i write upon the colour of defeat -
defaced, defamed, devalued,
inconsistencies plagiarise -
      what would ever make a handyman
forget his tools, fixing a window?
such a bountiful array of drill heaads
left vacant on my bed?
i'll gloat and chance my inquiry upon
the fact that my bedroom is bloated -
hence i gloat -
            books stacked from floor up
to the ceiling...
      a library of music that makes radio
anything but a platform unused to
master talking...
                       a hanging George flag
folded encompassed by two bandannas -
and a salty perfume of a drunk
clinging to what is best described
as: even the drowning man will hold onto
a razor blade...
i actually dream of shaving,
         one solid year and i think about
attiring myself with a goatee,
to simply feel that, scraping sensation
is not merely sandpaper -
      i miss it more than a woman's kiss...
see, the problem with poles emigrating is
that, on the rare occasion they congregate as
a minority...
        poles are strange in that they thrive
like fungus, but only when isolated -
they are the epitome mimic in situ...
        the proverb of any exiled poles
is best left alone -
                 there will be a part of this observation
when i say that i, rummaged in
the underbelly of england, mostly among
the celts - irish or pict scotch -
        and will look at the english with
a strange familiarity of bewilderment -
the ironic huh?
               you live here, oh, i thought you
were here as primarily in, passing...
                   i can embrace a form of islam -
sure... but it's not a taste for submission
that i like:
           let me give you the second schism of
this religion...
         i'm sometimes concerned with the minaret
and the celebration of all things lunar &
lunatic...
                   an aisti -
i surrender to the sway of Xerxes orderning
the whipping of the Aegean -
                i surrender on my own terms,
but that also makes me things beyond necessitating
an obedient servant...
i believe in prokofiev's lieutenant kijé -
kij - stick - kije sticks -
             zbałamucić - to profane -
to attache mongrel -
            i will ensure language is felt as if
an **** has just taken place,
  with the desired annex of ancient rome...
tickling as much as tingling the fancy of
such comparison being made in the first place...
dreptać -
           tiptoeing like a centipede -
           hrap = a snore...
               hrapać = to snore...
how the ancient tongue wriggles and wines
to be nudged into waking from
its slumbers, mummified in an acquired
tongue...
               i can't even begin to comprehend
why i've become more english
than the english...
  with their cosmopolitanism that replaced
a ****'s worth of soul regarding their
waking hour and the death bed...
    i have no desire for resignation within
these confines,
             i have become a monstrosity of
imitation,
           so inept at "faking" the natives that
i have no desire for their women,
other than the taste of admiration for
their eccentric beauty...
                  yet so chameleon-fleshed,
so bland in blending -
               that i'm starting to inquire as to how
much alienation of bring to surface
in the immediacy of, barely scratching
to revise a whimper...
                only the best liars are those
who believe they are telling the truth...
        from truth to lie via tease -
         lying has become nothing short of
telling a **** good joke...
                      hence the idiot in me sometimes
laughs, at the mere stress of
identifying with a consciousness not so much
aligned with a sharpening of,
  toward seconding a transcendental layer -
but simply from an awareness of there being
thought -
               a tongue detached from
laceration - floating freely,
          in some demand for superiority -
breathless, ageless, limbo's saint Sebastian...
               past the slurring past the anguish
of: in the defence of -
               god, that defence of speech when
compared to the abstraction of tongue that is
thought is comparable to the dichotomy of
the effortlessness of a butterfly's two weeks,
or the lament of the prisoner of Pignerol...
once you have lived in a homogeneous society
you'd start to inspect whether talking
is at a freedom of exhorting
           the painful expense -
               in defence of free speech:
  it has become exhausted -
it has become exhausted to the point
where it's actually become exhausting to
speak, let alone defend an innate need to be allowed
to do so...
                 turn off, tone down, shut up.
nothing short of any other dictum -
         merely an upper tier of the "right" to
vote...
            for so much freedom resting upon
making a choice, so much is despotically:
obligatory.