strange... oh so strange... this liquid fire,
  and the emerging oyster's worth
of tongue,
   and this, this,
thi strange sensation of counting
the number of teeth...
  ah... to touch the lips of death,
to feel one's bones...
complementing the constant
recurrence of: dreaming of teeth -
are they to turn to iron?

i call philosophy the belgian waffle -
please, speak, continue speaking,
continue searching for the ultimate
thought, as scientists seek the ultimate
theory, the theory of everything,
the unison synchronisation -
the final debt paid -
    whether in ratio or in fraction -
feed me...
  
the more you waffle on off on a tangent,
the more i transpire into a welcome
guise, hidden, bereft,
          i never liked crosswords because
i never liked the thesaurus invitation -
conjure a synonym / antonym with
a cryptic clue... i better puke over all of that
"craft" with beelzebub's *****
    what sort of fascination:
to spew one's digestive ***** into the food
before one's poly-diadem eyes
and then slurp it back up?
well... humanity uses yeast...
   hence beelzebub's answer - you throw
yeast into flour dough, you hibernate
yeast over autumnal grapes,
pouring over them crushed a gallon
of warm water with sugar melted into it...
clarity, murgy see-through waters of
sugar melted in water...
   like the chemical orchestra of petrol
dissolved in a puddle...

i have mine: now let's see yours...

     ah... mention the un-sayable thought?
to endure the silence?
    such reach high above your head (ego),
just mention the application of diacritical
marks...
      and how english has become
so debased as to c u l8er...
   mangled, decapitated souls -
those, befitting dante's inferno, soaked in
sulphur and **** bombs...
      ugly dyslexic things...
              
mind you, i can wake up with a "hangover",
mawn the lawn, do the laundry,
       peel the tatties for hungarian scruffs
and watch the hungarian broth boil...
    and then read a few aphorisms of heidegger...
and manage to count myself a worthy
addition to the current day...
   i have my obligations, never mind the drinking...
you really couldn't compete with me...
i'd drink you under the table and then take
you below the earth, drinking you into
a grave...
                 spoil yourself, you little *******...
pardon my french...
           point being, i'd love to see
what you'd write, having drunk as much as
i have.

on your wits! boyo. on your wits!
make that mental uniform well ironed;
ah... always the multitude of personna -
  as if dignifying the icon of some hindu god.