Squeeze your feet into synthetic fins.
See the world in big rubbery lenses.
Don’t forget the snorkel, of course! Bite tight.
Hobble to the shore,
Where the two worlds meet.

The sea splashes gently on the sand.
It hurls itself forward
And then recedes back.
Its motions are like gestures,
Telling you to draw close
And closer.
Its peaceful surface is an invitation itself,
Painted blue and glittered with sunshine.

Accept the invitation with gladness.
Don't be afraid!
Let the briny waters embrace you.
Let the cold tickle your skin.
Let the waves rock you back and forth.

You have entered a grand ballroom
Illuminated with a majestic chandelier of refracting sunlight.
The colorful corals with shapes of mounds, disks, and crowns,
Sway with the rhythm of the current.
The fishes dance around and about,
Each beaded with scales of various vibrant colors.

And then the reef ends.

The colors abruptly plunge into a black abyss.  
Look down and allow yourself to be
Filled with fear, terror,
Or maybe
Insatiable curiosity.
Now let that curiosity stir discontentment in you:
Discontentment with snorkeling.
Let it ignite a craving for
More thrill, more wonder.

It's time to go deep sea diving.

Hi, I'm going to snorkel and dive
It's going to be pretty fun
and maybe sometime you can too
and practice
where you want to practice snorkeling.

So you put a mask on and you have a tank
and you want your snorkel to be under water
and then you can breathe with the snorkel
with water.

Sometimes you'll see sunken treasures
and sometimes you won't.
Because sunken treasures can be
already found.

If you found the treasure map
at the bottom, and then it would
show you the name of the place
and then you'll know where it is.

But then pirates go to very nice lands.

.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?

ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...

p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.

well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic

              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.

Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun
Suns overhead it, must be noon
Don’t really know ain't been to sleep
My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep

My Costa’s are filtering out the sun
I seem to be suffering from too much fun
Only one cure, I need another drink
Maybe then my clouded brain can think

Summer time in old Mexico
Have a good time when we go
Drinking and smoking and having fun
Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun

Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line
Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime
Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see
Maybe later on, just her and me

I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar
Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar
Strolling along, while I watch her sway
Can only imagine, if I had my way

Summer time in old Mexico
Have a good time when we go
Drinking and smoking and having fun
Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun

Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar
The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar
Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime
Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime

Mexican girls and ******* tourists
Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist
Seeing the sights, and doing well
Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell


Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell
feelin' swell....
Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa

Those coffee heads
better than
Couch Potato 2 B
wed
One bad chip 3 2 C
Walking dead

Dream chocolate,
Coffee Latte
On the web late
The fourth cup
He knows all the 5 lips
On Live five sips
Her ruffles he's the
fidget spinner whip cream
Sprayed 6 times
Drinking her coffee over the
Brooklyn bridges 7 wishes
Coffee is for brainers
8 sides of the coffee moon


Swinging  Perculator
Streaming all over Adolf
dictator

Like a monkey ***
in cages
High overflowed wages
The pub pix pom girls
Tom like  apud
Coffee like mud with Tod
Eeeee He
  Coffee of God
Two pals I pad


Steaming out mouth
like a hot rod
She is sipping and he is
mouth roaring

Wiped you out
wicker -chair
You mind erased like the
terminator game pair

"I will be back"

Coffee or me__?
That calculator's fingers
Fine pressed coffee
Stirring the Dagar
Superbowl  maneaters
The women coffee lovers
They need another cup

Stocking up Christmas
chimes  ringing
The cafe Jazz chimes

Pazzazz--

6 cups
All gone Girl
666
Not a drop of coffee
Summoned by a spell

Went razzamatazz

The third eye
1-2-3 pouring
The coffee sounds like its
forever snoring 4-5-6

I need a new coffee maker
Lucky 7*
Rock and roll coffee of fame
Tootsie roll truffles

Going Whoopee

Do some French presses or
Roman Cappuccino style
dresses 14 he and he
The Keurig more hugs
She and me

Sugar trail of blackmail
Single served deserved
Party multi-cup you spilled
her beans

Easter feels jumpy
College stud or wimpy
"Humpty Dumpty"
Jitterbugs
Presidential jelly beans
Hot male mugs
Coffee beans

the mountain you can not
top her flavors
He's the hot diver
I will wait to wake him

He fits the"Ferocious Falcon'
Hey pork and beans
The wrong beans stir
Alice, I will fly you too
the moon
They have better coffee
Jackie Gleason
looks worried

He's cupping away from
the lagoon never on a
Sunday to be married

Bring the coffee truly
love flavor
website
streaming
He's the
hothead the chimes
beaming
The boiling bold brave
How it intensified
The heart melting
microwave lucifer

Please wave Sir
The bubbling brew
Chimes R streaming
But Robin's coffee
is steaming classified
What's to be justified

His pacemaker,
she did a whole
new makeover went
snorkeling what the heck
Ringing his neck
The multi-cup  she is
seated
He's the single cup
every morning
Chimes and coffee never boring


Swish swatch stir and spoon
He was born like streaming ***
way too soon

Sailing in a dhow at sunset after snorkeling off Mafia island, Tanzania.
'
SPILLAGE
The tree’s don’t sleep at night
they photosynthesize , by moonlight.
Leaves drink in the cool wise light
And give off dreams of softly fading starlight

Whispers of secrets , monthly unfurl
A single blossom falls at new moon
Hurtling to the ground, awake before noon
Ever noticed? The very word has the circle
Curled up in the centre , twice to make sure we remember , two full cups , not one.

Geko’s slip off old skins
And the croaking frog adds to the din
As thunder rolls in
Triggering the dogs bark
Guardian of the stark naked couple
Asleep in their parallel worlds
Together under the umbrella of ambient lighting
Not the natural kind either
But a shameless copy of pure sunlight
That emenates when their bodies collide
On the material plane.

Astral visions lead the way to headquarters
The address? Fax? Phone number?
I’m afraid you’ll have to dial again ,
Unless you’ve meditated on the vibration of emancipation
Then you would already know, you are already there
Doors are open , for those who care to try
No lock on this baby ,
Ain’t no safe to play safe
We bask in our humble glory
Under the shores on undulating tides
Rhythmic pulsations
no where to hide
The emanations come from within,
Without , a shadow of a doubt

There is a war coming , infact we’ve already been fighting for decades
Just like the change of winds, nature knows her stuff
Tip the seeds too soon and you’ll end up with a field full of fluff
But just in time and a harvest with enough to reduce every super market shelf to dust
Even though they already stock that kinda stuff
Clean up on Aisle 4, Aisle 3 , Aisle 2 , Aisle 1
Return the purchase , we’ve discovered the ****
In the cake
And we found the frog in the salad,
At least their habitat is intact
Or did you think I was still talking about the shops?

Ok , I’ll change tact
Change of pace.
No , no I will not join the Human Race
Running to where? Why all the running?
From what? To where? From whom , to whom it seems like we run straight to our tombs, without a second glance at perhaps the chance that legs can walk…
Wanna know where I’d rather be?

I want to be on a motorbike heading 70 miles an hour down empty roads
An island paradise , holding the hips of my dearest
To arrive at another home ,
where our friends relax to the forlorne strums of the blues
Tripping on love we depart ,
not without slightly heavy hearts
Peace , friends we’ll see you anon.

Pull into the golden arches , I tell myself ‘I can’t kiss those lips now they’ve touched that burger’
then I remember you’ve been working all day
before you came out to play , I wasn’t up for a dance I was too entranced in my own madness
But. Always the **** , walk up those stairs for me, softly you moan.
I agree in a semi tone. Secrets are meant to be shared,
we quietly told each other of love in the parking lot at 4 am. The pain in your eyes still wakes me up in the middle of thunderstorms.

Awoken to sorrows from the motherland, monsters creep to the door,
peep in the keyhole.
Oh,
I forget,
your door is activated by credit card numbers that spiral from lips of z-list celebrities.
So we’ll waste away the morning in each other arms,
you watch me as I dress. No underwear no less. Put on your bra properly, suddenly you get kinda frosty.
Not far from where we sat to have a Japanese lunch , pretty close to where I walked to meet you for tea , where you held my feet and handed me a phone I left in your brothers car.
Well that’s where we have breakfast coffee and papaya whilst tourists ogle at the dog guard.
Deaf to our calls , luxuriously taking his time. He didn’t find the secret beach either.
Although the sea was good for a float, and to hear the space journey’s musical manifestation
at every crash of every wave, the magnetic pull playing her crooked beat as she bypasses our feet.
Then, there are two nights with two Amsterdam gals , one smoked lucky strikes and had scars across her wrists , the other photographed trees for a living.
Both blonde , both fair , both with their own flair.

Expect the unexpected , beach raves full of people I don’t really want to be with , so we get tequila shots instead
and stand outside a shop selling knock off clothes when the bar needs to shut.

She took a break to the bathroom , we finally let out the kisses we’d been holding in all night,  
until she got back.

Who said we couldn’t control ourselves? Although to be fair, I could feel you reaching for me wayyy back.

Why should we be selfish? Why shouldn’t we? I still went home with you that night, there really was no two ways about it.
I had *** with you, slightly drunken ***, that was by no means gentle, by no means candle lit , by no means rose petals laid out on the bed, infact , if my memory holds true, there were no flowers apart from the ones on my dress.
I’d say you were lucky , but then I cried at home.
So much pent up emotion in that one act.
Enough to propel us in into another night and untold eons beyond, I’m skipping ahead now,
Where we drank red wine on the shoreline , I used the staff bathroom and noticed all the things that could be improved – seemed like work was wearing off on me.
Still, the best part was yet to come, yeah the *** was fun but nothing compared to the games we played. Dress up and salsa ,
mysterious temples
natures tickles leading to giggles at the foolish endevours of two ***** humans., smoke a spliff , enough to unwind the mind to a new point of time. A flash of something I’ve never seen before, nor have yet to be graced with again.
I guess that was divine. Well, wouldn’t you say….
It was about time.

So , am I still talking about the shops?
Or who wore what with kate moss?
No disrespect
she’s adept at her art but i don’t wanna read about boring old farts
Lets hear about the underground collective of conscious minds who are rewinding the clock , who won’t stop ,
warriors.

Well quite frankly

How long have we sat , year after year to be told the same **** and bull story.. my ears, my ears! MY EARS!!! They yearn for the sweet serenade of the truth

behind the crumbling arcade of rigged lottery tickets and games of black jack where the house always wins.
Fortunately we’ve been coming since we were five , we know the cards without seeing the faces, we hold all the jacks and aces, we’ve got time on our side

So…that’s why they are running , finding places to hide.

We’d only be stealing from the house to give to the houseless…
With the tools the house gifted to us…doesn’t it seem ironic?

I laughed until I cried the day I discovered the universe had a sense of humor. A dark , ironic , sarcastic tone that involves  a major chord. Maybe a G or a D.

Germantown is (basically) where I work! In fact, it's part of the county I live in (Montgomery). I think a lot of the outage has been restored up there but I could be wrong. I live in Bethesda but am staying in Rockville right now and there are a ton of trees down where I live that is probably hindering the restoration effort.

Large sized shoes, like Mens Shoes Size 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, and 22 are very hard to find in retail stores. I know, my 15 yr old son wears a size 14 shoe already, and I'm anticipating them to continue growing for a few more years. He plays all kinds of sports and we have resorted to only ordering shoes online because we can never find his size in stores.

We also found one a few weeks ago. If you have any concerns about your own health or the health of your child, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional. Please review the Privacy Policy and Terms of Use before using this site.

A good quality pair of swimming shorts is made lightweight allowing you freedom of movement. It should also be engineered well to prevent the annoying air bubble that can get trapped in a pair of shorts when jumping in the water. It also should dry very quickly so that when after a break from swimming, they will not be dripping wet, leaving puddles everywhere.

We buy toys for (babyandyUSA-March-11) children and families in need during the holidays. I want dd to understand that, while we have worked hard for all the things we have, we are also very fortunate to have good jobs and that we sacrifice some things to have others. are lucky to have a beautiful house, food on the table, a healthy family and so much more.

Ever since I been pregnant, I haven been able to go to bed at night without onion http://www.tomsoutletus.net Toms Shoes Sale rings. Is this a normal craving? ~Depends on what you doing with them. Do I have to have a baby shower? ~Not if you change the baby diaper very quickly. Okay, my bestfriend is getting married. She doesn't want to just go to the court house (not active member, so temple is NOT an option) It's her first marriage and tomsoutletus she want a real wedding. Now, before you laugh at that number, she is -borrowing the dress-between me (being a bridesmade too) and my other friend, pictures will be free- Her boss is making her flowers, she just has to pay for the flowers-She's going to use the LDS church (so no reception hall fee) -My MIL is making her cake.

A light lunch which includes such things as beer, *** punch, tequila shots, fresh fruit and a Mexican buffet lunch or sandwiches is served before the ship drops anchor. Everyone then dons masks and fins and jumps in for a wonderful afternoon of snorkeling along the pristine reef. Underwater cameras (my Pentax digital is AWESOME) are strongly recommended and can be purchased at the marina gift shop in case you forgot to bring one along..

Well, I sympathize with everything that each of you has said. There are so many levels to being a working mom and losing your job. I'm still just weeks into all this but every day is a struggle. Now regularly attracted in all the assortment, Timberland Hunter wellies Socket which have a totally special orange coloured coloration option Timberland Boots for the four corners. I need all the orange colored. If you have any concerns about your own health or the health of your child, you should always consult with a physician or other healthcare professional..  2013-03-12.

you know what i find funny? the phrase: i could eat you. juxtaposing vide cor meum against... this is the part where punctuation marks are never collision prone diacritical marks... but then again, there's that dietary joke... i could eat you... dependence on your bones not being properly disavowed within a langoustine broth... and there you are: a grey area mindful of Stalin... *****! i'm trying to humanise ******, stop interrupting! where once a moths' flutter, later a rainbow in the nacht! mind that niqab... nicht would mean nothing. some insinuated cappuchino, some cackles... some said cutie-pies invoking rouge cheeks... every time i watch these culinary shows i get thinking about cannibalism to counter veganism... and then i laugh... i don't want to find stinking socks and political correctness as "my way, did it to suit Lascaux cavern graffiti"... i preferred wanking than keeping up with women... it's the song i heard before lambs stiffened and muslims became muslims, and falafel was mince... ******, get under the hosepipe and you're there, all freely gagging for the fizz... a touch of tinsel... vide cor meum... return of policy... as half-heartfelt kaleidoscope returning to define a rainbow... i love that phrase given the palette opportunity... i could eat you. it's the demonic encouragement that solidifies the stench into what's to be seasoned properly... i don't know.. the phrasing: i could eat you sounds more formidable in delayed practice than: i can **** you... plus the gazpacho... which means: Batman ate cold cauliflower soup and slurred to slurp the question: but it's cold? Baldwin replied: it's supposed to be! they said orthography as a rigidness of aesthetic, i said... that's questionable whether any is applicable, given we're talking about graffiti.

i got tired of sensing other people's jealousy,
and tried to love them,
which ended up to be as much as a matrimony
toward one woman, ambition-bound
to incarnate the matrimony of swans...
  and the poor old ******, left to fantasy in
his days as a widower...
   every time i look at a lonely swans
i try to duck-quack the thing into existence...
            but there are variation of marriage...
a west london accountant can speak terrible
crap against an ethnicity i try to not identify with...
but i am courageously borne from,
    and therefore have to express some affiliation...
as a matter of principle...
  i rather not, but iu must, even though i sprechen
a host tongue... and am, therefore,
embedded with claims of socialite elitism...
                 but then i compare...
and these these comparisons are the due phrase...
Marilyn Manson's *a minute of decay
is a chance to hear the bass guitar overpower
           the drums... a bit like a culinary pistachio
moment in a risotto...
   i want room to breathe in!
     i want vaughan williams' fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis... i sanctify the need
   for prokofiev's lieutenant kíjé's suite...
(dots are optional, the syllables aren't,
a classical dot above the iota might revel in
being the defining moment of tonguing /
dissecting a word... but it doesn't have to be so)
i need air to breath in, a moment to whimper...
why do the **** love Chopin and not Liszt?
   a bid ******* odd... i don't like either Chopin
or Liszt... because as Kaiser Yoseph said
in amadeus... to many notes...
and i agree... vivaldi made violins into cherub
       pumpernickle sparrows -
you danced, you joyed, you came across St. Vitus' dance...
   you were doing arithmetic as concord speed
within a framework of even (white) and odd (black)
numbers... once you played the nocturnal Fabergé -
someone suggested you move the ******
  goose to the Hermitage, and frame it!
why are the Japanese are the only Europeans in Asia...
      never mind, they just are,
hence they compete for playing Chopin like they consider
sushi to be a culinary exception of the tartar -
minus the influence, obviously, hence the stress to
impose Chopin... but never Liszt... odd...
          template virtuoso and you think of Liszt
than you might conjure Chopin...
           better than that... conjure champagne
bottles blundering to the volcano's worth of fizz...
still... the Japanese are a curiosity...
first of all: they abide by Chopin and chopsticks
not being utilised when gobbling sushi...
   they have the ambassadors of kimono,
samurai, origami, karaoke, bonßai (zye, rye),
          Fukushima... Hiroshima... yep, that place
were stanley lee derived the concept of x-men...
          still, they have permanent ambassadors in
opur midsts... words that can't be "translated" due
to etymological puritanism...
       finally the Portuguese sailed away, and founded
Brazil on the promise of an infinite supply of toothpicks
from the Amazon -
or? hai sensei!           hatch that with the catchphrase:
     kajagoogoo: shy-shy, hush-hush, eye-to-eye.
          we're storming the labyrinth right not,
and i still can't believe that poetry revolves around
the rhythm of rhyme... play any ping-pong, lately?
     no wonder poetry is a peacocking dollop
of clogged-up cow dung... it's just asking
for a *****-slap in a playground.
           but why Chopin and not Liszt?
the **** are what Napoleon was to the Duchy of
Warsaw... they love that arithmetic of
a pebble-dasher's *******...
       wet dreams... some authentic curiosities of
civilisation still have them... i wouldn't recommend
listening to them recounting the fables, personally...
i'd listen in on the succubus jerking them off...
  and just recently i was walking the deaf streets at
night with a bottle of beer and felt the bottle
of beer almost being tugged from my hand...
  and some say that eating a woman's umbilical-chord
is what's necessary to live as a man to later
sing some aria; or like drinking a pregnant woman's
**** will ensure you don't become myopic...
             i don't like Chopin,
i don't like Liszt either... i want a room, and a chance
to breathe... at the end of the classical expression
summarising the wind, we had a return
to the rooting in Africa... earthly delights
and a grumbling stomach in need of feeding,
  jazz did the work for us, jazz still had
an orchestral element to add a Lacan of all things
worthy of deconstruction...
       but then the French came along and shoved
fondue into our ears... and we said
alight with an eureka moment... pop!
             n'ah... the moment when the bass overpowers
the drums... i really have this wild fascination
with the bass guitar...
                 because i don't get Mozart,
and i do think that Handel did much more than
even the sacrificial lamb that Beethoven is...
                  listen... poetry doesn't have to be
music... rhyming is ping-pong anyway...
but as long as you feel in debt concerning music,
the music will come on its own accord...
today i was rattled by a mix of dub (without a step)
and beck's odelay... cruise-missile dylan...
give or take...
      well, given the italicised pr.s. (pre scriptum) -
much later an aged blonde boasted about snorkeling
******* and young ****... and missing out
when she teased me coming back to her abode...
           moth steals from a butterfly,
butterfly never turns into a daisy...
                       you're still a **** and i'm about
half of the total worth of being a ****...
which makes as equal... or queue more.
           variably condoned to be synonym with
mosque...  but i said mannequin...
     it's this **** with the five a day....
Christendom mentioned fruit & veg...
Islam mentioned variations of a murmur...
   is prayer classified as fruit, or vegetable?
you're as bewildered as i am...
   i too thought tomato is a fruit...
turns out it's a vegetable...
primarily due to basil, feta, and the mediterranean.
               herring belong in the baltic,
******* attempting that sort of ballistics...
ask about the relationship between
              a. yan sobieski
         b. ******
                    c. window on arabia (vienna,
counter st. petersburg) -
     oh you'll get many thanks...
sure... you'll end up becoming assured
that dogs don't need petting, but training,
and that you have to make all friends bound
to be kenneled, because they won't learn otherwise;
it's a bit sad...
          for about a minute...
                   you tried being peace-abiding,
peace-mindful...
   you wanted to state compassion...
  in the end people need a slap... or as 2000 years of
history proved... a crucifix.

i imagine myself with you, b.
i can see myself,  happy with you.

i can picture us on our first date,
laughing so hard we hold onto each other for support.
i can picture us walking together,
admiring all the local shops and galleries the town has to offer.
i can picture us holding hands,
and you holding me as we gaze out at sea.
i can picture us snorkeling together,
and how you'll laugh when i inevitably breathe in the ocean.
i can picture us kissing for the first time,
how our eyes will meet,
and how our hearts will explode with excitement.
i can picture us kissing,
and how our bodies will melt into one.
i can picture myself falling asleep next to you,
and how peaceful i will feel when i wake up beside you.

but,
most importantly,

i can picture myself falling in love with you.
truely.
so let’s break the distance.
oh, how wonderful life will be with you.

I was snorkeling in the Galapagos
surrounded by diving  *******
when some fun friendly angels
visited, they had  flippers not wings
and flapped and glided
  streamlined  through the ocean
  on their backs, sides and fronts
They were curious
about me, this goggled wide-eyed beast
and would come so close
I could see their bright eyes and whiskers
I thought they would collide
but at the last second they would downwards swoop
I was in heaven at this communion
Suddenly I saw from the corner of my eye
a massive grey giant crash into the water
I front crawled away like a man possessed
The bull was probably jealous of my dalliance

The west wind blows
white with snow
pushing the new mom
with her new babe
in a new pram
I looked over
and all I could see
was a blue hat
and a blue blankie
with a pink nose
in the middle
snorkeling up

the grovelling pig...
and the snivelling dog...

the snorkelig tabloid &
taboo of...
anything beside
the born blue: whale...

an arsenal of ****-joy words...
a much bigger
"assumption" of...
raj-stan spices...
to compete with
the 20th century arsenal
of the manhattan
project of h'america...

     and whatever the soviet
sly of empire-building
came to pass: and pass it did...

no one is celebrating...
how... pacified...
the disintegration of the soviet
"empire" took a postcard
turn in the events of history...

when the roman empire
disintegrated...
             no one is going
to go forward and bless:
how the russians played poker:
and... folded?

              to leverage in the oligarchs...
the... eternal flames of parody blues...
of avarice and that story of
yachts: tripping on...

greed is beside the l.c.d. "tripping"
chess pieces avarice...
the "insomnia" tactics of:
happy boys... shooting rich-boy
bullets at... all the more happy:
rich boy targets...

a french riviera target nuance: dulce...
deux...
       excesses of letters...
comes the grafitti with a tow
of toe-tied batman:
only val kilmer will do...

       yes... i grew up on "serious"
cinema... "serious":
i.e. "curious"... i.e. bored...
existential feats of bergman?
the magician?

    a film that would never allow
me a want to subscribe to...
reading into...
what's beside... pop culture propaganda...
not under the umbrella of the soviets...
or the historical nazis:
or...

          this time compass of:
a withstanding inconvenience of
hiatus... and hubris...
        scandinavian origins story...
                
      the red sq.... promenade... delight...
in... to fashion a hugo: who boss:
boss of who? via: hugo's who's hugo: who?
this advent of claiming...
riddles from the 20th century...
all clear: calibre...

   prior to 1945... exciting years...
and of that...
as if... waking up... from a family affair...
king edward VII:
       Bertie 12/20
                             give 'im a "sigh"
of relief... let's make that... a reasoned
fraction...
              mr. cig ar ah-rette'tsar...
                 herr 12/24...
                              herr halbzeit...
                world war I borrows...
19th century and... the insightful delight...
of the ruling elite and "******" affairs...
after 1945...

  so many years... of having to...
have... one's humor... dislodged from...
a coronation:
the republicans...
contra: the libertarians...
blah blah...

               because...
by no means... the russians were...
ploy:
Bertie the... and Tsar Nicholas...
didn't resemble clones...
               herr halbzeit... who the **** was he?
it's not so much a conspiracy theory...
it's... everyman's fiction...

  who's going to bother time well
spent: in the advent of requiring said
events to have happened...

             ****** was an ugly surname...
and how he... confiscated...
how he... rode to events like a Khan...
and usurped... nay!
hijacked! the aritocratic houses!
and they... fell... head: oh look!
no heels!
                   look!

   kopf-uber-ferse!

they're english! the fwench wish
they weren't cousins...
but the house of ßaß!
it was all a family affair!
                
                       the affair was so minded:
that poor h'america was involved...
and... how... the freed people from
the trigonometry of tyranny under
king george III... escaped...
then had to... choke cousins...
and fake cousins...
and bride themselves to...
the fire-bombing of Drezden...
etc.                         and more...              etc.

people with tattoos...
yes... those who don't mind history...
history and their amnesia project...
i have... skin clean from...
auschwitz imposed...
or that glorified ink-itch of modern times...
i have history:
my mind is tattooed...
loser loser: and a winner of what?
a tax on a car?
a road tax? a car i also own an
m.o.t.
                  i've learned to ride horses!
give me a horse!
**** your traffic car sterility:
i'm in love with the double-decker bus!
from london through to honk-*******-kong!

the 20th century can't just
become some... amnesia deposit...
history is a fake: i was supposedly...
only... "dreaming"...
          through to the Weimar Republic...
but i'm not invested in...
culminations...
in... old scores and schools of thinking:
taxing the dead... etc.

                i drink when i truly enjoy writing...
and... imagine... that i do:
imagine writing for a newspaper...
writing as a chore...
that has to be necessarily...
an artifact of sobriety and...
journalistic integrity... mmmpphhhghh...
sorry...
   journalistic integrity?
apart from a war or... ***** dealings
when all the culprits have had
their feet washed by a:
jesus christ look-alike...
    a... idi amin... retired in saudi arabia?

one could say... since i was born
at the end of "it": that i was... have been...
hijacked by the 20th century...
to write... a parody... epitaph...
someone has exacted me...
to write... an exit... wording...

perhaps because... there's still that
20th century immediacy...
all the other centuries... could...
not celebrate...
they could march on... into...
a dream-esque satirical state of progress...
perhaps they did dream...
while we're struck by the insomnia
invented by the 20th century...
well... the 19th...

when Prometheus...
            Frankenstein: fire! bad! ugh!
when Prometheus...
               when Promotheus...
St. Peter would love to entertain
the thriced acknowledged...
thus: no denial...
      Michael Faraday...
   or that lightbulb men-struosity...
     Edison...

   to clone a sheep...
        the perfected beijing-valkyrie
of the genetically perfect:
zero acne... blah blah...
               but a clone: clone?
   trouble that...
if not soul: then autonomy...
clone to pet?
ah... clone to pet... ah... ha ha! ah ha ha!
a clone to pet!
answers: the clone's self-determining
autonomy: alias: S.D.A.
        eh... it's missing a letter...
let's just keep it as "soul" for the minors...

ah ha ha: giggles oh my! the furore from
pandemonium!
the idea so lodged in the inferno...
the last time anyone heard just
laughter... was when...
****** was first... "investigated"...
in-ves-ti-ga-ted... gay-ted...
see: missing letters... somewhat...

and yes... there is... the closest approximate
of... flying lizards...
of... turtles out-living...
   beside what could be...
contrived... exoskeleton mush of muscles
and brains...
magpies...
of all the birds... magpies...
the closest akin... lizard folk...
to descend from "angels"...

   magpies are like... the cinema
depicted... velociraptors...
   magpies are the modern velociraptors...
the crows can croak their odin *******
off all they want...
the woodland pigeons do their...
whatever striptease echo coo... coo...

magpies... for me... magpies are...
the heirs of the velociraptor...
proof?! ah ha ha! proof?!
what proof is there that...
an asteroid... hit the earth...
and wiped out the dinosaurs?!
i haven't seen any "proof"...
  i've just heard... an undeniable fiction....
supported by science...
so here's mine!
the magpie descended from the velociraptor!
have you even... heard the magpie...
the variation of its communications
vocab?
it's prehistoric! compared to other birds!
even in the words of humans:
they are... conflated with:
gypsy-mythology:
that they... seek silver...
anything shiny...

           intelligence is a curse...
what proof is there that a meteor wiped
out the dinosaurs?!
what's history like in the hands
of man...
with active negation:
i.e. "the holocaust didn't happen"...
let's write our own:
play dough history...

the magpie is a direct descendent of
the velociraptor...
somehow the d.n.a. survived the meteor crash...
the turtle is still here...
the birds: still are...
the jelly-brain pickle of the great t-rex:
the serpent is still wriggling away...
but i ask: what proof:
what greast... undiscovered crater?!
the Mariana trench?
there's? big squid **** and all range
of car-boot sale *******?!
there?

                 a statue of shiva too:
snorkeling... to boot?!
    i've been alone and "lonely" enough...
of all the common birds...
the magpies... the magpies...
the "teutons" of the skies...
the velociraptors...
                  you've heard the seagulls...
you've heard the crows...
you've entertained the sparrows...
the woodland pigeons...
the robins remained mute...
the kestrels remained mute...
the magpies were the most vocal...
and when vocal... at most: in variation...

velociraptors...

yes... this is "history"... it's "history"...
with journalism and... "journalism"....
              last time i heard...
a louis XIV made it into the t.v. with...
a sidekick show of Versailles...
eh... Phillip II Augustus...
    "perhaps"... just "perhaps"...
           the lion in winter... who the ****
ever happens to remember a historical
excavation fetish from 1968?!
it was only a ******* cameo!

not for the actor... the capetian!

A tropical paradise island is Hawaii that conjures a feeling of sheer joy,
It’s very mention evokes thoughts of vacationing one can really enjoy,
Location-wise one can state that it is “ far from the madding crowd”,
It is like heaven on earth, meant for visitors to be wowed

Waikiki in Honolulu is the hub for most hotels with proximity to the beach,
It’s just a 16-minute cab ride from the airport and thus quick to reach,
That the closest State to Hawaii is California - a 2500-mile sector,
Just shows how travel time from elsewhere, involves jet lag to factor

Located in the Pacific Ocean, Hawaii is quintessential if one may say so,
It is the only U.S. state outside North America that is an archipelago,
As the only state geographically located in the tropics,
It is a tourist haven, with always an abundance of optics

The word "Aloha" is commonplace in signages and on everyone's lips,
As a form of greeting it implies hello and welcome - a very useful tip,
The locals are very effusive when they greet visitors with Aloha,
One cannot but express delight by silently exclaiming, Aha!

"Mahalo" is another word that visitors get used to hearing frequently,
It means "thank you" - a gracious acceptance of the locals' hospitality,
The infectious warm welcome to visitors has an air of spontaneity,
Syncing with the embracing pervasive Hawaiian culture in it's entirety

The inevitable fresh flower "lei" welcome awaits visitors checking into hotels,
Lei is a symbol of hospitality, love, respect and aloha in which Hawaii excels,
A lei made from sea shells is an alternative option that one can have by choice,
Irrespective of the form of lei offered, wearing it is surely a matter to rejoice

Honolulu is the capital of Hawaii on the island of Oahu's south shore,
It is the largest city and gateway to the U.S. island chain and much more,
As one of the main eight islands in Hawaii, Oahu is the most populous,
It is also the business hub of the Aloha State and hence very famous

Also known as "The Gathering Place", Oahu aptly lives up to it's name,
As home to the majority of Hawaii's diverse population, it has a lot to gain,
There's the fusion of East and West cultures resulting in a delicate balance,
Rooted in the value and cultures of Native Hawaiian people, with no imbalance

The popular bustling and vibrant Waikiki neighborhood within Honolulu city is unique,
It is the epicenter for eclectic restaurants, nightlife and designer fashion boutiques,
Waikiki is also reputed for its white sandy beach that is a whole 2-mile stretch,
Where visitors throng throughout the day, as if there's little else the mind can fetch

Waikiki in Hawaiin means "spouting waters" and is replete with a gamut of water activities,
Surfing, snorkeling, swimming, canoe paddling and boogie boarding are typical beach proclivities,
With matching stunning views of the landscape, visitors can be seen lazing in total relaxation,
It is little wonder that the beach is always crowded and a famed getaway vacation destination

Friday night fireworks by Hilton Hawaiian Village along Waikiki Beach is a must-watch attraction,
The colorful display evoking delightful oohs and aahs from onlookers though, is of short duration,
The razzle-dazzle of the show skillfully transmits joy & happiness through the art of pyrotechniqes,
A feeling of bliss envelops one and all, on witnessing the sound-and-light show marvel mystique

Dole Whip is a popular non-dairy pineapple ice cream and, in Hawaii, is a cult-status confection,
A key ingredient is unsweetened coconut milk that adds creaminess and flavor to the selection,
Fresh lime bumps up the flavor and adds extra zing to the taste of the final Dole Soft Serve swirl,
Savoring the heavenly refreshing unique taste allows the hedonist's squeal of delight to unfurl

A visit to Oahu or any other Hawaii island is never complete without attending a traditional luau,
Luau represents a gathering meal of food, music and dance and is integral with Polynesian milieu,
It is a party like no other with continuous foot-tapping live music accompanied by Hawaiin dancing acts,
While the compere regales guests with anecdotes of Polynesian traditions laced with interesting facts

Hawaii is also famous for it's sensuous mimetic hula dance - traditionally, a form of communication,
Ancient hula, or "kahiko" with undulating gestures to instruments and chant was an original creation,
Transformed under Western influence to "auana", it now involves sinuous movement of limbs and hips,
The accompanying peppy music involves storytelling or place description well in tune with the scripts

The fitting finale to Hawaii luauas is generally the famed Samoan fire knife ceremonial dance,
A knife, partially exposed & wrapped in oil-soaked cloth is set alight for the performer's stance,
Incredible acrobatic stunts involve twirling, tossing and catching the knife to the fast beat of music,
The appreciative response of the audience builds up the momentum, reaching a crescendo almost seismic

Sauntering in the beach, one can watch people meandering about with gay abandon,
The inescapable feeling of blissful relaxation is typical of a destination-Hawaii vacation,
The days fly by, making you wish at the end that the stay could have been a tad longer,
While treasuring joyful memories in the interim, your thoughts go to similar places yonder

i would never ask
and you may never tell,
but do you ever see that
dream of us in Mexico?
it's okay. it's okay. it's ok.
you don't have to answer.
just hush now and say
something sweet to me
inside of your head.
Tell me dear tell me
do you still see us
at the Louvre, in the rain?
is it me standing there
or is it someone else?
how do his hands feel?
how does his voice peal?
does his fragrance waft
away from his skin and
tickle the ***** minora?
does he wash his sheets
every four or five weeks
to keep the lonely facade in tact?
does he live on a staple of
beer and roast beast,
an occasional moonshine
when the mood strikes him just?
does he torture himself senselessly,
incessantly, bridging the neurons
to find he's forgotten it all?
... does he love Cherry Coke?
no.
he isn't there with you is he?
it's somebody else. somebody
with yellow hair to his shoulders
and bright shining blue eyes:
the kind of eyes that tend to
outshine you, and all the
things you convinced us
you've got going for you.
the kind of eyes that seep charity.
oh, is he there with you when
you're snorkeling in the Maldives
and you realize that you've gone
just a bit too far underwater...
you're very deep when you
well know you shouldn't be.
then tell me: what happens?
you are found and swept,
carried and rescued until
BOOM! You breach the veneer
and there are all your friends
looking down at you, thinking:
"thank the Lord our Savior for
Titus Arnold Masters McMajor."

but love please love oh love,
tell me who you really see.
touch your lips and swear to me
that it isn't the mediocre man
who doesn't spring to your mind.
both of you without a stitch,
floating abreast and prone:

skeletons in the Dead Sea.

It ain't no mountain high-__++
enough heart stickers 2 pluses
But----she's beat like someone's
playdough high setting
diamond in the rough
High level of mercury felt tough
Like the good will hunting

Let's fulfill our dream with
less talking
More snorkeling high hopes
Big escape important titles
Such a Sperling report high crime
she got high hopes
A kiss is not a kiss
Casablanca
Piano many riddles

The delicate mood became the
Joker her low jeweled belly bottom
He could just pinch her
His paint when smoke gets in your long
Eyelashes the temptation her eyes
of infatuation
How he can move
her schoolgirl crush

The mountains
The holiday sweet baked sun cookies
He was lady looker starting
fresh like a rookie

All loving to the end of her earth

The painter Gogh the fine feather brush
Could lift smiles like hot gold rush

Way below I see something
My eyes became the hidden lake,
My body got exposed to the shining light
The Knight high tempo until the daylight
But there is a high price that's all
I could take almost my blindsight
Her body elevated

She sighs the law and order
The highest authority constitution
the movie camera high action
Higher force of her revelation
Like her Crescendo Moon
Hot body stimulation
But she became to see the
lower state of mind taking the
Xanax route

High hopes she touched the
Goddard

The Searching her lips
piercing she losing her grip

What a hot Australian dude swap
Kicking around in his boots the
  rain puddles of love hurdle
The high raft of the tortoise turtles

My heart lies the crescendo
Such a high tempo she screams

Opening up high five
my exclusively yours
Hot five emails to find got
so excited until etc--

A mountain of broken hearts
Luv her favorite journey high
living totally fab
Those hubs and cool London pubs
On the edge of ecstasy but my dark
midnight pup labs jump up the vibe

The earth stood like a still life
The darkness and the red moon
Everything I thought of came true
bleeding
The high sounds of the clock
Striking at midnight
I felt the coach driving up the
Godmother not the fairest of Bees
They were swarming high seas
And left me on my scared knees

Some leftover Crescendo of honey
His chinny chin Big Foot beard-man
High waist lady gold bonds
of money

Howling wolf complex mixture
of her body curves too many

Symphonies playing
Like something never failed
Seeing the beauty rainfall
Mermaid Tail

Like the crest of
Tsunami all the selfie's
MeMe high tea hours
100 feet he could
of very well
wanted so much
to kiss her high-cheeks
But finding the treasure
lips curved-low

Italiano tempered the wicked concert
Concerto higher up temptation
High tempo hot soup
Louisiana red hot tabasco
 You gotta have her gumbo

Going to the Mountaintop
Mr. Concerto meeting
the computer
Mr. Dumbo what an
Mc Jumbo
burger the "Clicker Bar"
The stars eating away
The greens of her eyes
Living in a hut spitting
pits of olives 
 
Spicy ladies of pimento
In young and restless town
Sacramento
She was sitting her name Sofia  
High rise body elevated
The wicker chair (Loren)
Contemplated
Hearing a sharp squeak
of his shoe that is his affair
He was walking
toward her

He fired out pool shark
Like the Crescendo cafe all neck
out like giraffes to dusk at night
Two heads are stirring
better than one smooth
spread Jiffy butter
Enjoying their cappuccino
the flamingo dancers the bodies
sway together to be engaged
Licks of her envelope
He kissed up to her first sip
Hot mouth expresso

The Pacific high tempo soprano
the mountain can be terrific
Be more specific

That girl Marlo with the
 higher latitude in St Thomas
it won't bring back
a love quicker
Our minds get slower
Using her useless hair blower
"Pacific Crest Inn"
Mind controller
Bathing on sun worshipping
What a star turning point

But lower and deserted on an island
Like smoking the sun up with a joint
the Apennines Italy like pennies for
her thought
The lust crest of her waving high
Surrender my love (Silverback)
Glitter silver high tent

Rainforest of Gorillas
Monkey *** swinging and surfing the
High society ladies what a fly-by event
High Apple Martinique the computer
Felt flooded like she could use a drink
Yes we have bruised bananas and
horn-blowers those outfitters
out of their minds towners
They never leave the crazy freeloaders
Shell be coming around your mountain

High tempo voice meet
Tatiana of the  black crow plantation

Feeling the soulful E-Harmony
Coupling eyes of tears Seattle
Cows and sheep all stacks of hay cattle
Right now her salvation she needed
something lighter not exactly higher
The Sierra Nevada crest she looked up
She went back to her Mediterranean villa
Looking at her pearly white teeth
And said what is with all this crest
I have the best hours with
my crest toothpaste lower teeth
being brushed to the higher height of
my top mountain teeth
That crescendo
was my new birth

For all of my coastie dad's wisdom
My summers spent learning to sail
My affinity for swimming since I was three
The countless snorkeling trips
The hours spent in canoes and kayaks
The trips paddle boarding and whitewater rafting
Somehow
I'm still petrified
By the rushing numbered current
Of a digital stream

it's true, what the current psychologists
say about watching current
*******,
i'll never get a chance
to "****" the current pornographic stars..
but i feel less disinhibited
about thinking of
some kim novak...
   i'm just stick to
pretending foster the people
and how, all of the 1980s was "bad"...
or the part where i confess to
the whole, ******* "debacle"...
you know why i won't be able
ton **** all these actresses?
most of them starred in 1970s
italian ***** cinema,
with french dubbing...
           i'm still fond
of a fictional biopic
of liberace...
                         modern psychologists
are right...
  the reason why i wouldn't be able,
is... 1970s ******* seems
so orthodox, organic, real,
you can almost understand why
it would take an italian production,
and french dubbing,
and why ******* would be
considered the ideal "****":
who would ask for a hole,
+ a tongue in it?
    mind you:
walk with a cat on your shoulder,
into a trukish off-lice,
pass a teenage ******* your way
in, expect nervous giggling...
what the **** am i,
a teacher?
     no, the modern day psychologists
are right, although they're not
psychiatirsts,
they do not have
big pharma support...
   1970s *******,
italian, with dubbing...
      monica roccaforte...
      dated a girl who's mouth
resembled her's,
  now, i'm happy to say,
she's married,
with 4 bambinos,
          all of them girls...
travis: walking down the hill,
12 memories,
that part of me that thinks:
thank god it's not anything by
mogwai...
too bad i still own a part
of me that is *******...
    well yeah...
i wouldn't want to **** the current
pornographers..
i'd prefer to sit out a silent
gesture of an hour's worth
with a cat...
      all the pornographers i'd like
to ****, are grannies at this point,
organic ***,
from the 1970s...
what is left, these sloppy-leftovers?
avenue of the three party tier
ambitions... + some rare sort
of revising golf...

            so much for visiting the ******
of amsterdam,
legally...
like: who the hell visits amsterdam
to smoke ****,
these days, of all the days
made available?

last time i heard:
psychologists are not psychiatrists
in that,
they can't prescribe you
******-active medication...
but it's true...
i ******* to unattainable examples
of ***...
all my ambitions are relegated
toward ambitions
surrounding 1970s italian
*******,
and subsequent french dubbing...

modern **** is crass...
some men would even allow themselves
the statement:
as long as there's a story,
behind the self-evident
nurturing of the inevitable act...

    modern pork / ****
is all that it will ever be:
namely...
     a lost libido for a lack
              of existing taboos.

nothing is going to replace
sensual *******
of 1970s italian *******...
**** this modern
gagging,
this... attempt at snorkeling
without any experience of water.

that there's a death of melody in music
and that it's coincidental
                        with a poetic death
of rhyme -
                      all precursor of:
res vanus - and a moving beyond
res cogitans -
                 building up a budding
of a frothing emptiness -
                           along with misnomers
as alt metaphors:
                   perhaps then coinciding
with a need for a glue of an imposing
maxim...
           now i want to put on a pair
of latex gloves and write like a perfect
******:
                a mahler or a penderecki ******...
where there was once
an aesthetic...
   there's only a sterilization process
that quasi "beautiful"...
   i'd love to get drunk on alfred jarry's
pataphysics... but i am compromised
by all the social engineering currently
  in process...
                if i could only find relief
in a rhyme...
                          thus rushing to engage
with an cul de sac of sleep:
with each night i prize open a prayer
of an otherwise uneventful narration
that my thought embryo has become
with the words:
let me not become an architect of dreams...
some variation
of technicality.... willful for
an etymological promenade of details....
otherwise a return to a language
summary akin to the final conclusion
of numbers: 1 + 1 = 2 via something
akin to: i ate bread: i fattened the lean
pig with a telepathy of digestion
and the absorption of nutrients...
and fibre for glue-****...

      variations of conjunctions: in
that a letter can transcend mere sound...
or a classification as either
vowel or consonant:

                  w:               in
                    z:             with...
o:            about
                          polakk slavic...
        i:                and...
                    th­ere might have
been a return to concern oneself with
the alphabet...
but what is the use of such
trifles...
                         now i'm starting to gag
on a fear that's turning my sessions of language
use: i hoped for the informal...
  i hoped for a delight of some
unfortunate circumstance:
             translating a death in public
with... the ultimate solipsism of
******* in public...
      some neu grand biting of the ice...
this eating of the ice...
                  counting one's teeth...
a completeness of a crescendo into
a heaving of procrastination:

that instagram stole from
                       the comic book...
            once upon a time: declan... tan...
gave me a comic book
for my birthday: batman vs. alien...

and that i am wearing latex gloves
while i write this: a momentary lapse
in a self-defining critique...

mind the articles in english:
a (indefinite) is akin to a telescope..
the (definite) is akin to a microscope...
mickey mouse turned magician spectacular...
i am sure of it...

i put on a pair of latex more times...
than i have put on a ******...
and that's not because i'm somehow
shy: the brothel and ******
are not... foreign to me...

i imagine the perfection of skin
in latex... what i wouldn't do...
when i otherwise...
squeeze... beelzebub's white pulp
of phlegm coagulating with
maggot brains of acne from my cheek
and nose...
          i imagine latex as that...
olive skin... that apple sunset burn...
it's beside a b.d.s.m. manual for
a total body covering
with a variation of exposed genitals...

i think of all those poor *******
strapped to role playing and uniforms...
i just want to **** a sensation
of an oyster shell one minute...
and exoskeleton slick of knee...
the next... then there's no clarity
of need or will...
      there's just this...
perverted persuasion of an unwillingness
and sabotage... tantamount...
in excavating new burdens
of reproach... for an otherwise basic...
safe and thereby senile:
striptease of a lost artistic...

              latex again... there's no concept
of dry ice... when picking up
cubes of the "stuff"... it's impossible for...
the dry... cold cube...
to attach itself liker a spider
to the rich lipid surface of the skin...

no hindering the typing...
process... but it's not like i'm about
to excavate a paragraph from this iron
maiden of a thought:
ego or inner voice or...
some other synonym as vague as
the architecture of god for
the diligent disguise of: fed on prayer...

because i have lost control of my ego...
i can't be an egoist when
i have come to assure myself...
this feral fraction of the sigma
that's me... this debilitating contraband
unit...
          to employ hands dressed
in latex gloves, to find paper...
to magically invoke ink with a machine-esque
precision...
      
       and because rene magritte used
to... take on the full attire...
of a suit... and paint: while standing up....
i imagine the thrill of gravity too:
this way... of jerking off while standing up
rather than... while sitting on the
throne of thrones and pushing out
a chestnut of:
dilating the **** a little bit more...

- and because this is not ancient rome
and that, "somehow"...
the gynocentric model of...
surrogate fathers even if complimented
by the status of emperor is beside
a question of the old / new norm...

roses bleed a colour such a near impossible
gesticulation at the beholder's eye...
a robed bishop of lavender...
scentless roses...
          give me a flower that...
impossible... the sound of a weeping
willow... rustling... being
rearranged by the rummaging of a wind...
clarity of the closure of sensation
come the petal...
this desire to find... the plethora of
***** as akin to flowers...

           my rotting crease of:
are you looking for paper...
are you looking for paper...
      i look for edible paper with a taste
of blisters... and nails...
like it might be disguised in
papyrus...
              
    give my heart enough strain...
and i will heave a mimic
of certain avenues being solaced
as having been fashioned for some:
agreeable loot of eyes...

sometimes the articles in english
are never used...
the corpus of restraints...
not that it matters...
the restraints are such
that the transgressions mean so very little...
except for a theatre of the absurd...
cruel becomings and symphonic
whirlwinds of the absolute cause...
like riddling a pyramid as a tourist...
rather than... heaving an excavation
of a height of a mountain...

to envy mountains is to construct
pyramids...
  it to also scatter ambitions toward
the primordial and always first:
looting of a sand dune pitch...
                 to compensate the tides:
one of rain and the subsequent
              sea...
or... the grains of sand...
and that deserted place..

          efficiency in the workplace
as a concept for purgatory...
and so many borrowed themes of pressures...
in a society of unit basis:
this greasing of a leather that's
not a pair or trousers or...
       which will become apparent...
a pair of disused latex gloves...

  such a paranormal fear of this...
otherwise possible yield of base:
                                       cradle the dilemma
of a yoke... without the white
protein hive...
         **** a lemon...
forgo the ***** gesture and...
limit: because there's a hybrid
in "question"...
      
otherwise... shrapnel base to base
basics...
some variation of the closed off secure...
adrian leverkühn:
the near impossible
"dialectic" of a oink's anatomy...
the pig foretold the limbo
of a sheik's compromise...

nearing death and a juice of
grey / variation:
nearing death and the juicing
of grey...
                  my no nearing...
death is such a devilish heave...
                 language has to half...
such beside nuance worship of
impromptu / beginner's luck...
  my samson and.. that *****'s riddle
wedded to a D...
            
                     E.L.P.:
emerson lake & palmer...
trouble with acronyms...
conjunctions are sometimes used,,,
while wearing latex... ghosts!
exoskeleton winding up
a giggle.,..
          my nearing a loot
of an oeuvre..
       childless creases of a fabric of
atoms...
this hierarchy of mirages...

                        asking for a friendship
with the moon...
a lacklustre of the three dimensions
of the old speckled hen...

a three legged dog...
                 my own father...
of which i make both sorrow and *****
having found no replica...
this tamed grandiosity of worded
junctions...

               snorkeling is somehow akin
to snoring... here i perfect...
a dickensian plot-hole in "laziness"...
but not really...
         to tame the crab bucket...
to tame: "above the hive"...
a question of why... wisteria might bloom..
seemingly, independently...
yet coincidental...
base repertoir of grades...
      completely useless when
sole verb projects are employed..
    
       i have reason to vain-belief
in the use of: a dreamless attire for the credo:
that's ambition...
bit i fear i'll sooner advent
an anger and a death... before..
i can be allowed a stomach...
and an allowing / alluring concern
for... persaverance...

         like it's a gilding...
an unfathomable first prized...
                     Edison-esque project...
           was there / could there ever be...
a scrutiny of a lightbulb?
                 a mountain reeked of a scent
of havoc...
      the confines of canyon
that of an all-encompassing tomb...

                 to have to riddle
with a rubric of skeletons...
             maya niqab... maya tow
a mouth that doesn't speak
or a nose that doesn't distinguish
a lobotamy from a prose...
new basic invasion of iraq...
  which is no new iraq:
i just devolved onto the topic of...
the rat that stank...
with a gravity of spectacular of...
wishing for the atom bomb...
wishing for the atom bomb.

WHY DO I HAVE
TO BE MYSELF
ALL OF THE TIMES

I WISH I WERE
ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE
WHO HAVE TWO LIVES
DRAG QUEENS WITH DAY JOBS
ACTORS GONE MAD
A BIGAMOUS, WITH FAMILIES
IN TWO DIFFERENT CITIES
THOSE VEILED WOMEN
OF TEHERAN
AN UNDERCOVER SPY
OR A LAP DANCER IN MIAMI,
AND SOMEWHERE ELSE
A PROFESSOR OF SOMETHING

WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS
ALWAYS
WHY DOES MY NATURE
HAVE TO BE SO
PREDICTABLE

WHY DO I FALL IN LOVE
WITH THE SAME KIND
OF UNSUITABLE MEN
ALL OF THE TIMES
AT TWENTY, THIRTY
AND FORTY FIVE

WHY DO I DO
WHAT I´M SUPPOSED
EXPECTED,
KNOWN
TO DO

AND CAN´T ESCAPE THE RULE
AND CAN´T ESCAPE THE RULE
AND CAN´T ESCAPE THE RULE
TO SAVE MY LIFE

WHY DO WE ALL HAVE TO LIVE IN THIS
PRISON INSIDE

WHY DO I HAVE TO LOVE
MUSICIANS, JAZZ
AND ALWAYS SAY NO
WHEN SOMEONE ASKS
ME TO GO SNORKELING, OR PARASAILING
WHY CAN´T I
SAY YES ONE DAY
TO LINING UP FOR HOURS
TO SEE THE SIXTINE CHAPEL
INSTEAD OF HAVING
A GLASS OF WINE BY TREVI
WITH A GOOD FRIEND FROM PORTUGAL

OR CHOOSE THE MOUNTAINS BEFORE THE BEACH
OR LEARN TO SKI, AND SCUBA DIVE

WHY CAN´T I
SAY I LOVE STOCKHOLM
AND NOT LISBOA
PREFER PARIS TO BERLIN
OR SAN FRANCISCO TO ISTANBUL, THAT´S IN MY HEART

WHY DON´T I MARRY
A BUREAUCRAT
WITH NOT A DROP OF PASSION IN HIS SOUL
AND A CONTEMPT FOR ART
BALDING AND CHEERFUL
TILL WE BOTH DIE

WHY DON´T I START
TO DRESS LIKE NUNS
AND HIDE MY SHOULDERS
AND MY LEGS
FROM PASSERS BY

OR I COULD
JOIN A CULT
BECOME RELIGIOUS
START BELIEVING
IN SOMETHING

WHY DO I HAVE TO BE SO **** SMART
AND TRY SO HARD
TO BE LOVED BY EVERYONE

WHY DO I HAVE TO CRY
WITH EVERYTHING THAT MAKES ME
CRY

WHAT IS THE GOOD OF AN INTELLIGENCE
WHEN IT REASONS ALWAYS THE SAME
WAY
AND ALWAYS REACHES
THE SAME CONCLUSION

I ENVY
THOSE OTHER PEOPLE
THE MURDERER
WHO BECAME A PHILANTROPIST
THE PRIESTESS
WHO BECAME A *******
THE OLD MAN
WHO CAME OUT OF THE CLOSET
AT EIGHTY FIVE
FIVE CHILDREN AND TWO WIVES

CHANGE
CHANCE
AND ALL THINGS
UNFORESEEN
AND YET ARRIVED

A CHANGING NATURE
CHAMELEON MINDS

CHANGE
THAT IS THE ONLY
INTELLIGENCE
THAT MAN CAN HAVE

yeah, like i don't get the fetish of a clear-cut
transaction,
she's bulgarian ******* who pretend to
be romanian,
   and she has this lovely tattoo on her
shoulder-blade like your port-wine stain
removal, you love her physique to bits,
and you're but an ogre,
  she takes your money and gives it to
her *****-slapping madame, which is
illegal in england because:
in england prostitution is only legal
if you're self-employed:
tell that to the ******* snorkeling in amazon,
dot co dot uk...
              so you're with her,
you've been with her before, and she's hammered,
she tells you:
     i'm hammered.
but you still **** her because the transaction
was, "sound"...
           and then you see her start crying rather
than vomiting from the excess of ***** ******* her
**** gave her and the disgust she feels
for you needing to get drunk,
and she starts crying...
        |||||||||||||||||| stop button...
the ****?!
           she starts to mingle with all the the
other "efforts": prostitution:
the exclusivity of the dual-nurtured object
combined...
                    ever ****** a *******
when she was crying, and then stop?
oh right, so sorry: "it" all happens in america...
guess all the Puerto Rico ****** have all the fun,
down in Amsterdam, never mind their weight...
but ever have to stop ******* when
a girl starts crying, even though you made
a transaction, maybe i've cave-person new-be
when it comes to the concept of money...
         i must be the famous hunchback
of notre-dame...
                                i still have the tear...
     this overwhelming guilt among the english,
juggling Madonnas & Jezebels...
                             how horrid for the sons
of england to encompass both,
with mere Oedipus, stretched in terms
of less ideological glamour and more in terms:
the perpetuated free-meal-ticket-ride...
           a lap dance is so much better
when the stripper is crying?
         likewise:
what do you call a pundit when a
******* is crying?
                not exactly bloodhound gang
easy rabies and a postcard's worth of:
you better wish you ****** this...
  sure... but the point being:
you never ****** a crying *******...
i have no answer concerning the meaning
of being interluded by such drama,
that's pure woman...
  i'll only learn the truth behind those tears
when a queen becomes a *****...
****... Diana is dead...
                            ****... who am i to choose?
she had the same exact tattoo where i have my port-wine
stain removal in the form of a scar...
     i love prostitutes...
  there's so much less gimmick in keeping
things fake, formal...
buying dinner? i rather eat you as my dinner...
england is ******* when it comes to
carnal desires... england always desired
perversity, homosexuality or trans-sexuality
which always deemed itself above
a very orthodox economic exchange...
   ******* perverts R US...
              i'm not into your ***** ****...
the most i ever got from a latex fantasy was wearing
a ******* ******!
                       but no "sane" woman will
ever have a chance to explain a crying
*******, even if she's a stripper:
  she has about as much clue into the whole
affair as the affair i had with
       the Gorgon:
   ***** was so hot that i had to jump into
a batch and pour hot water over myself naked,
while she remained ******* on the bed...
           it's always the dimmed lights and
the perfume of bourbon in a brothel,
and the intimidating introduction of
being in the ration of 1:10...
      and you're supposed to make a choice...
but a crying ******* is always a first,
blind drunk she doesn't ask for ***** ****...
odd, isn't it... most prostitutes as ******* nuns
in comparisons with the modern girls...
   can i repeat that prostitutes don uniforms
in brothels that are hardly revealing?
can i inform you that most prostitutes
behave like nuns?
    can i inform you can most prostitutes is not all
are not into ***** being the new pink?!
can i tell you some prostitutes
transcend the rule of actually
kissing you on the lips and giggling?
can i tell you that most prostitutes
are actually the lost encounters of the admete?
how few admire them for the other name,
that is... callithyia;
  entwined in courting whether there be,
or there not be a king:
                   leprosy judged or by herculean
might pronounced later lost of mind:
the daughters admete & callithyia
                renounce a history of past or future,
for a history that's merely a:
corrupt, current every beaming
recurrent plagiarism of a "beginning".

probably the best day in my life...
it's too hot to eat...
i'm getting leaner...
must have lost about 3kg...
    just one Cornish yoghurt with
some strawberry under-filling "jam"...

currently drinking whiskey
listening to a Templar chant -
  veni sancte spiritus...
i'll probably move onto some Byzantine chants
and then some Muslim songs...
whatever...

but what i really want to do is move
onto R.E.M.'s automatic for the people...
finishing a reply to: night-swimming...

no... nothing about skinny-dipping
with the full voyeurism of the moon...
snow... ice... salt and darkness... and the biting
cold...

this heat is intolerable...
i spent the day glues to the wooden floor...
i was switching positions...
to one side... to another side...
one leg on the bed...
lying on the floor...
one leg one arm on the bed...
no good...

              it became so hot that whenever i lifted
my torso up...
i lay down: FARTING with my back...
literally... i haven't eaten anything in
about 3 days... well... "eaten":
i find technical grounds to suggest:
you eat something when you get to
**** some of the excesses out...
ergo?
        i've eaten the bare minimum...
ergo: i haven't **** anything out...

the zenith of summer is intolerable for me...
i hate summer...
   even if this years summer brings with it
no snails... or flies...
just ants... spiders... and rats...
i do hope the rat problem i'm having
in my kitchen will be resolved by the heat
rather than rat poison or the "guillotine"...

i was lying on the floor dehydrated and feeling
sort of serene...
i think i could die from hunger and dehydration...
then again: what's a calorie intake
from merely alcohol?
         it probably does fuzzy "things" to the brain...
no wonder i'm listening to Templar chants...

me at my worst...
         strange... the Templars were the most violent
of the crusader camps...
yet... they sang the most...
it's not like the Knight Hospitaller...
hell... match them up: the Templars with the Teutonic
knights...

i've come across these two men
in my nearest past...
distraught creatures...
     "rats" willing to bite their tails off...
i too was in their confinement
of de profundis...
                  no one but me came to my aid...
scuttling... lost... blind... torn...
i'm sort of happy i could have helped them...
the good one can give unto humanity
is so cheap yet so expensive...

   perhaps it has been my purpose to not
attain wealth...
     then again: i'm already wealthy...
the Romford public library doesn't own
a single book that i possess in my private library...
it did, though, put me on course
of acquiring Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
but that's about it!
   the rest is junk! i live in a city where the public
library is a joke, compared to my private collection...

this reality is: truly... PUNISHING...
Ilford had a better selection...
i gained some recognition writing my A-level essay
on the counter-Reformation in high-school
based on the research i did:
from the books i found in the Ilford library...
i just heard that the next class of pupils
were introduced to my work...
but the current reality? PUNISHING...
                
i had to resort to *** with prostitutes...
i do remember the last one i pleased...
           no... it's not working... BITE IT...
she die... it wasn't working... i had to return
the favour... slobber in oyster juices...
probe with my nose...
                insert my index and middle...
as imitation...
                         personally? i find giving a woman
oral *** rather therapeutic...
        play me some monk songs while you're
at it and i'd reached the godhead...

one of the traits of the myth of Gomorrah...
******-eaters...
   i'm one of them... short tempered:
***** beyond repair...
                        i could drown in a bottle
of whiskey and about a dozen *****
properly dished: hygienic...
just frenzied with taboos of...
               flowers... pink and slightly purple
tinged bouquets of floral flesh...

flowers... endless bouquets of floral flesh...
maybe that's why i write so:
i abhor talking during ***...
i tend to insinuate my partners to refrain
from talking during the act also...
if they can't: i don't restrain them...
but i contain myself to the maximum
of an onomatopoeia... there's no "daddy"...
there's no "*****"...
        i'm of the persuasion:
you ever **** me like animals **** each other...
or there's no ******* conversation
outside of *******... the end...

and this is what makes...
songs akin to the Templar chant: veni sancte spiritus
so... so... DOUBLY ******!
it's a hidden eroticism...
because it disguises what could otherwise
be a misunderstood ****-eroticism!
it's not! sure... women sing...
but when men sing to other men about
something that's deified: by each individual man
and therefore unrelateable...
by "casual" constraints leading toward a belonging:
a camaraderie...

that's different...
             no wonder the Teutonic knights had
a brothel in their citadel...
sometimes... you want an excuse... any excuse...
to bypass the narrative of Eve
and return to the Hells and Heavens of Lilith's
company...

damaged? no... hardly... i'm just unlike any
of the Jihadi G.I. Joes and Johns of the current era...
i actually want fame postmortem...
and i actually want a harem in "heaven"...
i'm testing the waters... not by killing people on
the whim / promise...
   you begin with ******* prostitutes...
                 you end by ******* prostitutes...
stealing kisses... performing oral ***...
this is me CRUSADE against whatever the JIHAD
has made available...
thank **** i made my way towards Turkey...
now i'm planning advances towards Iran...

- i still think one of the best albums ever recorded
has been, so far, R,E.M.'s automatic for the people...
just like i remember courting her hands
with firm grips while eating her out...
peeping with a pseudo-voyeurism into
her eyes...                   sure: my *** is not gay-pride
***... it's what was made available:
certainly nothing sadomasochistic... organic...
law-breaking... all the more real:
the reality being:
it's illegal to own a brothel... in England...
it's not illegal to frequent one...
BASE...

the SIDEWINDER sleeps tonight...
            well... i'm not sleeping: right about now...
i said i would and i did...
cycling shirtless... t-shirt-less...
furry brother on the run from the sun...
what an amazing feeling...
just like R.E.M sang about night-swimming...
hmm... NIGHT-CYCLING...
   in my world no is trying to fall asleep
or thereby trying to wake up...

there's just this grey glue of people
in between of being in between...
and that's almost contained within the word:
hubris... hell... even better... a compound
of words: a hubris-hiatus...

             i like that... "we" should invent a HH
dep. to make sure the HR dep. are doing their job...
maybe i'm just dehydrated...
haven't ingested enough calories...
or maybe... i'm seeing clearly while other people
are still forever: fuzzy...

ready and to burry your father and your mother...
what did you think when you lost another...

not my words.. worries wiped and dusted...

NIGHT-CYCLINNG...  SHIRTLESS...
barbarian within all that's could be
compensated with a "whole"...
hours prior?
dealing with the heat...
the bed could be considered useful...
if it wasn't for the excesses...
i prefer the floor...
i'd like to think that knocking on a pine
tree would spontaneously
conjure up an idea for a door...

then again... could a forest conjure up
a house... and a desert too?
                hmm... pyramids...
necropolis axiom...
               who dies, apparently: lives on?
no?
                     then i best be dead...
                 thinking is an involuntary act...
sort of automatic sort of by no persuasion
sort of forced without any originality...
hello: oranges and no future sunrises!
hello: how's you: ******* too?!

how's that?!
         me? i'm sort of chirping along with
angels like a pigeon ought...
because: pigeons ought: chirp and chat
with angels...
              and i want to breathe death
into the minds of gods... telling them...
you ought to be subordinate to what's
the required burden... that we ALL... SHARE...
THIS... *******... BURDEN!
savvy?!          no! there's no in-between
we either share this burden:
or we don't! if we don't? well then...
the gates are open... we annihilate yourselves..
we work with each other?
    there's a second chance we might
breathe... or swim... or take a liking to
bicycle...

            then again:
i'm not going to care that much...
i just want a harem...
             i find women boring...
if they're not multiplied...
i have a short attention span...
and a long attention span...
i'm just too envious of men prior to me...
i don't want to be distraught with
an envy of Solomon...
    
and i kept drinking: because i felt and felt some more
intellectually isolated....
i couldn't conceive a retention of intelligence
beside the realm of what could be obtained:
or rather... disregarded...
i could never become "Cosmopolitan" enough...
"gay" enough... "proud" enough...

these days a litre of whiskey is not enough
for people of my "incompetence"...
it's enough, though: to lean either left
or lean right... or... neither...
                         goof: my indifference is screaming...
a silent scream before the altar of Moloch...
times are changing:
nothing really changes...
           the perpetual expansion
of space...
poetry > mythology > history > journalism < poetry...

death's not really apparent until...
what's not supposed to be dead...
is actually dead... is... dead...
          by curiosity concerning the colour purple...
all out mortal concerns
confines to the allocation of
collecting pillows... to replicate clouds!

my friend died... a grandfather to no one
beside me... but also my cycling buddy...
yet all these people became involved in
guilt tripping... some daughter... some son...
i lost a... friend!
i didn't lose a grandfather! primo... i lost a friend!

i sooner bled from my head
than i cried with my eyes!
i associate the name JOSEPH with: LEAVING...
i smear my tears like women smear
their fake attraction chemicals: apart...

to the burdens of death and to the burdens of life:
death to the living... and life to the dead...
at least some are unreliably
unaware that they are there, yet.

one comment after another:
but isn't that Ii? there's no N... in that... it's iota-iota... not lambda amber... well... great... for shallow beginnings... best try scribbling some graffiti...it could make my commute more memorable... don't... seriously... i was just traumatised by catching a rat in my kitchen... i was keeping a female main **** in between my feet... even she ****** off from the dying sounds... death by snorkeling on a bleeding snout? bleeding from biting the tail off?! if a rat's dying in a way that makes the cat *******... and you're like... should i open the door and stab it to death?! yeah... great Cyrillic sort of ******* br'uh..

you ever listen to a rat die?
ever listen to a rat die in such a way
that your cat runs: the **** away?!
my father compares me to a rat...
he doesn't compare me to
a fox or a vampire: wish wish...
i'm just a rat...
              
   i just wept... listening to a death
of a rat...
i wanted to open the cupboard
and stab the baited ******
with a guillotine applause...
         but then i thought:
i suffer... you suffer too..
         hell... if the cats are not going to touch
you... i'm not coming closer with a knife
either...
death the great deceiver...
   with life the greater culprit... of making:
sacrifices...
more that's to be lived than
is to be expected to die...

           did "god" say as much?
what's the point: if... a limited number of potentials
are not exposed to the glory of my "thinking"...
i expect more to have ever been alive
than for those to have been accounted
as the arithmetic of by death's: queue...

remarkable... my father keeps calling me a rat...
remarkable... sure... i drink...
you ever listen on a rat dying
from a rat-trap? then again: i don't know...
i started to insinuate Morse code
by scratching a knife
against the cupboard...
imitating / creating circles...
that ******* squeaking...
                       the retaliating motivation
to pursue life!
       i took my Maine **** into my lapse...
to wait for her to pounce...
even she was distraught...
she ****** off.. even she was like...
sure... you open the cupboard door...
aim the knife...
or... you get a good night's sleep
and let the rat die on its own...

listening to a rat die from some minor injury...
i'm thinking... of men dying beach-strapped
to their injuries come D-Day
concerning Normandy...
     i like to have the luxury of being
this forgetful further...
getting sentimental about listening
to rats dying in traps...
in the middle of the night...
while i was no Newton and i'd prefer a pear...
but... a cat... couldn't listen to the torture...
a cat... a cat couldn't listen to a death of rat from
a trap...
i lodged her between my legs in order
to pounce...
she ****** off...
    she couldn't stomach it...

you ever listen to a rat dying in the middle
of the night?
i thought about the death of my grandfather...
i should **** mosquitos more often...
i should **** spiders more often...

but rats?! oh... **** me...
the way they struggle coming to the fruition
of their expected life...
scuttling... scribbling... scratching: nibbling...
the squeaks...
CATS *******...
seriously... a rat's dying: the cats *******!
me too... i ******* and drink to excess...
why if your father calls you a rat...
and then... hey presto! you catch a rat!
and you're killing it...
well... tear... umbrella... raindrop...
one fine autumn day...
                   thank you dad:
but i won't be mourning:
like you weren't mourning for your dad...

maybe... what's that? maybe i wish i had a
a wife... then again... maybe not...
i just listened to a rat die... scratching like
mad...  
                 sure... the day was great...
being glued to the wooden floor over-sweating...
until... scuttling and nibbling...
a rat caught in a rat trap... probably dying...
the ******* cat was traumatised!
cat! not predator?!
                                or maybe it was the fact
that i was weeping and wanting an apology
to come through...

i haven't eaten much in the past 3 days...
i need to sleep...
i actually need to fall asleep in my bed
and wake up in it... rather than
on the cold floor with not pyjamas...
i abhor summers...
              these superficial insomniac events
of non-event.