come to think of it,
     i can hardly concern myself with
speaking two languages,
among the polyglots i'm
   hardly...
                      what the normies,
locals, natives:
                     call schizophrenic...
yeah: split-brain...
        i don't speak two languages:
i walk in two trenches,
   among the no-man's land
of the everyday grey and
sadly forgetable... as in:
                               well adjusted.

trust an estonian to conjure
up "premature dementia"
                  as a precursor for
the easily available term of what
becomes a medicinal metaphor
and a lost metaphor:
     which i, just so happens,
stumbled upon.
               dumb ape in england,
chamaleon in poland...
       mind you:
              can "you" even imagine
becoming entrenched
in two languages?

        luckily for the polyglot
there's an intact aspect of him
easily acquiring the multiplicity...
        1st generation migrant
and...
          you know those 2nd
generation ***-nibbling-beavers?
     vector-boy doesn't
want to come out and play today...
no medicinal view,
   no... Hippocratic oath to mind...
writing, as if humming a lullaby...
nothing of
snap and col(l)age format...
      i really think that's an excessive
use of L... too much association
with: college...
      i mean: i haven't read
a single book by stephen king...
it's almost a shame...
   but then diffusion and cinema
happens...
      and why wouldn't i be disorientated?
if england wants to treat
bilingualism as schizophrenia,
   then at least i can point
to the clear divide...
                 tickling inorganic
artifacts of a past: when sentenced
to speak before a tangible
representative of the secular
faith of the asylum...

            play my cards right:
           i might even become a priest.
not that i didn't mind asking
cesare borgia for directions...
        i really did take to the brothel
and a ***** as an imitation
of going to confession...
            took to the religious theme
like a good catholic post-scriptum...
**** my altar my flower
               my eaten heart...

when *** takes up religious
   royalities,
               metaphors,
   and everything else,
  not bound to economising with
a spouse...

another thing i can congest
into my pigeon-brain...
    the "supposed" power of
metaphor in dis-ease
   (negation of ease) -
                       at least metaphor
is a coping mechanism
   to what is otherwise,
just dumb placebo pushing
  with self-"help"...
      the whole genre of "literature"?
placebo.

- but i never thought that
england would deem bilingualism
to be equivalent to schizophrenia...
there goes my Napoleon quote...

almost all psychiatric definitions
  of "madness"
           resonate unde the umbrella
of lathargy, in unison;
     what's sad about depression?
         that there's some sort of romance,
a mystery...
          behind plain old lethargy...
can't exactly feel pumped up
            when there's no sweating
horse next to you, but a sanitised swtich
ON / OFF...

         madness "is" an attempt to
make lethargy base yet at the same time
                                 eloquent...
       a romance among kings,
                a whip among paupers...

        what,
   because             every
                 is            "is"              
                           an
                                             =            ?