/brandon tatum is one of two guys
I'll probably never have a beer with...

past the already generous helping
of *****, all that's left
of me is a pickled chilly...

hot in the head, soft in the groin,
and somewhere in between:
levitating limbs...

hard not to regress back to tribalism
ploughing through former efforts
to establish the beacon
of nations, denationalised,
or rather, demonarchised...

but back to the transcendental menu...
OK OK, past colour,
"imaginary" borders and...
globalisation means a freedom
of the movement of goods,
id est from the cheapest to...
and the robbing of talent...
for the good of the ominous populace
subermged in a tsunami
of apathy...

you can play the race card,
which is a black privilege...
couldn't tell me apart from a German
a swede or a Lithuanian...
when asked, I always own up
to being german...
a fetish like latex like any other...

playing the race card is like playing
the joker card
from a deck of cards
    that have set rules not established...
namely taking a joker card
from a deck of cards,
that consist of only joke cards...

see, I can merge into the zebra
concussion of a hunting lion,
that collage of hiding the biologically
weak, or intellectual prone to arson,
every,  single, time,
when asked on the British Isles
I joke with Indu Irish mongrels
about pedigree...
and am never a Pole, but a German...
Old Saxon,

I can chameleon the rest of the conversation,
for no greater good,
nor for any minute ill;
motto? sami, swoi...
   back where I was born I play
the tourist card, in central London
I play the country boy card...
                    in Essex I play the feral card...
in Paris I played the mute's card...
             the rest of other people's antics
seems ****,  and monodimensional...

you can play the poker card
only when using a deck of cards
with four kings, four queens, four
jacks etc.,
   the persistent commentary reflects
a sort of people, playing the joker card,
using a deck of cards
that constitute of only jokers...

       it's not even a boredom,
but the tedium of the lost surprise,
at least with boredom you can
finally attach a comfy chair to your ***
and admire a sunset...
but with a tedium of lost surprise...
the persisting mosquito biting...
like almost everything in film these days,
of fiction,
post-plagiarism ...
        namely that the viewer
     already knows the plot,
he knows the plot because the plot
is so disengaging and has been so blatantly
repeated that guess-work takes over
waiting in suspece,
playing the startled suspect...
alas, dear Watson...  

and poetry can hide behind
overt technicalities,
literary bureaucracy of an Ikea
put-together manual,
       less botanical I agree,
and it can hide behind an Antoinette
corset... came pride & prejudice,
ergo? must have come:
  POMP & CIRCUMSTANCE...

    25ml of ***** makes no sense,
kosher glug from the slit neck of
a bottle, might make me look like
a *** rabbi... but at least that's
a 50-70ml range of question,
followed by an apple-mint chaser...

I can appreciate the transcendental
menu of nation ethnicity etc...
but this headache came crashing
in on the grounds of St. Thomas'
non-canonical gospel...
      can't exactly transcend grammar...
on a blank doesn't mean it's
within confines of a formal / informal
conversational structure...
          on a blank i have a pink
elephant tugging the godhead
of flies by the name of Belzeebub...

             I can forsake all tattoos
and heritage...
        maybe these trans...
whatever you call them,
could do something productive,
become bilingual...
   and riddle in fractions
a movement away from Greco-Latin
etymology the words of germanic /
slavic roots, at hand,
with no clear etymology?

          guess work schlang...
pick n mix... a gamble...
          given whatever die zeitgeist...
roulette vocabulary...
          there was a time and place
with imagingy friends...
too many technical words in
the vocab. system,
      much akin to niche, planet U-2398v4...
noun category exhausted...
    came the yawning void
recycler...
                   this movement akin
to the political class of PiS...
    or the grieving twin...
                                
      it's almost funny how this should
be debateable...
       imagining the solipsistic world
of the upper echelon of the medical
profession... a surgeon denounces
title Dr. and by Herr is merely addressed...
like shouting past the gates
of Tartarus...
                            
                        ­  yet this debate
has gained public interest,
if not public demand, if not a civic
seriousness...
      in times when laws are past
frivolously, do many eyes turn away
from law itself, in search for
more frivolous affairs...
upon Samson's and upon Atlas'
hinges the crumbling world,
once more decided to spin
into amnesia...
     yet some perverted act,
unanswered lodged into
                    Alzheimer glitching...

by law itself I mean: orthodox
jurisprudence...
                    a return to
oculus per oculus logic,
not the turn the other cheek
rose blushed cought with a hand
lodged in the cookie jar...
   the more frivolous laws are
passed, the more of a joke
inacting genocide becomes;
and it becomes, and it becomes...
and this: the diabolical ferment,
a god as weak as not dead,
is a god that still believes
in the historically immune man...

already having missed the mark,
scared of a needle puncture,
craving fetish of a machete cut...
     such frivolous laws...
while the titans stand over
such establishment with neither
tear nor suffocated laughter...
brooding in the alchemy of shadows
a scheme worthy
of the daughters of Brahim,
the mistresses of puppeteering
as guided, by their mother Karma.