative to build walls and learn
to juggle a a third entry,
a joker sly upper-hand...
    quality,  and quantity,
         are indistinguishable in jazz...
muchos gracias...
   and your, ******* gospel choir
dance moves and jazz and all
the other encyclopedia entries of
black...
    highschool,
         black girls inventing cat fights,
and when vaseline cream first came
in contact with, afro.

in the concave of a raindrop sits a hue of hope,
a rain to bring forth a harvest,
water to restore the greenery of this mountain.

Revitalise.

Revive.

Renew.

Inside my soul sits a hue of hope.

With beauty all encompassing
like stone we sat
unmoving....
unfeeling....
losing our heads in a world of sophistication
unthinking....
unseeing....

Now?.... We dwell in the consciousness of the Gods
we travel....
we touch....
we experience enchanted lands –
for the whole world is no man's property,
but belongs to us each....
freely.

So now let us sit as calm as the stone,
and be one with thought that can no longer be held captive in our mind....
to see with eyes the un-visual;
phenomena beyond the comprehensible;
and feel the flow of nature's energy
revitalise lost dreams.

Worthiness, the drive of a soul. The drive to a place where consciousness meets reality in the chupah of these realms. A transcendant drive that captivates even to the greatest depths, beyond comprehension.

Worthiness, the elixir of redemption that wells up from the deep. That bleeds out from the sensation, the manifestation of what is internal flowing externally. How can one neglect such as this?

For when the sorrow comes and the worthiness forgotten. The soul wanders around, aimlessly as if a wanderer lost in the desolate places. Their tears be the only quenching to the dried throat plains.

But when hope comes like a marage in the desolation. The soul drinks of the elixir, he remembers where the consciousness meets his reality. With now tears, droplets that revitalise the soul. His wounds mended, his strength imbued. This here the drive, the worthiness, the redemption at the chupah of these realms.

In my sleep
I will dream of unborn
Realities

But now
I have woken
Though am I still asleep?

I am wrong placed
This expected place
Unexpected

Someone has taken my body
And I am in theirs

I am attached
To this experience
In a most disconnected manner

We ancient beings
Travelling within fleshy physicalities
Are novices

Wading through miasmic soup
Holding our breath
Plunging for meaning
Nothing but ambulant meanderers

Rays of energy
Pass unnoticed
Through our cartilaginous joints
And groaning sinews
As fellow bipedals
Led by hemispheric glossities
March army like
Into diurnal rhythmicals

Heart warmth
Lifts deep dungeon dwellers
From their plight

And sweet juices of hope berries
Revitalise the old

This is the Eden foundry
This, an altered nirvana
This but a displaced unreality
Is our temporary
Habitat

Our strange
Fangled
Home

Birds beat
Their rhythm through the air
Advancing on unseen channels
Surely they
Are masters of living
Showing us how to soar

An infant will revitalise
An elderly one
An elderly one
Has wisdom to share
There is always hope
There is always a way
Young people
This is your day

A mix of energies
Provides hope for us all
Our differences
Are our strengths
There is always hope
There is always a way
Young people
This is your day

not long ago painting was replaced with photography; i can use that, time to revitalise capturing images with words, given this whole copyright trademark *******; and via words alone.*

a white cat in a tree,
taunted by a suicidal
magpie...

and that's seriously all
i have to snap
or tickle you with.

/rome didn't make it this far, north, or east... pride of the english resides in its authentic latin script, i.e. without diacritical implementation that other latin-revised nations adopted... shame, seeing this global shamble... or rather: sham'b'oh... what made Cyril revise / revitalise the greek script!? naked england... masochistic crux bearer... with a time reference of 0... in kantian terms: a denial; let's just stick to the mop of hair, bleached, in the political theatre; i.e. told you: johnson!/

eastern europe...
                                              now...
th­at really ****** me off...
considering
what's emerging,
i.e. the western bloc...
i don't know why it pissess me off,
but i am adamant in stating
the case...
             isolationist
f. d. r. ****-buddies...
     can't escape the monstrosity,
reiteration of the existence
of lithuania, latvia, estonia,
finland,
                 the bleshazzar's feast
that's belarus...
east, as if there's something
inferior, needing a "coming togehter":
just look at your own ****-show!
happy? thought not.
you know my weakness,
       as a weakness,
it's biased on the basis of a term...
              quasi-continental people,
i.e. the english,
              island-people...
island-dwellers...
hobbits that ransacked the whole
******* world,
and cannot mea culpa
their "beloved" christianity...
          ****'s stinging?
yeah... it bites back...
                   pauper kind...
     keend you *******, schmuck!
tough, isn't it,
to inherit what's synonymous
               with pride!
but believe when i say:
hard to catch a west african...
   how to craft a genesis?
                 ******'s too agile!
and if i catch one,
it's a gullible speciment!
why don't afro-americans take
to leisure, visiting africa
dumb-talking the macaque monkeys
fathoming a shadow
           on a balcony?!
no ****** will tell me why,
and O why...
                the afro-h'americans
do not attest to spend their leisure
time in fra-frica!
  too polluted by europe?
              guess you the prime
cheese in Yapan!
          speaks with a 12",
                   but with a tongue about
the length of a nano-metre.
oh i looked a monkey in the eyes,
didn't see either darwin or
an african...
                 what i did see was Loci...
and you're attempting
a halfbaked hunchback reiteration...
no, that's not a compliment.
i have to look down on
the english to simply look ahead...
they can have the meridian divide,
but sure as ****,
they ain't the bellybutton people
of this world...
            let 'em have their island...
people already recognise them
on holiday,
        as the most, unruly drinkers...
cite Ibiza...
              cite majorca...
               you'll breathe
an ancient past into a modern greek
with the way you're stressing
"origins"...
                        i can only love
the english, by addressing
               a contempt for them;
reverting to their own maxim:
             you have to be cruel, to be kind;
the english are far from not
                 exercising contempt.

if you're "ego" tripping...
   masqueraded by
the whole: of night...
    with a warm july breeze
          and an oval moon
   in its three tier transition
from blood orange,
through to a canary:
  and then a blank,
white summary of
                a partial todkopf?
my my...
     not receiving
chilli-like goosebumps
on the back of your neck:
"tripping"
                but rather:
teasing a cognitive void
of consciousness
                          mit: der id?
must be my fetish
for nibbling on german...
the ottoman turks have
come to east london
with a bazar of bulgarian
prostitutes...
it's id tripping -
      vulgarising a "need"
for thought,
   translated via touching
the void
        left with goosebumbs
on the back of your neck...
sure...
          the gods' **** fountain
of the waterfall at glencoe -
agryll...
      which is elaborate
for simply whiskey aids
the observation being
                              undertaken...
once upon a time i referred
to beer as the **** of gods...
changed my mind:
   needed something worth
the equivalent of wearing
                       a chanel no. fünf...
can't exactly express
tha banality of: not thinking -
touching a void,
and then translating it into
goosebumps on the back
of the neck...
   perhaps if i only add the word
combitions in my head -
gott ist gott...
                gott - echo chamber -
                          mit, mit... mit: unß!
it's german...
  there's no yiddish balaclava
                  joke from a new yorker
intended,
            let alone invited;
                        hochdeutsch...
maybe someone ought to have
teased the ******* via
terrible translation software machinery
and somehow love them...
my grandfather has a memory
of SS-men giving him sweets
so sweet that his stuck together
and needed to be pried open
under running water:
    herrbittebonbon:
                     exactly like that...
no punctuation form
                 of herr, bitte bonbon...
the schwarzuniform...
   and then:
                die rot armee
  composed of khaki attired
       teenagers stopping for the night
in my home town,
preferring to sleep on hay,
in stables,
                 with the animals...
perhaps memory
   is the only faculty we wish
to revitalise even if it succumbs
to temporal
                       degeneracy...
but the advent of ensuring
memory become pristine -
        pulverised by recounting it...
certainly overcomes
the self-evident perils of
                                   the body -
memory is trans-temporal...
   it slows time...
               so that things become
more...
                     static...
       or to use a better relief description:
intact within their spatial
confines...
           memory?
                 that grand cinema cameo?
no one ever tires of
playing with the last
remaining toy,
after the children put away
their toys, and become adults
weilding sickles and hammers...
memory: is, the last toy -
with which
  people will always play with.

It is quite far-fetched to impact the
whole world as a single person
But it's more practical to impact
the world of just one person,
And if that one person would
reach out to another individual,
Then the sphere of impact grows bigger

Only one soul positively affected can
revitalise an entire family
Then that one family can spread that
vitality to their own community,
which could cause a ripple effect on a city
Who knows maybe we can then collectively impact the world positively.