some words, really do require a chance
to un-english the englishness
of them...
                   my, how the english beam
with a stiffness of their tongue -
i actually lament the lost trill of the R -
that drum-roll moment -
       how some letters ought to be changed
in calligraphic terms -
            notably the R -
no longer rotating, rolling, robust or
for that matter: readied for the rattling of
a snake's maracas bulb...
          the english R is a swollen tongue,
a tongue gluttonous: stung by a bee -
      it's not as bad as the harking french R,
but it's not exactly satisfying -
when it started its numbing journey to lick
off some of W - or rather: hollow itself out.
on the altar of sacrificed runes -
   edh, ð... similarly the R ought to be placed
for a sacrifice of revision to enable
the knowledge of: the lost trill...
                           poise the R with the leg
making the step forward as curved inward...
      bend it...
                      the sound is numbed anyway,
let it settle for a foetal position -
      who is to say that calligraphy cannot be
changed?
                 if a letter no longer represents
the sound, there is no need to keep it...
       or at least: that's what makes sense.
i further have to acknowledge -
           the fury and the passions ascribed to
word, allah is a particularly intoxicating word...
     i can actually shed a tear listening to
an adhan...
                    but by simply listening to
alpha blondy's song sebe allah y'e -
    for some reason: there are ever present
emotional connotations within words -
i hate to approach language where words
have been undermine by secularism -
unsung, unsaid, vogue or not vogue -
riddled with prefixes and other greco-roman
abominations of science -
                      if you can grasp a passion -
not say, nor sing: but vow to feed the depth
of a howling wind and taunt with
a word, that's admirable -
           i give islam that, the word allah is
quiet agreeable in song...
   i will curse **** ***** **** dog-dung sheep-*******
my way through two stories in pop
that reveal the adam & even of YHWH -
sauron & voldemort -
a foul tongue ensure a pure body...
but a foul tongue also ensure: a clearer
  perspective for the mind to lap up -
a ****** is just short of a squid's mouth
or a venus flower -
a pair of ******* just short of
              a cow's ******* sack...
                 that's the puritanical objective
stance... miracle be made from a *******'s
ability to turn this objectivity into
the subject of: an ***** phallus,
prostitutes always seem to succeed where
liberated females, always, seem to fail to
arrive in bed with the man completely enslaved
by arousal;
       freud was right about something,
after all.
                        maybe it's the lack of
***** talk by prostitutes?
                    the whole: what would my
father think during *******,
or doing it under the membrane of bed sheets
or with closed eyes (except when climaxing)?
          besides the R...
  to turn the J into a Y -
           yerúshalem -
                            yields more emotion than
jotting down jerusalem (dz grapheme in polish) -
jot, dzik (boar) -
                      mind you,
the Maltese word for god, is actually allah,
you can sing that word so well -
       shame christianity is riddled with
the deathly gong of the 11pm bells -
once they gonged for a call to prayer -
now they're just a medieval version of a Rolex.
            if words cannot turn into
goosebumps and a tectonic shivers infused
with electric tingling across the face and spine -
   if they cannot make stakes with cool tears
evaporating on a flushed face oozing
sickly heat -
          if god remains outside the realm ****** -
we're talking language equivalent of
                a flat soufflé...
          passsable, instructional,
  tinged with a mathematical vector focus -
get's you from (a) to (b) -
  but language is not a ******* map!
    with language, if you're not lost,
   you're using said instructions -
           you're going through the plateau
of the nauseating flat Belgium...
            where the horizon is not
obstructed by a mountain range,
but merely by the distance of the unchanging
perversity of the people who write
instruction manuals for Ikea on how to
put a chair together.
                       who the **** finds these
comatose perverts, or have they actually
started to liberate people,
  and "employed" lit-bots to write this
crap out?
     - i always wanted to meet the people
who write the small print and
    the terms & conditions sections of any
agreement / contract;
            cold corpses sniffing tulips
  from the roots up, doesn't even cut it.