if you're "ego" tripping...
   masqueraded by
the whole: of night...
    with a warm july breeze
          and an oval moon
   in its three tier transition
from blood orange,
through to a canary:
  and then a blank,
white summary of
                a partial todkopf?
my my...
     not receiving
chilli-like goosebumps
on the back of your neck:
"tripping"
                but rather:
teasing a cognitive void
of consciousness
                          mit: der id?
must be my fetish
for nibbling on german...
the ottoman turks have
come to east london
with a bazar of bulgarian
prostitutes...
it's id tripping -
      vulgarising a "need"
for thought,
   translated via touching
the void
        left with goosebumbs
on the back of your neck...
sure...
          the gods' **** fountain
of the waterfall at glencoe -
agryll...
      which is elaborate
for simply whiskey aids
the observation being
                              undertaken...
once upon a time i referred
to beer as the **** of gods...
changed my mind:
   needed something worth
the equivalent of wearing
                       a chanel no. fünf...
can't exactly express
tha banality of: not thinking -
touching a void,
and then translating it into
goosebumps on the back
of the neck...
   perhaps if i only add the word
combitions in my head -
gott ist gott...
                gott - echo chamber -
                          mit, mit... mit: unß!
it's german...
  there's no yiddish balaclava
                  joke from a new yorker
intended,
            let alone invited;
                        hochdeutsch...
maybe someone ought to have
teased the ******* via
terrible translation software machinery
and somehow love them...
my grandfather has a memory
of SS-men giving him sweets
so sweet that his stuck together
and needed to be pried open
under running water:
    herrbittebonbon:
                     exactly like that...
no punctuation form
                 of herr, bitte bonbon...
the schwarzuniform...
   and then:
                die rot armee
  composed of khaki attired
       teenagers stopping for the night
in my home town,
preferring to sleep on hay,
in stables,
                 with the animals...
perhaps memory
   is the only faculty we wish
to revitalise even if it succumbs
to temporal
                       degeneracy...
but the advent of ensuring
memory become pristine -
        pulverised by recounting it...
certainly overcomes
the self-evident perils of
                                   the body -
memory is trans-temporal...
   it slows time...
               so that things become
more...
                     static...
       or to use a better relief description:
intact within their spatial
confines...
           memory?
                 that grand cinema cameo?
no one ever tires of
playing with the last
remaining toy,
after the children put away
their toys, and become adults
weilding sickles and hammers...
memory: is, the last toy -
with which
  people will always play with.