and the moon high above its iris -
in the bony sclera " noon" of 3 a.m.
in September -
            or as the western philistines
said: we need the Karaoke -
and we need the Judas cult -
as sung king David,
and evermore the kind of
comparisons of *** with brushing your
teeth: simply, a matter of, hygiene -
and wasn't Tailor's 1989 anthem
an ode to overcoming h.i.v.: bad blood?
wasn't that part of the narrative?
if it wasn't... shoot me...
**** me, by being a poet you can
become such a smuggler of images,
of a fake Mona Lisa (e.g.), you can turn into
a right oddball smuggler if you want...
you can smuggle so many paintings,
ad desecrate as many icons as you might
wish to speak Somali...
and sometimes the odd huh...
is enough: like Hendrix with Dylan
and all along the watchtower -
or Jeffdoing one more for the encore
against the Cohen variant -
because the Gentiles always sung better
than the Jews... truants are named
at every bar mitzvah - ben shalom -
or son of a hello...
                       and none the wise-thinker
in kinship with Solomon...
                    as the one stressed:
in solitude you will find me,
as i find no one in taking me to the wilderness;
yes, the gentiles always sang praise
to usurp the jews - hence tier above
soprano with the castrato - banned by 1903 -
sometimes you rarely write poems,
but, rather, connectivity of encyclopedias -
at times you think: when the son of Bruce
was named Jeff, and died a death akin
to Caesar - and you think: too wish
t have been spared the hospital bed,
and the inconvenience belt Hermitage of
those awaiting the butchers' slaughter -
i too, among the angelic be of kin...
but, from vaguely to a reality: sadly no.
they never really love the smart-***
that doesn't perform well in mathematics,
they just love how  pervasive the Axis
evils have become synonymous with
sanctimonious grace of those defeating them...
how eager to sing-along than
sing against... how easily the argument
against euthanasia quashed by the new humanists
of Benelux - god, the shivers,
                   the fates of ghost writers
haven spoken last...
                    in an age when those who
publish literary works are dyslexic - and who
hardly read... well... aren't we living
in an age, when the least, and most you can
even do is find space-exploration a salvation...
for a while...
                           just a while...
                as the Beatniks said in accordance with
the Sputnik missions... and later Jim Morrison
immortalised - this is the end;
                     beautiful friend... this is the end...
              my only friend, the end...
forgive me in a 100 years... should i shy from truth,
and say: i agree with you - that it was actually otherwise...
            thus: i'll simply reply: inshallah -
for i'm a foreigner to state as having any responsibility
   occupying wording handshakes,
                     and not shaking hands with agreement,
and of all political games, i chose nouns to mean
ambiguity, and conscience to be actions worded,
diverging from actual actions undertaken -
   thus so distant the word bombs
     and the action undertaken - so, inshallah -
and Pontius Pilate to boot.