rykł gwałtu: czy śmiercí... sie boície?!*

the 1st world belongs
to western europe,
as is the poppy emblem...
but the 2nd world war?
you have no right
upon this platitude of
nostalgia...
you have no right here...
you don't belong here,
go **** yourselves,
and settle the flatlands
of belgium...
you, take you *******,
and your other colonial
subordinates from these
pages of reminder!
no, you don't belong
here, on the ukranian plains
of the flat-fields...
     you are not
commonwealth sorts...
i don't want you here...
  you are on your way home...
and no...
none of the commonwealth
bits & pieces ever worked
the construction site,
like the irish or eastern europeans
did...
         q a few sikhs...
but that's about it...
pakis make great
           mustafas of the "work"
invoked by the designation of
    a prior toward the
      authorirty of an imam...
                  i too never knew i
knew how to read...
   must be a literate donkey
                somewhere!
i'm trying to love the brits,
but given they're really into
their p.c.s.d. (post-colonial
stress disorder), i'll my stretching
it with nazis...
   please call me that...
please, please, please call me a ****!
it will make me remember
my great-grandmother affected
by nazis, all the better,
for your **** journalistic
***...
          please!
i'm begging you! call me a ****!
call me what my grandfather
called the ss-mann:
   herr-bite-bonbon...
   call me a **** you **** swine!
call it! call it!!!
             i dare you,
i want you to call it!
    i, ******* dare you to call it!
call it!
          speak your little jihad!
speak your little spell!
                            say it!
are you aware that i was the one
who liked the idea of collecting swords?
oh yeah...
   i own a hussar blade...
over 50 centimetres...
curved and all...
                    if i inserted the blade
via your ***, it would come out of your
mouth as a tongue;
say it... i want to hear it...
   why are my hands and the fingers
extending off of them, becoming
so itchy?
    i have a heart for a guillotine,
but no more, for a bed-fellow
in the form of a woman;
   how desirable does death become,
the least you account
for fearing it... how welcoming
the jest of recounting:
                novembers & septembers.