and if i made any mistakes in the process... is that: sorry, or... oops?! if i were truly English i'd throw in the: dodging Badger to boot... but since aye ain't... **** it, arms in the air: the sheriff called the deputy while Honey called the Winkle and all is just a Safari gag: toothless lions, my god, talking monkeys and actual termite architects! it's one of those trips you don't take Seer Attenborough on... risk of contagion of acquiring narrative you see... finally a time when england became wholly proletariat... or simply immigrant... but is the left really left in that you mean a: slav? current year: the expression of the left in western society is alienating me from the experience of what my grandfather is: a unit of authoritarian solidification of post-scriptum **** rule; i don't understand what the current climate conceptualises as "the" left, other than the reemergence of the petty bourgeoisie... that's no "left"... well not the left i know my grandfather to be.

    - at such precise times:
   no wonder men turn to utilising colours and shapes -
     not that writing this has been
bothersome - only that:
      it's just much easier to reduce the use of
language worth asking for a pint of milk,
   thank writing a poem:
imagine having to stand naked,
  while actually being attired...
     darting to & fro when actually
standing fixed to an orbit focus -
          to have to explain the colloquial...
or to establish the colloquial...
   as if using language cannot be,
in comparison: when
paintings require the "*******"
of an art historian or an art critic...
but poetry: oh, ****, that needs
a milkman to get!
or some ****-pants 14 year old teen!

- how can you approach the modern
**** sapiens with his grasp
of technology?
     one way would be to:
    approach him like a monk,
       a puritan, or merely as an:
                                                 animal.
yet modern man doesn't
        deserve the curiosity he fashions
himself with...
            instead of watching a rex genus:
i'm watching
          a bewildering scoop of
inhibition awaiting a proper scope
to find: outlet...
          with the internet being
a minor source of said
                      context of
                    available expression...
for a long time man has lived
to appreciate yet at the same time abhor
living in a society that
hides knowledge of its technological
advances, while freely distributing
an access to them...
       simultaneously mystifying
                           the use of a it;
a ******* ape is starting to counter-perplex
itself regarding a stone,
and use it,
      while i am thinking about
a levitating keyboard!
        which is supposed to translate
into a precipitation's worth of a hammer!
collectivism is a type of
pedagogy...
         that being said: i'm no rex genus...
       i'm starting to think whether
i'm competent with language...
                  and there was a cue where
i was supposed to say: what?
- and then i retire to Samuel Beckett's
Watt* and concise myself to:
   far from *******...
             because why would a ******
concern himself with intro- or retrospect?
the "no offence" is part
of the fact that: i don't know
              how to identify a pseudo-...
                  but it's a pleasing thought,
mind you,
       that i'm as "*******" as the next person
not wishing to go to a Star Trek
convention... maybe i just like
the sliding doors, or the escalator...
or: **** me... vapping...
               i'm still going to adhere to
the mantra: smokers' cough does not
exist on continental Europe...
              this air is wet, it's foul,
    damp... a ******* mushroom incubator!
        hell-spawn of: yes, i am experiencing
excess phlegm!
                       what sort of idiot
would want to conquer this sort of place?!
******* fungus people!
           they exfoliate an aura
                     for you to need to curse!
            at least Winters on continental Europe
are dry!
            i'm sick from the damp!      
seen a wet dog before?
   England is a wet dog...
           it's like gagging watching
a video of a carrot being peeled...
              which ends up being more funny
than a Monty Python sketch.

- and what's because ******* did what?
i hate to have to reduce an art form
into a colloquial ***** to fit "purpose"...
colloquial is not a poetic technique...
    but this art is having to resort to
making itself colloquial -
   it is gagging to be written into the codex
of an IKEA manual to put
                     up a ******* chair!
        
- suddenly language can't be akin to painting...
suddenly every Kandinsky must
fit into a tight-knit paragraph...
    the sort of **** your grandma knits for
you to don a sweater and call it
                        the village bicycle gag...

- i am also supposed to feel guilt with
regards to the moral question of prostitution,
having paid a *******,
   while subsequently giving her an ******...
now that's a real
    huckleberry finn moment of:
oh, gee gosh... you think she baked an
apple pie while he was at it?

- some paint... some write...
      and some just manage to imitate marathon;
but i'm **** sure fewer have
managed to creep up to Kraszewski and
ask: so why do "they" hate you?
    which he replies with:
             so why do "they" bother reading me?

- it's worth noting that i don't
know any Ukrainian, Lithuanian,
Estonian or Latvian writers...
       so with regards to "fame"?
                   i'm trying to look for these people,
foremostly.