how strange to invest in both time and space... rather than to mind one of both attempts... perhaps time and space are relative in science, but there's hardly any parallel X to bind time and space together with a hollowed, bony, attempt of marking the final boo of man as ghost, as ghost in man... the joke reads: death to all... and the more history you hoard... the poorer you will become; and are we not the poorest of the lost last, 24 hour news? i'm more afraid to fall asleep today, or die, than wake up tomorrow; the life in death and subsequent maxim... the death and... the revelled tombstone; the gods are fools... for none have had the sparring with time to teach them a word of fleeting cherishing the most frivolous, but at the same time most prised dispossession of what could only be complimented by possessing adjacent artefacts... had i but the magnanimity to possess a heart... i wouldn't remind myself the need to keep a stone, thus shaped, in my trouser pocket.

words en masse,
       intimidation.

    "w".m.d.
   watermelon
of...

eh... a power of...

the power of misconstruction,
Bangladeshi?

  am i smiling in Saudi
or am i saying ha ha?

is my surname Khan
or is it Genghis
and the **** or Baghdad?

   what, no **** a *******
mongol?

last time i cheerios -
i was half Spencer...
*******...

   i dawn at the culminating
seduction of when shadows meets
body...

w.m.d.

  words of mass... disorientation...

and that...
in its most lethal terms,
begins by "faking" an...
                                   innocence;

no... let's trace it back to:

  *faking it...

      after all, the inverted comma
inspires the definition:
   in the gob of another -

(revising a punctuation mishap)

- are we to treat all subsequent
affairs in a demand for anti-copernican
c'mon! k'ah k'ah bl'ah she?
crow below crow above,
left is east right is west
east is right west is left,
up... down... huh?!

want a ******* birthday balloon
to match the agonising irony?!

how about a drill...
      and a head of an iraqi kid...
funny thing being...
i always wanted to beccome
a veterinarian...
             seems i was actually
born to become a... butcher.

       anatomy...
               one way or the other.
i lived trying...
      dying; will become the easy part.

sketching is really hard to understand
for a budding painter...

               to sketch with words
makes the greatest prospect paing
a ****'s worth of cube...

     sorry...
        if language cannot mean anything outside
its mathematical certainty of
coordinating masses...

    then, the last thing it's allowed to do is,
say hello
    and then, ******* without saying goodbye!

i'm tired of this quasi-english
irish ******* of attempting to figure out:
why it bothers me,
   when an advert states,
paddies, dogs, *******...

         i will not for the love of my life
bow before these harpsichords of
  shamrock!
tiny ******* pianos -
  better a truant you truly hate,
than an adamant you fail to
recognise but still intimidate
by faking,
the bitterness of "love".

language for the love of god,
is never to be riddled by
one, two or three dimensions;
sometimes, language,
has to be allowed the freedom
of being:
              non-instructive;
un-mathematical.

*there's a "light" that never dies...
as there's a "light", that's never born;
i'm too drunk to even
compliment this phrase
with any meaningful demand
for, sentiment.