only in england, and perhaps just shy
of only in essex -
     where the behemoth of London
almost finishes,
               and the countryside starts
nibbling on the beast's roasting toes...
and esp. in June,
                   can you find yourself sitting
up at night,
            smoking a cigarette from
the window,
                       immersed in the orchestra
of metalworks, and iron teeth clinging
to oyster shells in attempts to open
and feed on the genital pearl of the lunar
                                    sea...

foxes!
                   li-ßý   (-ee not lie through to
                 whip-S         and a hollowing out)...
                              it's hardly a howling
wolf, or a growling wolf...
                                 but it will have to do...
not exactly music but at least
not an animal pestered with domestication,
and given the local ownership
of dogs and cats:
               a brief interlude between
the dog-bone-dog-barking-dumbness
of a predictable evening...
         and to think:
   chirping birds just above not bothered
by the shortening of the night-hours...
yet in the thick shrubbery of
the gardens, this unholy vibration that
cuts through heart to reach
                                             a stone...
     and...
                  only partially a sinking
sensation...
                      more a loss of a nibbling
on conscience...
    
some nights are reserved to purposively
stay up and listen to these
rapists of bird song,
   these shredders,
                          with their jigsaws
for teeth, harking not even harking nor
close to barking,
          hyenas of the north,
almost laughing, then at the same time
squealing...
              jumping ship yet at the time
steering it against the rocks of the shore...

ugh: no onomatopoeia entry point...

sure birds and the other "wild" animals,
semi-domesticated pigeons,
   scavenging crows and all too happy
sparrows, pirate seagulls, you name it...
but with the foxes, in the den of thieves...
i don't have to go to the wild,
the wild can just come to me...
       particularly at about 3 - 4 in the morning...

i'm still wondering about
the diacritical detail of the english attention
to including
                   the superscript over two letters...
   as if it is even necessary...
                 pry open the goods and...
    monumentally adrift on
                  a sea of inconsequence -
            for lack of a better word...
    ȷohn could tell apart a norwegian
                                 ȷan from a yin yang,
        or rather, he wouldn't.

                there's always a ȷoe in        y-oddle:
                               should it begin with j...

               ה                   and                ח    

   who attaches the tzere and ט‬ (tet)
                         to the latter to craft a name?  
   or is that tzere and ת (tav)?    

sure, hidden vowels,
               albeit the two adams:
                                                   א and ע‬...    
                          aleph and ayin -

     braille seems to have already existed
among the semites, with niqqud -
   ever brimful the fascination with it -
    to have it in my eyes,
   but not, on the tip of my tongue:
            seen, but not spoken.

- melolontha melolontha -
      catching cockchafers during the warm
nights of my youth in Poland -
        May and childhood and honey,
as i now: metaphorical father
    demand sight of a child from
              the age of 4, through to 8.

the cut off to form words from given
letters, beside the semites -
clear cut offs: a-lpha
                             b-eta
                                  g-amma
                  d-elta,
                          e-psilon,
               z-eta,
                 th-eta,
                       i-ota,
                            k-appa and the rest
of the congregation,
                    but who could possibly
read but the seen, and braille if not
a hebrew?

such spare thoughts,
          i am almost tempted to go among
the people, drink with eyes
    the morass of bodies in the temple
of commerce and: high-brow achievements...
see: the complicated man,
   and the civilised horde and barbarians
to boot...

      instead...
                   a vagueness requires rekindling,
just off B175...
             beginning with pinewood road...
through the havering county park,
through to bower farm road...
      past the river rom,
                         near to spurgate brook,
and then into hainault forest...
        finally emerging romford road...

the world already knows,
  what the world already knows,
and all that is, between, before and
beyond has but a missing pilgrim to
mark with foot and silence
      the grounds of churning times...

not to imply a sadness,
                          but a blistering disarray,
hardly a solitude with
                              a baggage of self,
constantly that gluttonous
  mouth of ego,
                    and constantly the thing
that eats and feeds it at
                         the same time - thought...    
how else to explain the lost:
                           ( )ought               (i)?    
    
darwin might as well placed (an)athema
        on etymology -
                          seeing how there is
bountiful form in the persisting revelation
of history in a nutshell...
        perhaps i feel inclined to escape
the persisting hullabaloo to begin,
                   and to begin again,
              and again, begin -
      beginning as explanation for everything
that has and is yet to pass...
              what is currently not the year
of darwinism not being vogue?
            tiresome intellectual vogue -
    can anyone possibly not tire of
                                    peering into that
      abyss, as: with it, the sole explanation,
            great time eraser,
nothing of the 18th century, through to
                                    only last Monday...

apart from the fact that drinking
beer while walking is probably an always
welcome waste of time...
                 because why would i even
begin to admire a standstill with this
                                          fizzy pale amber -
and not take to: the allocated views
    already planted for the early afternoon?
not the pristine weather,
                     as ever, English summer,
but in the moist yoke of the air
                             a perfume of pasture...
or at least, that's the intention
   in finding the simpler man,
          the base man,
                  the any and every man who...
just happened to come across
                       nymphomaniac vol. I and II...
of course, nothing to us alien,
                  yet how to not find
                   a post-scriptum of once tasted,
reduced to an infructuous plateau
         of a nostalgia or: the teaching from
example base.
                  
   if only the use of language could persist
like this,
                   in its inconvenience -
                 esp. if only props and peddlestools
are artefacts of it being used...
yet always, a return,
      toward language, a conventionality,
   a steaming ****-pile of dittos
                                                      impasse.