the day i learned
that the band ****** jesus
with their song
i'm the mountain
wasn't some u.s.a.
trucker fetish,
or anything related
to the u.s.a.,
and was a bunch
of ukranians...
  well... the day...
          just like any other
in the marginal fabric
of realism...
something worth
forgetting,
or engaging with
   on the basis of: it works...
like a button
and a button-hole
on a shirt...
   or a belt,
fastened around
the waist..
or: **** yeah -
i have never heard of
people ingesting
hallucinogenic fungus
huddling under an
open umbrella
indoors...
                like:
the grand tales of
the kingdom of non-irish
gnomes...
but i still live
in a society
whereby: ****
is offensive, blurred out
when the A-crux of a breath
and the mind that knows
its spelling, interacts
with the tongue, lips and teeth
and: gobshite...
but **** is a sorry sorry no,
while ***** is:
the best traffic we'll ever
going to get...
  shush the ****-aroo,
dim-wit!
    savvy ser, savvy
blossom kills... yes sure you R...
which never required
a vowel to be bothered with...
given we're all so
minimalistic, these days...
i am the who-mountain:
   and that-valley...
        which is pin-point
for...
       and all that became
life as what was scuttled for
the baron of: the lottery...
  how homeless people
are never obese,
and the obese are never
homeless...
        and how the homeless
nomad cult:
with no jew willing...
cool-quiff of worded
obnoxiousness makes
pyramids of:
   the stuff you mould
with that sand?
yeah... i ****** on it.
- and life is all the all that
it can ever be...
               i almost fake
having an identity
whenever a stretch
my limps,
and encounter a public
scrapheap of:
what never becomes
history, the news,
or a library...
         a lot of times:
i even forget that i have
a face...
      i hyper-inflate
my literacy,
and then loße it to the emoji
franchiße...
                the world continues:
i accept a gruelling fact...
i pardon myself before it,
and letter my insignia
to unfathom a...
     pervading scarcity
of cogito on a canvas of
dasein...

   telling myself:
all the cogito i will ever
encounter, is limited
in the verb dynamic of
classical physics & interaction...

intraction?

           the world & its worth
of being concerned with it...
is not stand: upon the basic
of any search for being...

a thought:
the basilisk of Crimea...
  congested, private vocabularies...
made public...
    
   i almost forgot to have
to succumb to the want
of being understood...
in that:
          i made myself remember:

you can't see or hear:
****...
but you can see in transit
a case for ******...
choice: choosey reader...

so ******* polite,
so pertinent...
but it seems...
i forgot to don a top-hat!

scripted read (creed, reed, A(h))...
and i to have
confused the locus of
the 'ed and rhomb'us
of the rarity in: red...

             past...

          the travelling
circus... who's who's curiosity?
who is who's curiosity?

      favorite movie
character?

     one liner & opening:
no thanks turkish... i'm sweet enough
  bricktop...

    but all these observations
are not worth the business
of employing the hounds
of the  pediatric nature / stipend /
allure...

as i found it strange:
that the world:
"simply"... happens...
         and...
                         it will continue to
do so...
while i... will not even
have to make a remote place:
such as the position
i am in...
     to be held accountable
for...
it not even "being" so:
to begin with!

       oh... we're long past
a genesis...
                   i am anonymous,
but thrice over:
unaccountable for...
   for whatever reason
people make themselves
accounted for:
notably in epitaphs...

             unless...
by the "luck" of a grotesque
freak accident...
or a scam...

                 the world is
so pristine...
in its drama escapades...
it's not even that
i'm afraid of stepping
into the water
for fear of drowning
in it...
   i call it a case of...
lethargy to counter
the intricacies of triviality
of the world-riddled
people:
who are sometimes found
counting their steps,
and apprehensive
of their shadows.

me? i sometimes find my
ego make a statement...
i have an arm?
       it i it has a having
of an arm? there's an arm?!
if only and only but the few
read some of samuel beckett's
watt...
and... no ******* chance
mate!
                 no one is going
to become a public
intellectual...
in the anglican spreschen
woowld...
having read that sort
of *******! ha ha!