ząb... or tooth... zęby... or teeth... the lesser Ezra in me is more bewildered by the non-existent strain of either vowels or consonants in English, than the Chinese ideogram... i agree: you must have an idea when reading Chinese, and a population of over a billion... and subsequently a well-known linguistic complexity, a thrice-over Chinese wall in the eye and off the tongue, to later precipitate into an ease in making the mathematic tongue acrobatic... but then have no theoretic procession to study the complexity, or hear a xylophone... i'm the membrane mid-way between burying the Latin anecdote Beijing... and asking to kiss the hand of Marco Polo... had he wrote the Quran... i'm just simply juiced for one reason, this is my take on the corner-stone rejected... ******* the crucifix, and tickling the feet of the crucified one... as anti-jew as i can be... well: volk zu γoλγoθα... or volk zu γoλγoφα... compass! mein kompaß! alter: volk zu ßιναι! oh look... quantum physics... it behaves gleiche y = w, ~i, >ł.... and into a p.s., as γ = Υ (upsilon contra gamma)... once more, the lesser Ezra in me is bored with the Chinese ideogram, it's translated plain and simple, perfécto arithmetic! and the billion-strong populace... applause to the Chinese politicians... democracy as an pure English export is not wanted... it's decadent, and ripe for only decay... please, god or yoga no... we can do without it! this is the lesser Pound... i could be fascinated with the Chinese ideogram, but i'm frankly occupied with addressing the English encryption.... mind you, that translates as: you missed a spot... and they did keep their language so diacritic-free in order to form the global empire... which can only mean that mad geniuses and other akin stipend students will ever appreciate... but my fascination with diacritical marks, or their lack, is akin to Ezra Sr.'s fascination with the complexity of the Chinese ideogram, or rather the syllable form of not enraging the trinity, therefore concise, xi (ξ), chi (χ), chow (χω) mein (μεjn / μει - gagging ιota: main... mejn... replaced by additional curvature of j), kfu mang thu! kuchi kuchi, kat(h)mandu.. gucci gucci... rattler... or pinky on the black key in a piano concerto... the odd number... thus the english siamese of i and j, the only letters with diacritical marks, beginning with ιota being the one under-dressed... and they are indeed there, for clear syllable intake, as a way to pave for the architecture of punctuation, and what could be later described in the real world, as a punctured rubber tire, or a sewing technique, in the guise of tartan to a cayleigh whirl / orthodox scot that's: ceilidh... ****** me, god's a pauper, leaving him out in the cold of nonsense when man just asks for kejl i, p.s. dogged out hound harking grammaton, and some random number outside of tetra.

pst! look in the woods! you might find him there!
music always overpowered my
need for women, i always found music to
be antidote
  to ensure women exist -
               dunno, dough]nut -
or dunno, it just happened...
      CENSOR MR. CENSOR!
HELLO?!
                  LOSER. HTML
IS INFECTED.... now i'll come off as paranoid...
    but then i am typing in paradox
  land...
                my keyboard is ******...
a case of etymology... *wargi - and
pysk - or usta, and buzia -
one's kiss kiss,
      Tarkan style...
  but i wonder why when i listen to
  in extremo's rotes haar...
i imagine dwarfs dancing,
        but then the prancing pony of
hedningarna's vargtimmen -
       which might    
mean *******, but
then it might mean something
in Finnish... vargtimmen: meaning: close your lips...
in Finnish; so bound to the word trim...
trim your lips.
even though the people didn't move,
a lot of ******* children made Poland their
home... for example wargi, which
means usta... add a p to usta
and you'll end up saying: she's empty, barren.
no wonder the transgender movement
occurred in english... words have no
feminity or masculinity... so ***...
they're asexual, apathetic...
   a male can't own a table
in the Freudian sense of signifying a phallus...
stupid me blaming St. Thomas' gospel,
when the problem lay within the realm of per se...
       i have to add: it's a bit foggy where i'm right
now... and my html is a bit bonkers...
     but it still stands as Finnish and Polish
versus English non-mythical when sniffing
the **** crack of America...
          fog ought to be enough, apparently it isn't,
you need to care to
economise and work to an ethic of working
so hard throughout the year for a 2 week holiday,
   and then end up throwing away your food produce
and then feel irritated by a homeless person...
   so yeah... you're grand!
          i mean i am...
the we is automatically bewildered...
i couldn't pet a woman, women are much more
than cats, and i pet two cats and hate them...
     not having women means i am resistible...
if i were irresistible i'd be insane...
      the magnetism of prefix convergence...
   re- means again, not against...
   and in- can also mean a-,
          every time i speak the scandi tongue
like i might found saying the lazy way an english
man says ****-,
               i feel like jumping up and down...
hed- -nin- -garna!
      hey hey **! jump you mo fo!
                     and i live in england and i care to
take to escaping english, that's really messed up...
i can't listen to the tongue... a bit like my russian
girlfriend said to me: Polish is just static,
sh sh sh sh ch ch ch ch... i mean, the best
***** in the universe are done by the people that
really hate your ethnicity,
they love you as a person, and the person they
love to ****, but then the collective unconscious
comes along, and they say the most horrid
things in between the orchestra of vowels during
the ******... babe, you drowning? i know
i am.
            if a yiddish man would come along,
he'd write yzwz... because that's how h became
z in the grapheme sz and ch...
                 and paradoxically: it's not the smallest
sound... and if the Latin grapheme continued its
existence... and was regarded as the smallest
linguistic unit, it has to mean that
    two names converged... it means that
the coliseum will overpower the church...
   which means that the Latin man had names for
his letters... and it was never all about music
and castratos... it was never a simple a when
the Greek said alpha, or it was never as simple
a b when the greek said beta...
vargtimmen! purse yer lips! ye gods, pout!
  duck-alliances throughout!
   yack yack yack... quack... ******* ponces
and narcissistic nuances...
yes, when w = v = w = ł -
               when it is meant to invoke the ugly duckling,
and a swan, and a łabądz -
my soul is already Scandinavian bound...
  like Frankenstein's Jr., to the fog, the snow, the frost...
      if Spinoza is the prince, then i'm the king,
the tetragrammaton just drops out like
a birth of an antelope - it just drops out of language,
but it only drops out, once you have used
a language associated with diacritical marks...
knowing solely English or Russian Cyrillic won't
help you... it really does just drop out from
the ****** of nothing like an antelope on the savannah
plain... but given there's no diacritical
distinction in it... being born into a language that
uses diacritical markings to ensure there are
distinctions, makes studying the tetragrammaton
all the more fascinating...
English uses no diacritical marks, neither does Cyrillic...
the Greeks are cosmos (polish slang reference
to them being on l.s.d.) with their niqab of
diacritical usage when English Latin remains
slap-stick naked... come on! put on a ******* bow-tie
that might be at least the french acute over
e!         éh?!           knowing the lazy sod, he won't!
but such is the joy of experiencing etymology
with music... to associate
vargtimmen... a Finnish compound word,
with the English word trim...
         or the word dimmed...
           and the Polish clear-denotative word
for lips... i.e. wargi... or usta...
  timmen might also mean: to bite...
  warga is the singular of wargi, i.e. bottom lip,
    to bite the bottom lip...
            does the music in hedningarna's expression
say much? no it doesn't...
   poetry can be the least musicological
         when analysing music...
             the best poetry can attest to is:
gauging your eyes out with it's bewilderment that
it has become such a primitive art,
   compared to the etchings in the caves of
Lascaux...  how that's really said?
                 obviously las-cow...
                  or proper: lascau(x)...
            the two tier of language... those who live
off it as noun-to-noun... and those who live
off it as hand-to-mouth... solely verb in action...
    it's actually a great shame that i should be writing this
and having a father who perfected the craft of roofing...
  i feel more an imbecile, and even more a rooster
in a wheelchair...
        so much for having a russian girlfriend for a summer
and an egyptian friend for no reason;
don't worry, you won't write a biography about me,
  such nuances of language with a personal twist
can remain where they are, in the archeological
dept. of nowhere.

thangs that are dumb and show offish
is posting how many views i got and
i got a lot for only being a noob to site.
aint jealous but hate when a lady
used to yack yack about how many
shoes bought when i had a job.
do not miss that woman cause
she was like over eating candy
that makes you sick also

"Tout aux tavernes et aux filles."

Suppose you screeve? or go cheap-jack?
    Or fake the broads? or fig a nag?
Or thimble-rig? or knap a yack?
    Or pitch a snide? or smash a rag?
    Suppose you duff? or nose and lag?
Or get the straight, and land your ***?
    How do you melt the multy swag?
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

Fiddle, or fence, or mace, or mack;
    Or moskeneer, or flash the drag;
Dead-lurk a crib, or do a crack;
    Pad with a slang, or chuck a ***;
    Bonnet, or tout, or mump and gag;
Rattle the tats, or mark the spot;
    You can not bank a single stag;
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

Suppose you try a different tack,
    And on the square you flash your flag?
At penny-a-lining make your whack,
    Or with the mummers mug and gag?
    For nix, for nix the dibbs you bag!
At any graft, no matter what,
    Your merry goblins soon stravag:
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

THE MORAL
    It's up the spout and Charley Wag
With wipes and tickers and what not.
    Until the squeezer nips your scrag,
***** and the blowens cop the lot.

based on a you-tube video: milo yiannopoulos vs. hysterical feminists; 1 17 2016.

i've never hard long relationships,
the last one i had was a long long time ago,
she said: i enjoy pain -
maybe - but i did also:
i unsheathed my ***** and put on
a c-ring on my helmet:
yes, circumcision does ease
the florals of afro lips
              and you find the cut off skin
in the ******* all the more appealing
all the more necessary to fight for,
oh wait: or so you thought.
hijab blah blah: take away from man
and we're constantly in feminine mourning:
akin to Darwinism's motto:
     there's a reason for everything; everything!
and there is! that's the universal suggestion,
adapt, create a reason for such adaptation -
god in mind (without prayer and laments
at funerals or judges' commentary) -
        ha ha how about we make Poles the
scapegoats, ******?
                well: now i really feel special,
are we supposed to say: yes good lord,
aye aye sir, kiss the ******* of Brooklyn
queens?
                 but you know what's funny...
bird songs...
             birds have an aesthete -
sure, they **** me off when spring comes
and the window is open and it
starts to feel like Africa at noon (i admire
the colonial powers of England:
how did they manage all this ****** heat?!) -
i'd spend a day there and then say:
**** it, get me back to the Scandinavian
refrigerator, can't stand this, ******, heat!
look at me: piglet albino!
                some say white some say
black, some say auburn some say chocolate
some say emerald, some say copper,
  some say pink, some say piglet -
some say 'you squinting, or something?'
try: white boy does a Buddha on marijuana -
people think Buddha is ******...
****** racists...
     one Czech who travelled to Mongolia
told me a secret: the Mongolians don't like
marijuana -
                    the Czech? met him at U.C.L.,
called Jacob - oh sure, grand guy,
                     so if you suddenly interpret
Buddha as ******, get serious:
      look looky at the squint -
then on the page the cipher: renmimbi
and 100 yen -
                        tugged by a ******* yack.
****** complex but then in Latin
simplicity:
                      chow mein -
or chewed a rubber tire and hence came
locomotion: a jaw in a pickle jar,
at every cannibalistic gathering of connoisseurs;
burying my great-grandmother i was
attacked for my expression of guilt:
when the priest started his litany i started
laughing... laughing a funeral, ha!
but it's this you-tube (hyphenation does not
exist in logos - anti plural, hmm:
or to use shorthand off words, i.e. images
to convey less wording and optical adventure
on the sly: hyphen! here boy! tear these
superstitions apart: like in the medieval
period charms and spells and Merlin,
so too the Mc and the i-) -
but enough about the funeral, that video i
referenced first:
                   a throng of crows sounds more
beautiful than humanity talking over each other...
it just hit me! like a bulldozer -
      we are actually so divergent from a unifying
causality, having conquered all natural
predatory forces, that when we're actually
accountable for being collected and told to
say freely what we want, we sound so
****** disgusting - i listened to this video
until i heard that a 10 second silence was required...
        the same we give to those who passed
in war: that's the difference between Western
Europe and Eastern Europe:
the division lies with the idea of remembering:
western europe has the first world war covered,
eastern europe has the second world war covered -
hence the ****** poppy parade;
       and how could i completely integrate into
such a society? what, be fake? relinquish my
bilingual ontology and hollow out, ethnically
cleanse myself? sure, i speak the tongue:
but i treat English as rooted in all things Germanic,
given my baptismal name: Conrad - hell, what
could possibly go wrong.
          i, will, not, assimilate, into, this, *******,
culture, like, some, ******.
                end off!
it would mean: oh you're be happy here,
but forget the 8 years you spent in Poland and
developed a psyche -
i hate it when people force a soul on people
without the capacity to develop it...
  ******* freak saints with their autistic children:
if the thing in question is unresponsive
         toward developing the mere notion of a soul /
a self: why does the church implement this
****** sin against abortion? if i were an agony uncle
i'd tell the girl: think about that scene in
the film Prometheus (2012)...
       i don't get how something that can't even
create the mere idea of a soul actually have a soul...
limited instinct, sure: but a soul?
     hence Santa Clause: or where all innocent
idiots go - provided by Satan's Clause, which in
jurisprudence suggests Disney as the patriarch.
still, with so many eloquent minds about
in history and as in now,
put them together and they sound so ****** ugly:
humanity can create the abundant leaning tower
of Pisa (or let's just call it the ρoμbυs of Pisa) -
we can't recreate a congregation of sparrows' song
nor a lion's roar in a **** way: like grrr -
            what i said above?
we have the power of the atom bomb, and we
decided to champion science, but in the case of
application? we're lazy! we create these sadomasochistic
saints who never bothered to do research into
what might happen - shoot me,
       if we exclude the mere notion of god
and do as Marquis de Sade did and champion nature
(who, by the way, was actually a militant atheist)
        we can't avoid the economic barbarity of nature:
it's inherent cruelty -
                    and this is the modern curse
of outrightly censoring a certain part of human
history as if "it didn't happen".
  it did happen, no wonder i have a plot of land
near Cracow reserved for Jew snow (ashes) -
    it's almost as if to say: because the black plague
didn't happen in the region: here's the holocaust!
      and you'd think this might bring me closer
together with an Egyptian... n'ah.
       as i once said - *oni pyramidy, a my kominy
they the pyramids, we the chimneys.
            maybe the Yiddish evolved in Germany
had something against the Polish Jews?
                            maybe...
who knows...
                 civil wars are known to happen -
maybe that was a subversive version of a civil war,
given that Israel didn't exist, you could have
the Jews of Manhattan ******* at the Moscow
Jews and it all became expressed in Poland...
         they did have a saying, those Polish Jews
back when the money was there -
   nasze kamienice, wasze ulice
(our houses, your streets) -
            as my grandfather used to say:
they fought the war with the rifles bent,
shooting into the sky or into their foreheads
like any Jehovah's witness stance to war was deemed
appropriate to join the cult.
         now i can say, kinda proudly,
sure, your houses our streets -
                           nasze szubienice (our gallows):
or was the free Palestine movement slowly
dying?                  all i know that by the time
we reach 2099 - things will look drastically anti
1999 with that party culture -
      someone just decided to cut off the *******
of a great poker player - America is these days
castrato - Castrato America! Castrato America!
they blame immigration, i blame them
bribing "saint" John Paul II for ******* displacing
me...
            i lived in a city where there was
more than just football taking place: water-polo
for ****'s sake! my father played it!
             Olympic diversity: not this inbreeding
****** of sport coverage:
television, a.k.a. the box? more like a zoo cell.
             the busy market place where i was born?
just banks, no shops, just banks.
  they tell you **** on the internet isn't real:
then t.v. is desperate,
and no teenager commits suicide from a weak
grammatical membrane to invert naked words
into clothed words: red (noun) etc.
and let me add: where are the editors in this place
and are any necessary? no -
what's troubling to the west / capitalism is how
socialism has resurfaced -
          it's not called social media for nothing -
sure the model is capitalising on opinions and conversation,
but how ugly this socialism now looks;
       my grandfather? he's living in a safety net
of actually having a pension -
                   he retired more than 10 years ago,
way prior to reaching 70...
              this is Poland, the so-called "acid satellite"
states of the Soviets...
    where the **** will your old be with "sir" philip
green and the 0-hours contract?
                                                      nowhere!      
oh i would go back: had i not lived here most of
my life and built a greater capacity for the language
beyond a large majority of natives:
  oh look, here comes the Rotherham Pocahontas.

If I seem surprised,
it's because I'm still alive.
My search for eternal sleep
ended with a nap.

You didn't see because I didn't let you,
but you were never one to want to help.
You sent me on my oh so merry way.
Why didn't you know I was that far gone?

Though I don't blame you for damning
me. The river flowed too strong inside,
it was up to me to dam myself. Too
bad I dove into the raging torrent of

Baltic tea, yack and Judas. I have no
need of temporary sleep. I only have
freezing sweats and waking dreams
that make me picture you and know

I need to seek another push and pull
until I'm blind to what you were to me.
If I freeze my insides the river will stop
flowing so violently and for once I may

be able to take a breath and dream
without a bottle and pictures of you.
I'll lie by the bank and smile at how
calm it has become since I threw in the ring.

I don't blame you for damning me, and
I don't blame you for keeping turned.
I only blame me for not daming myself
when I had the chances back then.

Let loose the river; I'll happily swim the rapids
without preserver. There isn't much left to
keep afloat. Not that I need to die this time,
but I can't say I'd resist without you.

the dream



joan barimaster was a very independent woman, who wanted everything to be perfect, and she lives

with her 34 year old autistic son named robert, which can be a complete nightmare, because robert was

always asking questions like a eager to learn teenager, well maybe at first, but as he repeats and repeats

the same quotation over and over again, joan was totally sick of it, like this morning robert was telling joan

all about his dream last night, saying, are dreams the force of reality, and joan said, well yeah, if you want them

to come true, they’ll come true, but we really shouldn’t look to deeply into this dream, but robert said

well, i dreamt i was a star of the musical named joseph and the amazing technicolour dream coat and

robert was joseph, and joan said, dreams are all the gunk from your head trying too get out, and robert said

oh silly mum, that isn’t the cause of dreams, i must be healthy if that is the truth, because i dream all the time

and robert was asking joan twenty times over and over again, i am joseph, i am joseph i am joseph

i really am joseph, and then robert sang, i closed my eyes and drew back the curtain to see for certain

what i thought i knew, and robert sang that over and over again, driving joan completely nuts and

robert said, ok mummy, how about we go to the drama group and joan was busy and had to rush

which was a total disaster, first of all, joan had to get robert into the car, with robert being completely hard

to bare, asking stupid questions all the time, he was saying i am joseph i am joseph i am joseph

i closed my eyes drew back the curtain, to see for certain, what i thought i knew, and he was singing

the song ever so loud, making joan say in harsh loud words SHUT UP, but robert said, this is a dream of mine,

i am playing joseph, i am joseph, and that is my coat, when they arrived at the drama group, joan let robert out of the car

and didn’t move until someone brought him in, and that came in 6 minutes, and joan left, to go back home to do some work

now, joan has her own business in catering, and unless robert has to be somewhere, was always with joan, mind you

robert was never in the way really, it was just a little too much listening to him yack all the time about being joseph

and when joan picked robert up from drama group, robert said, i am joseph, they said i had real potential to be joseph

and joan said, really, that is good, robert, and joan went to this house on the rich end of town, to cater for a party and

robert went with her and started chatting up one of the female guests who liked the idea of robert playing joseph in a play

and she said she really loved that musical, and when robert sang the song, suddenly he was given guidance of the rest

of the song because this guest knew every word of the song and this made robert very happy, and then robert was told to *******

by the host of the party, and robert said, WHY DON’T YA UNDERSTAND, I LIKE YOUR DAUGHTER, I WANT TO MARRY HER

and joan, who was in the middle of preparing the meal, went out and said, robert, you have to quieten down, buddy, because

this man is one of my clients, ok, if i stuff anything up, i might lose this client and not get paid, and the host said, just keep your

son away from us, and joan put robert in the laundry, and this laundry was very interesting for robert, you see 2 washing machines

and 3 tumble dryers, and he played with the dryers and that made the host very mad, saying to joan, don’t bring your poor son to your jobs’

because he is stuffing us up, ruining our party, ok, i put in a lot of hard work, to be able to afford to have you cater for us, and having your

****** disabled son with you, is totally stupid, and joan said, nobody ever calls my son a ****** ok, and i don’t really need your money

so i will just leave you, to finish and me and robert will go home, he can’t be trusted at home, and the host said, what kind of mother are you

for letting your son dominate and joan said, i will cook these meals, so i can take your money for that, but you can wash and dry up yourself

you see, buddy it comes in a package, me and my son, ok, if you can’t except this, you can go and get ******, because i love my son robert, ya see

and joan got robert inside her house and said to robert, you were bad tonight, you know mummy wants to make a business with catering and robert

said, yeah i found that funny but Joan said, no, it wasn’t funny, catering is hard work, impressing people is hard work, you are hard work, but i am coping

and robert said when is drama on again, i am joseph, and that is what his lifelong dream was, to be joseph, and dance with pretty babes

and joan gave robert his medication and robert and joan both went to bed to be ready for the next day

she just said, a disturbed song lyric: i want to play with your evil inside... true story... a Novosibirsk girl... who invented this masochism of globalisation? florida china... california spanish apples? sometimes me and a tiny village in crimea would do, just fine... i don't understand why people get bored about brick walls so quickly, or don't contend in chess... or make an easy su doku puzzle extra complicated by repeating 20 seconds of a type o negative song...

mi niet nie(t) budyed...
                                                   me charisma...
   me pogrom...
listening in on football hooligans...
   dirt, naked,
                                    which was much more than an
american girl doing a hand-job
                             trying to buy alcohol later...

just thinking: arab has oil (black gold)...
now he wants snow...
   arab wants snow?
    can the ****** manage the cold?
what the **** do you take to integrate
eskimos in alaska or ultra-mongols
in siberia... sun-cream, or sunglasses?
arab has black gold... now he wants snow...
****** wants snow...
        i'm laughing because his women
aren't equipped to standardise that
environment... they'll need much more
than a niqab if that's what you're trying
to colonise... seriously... much more
than a niqab... niqabs don't work in siberia...

  be slavic *****...                   we darwinist...
you ******* darwinist?
                       you survive, or you
                                           die? like... die?
die telling funny jokes?
                         you darwinism?

i mean... i love watching a woman
exposing her genitals,
******* on screen,
                         all wet and i think i'm
watching daffodils...
                        it's spring...

i clench my teeth and imagine sheep..
then i take a bite... and *sheer...

bradzie!                  idziom!

                  ­   finally... what wakes the barbarian...
and what gives it so much support,
given rugby is so... so... ******* boring?

just look at the horde... look at it wriggling
and angry...
     all those yachts can go to hell...
i remember owning a doberman,
and he bit into a **** and there were this
maggots wriggling inside of it...
  that really defined my childhood memory...

what's the west if not a trans- debate
about genitals? so... what the **** is that?
boiled, scrambled or poached?
           or the next post-Freudian metaphor...
what is it that might even provide me
for a cohesion strategy?
        
but you're still need more thana  niqab is you're
going to spread to siberia,
the jew hating in the koran seems a bit of a fake,
given the invasion of germany...
    some ******* queer look at debating free will...
the muslims are doing the jews deported from europe
a favour... really...
      how coulnd't they...
the problem is... what favour are the muslims doing
to the europeans?
  
pasnawitz harasho... the **** is this model of springbox
talking? the english talk spaghetti nasal in american,
i know that... they're like nag nag nag nausea...
      peppercorn on the ******* throat...
          i'm trying to actually write what a Bulgar
******* calls harasho...
     nie(t)   that tao is annoying... in polish that's written
as: i won't build this...
         nie............. budjed....
                       harasho?
ok... look... there's no laughing about it...
   i just get -арашo....
  i can't find a ha... maybe because that's because
н             couples to en, or na na na, na na na...
nursery rhymes would be easier...
harasho... or... dobże? or dobrze? or ok?
     china ching or quang moong do?
try a Beijing duck!
                           iffy... it's like you almost
want to pick up these influences for the mere
hell of it... given the fact that your message is
so different...
              
   it's just problematic...
how do you not attach ю (yu)
   to э (aha! no attache letters!)
and then not say niet budyed....
                                   ниет будюэд.... how?

i'm only writing this because i've been told to hate poland,
and then later told to call england the narcissistic
bellybuttons the the world, with their greenwich 0...
   i actually don't think i was told lives...
given that english women are reducible to
     bridget jones diaries, or a rotherham journal of a
teenage girl...
  
    i swear... if i'm not marx and there is no engels...
then this is a revision of victorian england...
                        given the english treatment of children
or the concept of marriage...
    that's hardly me boasting...
               what's coming, living with your parents?
drinking to excess but still able to watch the oscar ceremony
with them and then writing your father's
      invoices?
                       hence the pyramid argument:
throw one of a one-armed bandit into the equation
and let's never meet on what could be called
a mutuality or.... that shared plataeu akin
to a.a., because the internet never fosters that attempt
at cohesion... well... unless people flock to
suicidal sites...

  me? i'm still much more bothered about
ниет будюэд... and whether that really does translate
as niet budyed...             yack jack jesus yahweh
had me bewildered why genghis khan came along.

Yicketty Yack his loaded knuckles snap
with each invasive step he takes
towards bringing the daisies back.

Like a Gorilla dragging a bag of prolific
back up to the front of the line like,
"Look here, Mom, we made it this time!"

Young blood bloated dumb,
can't you hear them humble drums
droning on from the swampy slums?

Here we are! Final Stop! The point where four corners of the earth converge in preparation of the coming plunder.

It's a wonder for the poodles to ponder.
But why bother when every ounce of effort conjured turns into cannon fodder for those pesky mammoths ripe with Karma?

i could very well be a halfwit *** -
all white: piglet pink / orange of Essex -
by starking contrast -
but i do spend $60.00 on a book
by someone called Heidegger:
oddly enough: i rattled
the mid-life crisis early...
obviously it's hardly a splash-out on
something quite comforting like a yacht:
but still, bricks come cheaper
than books:
         you ain't gonna
bother     so i might as well ****, oh sorry,
rap my way through the sedimentary
otherwise clowned as the rudimentary
blasé.
       i really do solve sudokus drunk:
a higher preference than beating a woman
or starting an argument,
like                            today,
a white *** ****** arguing about beer:
drunk like a skunk, happy to-fro
black ***** saying: if i had my mobile out
the police would be here in a minute:
black lives really do, matter.
          she say shye man's drunk:
****-smear on his trousers, maybe this is
how you mourn someone dying: getting ******* -
but obviously with citizens on patrol over
'ere, that doesn't matter.
           she defends the cashier kid, the drunk whitey
gets the Gertrude Stein treatment:
otherwise known as
      the cold shoulder -
                                 i don't know what to make
of the whole debacle -
not even with a poem or painting will you make
a squiggly-clean citizen that'll do small-talk with
you and rein in a sunrise worthy of a *******
postcard...
              i was promised £8 by a Tesco cashier
for a book i've written, what did i
   get? diddly-squat.
          so back to square 1, drink one night,
don't drink another night -
and back to: just because you're woollen and
middle-classed and squeaky clean doesn't
mean you're interesting, actually:
you sanity is so ******* boring i'd rather eat
with pigs, and drink myself dead-serious comatose
with a bunch of other assorted hogs.
truth is so ****** obvious, no wonder it's painful.
so i decided to spark 3 chances of beer after
seeing the debate with the Sri Lankans -
with temperatures nearly freezing after wholesome miles
undergone: i sat in a darkened world war i memorial,
then walked through
  a leafy part of a would-be graveyard -
                 and almost everything felt eerie -
like i was son of sam writing from prison -
                  a self-guide manual or something.
then writing this i became agitated by some s o r t
of c o m p u t e r: v i r u s -
                     y o u, t h i n k  i would be operatic
paranoid having invoked such scenes of the night
with one or two Essex foxes foraging household waste?
     it's a variation of the typical Trojan in f e c
        t i o n:
            i.e. to make human langu     a g e
                      keyboard: rather than alphabetical -
the prin ciple is the same: why not
a e i o u b c d f g h j k l m n p q r s t v w x y z
(mathematics last)?
           i could very well be a paranoiac -
but in a Salvador Dali linguo -
            b u t    l e                       t's
face it: this is fresh, this is new, and we are naive
in our use and development of it -
               we have thrown so much of ourselves out
into the world that the world will not necessarily
throw our self back into us:
mind you, some of us are protesting at our
job losses versus the Chinese -
          we want those jobs back: we ain't getting them
back!
                well hello! what's your name?
feminism.                    hello feminism! what do you do?
we are the people behind solely software ergonomics -
all our hardware antics have been exported to
Ching Chang Wu: or Yin in Yiddish,
                                 and Yang in Walla Walla.
it ain't coming back - replica wall versus
Mexico? (Juan         Yoddle ****     Jack and yack
                 happening and         Xavier?
     exercise and ha ha ha? same ****, different cover.)
slamdunk that **** like it was Deep Purple
when in fact it was Blackmore's Night -
hey! me too! i used to work a nightclub so i could
buy a mandolin and do the Rockefella round the clock
jingle to boot too:
                         got harassed by some gay guy while
cleaning the
         toilets where people ****** into  
emptied beer bottles, rather than into the actual toilets -
so yeah: big up the latex rainbow parade!
   any gimps needing their midnight walkies?

Walk in the rain, so far not feeling a thing
Walking in to the train ******* is looking at me like
They probably think I ‘am menace terror
Chin music dialogue ******* with my ear
Heart to heart it shop talk wind yack
Do the best to cover the track
Block every revolutionary attack by pack
Military junta acting like shorter soda
Next thing you know
The game is finish
They winning the slap jack
Knock knock it hard to drag the sack
Lock the door lets show our rank
qliq qlak boom proof that they are not paper back
Meanwhile what matter to her/him is who killed?
The mind is working shift press the number not needed
Process it that’s your seed indeed they graduated
But the speed is in ****
They already know, way to proceed, just stop your need and start inhale from that roll of green
Disagree with why and agree with because
Because since you already surrounding by a pain all you can do is at least make it slow for your soul
a big hole pulling your goal
At the same time there is patrol letting your reach your goal
Caps lock, you are under control
Angel’s park is very dark even the clock is going fast
People stop passing
No one remember the past
The cast are the people supposed to finish the work of the last
Plants demand stand but everybody is looking their luck
Suddenly u give up all you do is watch your back and you don’t know why
But none of them would say these is my pack and lets attack.
Feeling is nothing, love suddenly it a word without meaning
Believers are ill mentally, humanism a lost definition,
Every muthfucker claims to know freedom or the definition of it
Will I got bad news for you there is no such thing called freedom
Thanks you.

i hope that modern realise that with their so-called liberation
of: once upon a time taking care of children
cooking: the best form of chemistry...
165°F for a perfectly cooked chicken breast...
that's the temperature the meat should be add...
as i was talking to Harini about her bad experiences
with dry: chalk-like chicken *******...
i had them too... Sunday lunch back in my grandparents'
house always resulted with people fighting for
the dark meat of the chicken...
the thighs, the wings, the legs...
my bad experiences with chicken ended when i started
cooking chicken...
every, single, time: juicy *******...
i managed to start cooking chicken to the sort of perfection
where people started fighting over the chicken-*******
and forgot about the dark meat...
but the internet is filled with these crazy videos...
angry women... angry men...
everyone's angry but no one's angry enough
to pick up a gun and start shooting into the air...
2nd or 3rd wave feminism...
angry men who don't know that they have been liberated...
these relationship crazed men...
bothered: 80% of women only date 20% of men...
"date"...
         i'm watching both sides.... like-for-like...
when i'm in the mood and decide to go to the brothel...
i have this failsafe ontology regarding my
"whittle 'ichard itch-'ard"...
well... i would be the natural reply to how women
have monetized their bodies on ONLYFANS
and the like...
            i was going to be the natural byproduct:
nature abhors vacuums...
and oddly enough has to work on a thesaurus basis:
the antonym of an ONLYFANS girl is... ?
me...
                  oh to hell with relationships...
i don't appreciate crazed-shy doe either...
                  i watched one on the bus opening a bottle
of 7up... it was warm... very warm...
lazily: the bottle burst... hmm... how that fizzy wet liquid
glued itself to her skin and she became
more radiant with the addition of sugar diamonds      
from the liquid...
       it is a very warm summer...
seems the girls need to expose more...
i too would love to...

on the liberation front... single mums still need
plumbers... blah blah...
i hate this ***-"war" offensive on either side:
of course men and women never got on:
but not getting on happened after the initial
honeymoon period...
at least back in the day the sexes got on enough
to shackle up and have children:
problems between the sexes happened
a posteriori...
                         now? problems between the sexes
are a priori...
they are being ingrained in us...

i was so close to breaking my build up for an hour's
worth of *** just 30 minutes ago...
about 5 times during the day...
get the blood pumping...
mind you: i did drink some semi-skimmed milk
and had to do the runner:
i don't know... full-fat milk, no problem...
semi-skimmed... ****-problems...
Jasmine Black... she's Romanian... and on the plump
side of the spectrum...
and no pictures of ***** either...
either her solo or with another woman...
i checked myself last time: when Michaela was
available: a Jasmine Black lookalike...
yeah: like i'm a Brad Pitt lookalike...
   but i kept having to get an ego-*******:
to cure myself from *******...
yes... you're having ***...
           yes... she's moaning and groaning during
oral ***... blah blah... you're replying:
there's the mirror...
hanging ******* on your torso...
then both torsos meet...

                 hell: you read enough Marquis de Sade
in your teens... you start to gear up to a better
picture... i found out that i like writing about ***...
not in a self-help sort of way...
a self-improvement sort of way...
16th... Wembley... **** it... i'm visiting the brothel
again... 18th... London Stadium... late finish...
i'm going again...

that's why i'm working: i'm working to give
the economy a boost... i'm not going to spend
the money i spend on prostitutes:
mind you... what exploitation?
all these women enjoy ***...
one asks you to pay her extra for *** without
a ******... some other doesn't even bother
and does it for the thrill:
she even says: live dangerously...

i can't complain... i'm also... somewhat liberated...
esp. if at one point you're the one stealing kisses
while at times you're the adult seagull
and she's the seagull chick and she impressively
jumps in to steal a kiss from you...
you relax: have a drink... smoke a cigarette...
and then the bodies collapse in a wriggling composition...

i like thinking about ***... i feel a different sort
of gravity in my groin... it's a whirlwind sort
of gravity... spinning spinning eternal spinning:
coupled with VADER covering MAYHEM's
song: freezing moon...
better than the original...

i like writing about ***... i like escaping into it...
i like the trial of jerking off four days prior
to ******* without *******...
which implies: on the day: i will be ultra virile...
and i'm still very happy that i haven't
bedded a woman from England: my acquired
nation... or a woman from Poland:
a nation i was born out of...
i think i'll stick to Romanian and Turkish girls...

well... if the women feel liberated? so do i!
but nothing via dating apps: no hook-up culture
for me... i bring the money and place it on the table...
just so... no one gets confused or has
double-standards or: whatever...
let's not play: prize-pretend...
i can do whatever the hell was once expected
from a woman... please... beside rearing children:
darling... there's no... need...
truly... relax... do you!
                   i'm still going to have my fun...
in an unabashed version of myself...
because? i stand watching movies...
i prefer to avoid restaurants...
i like eating on my own:
i like drinking on my own...

we all must be crazy by now...
oh: that recent Psychology Today article that the women
are raving about, how "lonely men"
require therapy?
i've been through that...
isn't therapy lovely?
they prescribe you some anti-psychotic pills...
you put on about 30kg...
then wait about 10 years to get your libido back...
start exercising again: waking up from this
pharmacological slumber... i must have been
some version of a competition:
to be treated like: at least the Islamic terrorists are
still treated decently: seriously: as a threat...

i am on a stretch of road where now i'm
thinking of the people afraid of the acronym FOMO:
fear of missing out with a glee...
who needs a girlfriend when i have my shadow
to wrestle with: a shadow that said:
you will not dream...
i can go to concerts and football matches:
let alone for free: but get paid for them!
i'm going to bask in this moonlight...
i've seen my own worth of **** to finally find myself!

but i still don't understand the dynamic
between the sexes...
   and i don't want to...
dating apps my ***... i will never use them...
i'm not lonely: i'm just alone...
loneliness is a trait of character:
being alone is an existential "qualm"...
     of qua per se... as being for itself...
which is a... ******* mighty juggling act to accomplish...

but if i have nothing on my mind...
it's usually that i have an irritable bowel from drinking
semi-skimmed milk or having an ego
for a phallus and a perpetuated *******
in mind: or that i'm gearing up for an hour in
the brothel... with some plump beauty...
i wouldn't dare to discriminate against
any woman's body:
like my grandfather used to say:

all women are beautiful...
it's just that some... some are just neglected...
they're not ugly: they're just neglected...
very true: those richer curves are best
exposed and intervened with when they're touching
another body... they sort of fill the "gaps"...
i love plump women... they sort of behave like
water... well... water + flour = dough...
skinny younglings remind me
of spiders... i like these plump beauties...
they sort of absorb your body in ways unimaginable...
they fuse with your body...

read enough Marquis de Sade and then have
your fun writing about ***...

for a while i started to realise that the women i'm
working with have started a ploy:
figuring out whether i'm thirsty:
sexually awkward... hmm hmm x1 x2, x3...
no lapse into desperation: why would i feel desperate?
i can get what i want...
i don't steal bread: i buy bread...
i don't steal *** via the hook-up dating-app culture...
i buy ***... of course: i bypassed the Darwinistic
puritanism of "you're expected to follow the natural
selection laws of women":

erm... no, you're not... prostitution predates Darwinism...
*** can be bought and sold...
there's no reason to be sober like at the zenith
of American puritanism with the laws of prohibition...
likewise so: now...
i don't need to pretend that women have a sway
on the availability of ***...
after all... i'm not a ****... women sway over women
whatever argument is left in their arsenal...
women will not agree...
what man would want to **** an intellectual
woman who's only prowess is banking on
feminism? men have their intellectual disparities:
but you can hardly ascribe feminism
to feministic-stoicism... or feministic-scholasticism...
or blah blah...
i like ******* women who like to be ******...
who don't complain about being ******
for the simple reason that they like to
be ****** and they'd rather listed to Liszt play
the ******* piano than play a piano themselves!

the world is so uncomplicated when you listen
to the wind and then recognise the fact that:
the wind can't play a trombone...
a wind can play the tree: rustling the leaves...
a wind can play the grass...
sure as ****: a saxophone can't play a tree...

i can imitate barking at a dog... i can imitate croaking
at a crow...
but a dog will hardly bypass its bark
and call me a YACK!
nor a crow croak that i'm a crackling crisp...

i mentioned plump prostitutes...
that's different: to what you see every-day:
those magnificently grotesque:
beached... whales...
it's different... a plump ******* is a plump
******* because: many men find her
attractive...
but... that "mommy" of a beached-whale type?
why don't men find her attractive?
because one man does... or rather:
one man has allowed her to become so unattractive
that she's no more than a fat-***-*****
pushing a baby-buggy...

prostitutes prolong their sexuality way longer
than atypical women...
a man will still find a fat 50+ ******* a decent
**** than a woman who has settled for
the glorified Christian tradition of marriage...
mind you: she's probably prone to cheat...
personally? i don't mind sharing partners:
what i abhor? the innocence of... lying...
is this the part where i say: some people think
they're being... "cute"... by lying?
cute, or cutlass?

i don't mind knowing: as long as i know...
there's nothing worse on a man's conscience than:
not knowing...
being lied to is infuriating...
it's intruding on the dignity of one's own claim
to believe: in anything...
whether that be a Hebrew deity that's deity eater
or whether it's the Arabic solipsistic deity...

i like writing about ***... the mirage of mirrors...
the antithesis of ******* in mirrors...
perhaps, once, upon, a, time...
i could have survived pair bonding with some
woman... these days...
it's enough that i have a mother,
a maternal grandmother and no knowledge
of my paternal grandmother...
perhaps it's better this way...
i think i'll take my *** into the garden
and find some shade until 10am...

i truly love women... but idealising the opposite ***
is hardly an answer to the perverted questions
at hand...
if women feel liberated because they don't
have to marry a class of men that are their
plumbers and their electricians:
women who raise boys whom their infantilize...
whom they turn into little-make-shift
Oedipus one after another...
me? stepping in?
i tried it once... she was all over the game
of me brining homemade wine and some banana
loaf: she couldn't handle a man...
she needed a boy... a thirsty boy...
she required her own offspring and a thirsty boy
of a "man"...

i don't need that... no wonder i prefer the company
of prostitutes... and cats... and dogs...
most of these women want both
the casual ***: and the casual *** with and without
commitment...
sorry... i can't do all three...
liberated women ought to know better...
ought to know best... QUEENS...
blah-ah-ha-ha!
i'm all for casual ***: but not a hook-up culture...
money first... fun... later...

              that's how the dynamic of money
and flesh works...
that's why i work the debit mechanisation more than
i work the credit mechanisation:
i spend what i earn i spend what i have
i don't spend what i can't earn
or spend what i don't have... i don't favour the credit
system: that's why i set up my second bank account
so quickly... what credit score?
when i don't use the credit system?!

i like prostitutes... they are a gateway toward
a monetary sanity...
no one wants to have *** after eating a meal...
ergo? dating is obsolete...
i have *** on an empty stomach...
emptied by a dry cider... 750ml walked
around... with some whiskey...
dating... ugh... i am: LIBERATED!
i don't have to fight for any country i'm supposedly
assigned to... i don't have to marry!
i can love the children of strangers like
they might be my own! i, am, freed!
from obligations of matrimony!

**** me... i'm freer than freedom could possibly
allow me to be!
women have paved a way to true freedom!
they think themselves freed...
but they didn't realise how freed up i've become!
i don't have to pay that infamous bachelors' tax
anymore! renowned in Poland...
i can **** prostitutes on a whim!
wow! this is freedom?! wow!
more, please! more!

           great bargaining tactic: woman!
i can do the Pontius Pilate on your *** and no one will
even begin blinking a counter-argument!
amazing... i'm glad both of us will
prosper from: your demands...
my lack of: demands...
                  now i can freely **** around without
having to listen to you having a monopoly of
me even thinking that i have a monopoly
to **** around! beau-ti-ful!
more! more! more!                     more!

thank you... it's as if i was dealt a hand in Poker
with a Poker... it's *******: glorifyingly:
poetically: majestic!
       i love it... more please...
                    
eh... 20 males to 1 woman...
doesn't bother me...
                they taste: sorry... female *****
taste better with more ****** partners...
nature: sort of weird...
oh sure: the more ****** partners a woman has?
the better her ****** juices taste...
her **** becomes equivalent to a leather chair...
like all leather: fresh... ****** leather?
smells disgusting... the more it's worn down?
the better the quality...
plus... the better her *** is...
*** with virgins is boring...
*** with virgins is intimidating for
normal men: there's always that... sense of...
authority from prior experience:
teaching... i don't understand why women
succumb to those pedohphile perverts to teach them
nothing at all...  

then again... what do i care?
it's like that article in the Saturday Times...
a woman in her 40s was left gloating:
but i have 3 loves in their 20s greedily..
hell: i can compete:
what's free? these days?"
i can compete... i earn money to spend on
prostitutes who will subsequently
invest money in this economy...

it's too hot... i think i need to sleep
in the garden under the blooming moon...
spiders and ants might crawl into my nostrils
into my mouth and into my ears...
no matter, i'll cool off...
             but i feel: i feel!

so liberated from modern woman!
i don't need her: i don't own her...
        thank you! modern woman!
       THANK YOU!
                         while your old school sisters
practice prostitution: i'm just: dandy: fine...
thank you!
      i believe in euthanasia
and the idea that i'm not going to be
your next petty grandpa...
                     the cruel realities of the REAL...
what?!

females
lovers
yachts

forbidden fruit (eden)
little hole (eve)
Yahweh (tizzop)

friends
luck
yack

turn every letter around turn warriors
into choirboys allergic against weapons

turn vampires into
humans

turn around: somebody behind you
spying each letter you gotta

be better
don't turn the page NOW
the paper'd simply fly downwards into hell
with you

besides: the book of your life will end soon enough

I'm missing you.

The way your hand brushed through my hair
As we were sitting on the chair.
Or your words that helped me beyond compare.

I miss the tug
Inside my head
That said
I don't want this,
but you instead.

I miss the tiny
Fights we had.
But then we'd tell jokes,
that made me glad.

I don't miss the way I cried,
when you said, "no more"
And I saw you walk out through the door.

You said thanks,
And see you again,
but I knew you were lying,
and now I don't trust men.

I sat in my room,
thinking you would come back,
But you never did
And I began to yack.
I yacked and ranted
about how you left.

Then I sat down,
and cried once more.
Hugging a pillow,
And cursing for making,
my throat all sore.
Then I calmed,
and ate a milk bar,
Because I'm missing you
Whoever you are.

the perks of living with someone you care about...
as it stands...
where else would i live with my private library?
would i really need to rent a whole place all
for myself: have indoor plants for company
and give up shared "custody" of two maine *****?
in order for what?
bring some girl back on a Friday evening or
a Saturday night?
sure... it's not perfect...
                      but in eastern cultures: multi-generational
living arrangements are a norm...
at the end of her life:
my great-grandmother lived with her daughter
and her son-in-law...
a true stoic... she would pray for the pain
to go away rather than sometimes take painkillers...
she never drank coffee...
nor smoked... nor drank alcohol...
even she said that she ought to have been a nun...
hey presto: two generations later: et moi...
perhaps eastern cultures really do begin
in Europe where the Ottomans and the Mongols
did a knock-knock: who's there line of jokes...
perhaps England was: or even is:
too insulated from the outside world:
the turmoil of the continent...
hell... what's that quote from the famous poet-librarian?
this be the verse:
your parents ******* up...
sure... it's not perfect...
   i had to be an opportunist when it came to ***
outside of going to the brothel...
one Thai surprise done in the garden...
the house was empty though:
but still...
thank god i can tame my libido and ask it to come
out when... oddly enough:
last time a 5 year period of abstinence ended
when i was grooming the female of the two maine *****...
the way she raised her backside:
i had to find an outlet...
otherwise i'd be thinking about: goat-******* or something...
anyway... of course they'r not perfect people:
but i'm no angel either...
it's beside the point: but at least i don't have
to think about forking out on payment for an old people's home...
like today: my father gets a cold...
takes the usual medication to combat the cold
but i also make him an archaic medicine
that consists of:
a raw egg yolk beaten to a state of 'kogiel-mogiel'
with some aspen honey...
this is subsequently drenched in 50g of butter melted
in heated up milk...
apparently it works miracles:
some would say that a prime symptom of a cold
is the excess build up of phlegm...
he'll sweat it out... cough it up...
writing this in English seems rather absurd...
the individual... the individual...
i still feel a stigma associated with this sort of a living
arrangement...
but i see one Nigerian household next to mine...
another Sikh household: two siblings in each...
across the street an English household still houses
one of their daughters...
but they'll be moving across the street two doors down...
why was there ever this stigma of having
parents? esp. as the west is known for being
this solace of the solipsistic singletons?
"solipsistic": which is halfway autistic...
it's just a nicer term...
i care that i can care:
i can write my little doodles while also playing the fiddle
of: if there is any medieval movie adaptation:
**** the knight: i'm the inn-keeper...
i'll take care of the household and i'll do the cooking:
thank you, very much...
there is no culinary tradition running in my veins...
my grandmother always managed to roast
the chicken to the point where it almost felt
like eating chalk...
so no... no great: tradition in terms of culinary lineage...
i'v already settled my score when it comes
to eating curry... except for breakfast:
i could eat that **** all day...
but lucky for some: to have been born in a geographic
region as rich as it is with: RIDDLED with spices!
too bad when it comes to baking bread...
well... with the exception of the na'an bread:
but i'm pretty sure the Europeans must have introduced
the concept of using yeast for dough to rise...
what was prior? oh... right...
the Peruvian... Aztec-esque japati flat-bread...
nothing exactly fancy akin to a French croissant...
qwa-sont... yeah... looks pretty ugly when stressed
phonetically...
also: phonetically...
voy-yack... v'oh-yack...woe-jack?! seriously
well it's not exactly a ckwa-sont... is it?
psychiatry and the art of implanting false
memories: otherwise known as regression...
even in the Freudian schematic:
rich girls having dreams...
look at me... i rarely dream...
i sit at this well of an imposing void:
which harvests a vastness of sigma:
the totality that's also equate to animation
of the body and...
therapy doesn't solve much...
"talking about it": doesn't help if you're reading Kant...
what will talking do...
if thinking about it does much less
when not thinking about it does much
more?
what was once the Cartesian res cogitans
model... with doubt...
has now become my own version..
the res vanus (the empty thing)
with doubt being replaced by negation:
perhaps in bad faith... but with good intentions...
as the saying goes:
the way towards hell is paved with good
intentions...
it's also paved with a sadness
that's stimulating... i leech off of my sadness...
every time i'm close to tears
i'm usually attested to by a croaking of a crow...
i find more empathy for animals than
i do for fellow human beings...
because i understand that they understand:
how dumb they actually are...
hell: i understand that they don't understand
what dumbness even is: to begin with!
but when it comes to me
in reverse "courtesy": of when it comes to minding
traffic: being part of traffic...
i find certain traits in humans...
simply... unforgiveable...
pretending to be ghost when stepping
into a designated bicycle lane...
driving a VW Golf thinking it's a ******* tank:
stalking drivers that act al timid when
attempting to pass you by...
it will always come down to this sort
of scrutiny...
it's not as banal as when the whole world
laughed when the Polacks charged against
Third ***** Panzers on horseback:
but it's relatively close...
i speak a western language: it is infused with me:
i'm not a westerner...
i have historical tattoos...
i mind the hour...
perhaps it's true what a Norwegian writer
wrote about the Swedes...
perhaps these people haven't been invaded
for a long time... that they end up:
procrastinating their lives...
fair-play if they invent games with that time: given....
but perhaps they haven't been invaded in
a long while... rancid loitering...
procrastinating...
they weren't given the dialectical break-a-bone
sort of treatment...
of a people who decided to speak about
orthography: without employing
a single diacritical marker of distinction...
you begin to wonder...
is it really "orthography" and not merely a spelling
mistake if you: take out one of the ELs
from speling?
          obviously aesthetically dis-pleasurable...
but... wrong?

last time i heard: Japanese living arrangements
were no up to "shape":
with couples booking hotel dates pretending
the rooms to be brothel lingering abodes...
as the standard of living has gone up...
so has our expectation to live it: likewise...
there... a road for concession...
why do i drink?
mein gott... being sober is such
bad weather...
such a timid "conversation"...
           nothing is ever metaphor or misnomer
worthy: everything simply
alligns with the cogs in the "machinery":
there's all the deus ex machina
but none of the **** in machina!

stating... bluntly that life is ****
isn't cutting it!
obviously... odiously... it's like there's a b'aaah...
bad smell around the carcass....
after a while even fat
starts to be tinged with whiffs
of acidity... did you know that?

let us want linear narratives -
by the current standard of: narratives -
let us all want parallel linearalities
and then: on some odd
occasion: forced to mesh-into
focus point -
                       when we were somehow
young and england
was a place at a time
when the handover of hong kong
happened -
what subsequently happened:
custard and fudge brain
crayon squiggly: attached to a fridge:
with a magnet...

here's to: i'm out to lunch...
toying with poker and... altruism...
solipsism, "atheism" and
albinos for autism...
rather: nothing will elevate
this circus -
          
   oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...
      skin for stretch... belts and leather...
and i hope: non-kosher shoes...
whitey brightey almost the: "almighty"...
but god! chugging along
with all these bachelor lepers -

i want to earn honour as a yack
herder in mongolia -
chequers: not chess -
because i need to go back
to m'ah rootz... my caucasian -
caspian sea - mongrel mongol
and of turkic or hOOn!

talent: "talent": a hot topic for
the imagery of phallus -
          a talent for a porceil girl of
toy-kyo...
           with a rabbit sized
bouquet of fleshy pwetty pwetty
pet-als!

  or... that it once happened...
the steve colberT show...
  the blind stevie minor...
        keeping up appearances...
a mrs. bucket that stressed!
it's: mrs. bou-kay... i.e. bouquet...
beau! literally! beau-*****-full!

stefan col-bear -
                stephen coal-b'err...
              it's tragic... a mrs. buckeT
sort of tragic...
         it's not as much fun when...
there might be people
who joke around "illiteracy" of those
who didn't used the proper
orthography...
that english isn't stress-laden
with orthography - but can be deviated
with and back into:
to speak is one thing: to write:
another...

  mrs. bouquet / alias bucket -
or a stephen colberT...
         alias: col-ber...
coal-bear...
                     coe-bare...
           it's like elevating a status
symbol: yeah... i too wish
i had a surname like: VIN-D'SOR...
or win-win-d'sour...
or windsor...
                
windy, sir?
            it's not like there will ever be:
something to play with in english
that might arrive at: suspense!
  it's the bare enlisted minimum -
i too have reached my cul de sac
of ingenuity -
perhaps i invented a light-bulb -
perhaps i have confronted
a river with a bridge -
        there's no second "eureka":
there's only a devolved "word salad":
or an attempt at a Prokofiev linear -
even with all the flurry of
decapitated sounds
running around like...
                    decapitated "sounds"...

i still come to the conclusion:
this was never going to be a language
that could be extracted
and used in a formal manner...
paint me a practical picture:
preferably a schematic used in
engineering: when looking at a Kandinsky...

now look at these words:
there's a rigidity of spelling -
a kept grammar?
well... to know blue is to also...
settle for the hue that might tease
either green or yell-ow...

               but is it a venture: prim formal?
i hope to find grave and bed come
11pm... and my legs come 6am
tomorrow... and at least 3 hours
of walking... till the point that
my underwear will rub so much
on my inner-thighs that
i will have to smear savlon cream
on what will become oyster flesh
tenderness from all the rubbing...

go full commando or wear a thong?
it's impossible to walk these parts
naked...

statures of man being childless -
this full-embodiment of a self-to-act-upon:
that there's nothing selfess about
the endeavour of clogging the thoughtlessness
of aether and the frictionless
eternal dynamism of heliocentrism -

sum up! there's that call for verbiage!
people often want,
instructions - the verb that does
the verb and some other bidding...
i have yet to read a philosophy book
that allowed itself:
grammatical peacocking -
that grammar is somehow only
ever pure instruction:
it can never be deviated from:

lesson no. 1: how you speak is:
the passable grammar lesson you will
ever hear...
get fudge: thrown into the deep
end and told to: tread water...
head above the floating mantel piece!
****** don't stink it up
with drowning!

       ergo: the great yawning sea...
and all the ghosts and myriads
and sentinetls and gargantuan: failed...
prodigies that come with it:
adding of course... a looting of
spanish armanda or some...
**** u-boat tricklet...

            god... when evil was fun...
when evil was tinged with:
a german plight of competition with
the french and the english and
the spanish and the russians:
this strange: by god... this very strange
inferiority complex...
you simply can't stage a formidable presence
with all that technological
advances on a whim:
when shuffling along with
some decanting'ant: k?

               of the little people that
england has somehow incubated:
where's my bombast?!
where's my: i'm here, i'm now...
i'm thoroughly fire-proof!
where is that... maybe not allowing
myself a presence nibbling at
crumbs from the tablature of London...
go back to Edinburgh?
get lost in Vales?
         yes... way over "there":
in way way over in les country...
a go-get-to-Lesley brittle...

             - which wasn't much of a sunday...
a tired body a welcoming
bed: the part of life where
every 34 year old might
finally settle for: get busy dying -
or vegetating or... basking
in the suns of former glories -

these ample three-sometimes-four
worded junctions
for all the biped beasts that:
prance or dance or run spectacular
migrations of fake:
in their marathons -
  
i have truly managed to assert that:
the world can happen by myself -
beside... on some distant reservoir
of thirsty new lives and:
vitality pomps -
    for their vitality i have a submergence
into a vitriol i dare not exercise -
that's of course:
they have been incubated by a lie...
any lie in the framework of
the already unshakeable complex
of pedagogy -
   it would have been better to have...
beside crushing me...
not given me this leisure of
education...
              to stand organic and proper...
to appeal to the thespian monotony
of customer service roles
where: the customer is always right...

it was foolish to educate a man
beyond the age of 16... all the guys who
dropped out of school come 16
are now either mortgage shackled...
definitely with wife and most certainly
with child in tow...
i'm hardly my own making...

tone death: blair -
again... is it a solipsistic statement,
that... famous mea culpa?
      it's my fault for most certainly it is...
but at what point did
other people stop existing...
at what point can i blame fortune
on myself?
this sunday was depressing because...
i made a bet...
on 8 football matches...
a bet on a win... and a bet on...
both teams scoring...
16 matches to choose from...
but this is why i abhor gambling...
it's this stupendous suspency
akin to reading a thriller...
which i have never...
but you get the idea should
such results as: 6 - 1 tottenham hostpurs
vs. man united /
   7 - 2 aston villa vs. liverpool...
ever... degrade your least
chosen of avenues of "hope"...

               - somehow a "little known" nuance...
albion is a chalk-faced
grinning monstrosity of lime, scaling
up to no ends meet: and meat...
of course... the kosher furore
surrounding the omnivorous
tacticians of: one rice patty
per village: sq. a dozen heads...

i too want linear pursuits of language!
hey! over 'ere!
i want to take it upon myself
to be native and be get-given
the wings of flight!
looks like i'm nowhere going...
looks like i'm going nowhere:
but i'm still somehow: a here...
in this heliocentric ferriswheel
post-scientific darwinism this: pop cull-the-truants!
i am somehow hier...
herr sir-farce-a-****-to-borrow...
and a lot...

to have to escape the russians
and the polacks and the germans
and all these subsequently not-listed
cretins of the european pervesion...
of: self-mutilating yodle yo...
barracks up-right and standing...
congregating around
the mafia proposal of the:
       vain-ticky-tic-toc-bataclan...

dog collars of priest simply ooze:
satisfaction with:
a missing status of believbility...
but do not fret!
the hougenots are the last rats
to bail... of a sinking ship...
and there's all this night's worth
to want to exploit with
the burdens of sleep!

that we are pulverised dead-end-knottings...
insomnia provoked...
it's no matter...
the people without attache
verbiage... with strict cohesive
conducts are all ablaze...
i want these skimmies for
detailing scoop of fat over fat:
leaving little of beliebvable bone
to be a miscarriage of... ahem...
"reality";

i have been accused of
missing an ego a clog in the jargon
of the: "ex machina":
a reality without a deity
is almost like...
            a flaking of a skin...
that must be associated with
an invitation to possessing a self.

we're a nation
who loves to yack about the weather.

why?

we can't change it

Yeah yeah yeah

I will hear from you and / or / and / / / / / / with you

Jackets flung on your branches; hair awry, mussed up

I will comment about it

(I'm gonna drink spiked yackety yack)

Giggles. Jackets gone,  jealousy comes

Cookie journey here and there

You are the jar-full never known half-empty

Juggling jerky perky jingles- lines ever single

(Funny Big Gag Bag of lol)

Brimming with oddities and chocolate chips

(I will kick you to where the words are satin ah huh!)

Let's comment / hey / why not.

Strike not the lizard my wizard-

Strike this book- but don't cool it from hot

For I will drink and I will dry it

I do not want it left (de)composing

Shut- obsolete and unimposing


I'm going to write with flesh and silken ties-

(And a lucky-horned side-brew

I do not like to spill on you)

So I will spoon it, sip, sip, swipe the eyes;

I will comment / I will drink it / I will try it / Will I not?


I'm going to speak like I'm an autumn leaf shrilly falling

Yelling calling to the tree of thought- of nought

Swaying in circumstance- until my voice is stalling till

"I will write it I will spill it I will shine I will I will I will!"

You are the ground I fall upon with

Each new leaf crashing each coffee still.

.well... if they have been circumcised... but do not succumb to ramadam, or anything hebrew... in a secular world, with the feminist movement... if they're not akin to eunuchs... they're certainly *****-whipped... playboys... and that doesn't imply a positive connotation in any respect for whatever it might counter-intuitively imply for the audience of, one, one who might benefit from such an association.

or maybe i just don't appreciate how
women fiddle about with
an uncircumcised phallus...
how's that?
               how about i tell them:
i can ******* much better
than you will ever **** me off...
how's that?
  clearly...
             it almost requires a reminder
via f.g.m.,
concerning the know and
"whereabouts" of *******...
clearly!
          clearly?
  because this is not some *******
jack-in-the-box yanking game...
retards...
         i'm not sorry...
        only one *******
becided to play back the predicament
on me...
******* on: *******...
peeling back the *******: ***...
what's... the... "problem"?
     **** me... van gogh chopped
off his ear akin to st. peter...
i guess jesus christ was also
faced with the same predicament
as i am:
         the caduceus protruding veins
enveloping the *******...
but in all honesty...
with or without the *******...
all of them would yank at it like
some ******* mongol
attempting to skin a yack...
not fun...
               i can pull it back you know...
but no! oh no!
they didn't have any of it...
yanked on it like it was
a ******* plastic serpent thing...
maybe i should have tried
going to a homosexual:
sure as **** i knew what to do with it,
sure as ****: they didn't,
even the prostitutes...
maybe circumcising the females
while keeping the males
uncircumcised would be the worth
of gravity in teaching ***
to these ******* camel jockeys...
'cos' clearly...
    simply circumcising the men
is not helping...
    numbed phallus heads...
numbed cognitive constraints
with no allowance for empathy...
unless the hebrew imbued concern
for fear for the lax...
   instituted by a deity...
       or the ears...
how about we snippet the eye-lids?!
how's that?
             Onan: yes oh grand one...
but i have my ******* on...
you're looking at you with me looking
too, implying:
but i'm pretty sure you were not
born, circumcised, were you?
oh... you were?
  not ears, no nose, no lips...
no eyelids?
              well... well well well...
how about i help you
              to revise the, "situation"?
i guess all the men i ever talked
to were given the hebrew snippet...
and yet... being given it...
they never applied any religous rules
to made advent from the advantage /
disability - highest moral fabric,
i.e. subsequently unable to *******...
no *******: no jerking off...
             but she has *******...
and a web-cam and a *****...
     my oh my: what double standards!
stop circumcising men
without giving them
   a religious grandwork of rules...
and then... watch...
  giving back to them the *******,
and their already waiting:
                                 secular inheritance...
jordan peterson's self-help
rules for life?
  ah, ah, ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
last time i heard,
most of the men on the north american
continent were circumcised,
right?
      at least that's what
***** movies show off...
    how about less of the self-help
*******, and more of the ******* back?

best to write what you know to say
what is felt portray a
simple day rather
then a Greek Tragedy
or try to make rhymes
when all you hear are echoes
amidst the baying wolves
talk about city lights and low brow bars
if that is where you get energy
or tall pines and lush green fields
if that's where you go
to meditate
talk about *** when you don't get enough
or trees when you haven't touched one in
decades or the shadows cast by
skyscrapers when you live in a corn field
say what you know
I miss the touch of a woman I knew ten years ago
I love how the TV tells me all the news
I like four legged creatures they
give me love
I like beer
and a joint sometimes
more
tell me what you really do
talk to me like another human
yack at me tell me how you don't bathe for a day or two
or how like me the dishes stack up in the sink for weeks
or the neighbor's wife is so fine and how she once smiled
your way or how you sat
on the balcony and were so content
watching the sunset
or went and saw your child's first soccer game or a play and held
your child's hand when they were scared to go to bed last night
or got bad and met a new love and decided
to take them to bed the first night and how
that made you feel in the morning
or how you make the very first pancake turn out perfect
or drew a smile on a note and left it on your lover's pillow
this is poetry  
this is life

at least

pretend to be interested.

Because stories aren't as plentiful as squash and strawberries.




the beast

he had entered sideways into a show that'd already started.


at least

the words placed on our family mantle top had showed
that life is a locomotive that will never stop.

sheesh.

aggravation only does little in order to shift
my opinion from one place to another.


wish,

pessimism only places a knackered placard on top of my well earned toothy veneers I had held on layaway.

Yucky,

yack, not ever.

Sorry,

I had no intention of going back.

-
  this is what talking to a mongolian
in amsterdam does to you.

there is such a "thing"
   (or rather, a point of interest)
in the form
   of covert pronoun usage;
namely?
       hiding pluralism...
   the ever present suspicious
   they indicator...
                         because is there
a we with an i?
               ****** diacritical
marks in the form i & j...
          suddenly missing in
the form of I & J...
          quotas, quacks,
                 cats and kettles...
should have joined the
circus at this point
                   type of argument...
became an irish gypsy,
     took a **** into a frying pan
and waited for the rainbow
of fumes...
             **** me...
                   when making oaths
from the tongue utilised by
F,
       became "too" easy,
and no ***** could spell out
  the affix -uck...
              ish that licken yuck?
  yack?!
         ****... you spotted a moose?!
- and that one time i
****** my underwear
          in a sand-pit
   because i couldn't stop charging
myself playing,
  crumbs of a bread on a table
that translated into a sand-castle...
either a labyrinth or countless
rivers...
                how i love my memory
bank, hardly the to do list...
          or it's called playing
tag with Alzheimer...
            otherwise in the st. augustine
primary: bulldog.
            but memory is
just the most perfect form of cinema,
the strobe light disco effect
as if joking on the topic of:
                                     an epileptic.
                  celebrity culture,
or what became the squandering
of history... if there had been
any study concerning...
          the drunkard
muslim in crusades
          by terry jones * alan ereira...
oh you know, some
   ibn        or some      al-
or that weird case of
    japanese green horseradish,
i.e. wasabi...
      came along the purple
          tatty...
                  hands up!
        i'm taken, and no amount
of a diet based on octopii
or ***** will make sense to me...
       give me a cow and i might
just milk it...
             but i'll sooner
perform a kosher "prayer" with it...
   kauczuk?
       that funny synthetic piece
of orb that bounces really high
when asked to imitate meteor...
     jaja? hardly the spanish laugh...
just means eggs...
     one instance of an egg?
    jajo...
               because we know
the spanish took to gee-soos
      as: hey zeus...
                           and then you write
down jesus,
    and later sculpt icons in wood.
             not that i hate
the french,
      but this is the part where
i let you make up your mind
on the orthodoxy of applying
    the grave accent...
or as the french do:
        the word ends on the pivot
of having applied this indicator
of: agreed upon form of a word...
regarding the title:
                             kāùczúk
oh, you still have to utter the remaining
                             -czúk
cha, cha cha cha...
              or ch' (with a stutter)
                           ook...
                 but hey...
    even i know there was no
  charles brando band...
                  ****, manroe is pilled-up
  and trying to fake death
                        by falling asleep.

i just pull these googlewhacks
out of my ***: from time to time...

https://tinyurl.com/mrxt88tu

i.e. russophisation capter

Russification... Germanisation...
familiar terms...
just like India was subject
to English culture...

            or how Argentina is...
distinctly: Argentina and not some
extension of Spain...

or how Brazil is... Brazil...
and distinctly so...
and completely devoid of what
Portugal continues to be:
being Portugal...

mind you: the tougher the ****...
the cleaner your *** is going to be...
you might just have to take
one wipe... and it's all rosy...
oh that: constipated sort of:
the closest man will ever come to
giving birth... this existential angst
of a tough piece of brown loaf...

geopolitics... once upon a time...
Western countries complained... moaned...
on the top of Cologne cathedral...
why will not the Polacks allow for
refugees! why oh why!

             fast forward... right...
     roughly 2 million Ukrainians are now...
living in ******-lack-land...
(a ref. to King John)... so you think...
it could be... sensible... to carve up Ukraine?
we could have all those lands up to and including
Lviv... how's that?

i'm only joking... but... we already have
2 million Ukrainians... if we incorporated
the western lands of Ukraine... while Rasputin
took the eastern lands...
hell... joke... the fabled reemergence of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...

yes: i too have a "job": i'm a day-dream of
sorts... when i feel really down
i replay the cinema of history...
i mean: to have one... it's not all:
Darwinism: just dropped from a tree
and started talking ooh-ooh grr gorilla
funny... albino ape that i: scratch my head...
ponder... ****-flinging contest?!

what am i going to reference against?
my genes were nowhere to be found
at the time of Edward the Confessor...
   or... the Scandinavian Raids of these Isles...
erm... some part of me at the battle of Britain:
****** fighter pilots...
remembrance placard in the underground
of St. Paul's cathedral...
Britain said: war! against **** Germany...
but no British soldier ever stood ground
on the disputed land...
while... Polacks ****** off... and fought for
Brish... everything Brishish...

repaid... demure of... copper-necks! in!
        that was the Brexit-argument...
too many Europeans mingling with too many
Europeans...

times like this... America and it's race...
and colour-blindness and whatever...
complicated little Europe and its ethnicity strains...
because: oh... i've been to Kenya...
i could tell you a Kenyan from a Nigerian: apart...
Kenyans are darker...
the women? they sort of glow at night...
as if smeared in... quicksilver-ivory...
i don't particularly... you know...
    entertain the idea of a black girl...
            but this one: in invisible ink... written on her
forehead: TROUBLE...           oomph!

curvy, plump... plum... cherry... **** me:
do i need to howl?! i'm not going to bark...
but that was the covert narrative...
too many Eastern Europeans...
           ****... no problem: fair enough...
we'll send them back... they'll gladly go back...

call me: call the Bengali UBER kids!
Scot?! scoot up! go on... shovel shovel...
diggy diggy...
             i never understood anti-racism...
i understood racism...
that's why it took me a while to sleep with
a black girl... a Thai girl... a Turkish girl...
a half-Indian girl... half half ha ha halves blah...
trans-racial Indian girl: how's that?!
neo-Brazilian... how's that?

i'll start going cross-eyed when blinking
on that banana skin of racial terms...
oops... slipped... into the Niger river...

that's the thing about drinking to excess...
you take a nap... because... oh god... the bacon was too salty...
that Carbonara came out all wrong...
funny: almost wong...
that dish? apparently invented during the second world
war...
when there was a shortage of... ******* everything...
those H'americano GI's came to Monte Casino
with bacon and eggs... hey presto!
the Seigl-Hi-Talians has some salt, water,
parmesan, garlic and pasta spare...
no onions... no parsley... oh come on... parsley:

prezzemolo! prezzemolo! eh! prezzemolo!
hide the dyslexic two Zees...
do i need to bring the Cyrillic in? the Greek?
preцemolo! come on... for the optics...
i'm not going to argue the stance
of dwarfs in the Lord of the Rings
against... elf vegans... but... optically...
if you're eating something as bland as...
pasta... some sprinkle of green will not hurt:
not the eyes...

right... you take a snooze... wake up...
you've had it rough...
there's not one intellectually equivalent
to you in the vicinity... ******...
right then... shut up... think some more...
but what i discovered... pseudo-hang-over...
water... starts to "taste" like... milk...
it's ******* magic...
i don't know how it happens...

       eh? sorry... i'm pretending to be deaf
to pretend to be thinking...

literally: you become so dehydrated that...
water... makes itself available to acquire
the properties of milk!
it's more "thick"... it's more... glut... eh?!
what the ****'s that?!
i have a gut... i'm missing a horse...
it actually tastes like something:
but it's water... it's universal...
it shouldn't taste of anything...
                 no no... no honey... this is *******...
Yucky-Yack milk!
this is a leprechaun milking a unicorn...
which... considering... Perseus and Pegasus...
o.k. sorry...               WHY>?
   i'm trying to flap my hands about like
an octopus' hello... telekinetically... i.e. not obviously..
head full of apples... juggling...
no hands... a pretty magic trick...

for ****'s sake... how did a unicorn ever replace
the Pegasus!
i know who to blame... the British...
too high-brow... no... taste for orthography...
i.e. that 3D project of reality:

vectors: ortho:
                meta:
                                    ­      para:

standard... in... discovering the benzene ring...
sorted... but not... oh no no no... no no...
that was never going to happen!

you, as a people, have not applied any orthograpahic
criticism: "criticism" of your tongue:
you borrowed all that's Latin: ancient Roman...
like pseudo-Afghani paupers of the north
with: pretense of non-origin... at times the Celtic
heart-bearers... at times the Saxons...
at times the Norman invaders...

your men are women confused by time...
that's what you are...
for all your glorious past...
i don't want to belong to it...
i can't... belong to it...
you... sniffing up the great *** of
H'america... i start to walk blind...
i stroke my bead: pretend to play the violin...

where is the orthography?
all those pretentious... sensible...
metaphysical arguments of an Englishman?
where?! where?!!
you ******* sulky little *******!
oh mate...

               i shouldn't be here... i'm not supposed
to be here... knowing me:
i'm supposed to be forever elsewhere!
trapped in katana or ideograms...
entombed... whatever...

  somewhere... where water tastes like milk:
in a firestorm of:
a gathering of the seven winds!
find me.. precious little fairy!
give me the patience: to wait;
linger with me within the confines of ice...
just let me

by now... water tastes like milk.

My Pixie friend
Was a rather plump little chap
Also had a bald patch
Which he hid beneath his cap

He was fluent in many languages
And could tell a good tale, or two
About his curious life in fairyland
And of his sojourn in London zoo

He road on the backs of Robins
As he had no wings to fly
Had had many a chat with fairies
As he gazed at the moon, up high

His name was Happy Horatio
He liked smiling like a clown
And told jokes, and played pranks
I never saw him frown

He loved to dance to music
And would dance the night away
Whilst quaffing mead aplenty
In the magical land of Fae

One day i asked Horatio
Where did his life begin
He said he remembers nothing
Other than once he was rather thin

But then he developed an appetite
For trifle, and chocolate sauce
Followed by strawberry jam, and spongecake
But got to heavy for his horse

I was sure he was much to small
To ride on a horses back
He told me it was a Shetland Pony
And that he simply had the knack

As he was able to talk in horse tongue
And asked it which way to go
His horse was a very good friend
But puzzled as it never seemed to grow

He then packed up his silken bags
Then slowly, and silently mooched around
"Ive got to now leave", said he
"Ive been summoned back to the underground"

So no more yackety yack
He smiled as he bid me farewell
"I'm returning to the land of Fae"
"Where i live in a dingly dell"

by Jemia

it's 2:25, and i'm lying in my bed
butterflies and fairies, are circling my head
and sat on my shelves, preparing to attack
are witches and dragons, and a yackety yack
ive a digereedo and a digeree don't
and a mermaid that will, and a mermaid that won't!
ive a gorgon that talks to me, late at night
and a lady vampire, who knows how to bite
so all may not be quite as it seems
these things i see, before i enter my dreams..