and among these, the symmachean forgeries, the vita beati silvestri, could be weaved into this verse, this importune moments, these spontaneous verses, these informal sweeping of the brooms, inside the labyrinth by the minotaur of memory: and too - the scarce words of jack spicer: that poetry alone can love poetry that poems cry out to each other from a great distance, that poets, being ******* fathers, love each other like ******* fathers when they see their children playing together.

and so that brings us up to date, namely today,
bound to a few minutes reading a saturday
newspaper supplement -
topic, hot topic? *rethinking infidelity 'what
our affairs did to our relationships -
it's almost a sad affair -
        reading all this harlequin ******* -
bookish men, finding the "lost me",
finding the "new me" -
the lies and deceptions being worse than
the deeds, lust the liar, love hardly
a cherished concept...
   bookish men, eh?
you mean bookish in terms of marquis
de sade, william burroughs et al.
or bookish in terms of voyage of the beagle
by charles darwin, or the short history
of time: bestseller, with a readership of 10!
eh? which kind?
         while this went on i just had an
affair with my younger self -
  while listening to deep purple's
child in time i got to think: what was that
year? what was that year and that song?
i swear to god it must have been MMIV
when i spent st. sylvester's (new year's eve
in poland - called by the saint's feast
day: sylwester) in poznań / posen -
at the street party, then at the feast,
where i bought a bottle of vanilla absolut
***** -
             and was cow licked by a woman
rather than kissed: yeah!
she licked my face, i wanted a pucker
and the lips folding-unfolding -
and what the **** did she do? she licked my face!
what was i, a vanilla icecream?!
what a beau of a city -
                   and the street party -
and how we all were overjoyed that
the dinosaur band perfekt played that
famous song, which we took the **** out of
going even further back than 2004 -
miałem dziesięć lat, kiedy pierdolnął
we mnie wiatr -
it's a shame i only remember the first line
and how there was also the mosquito
funeral joke to add to the joy of
having friends from the neighbourhood,
rather than from school...
and they complain about the communist
apartments, where children still managed
to mingle as neighbours,
played with marbles, took to the swings,
played hide & seek in warm summer
night...
       kicked each other in the *** trying
to play tag...
      while the girls took to tic tac toe using
chalk to pretend to be amputee
kangaroo hoppers -
          and would you believe it:
memories of childhood in poland are my
smaug treasure hoard -
my sanity...
                  and i remember our first
offence, with paweł & łukasz -
we drank our first cup of coffee -
      a.d.h.d. because too much sugar?
    we started it all with a cup of coffee:
the first sip was the one that escapes recollection
with the current taste of coffee.
the song we took the **** out of?
   perfekt's song autobiografia...
wait wait, where was i? this is was back
in the 1990s... we're talking MMIV...
       and comparing the thrills of infidelity -
what was that song?
  i first had to remember what year i spent
st. sylvester's feast day in posen that year...
i might just turn rose cheek citing this song...
oh yeah, i found it...
through the ultra-unpopular nonetheless
still popular (among non-music collectors)
radio station rmf.fm:
      and i found it...
  jeden osiem L's song jak zapomnieć:
1 8 L, how to forget (in translation)...
some songs have that haunted house effect,
it's a living history left intact not
by memory, but by nostalgia -
    to be assured - nostalgia overcomes
memory, given that memory is already drained
and robbed by schooling children -
to remember the 1 x 12 through to 12 x 12
tables, or the alphabet...
education erodes memory, and we're only
left with nostalgia,
like that nostalgia of the song
Весна by Дельфин, upon take off from
the st. petersburg airport...
   and then croching (english slang term
for wasting time, slouching, etymological
mutation of crouching) at the warsaw airport
with bulgakov's master & margarita.
better off jerking off than jerking chilli and
star anise into the other's heart...
but it's sad reading these 50+ / 60 year olds
behaving like amore idealists -
ginsberg once noted: not even the madman's
love is perfect;
        i'll add to that:
  a bite of lime, simply can't ruin a ***** & pepsi.