Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            





February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles



Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.


January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

ip

.does the concept of a misnomer, exist, within the confines of synonyms?

                       poets began complaining:
if we're not rewriting
         the brother grimms'
fairy tales...
   we're writing: about reading...
so what the hell
is up with the modern revamping
of journalism?
  journalism about...
journalism?
   and this legalißation of
homosexuality...
and the standardißing of
of transgenderißm?
i'm living inside a society,
that has abolished the concept
of the asylum...
      and i'm like:
oi! garçon! noch eine tee
   für mich...
             an dis verrückt
                  engländerteeparty!
- since writing about reading
is the consequence of
a landfill site ergonomics...
what is alt and Samson
journalism?
            oh look... another set
of people, who've entered
a problematic posit of plagiarism,
having to wrestle with,
yet another cul de sac scenario...
the nuestasi...
      i agree, there's a healthy
canvas of competition...
but... after a while?
  it's basically people slagging
each other off...
    journalists "doing" journalism
for the front-liners -
journalism as simply
     the editorial sections
of newspapers...
     opinion avenues, rubrics...
there's no longer a journalism
within the regards of:
what's happening in the world...
but...
  there's a journalism,
within the confines of:
what's happening in journalism...
the day had to come,
when the times newspaper...
had to run a page 2 story...
about a Toff Tinder dating app.,
about pseudo-eugenics -
minus the strict Nazis,
and more:
   those annoying English
aristocrats,
   who received, much more
than a circumcision when
     ruling over the Indian Raj...
mind you... it always bewildered
me...
   most european languages...
do not actually allow noun ascription
to letters...
   like the greeks might with
O being omicron,
   or A being alpha...
    hence me, among the "losers"...
well... because i have
a roof over my head,
and there actually exists a class
of employed
people in england,
that are, nonetheless, homeless!
    the latin alphabet,
with its Ah Be(e) Ce(e)...
                      ****...
just before they cut his ***** off,
the castrato at the Vatican: sang!
sang! ****** sang like a
Modena tenor... having his *****
squeezed, before having them cut off...
sung the alphabet...
   and... couldn't fathom
ascribing a noun... to a single letter
in the encoding metric...
            no surprises...
but it's not like tyrants didn't
need eunuchs to keep harems...
back when the plastic industry
wasn't in full swing...
   and you wanted to keep 200 women...
you basically needed walking ******
to keep the women occupied...
     so... a walrus bollocking
within the grasp of a, "sudden"
loss of stamina?
                 evolved...
like a tree made into a toothpick...
because... only some make
it into the kingdom of god,
imitating the monogamy of
the nobles, that are... notably swans...
the concept of
     widowhood exists among
swans...
                 sometimes...
among people...
        but hell...
                      this Bulgarian
******* asked me:
do you have a girlfriend?
   nope.
              - and the "affair" was over
within the confines of an hour...
the same emotional investment
as one might take...
   in killing a mosquito -
   omni corpus - nulla cor vel mens...
was that said, plaintively?
not really...
              no bogus drama -
   the sheep was still intact,
when the wolf left, satiated.

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
"Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark
No doubt, it fairly took him in — the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! One hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "******! ****** ******!" yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said "'Twas all in fun'
T’was just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough."
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

indeed, i finished the night off with a wolf's operatic ah woo! at the yellow lunar scythe.

i never understand why people, with such fascinating lives,  |
pre posthumous auto-biographic
with so much Don Juan  excitement would surrender to
being cocooned by bookworms,
the silence of libraries...
just last night i had the most lucid
and the most entangled experience
within the world of the living,
i so desperately want to write about...
but i can't...  i can't!
i want to, but i'll flush all the emotions
that went into experiencing the night
away and feel vane, which is hardly
apathetic, syndrome of atheism
a fake, a- (without) pathos (some sort
of pathology) -
**** it, the highlights, two mates out for a
drink, end up in the company of
a half-mandarin half swede (suede eh eh,
nudge nudge, buckle two stops of a torero
winky wink - nudge nudge of the elbow
only fools & horses banter);
graffiti on a book i carried:
dr. john marchent, LSBU,
london south bank university,
the science of chocolate*...
the scribbler? her name be... what
a ******* zigzag, got her surname
but her name i had to rewrite:
rhiannala                            fowler...
yes, the H is silent, it always is in english
unless it be a haystack of hyphens...
there were many more details regarding
last night, i could write them,
but when i once saw a girl getting spat on
by her "boyfriend"
and the way i spat kisses all over a girl's face
i think it's too painful to make details of...
a sly impromptu in polish with
a guy who was smoking hashish...
12 years over here... i don't know why i
kept associating his name with ******;
a fine Friday event in bohemian east-end
London... that's all, and yes, i seriously wish
i could do a detailed Proustian outline...
eating a ******* macaroon to delve into
the gaping hole of memory making 20 years
seem like 20 minutes...
of course i'll curse, pornographic over saturation...
obscenity trials my ***...
             i'm so ****** tempted to recount you
the night... the drinking Bacchus **** and laughter...
die sonne satan and what not mentioned...
           runes ironic third ***** ******* for good luck
    tilting to antagonise a clear upstart failure...
feminism and advertising,
                   comic book strips and something about
keeping a brand with an ethic worthy of anorexia
and gluttonous upheavals as the end...
               'and yes, i decided to become an Elvis Costello
    song because i thought my life was boring enough
worthy of a manuscript...
            if i had the life of a Don Juan, i wouldn't have
   bothered... me in a cocoon? n'ah,
me in a coconut sounds better...
          or as i wrote in my high-school memorandum:
  to live a bohemian life in one of the EU's capitals...'
and that's prior to the 2004 expansion,
even though i was sceptic - and to finish:
west end you get cosmopolitan culture -
east end you get bohemian culture -
               or as a quasi Mr. Portillo noted -
toff toff truffles too! yep, some ******* labour
coal miner descendent fanatic bemused out-loud
on our way for the night bus 86 -
where i was hit by an existential conundrum
about having this ethnicity bred
and this psychology acquired:
'i spoke to them native and they're thinking
i spoke Hungarian or Czech or Yugoslav! ha ha'
the two children were a wormhole into the past for me...
but for the love of god
you can't find steve wynn & the miracle 3's song cindy
on the internet... i have the album, but the compact
is scratched... and encode a scratched compact
into an mp4 format and your iPod is kung fu ******.            |

|represent a neurosis of a perfect width...
|should the middle ground be peppered
|with shorter stances,
|the first few lines have to match-up
|to the elongating caterpillars of the end -
|a kinda hug / embrace.

We gather in Old London town,
the time is getting late.
The fog is slowly coming down,
the year is eighteen eighty eight.

The Leather Apron stalks this eve
ladies of the night beware.
Such things he does you wont believe
and for your welfare he’ll not care.

Hello Mister have a heart,
a girl has got to earn a crust.
A shilling for this fine old ****
for you look like a gent to trust.

In her hand the coin doth shine.
Does she lead this toff astray?
Here’s a quiet place that’s fine,
as she walks up the alley-way.

Face to face and eye to eye.
The victim happy to be plied
with vigour she lifts up her skirt
but now her hands are occupied.

Seizing strongly at her throat
he strangles her till unaware.
Unconscious although not yet broke
he lowers her by head and hair.

Now insentient on the ground
the Ripper sets about his work.
In the dark without a sound
there is no detail he will shirk.

He keeps the body to his left,
her throat is sliced from side to side.
The woman’s family now bereft,
whilst she lies here without her pride.

Left to the nights illumination
Jack executes his deadly art.
Performing such skilled mutilation.
and leaving plus one body part.

Daylight opens up commotion,
"Whitechapel Murderer", strikes once more.
The peelers haven’t got a notion
who it is that killed this *****.

Scotland Yard are in despair
as they try to Investigate
their credibility beyond repair
for they cant find this reprobate.

Eventually the death toll, five,
the murders now come to an end.
Folk are free to live their lives
but could you trust even a friend.

Over an hundred years or more
professional research is far to late.
Jack, can we ever know the score?
"No... All you can do is speculate."

Over red wine I did not get the off-
side rule. Well, I doubt I’ll understand
now we’ve ended. At least I beat the toff
out of you. It seemed that way at hand,
at least. The Wall put up a good fight,
made me think it a battle I could win.
Ball went over wall, I watched its flight
unaware that what I’d done was thought a sin;
Next time I come across a toff like you,
I’ll remember it just can’t be beaten.
It’s a shame because you seemed worth it too,
but then I guess that’s why you pay for Eton.
My life goes on, pretending I’m not sad,
while you play the Wall-Game with Prince Harry and your dad.

good to hear from the finns.

at least poetry has the decency to allow me a mirror
into a heart, rather than all this **** reasoning
that decided: like i ******* care
to hear your narrative.
for 20 odd years i enjoyed my narration
that didn't transcribe itself into
a "poem" or (god forbid)
a youtube video;
people in the west have this profanity
in them, they always cite beginning
something aged eight, or nine...
which precursors to them saying: i'm a genius!
i started wanking aged 7,
because i found a prono mag in the catacombs
of a church that was being built...
that's genius? ever ponder the consideration
that you can become sexually aroused
prior to producing *****? and teaching it
to someone? so where do abortion rules
for pro-life come in, into that game?
and believe me, it was the most beautiful and at
the same time ******-up relationship that lasted
for about two seasons of a year...
i went to st. petersburg and met her parents,
although she called her mother her sister,
and she called her grandmother her mother...
i was given a silver spoon to shove up my ***
as a symbol for the consecration of vows...
to be honest? figuring out god was by far
easier to understand than that woman of teasing
teens... i was 21 she was 19... pushing onto *******
infinity... added to the fact that i thankfully haven't
lived anything past that...
    9 going onto 10 years spent in an imaginary
prison of my room and collecting books...
     but what's really sad is that i had most of my
knuckles used up in childhood,
   i remember chasing *bioły around a "skip"
with rafał kicking the **** out of him,
then bioły's older brother kicking me in the ***,
then my neighbours, twins grzesiek & krzysiek
turning bioły's older brother's car (a fiat 126p)
upside down...
      i swear yesterday i heard that the c.i.a. was using
samsung televisions to spy on people
by turning them into audio-related devices...
            it's still a bit foggy for me, to be honest,
i'm in the cinema of memory...
it's beautiful, not a lot of people in the theatre,
just me the memory of being a kid
and a dog trying to **** my ankle...
             it's weird, the highest quality of my memory
comes from being born elsewhere,
there, where i didn't have to use this tongue...
  phoo! foreign *******... look at me now:
a complete mongrel of soul: so much so that i have
to listen to songs in finnish...
              what's it like reading yesterday's newspaper?
daffodils!                                   daffodils!
it's scented candles in a spa!
                                  i forget you don't keep ****
but instead flush it down the toilet...
                       i got to page 8 and read about autism
and something about the lack of the flush button
for the brain (fat) processing protein...
   i have this skin condition whereby i process white-blood
cells (protein) so efficiently that i have to store
it the pores of my skin... which probably allows me
to drink a litre of 40% alcohol a day and worry
whether the day is gone and the night arrived...  
                                                                ­      oh the wonder!
i once heard that solipsism is a mental illness
by some ****... to be frank, isn't it a coping mechanism
when reading the newspaper?
              how much of the dasein do you actually
want to keep to live your life?
         everything and nothing is happening
north west east south and centre...
               prior to page 8 of yesterday's newspaper
i have an american president looking flash
like he just walked out of a prada "bookstore",
          (people do read you, rather than judge you,
and it does come from donning tracksuit bottoms
and walking into a supermarket, and then selling
your poetry book to a cashier)...
  so yes, existentialism and the "technique" is all
but the summary given by the older technique of metaphor,
since homer came before socrates.
              i do remember my first kiss,
i was very young and her surname was kot
and she was the elder sister and she had twin sisters
and her father drank a lot and operated a truck...
why are my most sacred memories reserved to
8 years spent in poland?
                   i have to abide that 8 is a sacred number
of memory content, after that it just disappears
into grey, mundane;
and how hard did the french think up ∞ working
from 8... so O and 0... the concepts of
       rhombus or a game of squash, which is
so much better than tennis;
       the best part of this is that someone might
misunderstand me as if i was a toff...
    toff? toffee? english middle class? no? never heard
of it? i'm sure.
             english kings go to st. andrews,
                            hostile immigrants go to edinburgh.
my original intention though, for this prompt...
what was it?
            it's not even a case of amnesia,
it must have been that autism article and how
the brain (fat, it's wholly fat) degenerates by a protein
invasion... and the journalistic populism of science
in england: this consciousness coordination
of flexing muscle equivalent to the brain being protein
based... or "brain power"...
                    that ***** is equivalent to a buttock...
it's not going anywhere...
       they did shoot andrei chikatilo in the back
of the head, and kept him in a cell for about two
weeks before his body gave up...
back of the head, yep, shot him dead,
like that theory of cockroaches, they can survive
for 2 weeks without their heads before they die
from starvation; and this is ukraine we're talking about;
i do feel sorry for kurt cobain and hemmingway...
kafka's concept made more sense,
     attacking the heart, rather than the head...
but obviously not translated into a rhetorical debate;
could this be untrue?
                    how are we celebrating history
and cunningly hiding death?
              i was once interviewed by a psychiatrist,
she gave up on me while i called her field of medicine
a facade, and i mentioned reading kierkegaard,
so she gave up on me... but in this one particular
room i was talking to this woman...
- and some people fear death.
- i like you.
- that's strange, we only just met.
                       i prefer this encoding of dialouge,
it's rampant in poland, and also in ireland...
     you think adding milk to tea is an english thing?
it's called a bavarka, and it was typical
of giving it to pregnant women in siberia...
  adding milk to tea isn't an original practice,
it originated in siberia... serving tea with milk...
it's a bavarka.

Today I took a stroll.
I found a dusty beard and I knew it would suit my face.
Now this beard I cannot erase.
News gribble.
When I sleep, on my beard I dribble.

Some days I wish my beard would melt away.
But usually, I accept that on my face the beard will stay.
Quirt on the squirt. Squirt it off.
That's all it took. Now it's gone. Oh floff my toff!
Now I am nothing but a beardless face.

Channelling Nostradamus from the sixteenth century
Did you see what you just wrote
Or did you just dream what we see?
When your prophecies come true
I'll say, You only had one view
So good luck to you and your future note
One shan't believe from an invisible visionary

When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring

The ******* ***** always seems to wear lingerie
That always looks, just a little ******
But never ever, do they slavishly try
To imitate their true identity or culture
Not like those Kardashian dogs, that dress up
Always trying to stylise society, for a very large fee
Speaking of canines, where's that poodle named Paris
She had some real talent, didn't she?

When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring

I wish upon a **** star of mine
Whilst screaming up to ones heaven
Most pussycats lives, end in about nine
But my time was all over, within almost seven
Maybe I really could, make it all alone
On this place god calls, my extraordinary rendition?
Or shall I live this false life, as some sort of robotic clone
Not truly knowing oneself, therefore, failing my own audition?

When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring

Well, just get back on that bronco horse, named Toff
Dust off that hat, once worn by certain gent
For they will forever try and attempt to buck you off
You the rider, of this very serious event
So, forget about the fame and good times
and the overhyped lives of most Hollywood stars
Live within your means and save your silver dimes
In your half empty or half full, glass money jars

When I wish upon a **** star
It makes me appreciate who we are
Everything that she'll be requiring
I'll think about you and make it inspiring

When I wish upon a **** star
My dreams start to become truth by far.

Look,  I found a new book to read,
This is a book of nonsense, indeed,
Titled, "The Amicable Divorce",
I did snicker and chortle, of course,
Who wrote this? Some toff,
I sit and read and scoff,
I wrote companion lit.,
Equally full of blip,
"Improve your kids' English,"
Real vivid vocab., that's the way,
What this witch wants to do to them,
Only one way to handle abusive men,
"Uppity, uppity, shove broomstick uppity."
"The Amicable Divorce"? Heavy, heavy,
Look, a brand new book to read,
"The Amicable Divorce", nonsense indeed.....

I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this tind of krubble
Sever yince I was sung.

I backed things saidward
It muzz wore than embarrassing.
It got me picked lot upon
Subjected to hate grarrassing.
Sometimes wumbers nould
Lood just like wetters
Back when I was lysdexic
But I am betting getter.

Not just lysdexic am me
But I Spoonerise tum soo.
And unce that sets started
There is lo sittle I can do.
It get’s ard to understand me
And it isses some eeple poff
I really bish I could weegin
To **** to stalk like a toff.

I used to be lysexic
But I’m betting getter.
I sometimes get letters
All gangled up totether.
I often lose tontrol
Of the taction of my ung
I had this kind of rubble
Sever yince I was sung.

and in our childhood we beheld the beauty of
theocracy - all of us - bedazzled by it,
enthralled by it, we reached the pinnacle
there and then - in our childhood we beheld
the beauty of theocracy - each and every one of
us cherubs worthy a plucking for the heavenly
choir - and like Adam and knowing through
to Eve and un-knowing that a man might
riddle trousers with a kilt - just like that,
it's not a belief in god that's required - far from it -
in childhood we sensed theocracy - the grand
hall oratory place of inconvenience - a talk to the hand
moment; thank yous and not yous -
we were too young to formulate a being as grand
as god - too young - even though it was implanted
in us by others that came prior - we're maturer now,
it's not the idea of god - we were young and
the prospect always hanged in the air of inhibition -
we weren't entirely eager to exhibit prayer and petulance
equally - in childhood as in nostalgia (for the two
are equal in meaning - a rarity to remember outside
childhood, romanticism and whatnot) - in childhood
as in nostalgia it's not god we're searching for,
it's more or less: theocracy - we're nostalgic about
a system of politics that overshadows what came with
the fall / maturity of man - man answered democracy!
and so it was - our version of politics always sends
a shiver down my spine - belief in the midgets of
the caricature of spine-and-wing is not that far apart -
no one in their truest mindset is searching for a god
in order to receive ridicule, not a personal god that
overpowers a man's personality to a U-turn abstract
of what was formerly known of a man -
against the strain of that some champion as necessary:
individuation - the pressure to a coup d'individu -
that sort of god isn't there - the pressure is to find a
the once intrinsic theocracy of childhood -
now that we have the governing body of democracy
hanging over as: demo politics - demonstrative,
demanding, debatable and... debatable -
and to merely think outside democracy is to have a
thought of an autocrat and a mouth of a slave -
otherwise you're just mouthing everyone to a lullaby
of intrinsic Tory toff-ha-ha. we're not missing god,
god is hardly dead, it's that we don't have the same
theocracy that children have governing them -
we have democracy - finding god in singleton-land
of proofs is about as good as finding a teardrop in
a sea - it means abandoning your personality in order
to skip the hardships for the perks - who is anyone
to collect knee-bending at the altar? why wouldn't
an Orthodox attendee of a church in St. Petersburg
let me sit in church while the choir sang?
oh right... the priests here still have their backs to the people
when reciting the testimonies -
and this simply sprung to mind after reading a psychiatrist
or anti- write out his the bird of paradise (1967, r. d. laing),
a psychiatrist opens up and thinks he's writing prosaic
poetry - great in theory - i mean lucid, frank, simplistic,
but the conundrum comes when no theory is
passed down - no hereditary intellectualism - nothing,
starting from scratch - that's the existential brick-wall
of notation focusing on the i the existentialists used -
the unit they thought they could bounce theories against
and get some original echo back... the only originality that came
back was mere criticism - nothing more.
i'm not looking for god - why is anyone looking for him?
everyone in democracy has this sudden urge to
become a cult-leader or despot? it seems so...
i'm looking for theocracy - in the democratic spirit of
transition that's been given to me - so funny...
god is an uncertainty but death is a certainty - strangely-funny
how the two never seem to coincide - unless in the mouth
and eyes of a madman who shoots you at point
blank range and says the words: time to meet you maker;
Jack'oh Wacko.

even hegel read jakob böhme                   (boo m'eh) -
to keep the democratic spirit - obviously the Kardashians don't
know a hairbrush from a toothbrush - but that hardly matters -
what matters is how Pearl Harbour turned into karaoke applause -
the idea of an american in europe: spaghetti slurping  -
even that considering the "special"
       relationship of anglophiles -
    anatomy of antagonism:
        spaghetti swindlers of talk -
slurping that tangle into an easily sold
global affair would never juice up the idea
to think about my neighbour as someone
i'd care to be;
          and as common with the postmortem
childhood educators, the curriculum of such
people always stated: learn otherwise -
       no wonder their screened the
personal vanities of Versailles in the 21st century
coming from the 18th and 17th century -
learn the truths concerning the genesis
of the 21st century in the 24th century at least...
i'm under the righteous impression:
most of the people i live with have
been savaged by science fiction,
and the slowness of science in itself
that they are tattooed with a care for now,
but never tomorrow... imagine living in a society
that pays its workers in month's wages than
in week's wages... can you imagine it?
the two re- debate: again quick (reflexive),
and the again slow (reflective) -
if i'm glorifying the latter than the former?
oh, that question... you have to reply with:
usury and why the libido of old men
equips young girls to the same libido,
and why young men are worthy of a war memorial
and the mud of trenches...
and why young men can't with enzyme-fervour
bind of the satiated young woman sexually
compete... and why so many say: **** it.
one *** spends its youth barraged by usury -
and all other hamster wheels,
the other *** parties with the cocksure crowd:
and then you expect a withstanding human bond?
ha ha.    forget it... hey lady, how's that old man
treating you? he's the pope, i know.
                         forged from the Martian
        ashen heat cooling: in how she thought
the two would meet and raise a family in the mythology
of Eden... when she got paid her student fees
by sugar daddies, and he got spit to extract feeding
handshakes - that only turned into jacking off
                                                                ­      gambles.    
  she now the happy soul fathomed as the bigoted
              entrenchment in this world: as forever
  and if only trying: then at least expecting war
to solidify the point.
                just the other day in Camden Market:
she's complaining about her libido with older men,
   he's complaining: your problem is that you go
for older men... oh ****, then all the problems of
natural correlative assertions, and children to
masquerade the real problems... and pop culture
and what's being gagged (apart from the gimp,
forever caged and clad in leather, and a mouth
that's really an ****) -           the children suffer
    from would otherwise been a beneficial anti-evolutionary
suggestion: that i was recipient of the outside environment,
rather than the inside environment of some benefiting
sir esquire toff -                 give me my tail and fur back!
   i don't care for gymnastics or vogue! give it back!
******! this ain't an improvement,
                 who heard of primeval predators building
guillotine scaffolds (although, i admit, that's humane) -
or ****** Mary being beheaded with a blunt blade -
or gas chambers... when i think of tigers i think of
humanity greater than man with his apple i7 phone -
i think of vampires... i find it hard to believe
we evolved from what was already perfect...
                   to improve what? we were always outsiders...
    narrators - then again, if i'm the sort of
"creationist" scumbag, then i can just say:
Chinese and Welsh dragons and dinosaurs...
   and to be honest: history is obsolete given the
two timescales of the big bang (what a ****** name
to start things off... heard a bang in a vacuum?) -
              and monkey -
                                             which is no wonder
why history died given the timescales, and why we
are overly saturated with journalism, the 24 hour reels
and nothing really happening in those 24 hour counting
                   mechanisms:
which is no surprise journalism resurrected a pseudo-dialectics,
   i.e. an opinions section - and there they are,
like third world dictators, unchallenged, journalistic
freedom is the last thing to fight for right now,
   not when journalists don't have any journalism to give,
  and invoke the need to be opinionated,
and in thus being the above said: unchallenged.
                 Colonel Falafel? sign me up!

Fresh night air breezes past me,
Funneled down though parking garages,
Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants
And through the smoke of every kitchen employee
Burning on the back street.

The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment,
But goes mostly unacknowledged by all.

Thus the wheel turns

Cook, clean, run, serve, smile
Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling
Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat.
Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.

I’m so nice, I’m so nice
Poppin’ ‘bout life and poverty
Saluting freedom, then liberty
Barbering ‘bout broken homes
Police brutality and fake politics
Then, puttin’ one shoe, upon a petal stool
Next day, breakin’ da number one rule
Shakin’ da jewellery, just like a toff
Makin’ the op-po-sit-ion, just take it off

I’m killing them, I’m killing them
Soap operas, sports 24/7, real life reality
What has dat done, to da young ones mentality
Expect da government, to pay for their new home
Pupils wide open, but grammatically ****
Blaming Putin, instead of Democrats cockiness
While Trump and Republicans, are gettin’ on with business
Wake up USA, land of da free, but nothin’ without a fee
Be yourself, respect your elders, dats wat ya wanna be

On the seventh day we paid the rent
and what was meant for food
gave us one more week to brood on inequality and the inferiority of our position.
One condition we stipulate,is not to tempt the hand of fate or providence
and not paying rent would surely dent the image that we try to make
and though it breaks my heart to part with nine and six a week
and even if I know the landlord's got a bleedin' cheek to charge this much
I touch my forelock and say,
'good morning Sir'.

An air of doom and gloom descends it all depends on what next I say,
will I pay this ghastly fee to keep a roof over Marjorie (the wife) the kids and I
or will I look the landlord in the eye and let him know that he's a thieving crook and intimate that he should go and **** himself and take the rent book too
what do I do but lay the nine and six upon the table with the pale blue rent book and do not say, 'go **** anyone'
me and the missus and kids will stay on for another week while seeking out some other place where barefaced robbery is a crime.

In another time the landlord would be shot his houses all forfeit
but today that rotten toff has got it all, it's like a noose tied round my neck,a millstone that drags me by the ***** and puts me down
I ought to push that bad lot in the 'cut' and let the baftard drown,
and I said nothing, not a sound escaped my lips
the class system trips me up and weighs me in and while I drink a bottle of sour milk he drinks Geneva gin.

Poor people and peasants never win
the odds are bent in favour of more rent and that rotten sod will nod and shake his head
I'd wish him dead but that's another sin
and like I said,
poor people and peasants never win.

(Circuit Breaker)

You read somewhere that the rich get richer and richer
and sit on the yachts with staff in the kitchen
you apply for the staff and surprised by your inbox
you made the cut as a waiter to clean for the richest.

Buy the gear, take a ride, kick back on the boat
where you’re treated like a spy with a knife at their throat
the world keeps spinning as sparks fly down wires
but you're sick of this prison, where you lie ’til you’re tired.

Bottle up and float out to ocean, the back of your mind
is still hopelessly broken, one day you snap the wrong way
while this tax dodging sociopath sits laughing and lolling
the sun hides before him, you take the tethering rope;

snapped, ill, broken and bitten you rise to the bait
and run down to the kitchen, the chef chops away
you slip in behind him, chop chop away he doesn’t
bat a lid to you routing through the draws throwing

most to the walls, you find what you need and run
to the top deck, a suit tells you to step back
but you give them the slip, knee to the stomach
they flop on the deck, groaning and hunched

they step back up, a crack of the wrist, an almighty punch
over the railings they curse, yell, and cry for the boat
but the captain is networking about his lunch
you pull out the cheese wire and stroll to the pool.

The toff is surrounded, near empty yuppies
photographing themselves perpetuating the fourth
section of sinning ‘though shall not fool yourself
that mankind is winning' with the wealth squandered

here we could afford houses for the women and children
of the war your involved in, to fund the oil sales of the one
in a billion, so they can provide you with a classier
place to abstain from the real life and ****** up system.

Run over and clear the robots of richness, tell them all
'go ahead, keep taking your pictures’ while you strap the wire
around the neck of the fattest cat in business,
they all cry in horror as your grip tightens the purple

-faced smart-mouth shouts out for help but calls his helpers
a 'bunch of ill mannered sirens’ as they step back afraid
a single one daren’t come to his aid as that glint
in your eye shows the will to die to **** the tyrant

who’s gasoline fights killed your mum and your dad
and threaten your kids, you thank god that it’s over
though the system's corrupt, this wars been reinstated
reissued so that those above, know the people

aren’t fooled by their false promised lobbying.
Your death row grin comes back at dinner
as a copycat killing claims the next victim
you were the gush that unclogged the piping.

Remanded to Risley
by the order of
her Majesty,
to give some pleasure
to
the treasury
I rattle my chains.

Blame's a losing game and you can't blame me for that, but we're all in eight by four cells and alarm bells keep on ringing.

They demanded life, I said,
'my wife wouldn't like me away for that long',
apparently I was wrong,
she's run off with a toff from down South,
and I'm down in the dumps
not to mention the mouth.

I rattle the chains and try all the locks,
they strap me to tables,
give me electric shocks.

The treatment becomes the punishment and the crime is time in fits and spurts it punctures me and how it hurts.

I rattle my chains to the sound of my pains
and it sounds like a Max Bygraves
record.

Yo, word up with you, my drug running mule  
It'll cost $30.00 ok? I've got it right here, so don't drool  
Put that **** in your mouth, too *****  
Yo get bumped with that ****, yo aren't gonna get any Cuban cigar  
Done, another bag of crack, sold  
Be on ya way, you've been told  
 
I'm Skillet and I'm 19, I've been doing this ****, since I was 15, man  
You've gotta feed yourself, 'cos nobody else going to be able to do it, like I can  
We grew up without mothers and fathers around us, do you feel me?
You've got to be your own father figure and steal, you see  
Get your own money out here, however you like  
'Cos no one's gonna to give it to you, not even brother Mike  
  
I get crack on credit, and sell it for $10.00 a rock  
After a long day of moving product, back at the trap house, we use a big lock  
The real work begins, splitting the take. 1st up, the crew take their cut  
Between the 3 of us, we're gonna split a $400 profit, off the ounce  
It works out at about $13.00 an hour, not bad for a daily rut  
We count on volume to make ends meet, for me and my louts  
 
It's not too much, but it's about the quick flip  
We aren't really thinking about making too much money, it's just a real trip  
We're worried about getting it in and getting it off  
So we can stay with it, you feel me you toff?  
The rest of the cash goes up the chain, to the crews drug supplier  
He's a regional distributor, that works with the cartel, it's a no brainer  
  
You have to pay him or you'll be six feet under, you'll be smoke man  
******* smoking for that account man and his Mexican clan  
Where we're from you've gotta keep it with you, not he  
Or somebody will run in your trap or something, you feel me?  
In 2014 there were over 2,500 shootings in Chicagoland  
Everybody out here are either thirsty, robbers, killers or Alice in ******* wonderland  
 
You gotta keep your eyes open for the haters, you might see  
They'll try and take you down, 'cos they ain't eating, you feel me?  
It's all out war everywhere, except ******* communist North Vietnam  
That's why we call it Chiraq, because it's so ****** up over here, ****  
You don't know where it's coming from, man  
Your ***** would cross you for a couple of bucks  
That's how it is, yo gotta keep your pistol close, even when you call the ******* waiter  
If not, ya gonna get got, much sooner, than later.  
 
Skillets homeboy Breeze, is always ready with a gun  
He's had plenty of practice and not just for fun  
I use this all the time. ****, if I had to swap with someone, that belong  
**** be getting hot, you can't keep the hot ones for too long  
There's my baby though, as McDonalds say, 'I'm loving it'  
All we need is that money, man, that's all we care about and ***** ****.

Down town in the torn town,
the pit town with no pit,
no coal and life's **** but we
got nuclear not far away,
across the bay,
the dead bay so the fishermen say.
What a way to carry on,
the men tired out
the youth all gone,the
pit town's no place to be when you're young
but don't believe you're free
it's in your soul.that
big dark hole where boys and men slaved from
6 am 'til the lights went down in
pit town.
Remembering now
how Grandad looked when he came home his
back all crooked and
dirt that clung onto his lungs like an
extra skin,
He never put much hope on coal or on the job or in the hole
and all he got was a silver clock for forty years,
his life in hock and then he died.
We all cried until the whistle went and other dads with backs as bent as Grandads was set off to work,to work and cough while some bald headed toff marked cards and paid them for the shift they'd done and
now pit town's done and
best forgot what
Thatcher's hatchet men done, a shady lot of (they'd say gentlemen) but
******* all the same,
across the bay, the fishermen say is dead
is where our future's led us,
where the ******* bled us dry
where one day
we all will die.
without a coal fire in sight.

It pains me to say that chicanery reigns in the palaces that we once admired,
bought off by some toff that sits in the tower and showers down false accusations.

They may wear fancy clothes to the function, but skulduggery rules and in or around Clapham Junction the rooks have a feast.

Anyway
news from the hunt will soon be front page,

they shoot elephants you know and I know
that's a sideshow



the real killing goes on behind
closed doors.

Can somebody tell me just when did this happen
commentary on when the bean is ready to ripen
we had tea long before time
from China down through the Himalayas, our army marched on this stuff
we all now have a new flavoured taste, the humble cup of tea is now considered a crime

From the elegance of Earl Grey to the builder’s cup of Yorkshire
to be handed this over a mocha or latte, oh how those new snobs do sneer
seventy pence for that cup of drivel, I would rather die a thirsty death
a bit like shopping in Lidl, only at my last breath

Sitting down with paper in hand, let me look like I’m part of a movement
I’m one of you, were part of a clan, our work taking up life’s joyous fulfilment
Order a bagel or maybe a donut, take a box back for the guys in HR
I know I’m being ripped off, but best look like a toff, as I struggle to pay for my flash car

And there we have it and what we create, a brand now known in our time
from the mods to the rockers and onto the 80’s yuppie,
to be different is seen as a crime

They rock up to work, Costa in hand as they clock in with their key fobs
for these are the people of today and will always be seen
as the new age coffee snobs.

JJB

i concede, if you really think
that i have to vote to make democracy
work, fine...
            you can have my right
to veto...
                 but god forbid you come
between me and taking out
recycling "waste" every sunday,
   esp. onion attired
   (t-shirt, t-shirt + a long sleeve
                                      shirt)
and a blue fruit of the loom jumper...
freezing both my imaginary
  **** and testicles off...
       the testicles are the real bit
of this "hermaphrodite" though...
           because what is this critique of
modern painting?
                 sheeeeee't,
                             a re-discovery of geometry?
we only achieved having rediscovered
the cube with picasso...
        sure, an over-quoted example,
       does that mean modern musicians
will re-dicover the orchestral triangle?!
hey, pots and pans with
a drum kit in the universe of
          a butterfly caused a tornado...
but please don't take away my fetish for
taking out recyclable goods,
   i know i wasn't born german,
but living among displaced germans
on an island (i.e. saxons):
    you get a lick as some sort of
compelling impetus to repeat and act...
        it's really bad to cling to rhyming
these days,
            once upon a time that's all
the poets did,
                   i ate
      a piece of pita, bread...
                     esp. in february, which is
arguably the coldest month,
   you can see the moon during the day,
and during the night...
                   it actually makes sense
to recycle...
                      the whole: "re-invention"
of a wheel...
                       sure, hardly a revolutionary
act, but, for some reason
a highly satisfactory "loss of limbs" act...
   because didn't "mediocre"
fester with the most potential for horror?
   though i wonder:
you ever attended a polish catholic mass,
when they recite the creed?
    satanic murmuring to me...
  had to down 200ml of cherry *****
to sit through it...
            because those who attend
the mass at Częstochowa are
gesticulating kneeling, praying, pitying
before the schwarzmadonna
               (ha ha, "irony"...
an etymological curiosity:
           (he) często, chowa...
                           often hides...
               that's the literal translation
for a name of a town...
               the pronoun is in there,
because that's how english functions,
shrapnel... pronouns need to be used
very often, polish?
           sometimes you can talk for
two hours and never use pronouns)...
point being: who are these people
praying to?
              must be the ****** artist
at some point...
            the person who actually drew
the icon...
                  because i find it beyond
contempt to have to
    internalise the subject matter contained
in the painting,
         or what's that objectively?
never ask a lunatic to explain the point
of a church with no one else
shackled to the church in there with him...
        spooks!
              yet as any german might,
i just love taking out the recyclable
materials in orange bin bags...
                     and you really can attest
to a moral compass via this simple feat...
        actually, most times two polacks
talk, you never actually use pronouns...
      hicky over there
   is still paranoid about other people
dropping the A-word,
               but he could sign of Hiroshima
and now he's riding a lazy eyed
donkey with a twitch in one its eyes...
jockeys, camel-jockeys, you name it...
                 i know you can hide a letter,
well, j, but no he(h)sus... zus... ave zeus!
   in that tilde on yer N...
                                but how would to
unravel the R-trill?
                rrrrrrrr-olling?
       in english the R has been numbed...
******* cobra bit the toff's tongue
and he's trying: not to slurr...
                                              r̃obot?
ha­ ha, ******* wavy line...
                     o.k.,
                                          we can do that...
i would have never have known that
R = sysiphus mechanism
    and O.... well, just that dumb piece
of sculpted brick...
                         can't believe it
though...
            so much pleasure from recycling
packaging.
summary...
    crotalus atrox,
    grzechotnik,
                          alternatively known
   as a one "man" band of
                    playing maracas -
    unless you can beat this trill-R on the tongue
representation worth of tilde:
                                        go for it!
   re-inventing the wheel is going to be,
real easy from here-on-in.

The tube terminates at Kennington which is nice but it's not Wimbledon and it's not as bad as Paddington,
the bear will bear me out on this.

Say your goodbyes at Kensal Rise because at Warwick Avenue they'll ****** love you unlike West Ham where they don't give a ****.

Little Venice, Hampstead and St. John's Wood are all very good, Sloane square for the toff, Knightsbridge where they'll rip you off and
Brixton station where gentrification has changed the atmosphere,
the map tells me
'You are here'
but I can't see you.

Has a petrol-head called Clarkson
run out of speedy road to park on?
Because of his late meal,
his producer got a weal.
Now his fans wail: “Oh Dear!
It’s a dead  end for “TOP GEAR.”

Seems the wheels have come off
for this brazen non-PC toff.
Is it the end of the ride
for Chipping Norton’s pride
and no clear  Right of Way
for chums Hammond and May?

No sensible man would scupper,
his own TV slot for a cold supper.
Yet there’s alpha males who dread,
TOP GEAR’S due for a feminist retread.
Go girls! Vroom! Vroom! Time for you instead.

TOBIAS

Pared off
May as well be like your hair,scwattzkoft
Except that your a toff
And I know,that I have scoffed

Wanna get close to what you are
No matter how close,but you're so far
I'll bang a different jar
Compared to a ton of tar

re: DEΔD: 125 scientists 75 bankers 3 journalists 24 HOURS video.

i actually don't mind listening to people
reading, esp. not someone like
   james munder:
            the author of this video on youtube...
perhaps me imaging
                     cuddling a panda is out
the question,
                   but it's not the "mistakes" he makes
that even remotely "bother" me...
             the interjection of apology is,
well, cute?
                       then again, he is bound
to reading something written poorly...
                i wonder what
     diacritical mark application
                   would do to such a reader...
   e.g. sam gyimah...
                   would gýīma(h) fair better?
          grave, jet, yet...
   guy-ma(h)...
                       tongue tied or
   simply: well, we won't built a wall,
   we'll ensure everyone is "literate",
    but we won't build a wall,
     just words that might as well be spelling
mistakes, or words that require
   another person to have said it, a priori
   (prior to a unique mimic event)
      and then... you get the english
suburban labyrinth.
                       another example from the video:
dr. anne, szarewski...
          the usual "argument" of the anglophone
is that slavic languages have
"too many" consonants...
              well, you can rewrite that word
and put it back into the pedantry
of what's the anglophone ontology
                    of language...
    either dyslexia, or memory erosion
with no clear syllable structures
   due to missing diacritical mark application...
                            SHA-RE'VSKI      
i'm not a ******* linguist on the matter
but studying lingua abstractum
                  as any linguist might...
    i.e. [dik-shuh-ner-ee]  | /ˈdɪkʃənərɪ; -ʃənrɪ/ ...
this is the part where a bilingual
comes in and, has not a gram worth
of gloat in a crowd of polyglots...
                  you noticed how lazy
the linguists have become?
                   no diacritical marks in sight in
their little: attempting to be a mathematicians...
what's that? ʃdy/dx?
                                       you're talking
calculus?!
                    sure, you could pull off
   d(icks) i.e. an S with one in
                             *****-shou-nerry...
               or have to remember: dictionary.
  i still find the english language
   to be constructed without clear syllable
autopsy...
          and why should i write like this
given computer language is just
as complicated?
                      well, if that language is not
going to get any easier,
      my use of english will not, either!
i still haven't heard of a dyslexic poe-lack
          (******);
                     another example though:
[thi-sawr-uh s]     |    /θɪˈsɔːrəs/
      FE, FE thesaurus!
                  any diacritical marks in
  that intellectual shambo?
              (shambo? back in the day,
in the countryside, before urban sewage
systems... people used to dig a massive hole
in a field, and then bury their **** in it.
            that depiction is probably
the worst attempt at writing music...
or language... the ancient egyptians
  are laughing right now,
    shouting: hey! give 'em the rosetta stone
to boot!
             nonetheless,
   listening to james munder
                  i still think about hugging a panda;
sometimes a man can really have:
an appealing american accent...
                most of the time:
     you just feel like throwing an english
          toff into the couldron to **** people off.