you don't get to lecture me over tears!
you celt you english, you don't get to that,
unless you want a punch in the face!
you... you get to say the anti-collective
pronoun! you get to say i belong to a they...
your fickle kind that march into the graveyard
and be: at best forgotten...
you don't tell me what, you don't tell me
what i need, you don't tell me what should have
with you, i'll gladly reply: certainly not children,
who'd want to infect that wretched womb
of ill...
     i'll go on chasing my "dream" that's a horror
until i'm dead and rot, so i might make
it all the more ******...
as you saying: a quest for an epitaph.
   but i will not hear you talk this crap!
go back to your Thai haven! *******... move!
and see why incorporated whives employ
the Indonesian tactic of covering their faces
because of their felt need to express shame!
i have honour in my country of birth,
what does the west have? more **** to sell...
that's about it.. i have too many things to utilise
to ensure i was living, worthwhise...
   death does not assort such privileges...
     it eats them...
                    ******* vermin architects,
look at them suctter into the depths,
an octopus might have wrirtten it,
given someone cried and kissed the finger that
rubbed the eye better,
and how tears aren't salty to begin with...
    you can really wipe off the tears in your
eye and later lick them off your fingers...
and then write something autocractic to compensate...
simply because you are a man of feeling...
  the west wasn't going to enter tha art-form
of dialectics anyway... it was always going
to stance itself as: model-perfect / model--prefect,
it wasn't going to entertain the art!
           toward the depths unseen...
                         paying your taxes under axis
power... what is democracy now? if not a disease?
all it took was sipping on my tears
to define what actually is...
          when an old granny congratulates me
for having received a pension: then i'll be happy..
           i must be upkeeping the need for
***** if i'm lagging behind imitating hong kong...
           there middle men, these con-,
i really don't know what to do with them,
they're just "there", the can't simply disappear...
you can't rub it better with them,
you can't even bleach them to eventually spot them...
but then i do have a love affair
   with pirates more so than i have with peasants....
don't know, perhaps it breeds the capacity
to breed narratives...
    oh no, not writing anything that might sell..
i feel restaurants to be the most lonely places
in the world...
just as much: when melville...
                  that could begin and end with:
once upon a time...
           mammoths... that could do...
                                                in ol' estonia...
reading homer and figuring mermaids isn't
that much crass as what modern narratives provide...
   that said and thus saying:
fiction is stranger than the truth....
                  does that fact actually exist?
  i should reiterate: does that "fact" actuall exist?
it did, it did back when there was a then
so reitereate: so it was.
   now? now?! ha ha ha!
                         you want now to be important?
now is important?
            what the **** is happening now?
if you're not Syrian what else could matter if not
Syria?
               i mean language as an object
rather than a per se subject....
                       what could i possibly fiddle with?
i'm not going to equate this medium to imply
i might play the violin...
      all i said was that i drank my tears
   from the fountain that was my index finger
wiping them from my eye...
   and that after i lodged a stone into my chest
that was to be a heart, and moved on,
careless of what might be considered art...
            that once there was love: but somehow
it fizzled out, like opening a bottle of carbonate water
and watching it choke, waiting for the last
bubble to evaporate;
dare i dream? that's hardly a question?
   dare i plagiarise? sure, esp. when there is no
basis to create an originality for the basis of movie
or theatre... by then i forget it's a plagiarism
of any worth, and i write: like i might ****** 30 people.