after drinking paulaner münschen's
hefe-weißbier,
   even i have to concede to a curiosity,
as any frenchman drinking
Bulgarian, Hungarian or Moldovan
wine... outright Cindarella propaganda
of the East,  these eastern feral lands,
with only 100 years of independence
and our own shared secrets and national
shambles...
            panicz, szlachta i sejmiki,
                doesn't matter to the beer tourist,
to the beer conneisour...
    my take on Armenia: fine beer...
    notably the fresh kilikia (կիլիկիա)
beer of Յերեվեն (Yereven)...
          and then back into listening
to my age bracket commentators
     immersed in politics...
                    ever so often i find myself
imagining myself dutifuly polishing
a pair of marschstiefelß...
             as ever, shame the current zeitgeist
and all subsequent years begin
in a place which might look
pale by comparison to the Mongolian
marvel of Baghdad... i.e. that infamous
pyramid of skulls...
                           ****,
sometimes wonder about those lucky
******* who had the names of their
first girlfriends tattooed onto the skin,
later to have to get a second tattooing
over...
             your generic Shane,
John, or James hailing from a *******
like Harlow, Essex;
no amount of eraser will wipe clean
a psyche tattoo...
                                that's me,
suckling at     մատկա րոսյձա's ****.