Dec 2016
when i see postmen delivering letters,
i think they feel ashamed
of having a poet among them rise
to such global prominence,
i could end right now and have reached
an Urban II pulpit, just as he
was getting started...
i used to admire Mr. Know-how for a time
out of sympathy... but then that slowly died,
only because i found people who
had some respect for learning to tie
their shoelaces, and spell words...
it turned out to be the most abhorring
form of rebellion,
i could have written all possible
synonyms of red in acronym, just to
make the use of the thesaurus made for
better use... or said ultra-acronym
variations or red, like: crying-mason...
and you would have hopefully said crimson...
but let me be clear... he got my attention
in Glasgow... but after a while...
even if i had a cradle of appeal
i might come off as lousy...
but still, when i read him write
like this needed to be a dyslexic statement,
i thought he might write something illuminating
in hieroglyphics...
i wish i had a respect for not spelling
words correctly... grammar **** or not...
there's no point playing with genes
if you're not creating a plateau on
the internal organs of fathomability...
genese don't necessarily translate into memes...
people with a perfect good set of genes
will only still be football players...
just gagging for a concussion to show-off
their Achilles bravery... i have heroic
drinking battles, no one bothers to celebrate
new year's day with me... i found out
the hard way: even the brothels aren't open
on new year's day these day, as Auden might
have predicted, all the lonely hearts go to...
oh right... perhaps it was the male-on-male
orientated brothels that worked throughout the year...
after a while it's not that you despise the body
for all its necessarily purposes,
but after a while, the body does so little
that the niqab does so much more,
after a while the head wearing a kippah
does so little aisatsu, that you start to ridicule
the practice as an excuse to headbang at a rock
concert in a maggot pit...
after a while the hair does so little that the hijab does
so much more...
can you imagine a Mongol inventing
a hijab? horse-skin ****** wrapped around your
head... thank god for the silk road and the silkworm
produce from china, or wool from the shepherding
states...
otherwise? a ******* tragedy...
it's also true in reverse... buddha curled his
******* using the thumb... but he bluffed
the sign-language and necessarily pokered that one
into sign-language saying: down the middle!
we had sundials and clepsydras for a reason,
as we also had libras, for a reason.
should i fear a man with only one book?
or should i fear a beast with only one "word"?
well, these days the former is true,
but when lions said more than men in terms
of authority... could could complain it wasn't so?
let's just imagine, that whatever we write today
will not reach a heritage status of the paintings
in the Lascaux caves.. well-brokered that statement...
since an african mask carved into an Baobab
by a shaman will fetch much more worth
at a tribal convention, than a african mask
enshrined into confusing a baobab with an Acacia
fetch at a gordon gekko's winning prize
for the most caviar rather than sushi being ate.
the point is... i was just thinking of writing a short
introduction to an actual poem i intended...
you never expect such things to happen,
esp. given you just escaped building the pyramids
safely rooted in masonry, and having to
wield some Atlantean imagination
for the hanging gardens of Babylon...
to be later told: oh don't worry, we have people
to build as a colliseum, you stick you
to intellectualism of the four letters...
and then jesus comes along and about a billion
people are rounded-up talking about salvation
by reading only one book, saved by complicating
only reading this one book, by stating
how many times certain words are used in them,
to ensure everyone after Moses can plagiarise
ancient Egyptian into contemporary Hebrew
(only when Charles II can speak Bulgarian or
Romanian)... horrid numerology...
oh! oh! there are 20 references to the word pray
in the bible! it must mean something!
how about? bla blah bla blah....
well... d'uh! blay and blaw: Otis Redding (doughnut /
ice-cream man)
and Sam Cooke
(don't know much about hissing tories)
so true too, turns out Abel (blay) was also known
as clay.... even though Cain was the vegetarian...
so that makes Cain (blaw) the god-wind when
Cain slaughtered Abel and the earth unearth
a curse that made Cain into a nomad and less and less
into a vegetarian... ah, the Scoots buckled and backed me
up on whether blaw came with the lyrics
son of a preacherman, and whether my
rubric arithmetics of sentences could ever chirps
up that smokey blonde Dusty.
hey man... sit up for 48 hours, write about
writing on napkins, and then have a whiskey,
and watch 2 gloomy days turn into clear-skies
and a visible sun, setting.
i think they feel ashamed
of having a poet among them rise
to such global prominence,
i could end right now and have reached
an Urban II pulpit, just as he
was getting started...
i used to admire Mr. Know-how for a time
out of sympathy... but then that slowly died,
only because i found people who
had some respect for learning to tie
their shoelaces, and spell words...
it turned out to be the most abhorring
form of rebellion,
i could have written all possible
synonyms of red in acronym, just to
make the use of the thesaurus made for
better use... or said ultra-acronym
variations or red, like: crying-mason...
and you would have hopefully said crimson...
but let me be clear... he got my attention
in Glasgow... but after a while...
even if i had a cradle of appeal
i might come off as lousy...
but still, when i read him write
like this needed to be a dyslexic statement,
i thought he might write something illuminating
in hieroglyphics...
i wish i had a respect for not spelling
words correctly... grammar **** or not...
there's no point playing with genes
if you're not creating a plateau on
the internal organs of fathomability...
genese don't necessarily translate into memes...
people with a perfect good set of genes
will only still be football players...
just gagging for a concussion to show-off
their Achilles bravery... i have heroic
drinking battles, no one bothers to celebrate
new year's day with me... i found out
the hard way: even the brothels aren't open
on new year's day these day, as Auden might
have predicted, all the lonely hearts go to...
oh right... perhaps it was the male-on-male
orientated brothels that worked throughout the year...
after a while it's not that you despise the body
for all its necessarily purposes,
but after a while, the body does so little
that the niqab does so much more,
after a while the head wearing a kippah
does so little aisatsu, that you start to ridicule
the practice as an excuse to headbang at a rock
concert in a maggot pit...
after a while the hair does so little that the hijab does
so much more...
can you imagine a Mongol inventing
a hijab? horse-skin ****** wrapped around your
head... thank god for the silk road and the silkworm
produce from china, or wool from the shepherding
states...
otherwise? a ******* tragedy...
it's also true in reverse... buddha curled his
******* using the thumb... but he bluffed
the sign-language and necessarily pokered that one
into sign-language saying: down the middle!
we had sundials and clepsydras for a reason,
as we also had libras, for a reason.
should i fear a man with only one book?
or should i fear a beast with only one "word"?
well, these days the former is true,
but when lions said more than men in terms
of authority... could could complain it wasn't so?
let's just imagine, that whatever we write today
will not reach a heritage status of the paintings
in the Lascaux caves.. well-brokered that statement...
since an african mask carved into an Baobab
by a shaman will fetch much more worth
at a tribal convention, than a african mask
enshrined into confusing a baobab with an Acacia
fetch at a gordon gekko's winning prize
for the most caviar rather than sushi being ate.
the point is... i was just thinking of writing a short
introduction to an actual poem i intended...
you never expect such things to happen,
esp. given you just escaped building the pyramids
safely rooted in masonry, and having to
wield some Atlantean imagination
for the hanging gardens of Babylon...
to be later told: oh don't worry, we have people
to build as a colliseum, you stick you
to intellectualism of the four letters...
and then jesus comes along and about a billion
people are rounded-up talking about salvation
by reading only one book, saved by complicating
only reading this one book, by stating
how many times certain words are used in them,
to ensure everyone after Moses can plagiarise
ancient Egyptian into contemporary Hebrew
(only when Charles II can speak Bulgarian or
Romanian)... horrid numerology...
oh! oh! there are 20 references to the word pray
in the bible! it must mean something!
how about? bla blah bla blah....
well... d'uh! blay and blaw: Otis Redding (doughnut /
ice-cream man)
and Sam Cooke
(don't know much about hissing tories)
so true too, turns out Abel (blay) was also known
as clay.... even though Cain was the vegetarian...
so that makes Cain (blaw) the god-wind when
Cain slaughtered Abel and the earth unearth
a curse that made Cain into a nomad and less and less
into a vegetarian... ah, the Scoots buckled and backed me
up on whether blaw came with the lyrics
son of a preacherman, and whether my
rubric arithmetics of sentences could ever chirps
up that smokey blonde Dusty.
hey man... sit up for 48 hours, write about
writing on napkins, and then have a whiskey,
and watch 2 gloomy days turn into clear-skies
and a visible sun, setting.
