what's questioned is whether  i'm prone to eat
a McDonald's  or identify myself as a Slav...
that's what's questioned... would i eat a status quo?
it's a hard question... would i rather integrate
            or leave a poor babushka
riddling what could have been
had October come in alter guise in 1917?
              the quo vadis
question is only a roundabout...
a clarifying circus-fair...
                     summated:
we long to live locally... embedded
  into a crucifixion as one might be
    into a circumcision.
                   and beyond such an affirmation?
negligence and a harrowing...
words spoken over lakes:
the instilled nations,
words spoken over seas:
   the instilling of the experiment of
globalisation galvanised...
     words spoken over rivers...
       as standardised narrative woken...
and later cue: unmoved.
       we're all here, with quivers for
a worthwhile of demands...
and still the belief in pacifying troops
of when the word becomes an actual
punching clench for the knuckled signature...
only then i see my coerced duplicate
arranging a feast for fattening politicos en masse.
           ferris and cartwheel summary,
for every eager ****** wetting clot
    of the feminine oyster slurring due to
excess saliva outpouring...
       funny how she earns enough Fahrenheit
when slobbering the oyster trail to a warm-up
and cools her oral into refrigerator standard
while suckling as if at a teet...
                     the mouth cools down,
the fleshy marrow pouch heats up...
        you start to think: Copernicus is next
to explain this conundrum...
              by god i sometimes wish i had the chance
to don mascara... for the fun of it
to make my iris whether blue or green
   hypnotically caged in that socket of
blink blink... blink blink...
        brown and mascara looks just as good
as a a van morrison song might...
well... aren't we all hopeful that it's just another
case of negging?
n'ah... just a duchamp pisoar... worth's
legitimacy of noun in the medium of art...
    my vocabulary can't be as ****** ugly as
what people do to people these days...
i count mine as softcore, Attenborough ****:
worth a narrative with an objectivity myocle;
'cos the other eye still has to squint to look
pretty and infused with the activity
that has a myriad count of termites for
a mother, with that invisible ***** attache
toward: birth as continuum of constipation:
blind drunk Mona Lisa slipped one out
with Antoinnette while the guillotine smirked
and snarled a: chop... chop chop!
it almost sounded like clapping, not so long ago.
    all that was said and was nonetheless missing
was a queue in which everyone sang
      baritone bard sang in duo
                 with a castrated evangelist a cumba
           lonesome texan: don mclean's starry starry night,
by now van gogh (gau not goth) would have
cared, and mattered, simultaneously....
   sha la la la la la la la la la la t'da....
      (approximate count)...
               oops'e said lazy Daisy...
                                 and the day was just that...
lazing with Daisy on a mercurial Sunday
    that prescribed the message of the omni-encompassing
yawn.