the gravity of despair,
                 neither falling nor immersed
       in a status quo -
              typically english:
from the not-too-prying
                       neighbours -
       a mad irritating energy;
then again:  
            not so much despair
but a heart-riddle
      and its cognitive shrapnel,
such a rare event
       that perhaps...
it would be easily found standing
on the edge, peering
                  into a canyon...
on the odd occassion
that am disorientated by
24 years of my life with
this acquired tongue -
     given that there is no
pater a priori -
                     and not that
i'm disillusioned by
   the narrative,
            yet there is never
a sense of a affirming
       stash of ash from bone
or glass from
                 molten sand...
suppose among natives
born and among
           natives burried -
not this, this:
             quasimodo ego
          hunched
without much to escape
into: once upon a time...
   given the gluttonous
space i occupy...
           forever, seemingly,
the technicality of
language,
            as never really
inherited,
           a use-once-discard-
immediately-after-use
hygienic...
          i can suggest
that avoiding pronoun
usage doesn't
necessarily lead to
objective statements -
    much more
objectivity in
walking,
              or not
    throwing punches...
yet, this unfathomable
eeriness of an english
afternoon...
     bothersome
heart fixated on becoming
as useful
as a ******* cactus
           when
holding within focus:
blurred morality...
   if thinking could ever
be equivalent to
narrating...
           even though
in this scenario:
             a way to cheat
time-mechanisation-constraints
of watching gas
   become ice...
            i could never
fathom a practicality of
this language that would
become translated into
a practicality for society...
i look at my father
and see that his tongue
is scalded:
        yet here he also is:
a shining emblem
   of assimilation -
      house, car,
a profession...
                  yet i'm always
the 8 year old
   who "happily"
moved...
          in the language
              i kept as a façade...
czasem,
          kiedy jest okazja...
    też nim coś: po-szprecham.
getting hit on
the head by a swing when
i was 7,
    and: god know's why
surviving a drug-incuded
brain hemorrhage
     didn't help aged 21...
      point being:
       the moment i am not
allowed autobiographical
rights...
      or rather facts...
    that's when this whole
fiasco known as
life... becomes...
     an eerie english afternoon;
yes, the "hard to believe"
     oddities of life...
notably found in
   mouths of the sort of
people that, will probably
die in their sleep...
         luljeta
                lleshanaku:
i'm sorry that all i know
of albania
              is concerning
the stolen mickey mouse
watch when george w. bush
          took a "risky" route...
but hell:
   it wouldn't be an eerie
afternoon,
   if it wasn't compensated
by:
     a velvety taste with hints
of almonds and walnuts,
and a long finish of candied
fruits and ginger...
   tier monkey monarchists -
rat-and-mutineer-catchers...
  i've become so
knowledgeable of myself
without any concern for
such afternoons
   coming and going as they
please...
    since it's sometimes hard
to expect a coherent:
           interview-type-english...
persistence for
     chronology encapsulated
by the most vague
                 exchange of
   2 + 2's...
                      basically:
**** felt a tad' odd
    and this is what comes out
of such momentary
lapses in
                      attempting to:
revere rigid social-norms
   of: cognitive-voyeurism
in reverse -
                 that's poetry;
twice-the-bucket-load-of-
orthodox-*******
          strict role for rhyme;
so saner then:
             this boorish end;
and yes,
   the sort of punctuation,
not allowing
         exasperation.