י / it's semite... there's bound to be a semite-adventure... not a lot of semitic poetry what with jesus... if i sober up... i'll post you a sober copy of this poem... or why i'd rather wash the planks of the flying dutchman, going on and on, forever and ever.... and then realising: i really do not have much to say... but that's the point of music... you want the butcher thinking he's a surgeon attempting to dissect your heart... you want night, you are gagging for fakes or real exponents of sadism... i'd live for an eternity is everyone suddenly became platitude... and all i heard was the sound of music, that couldn't ever possibly become vivaldi; just plain macabre... a creaky chair, something hollow, horror-imbued, rickety... youthful christianity; goth... an agitation of islam...

i picked up a gemini pair of serpents... and twisted
and boiled them, until a shadow emerged....
and i called it man.. and then i tried to tenderly
tenderly believe in it, and conern myself with fear...
  and then i could not identify with
that infernal thing that tears might be
shed on...i feared, i wept, i feared, i wept,
after a while i just wanted a nomad's island...
and *****, and a friend called Friday...
and like... nothing apart from that...
   i called it an a space of / for music,
or at least something of necessary dialogue
pertaining to it being necessary...
tender once you think your own it,
a bit of a *****... once you actually own it...
ha... the dutch sail to nowhere, tonight!
o might of the night, i hail you to be!
at least preoccupied with providing me a moon
to see!
the sole precursor and the sole of
all that might be taken into
worthy account! whip and stern!
for what requires worship!
thinly... deja vu...
a sorta... drifting away...
                like one might ease a fetish
for a music box...
and in my wish to clean the basis for there being
one in the first place...
who are we? simpletons of the heat?
are you not keen to the keel of
taking a ship to the tides of fake war that's
the ocean? are you, the simple tone for what
you could have wished for?
   am i not the depth of an ocean
that needs to speak to you?
am i not writing blind?
                            then what am i?
five blind men and an immaginary
elephants...
  about as much as five mexicans whether
deaf or blind and a ******* piñata...
this heart? this ****? you take to,
the grave. you take as much impetus as
impetus gives it sway for a care,
like a holocaust... this ****...
you take to the grave, along along with all
the jews that come with it...
you don't joke about certain things...
you certainly don't joke about love...
no wonder your western marriages are a sham,
karma knocks on, but only one door...
how the need to juxtapose punctuation
really gives emphasis on the lack
of diacritical markings in the english language...
then again, if the language actually had them,
we probably wouldn't have seen so much adventure;
right now?
i'm thinking about living in little village
in *pomerania (or at least the faroe isles)...
          yep, on the island of rügen....
the part of the world where nothing really happens,
because nothing really happens in it
because you don't have adelle singing about...
    turtles, jelly people... and fake imitations of angry
sharks.