i sat hunched like a crow...
await the usual cue...
a star burst into life,
          then shrunk
to something akin to being
part of a constellation,
and moved...
across the sky...

i was walking from one
supermarket to
the other,
drinking a cider...
a black couple were
about
to pass me,
    i intentionally
moved
across the pavement
to ease their passing...
smoking a cigarette...

i was coming back
from another
supermarket
with the whiskey in tow...
about to pass
two... giblets worth
of people...
namely...
two, short, white,
lesbian, lovers...
one was moving
her lover: arm in arm...
to almost make
an impasse of my
hermitic route
past them...

oh i believe
in the nomadic people...
like i believe in
the hermitic people...

purposively...
to claim attention
worth of macht...
i just about missed
having to be shoved
into...
  what could have been...
a perfectly calm
night inquiry of:
the volume of traffic
for pedestrians in
the cool crisp night...

i wasn't slighted,
i was, more akin to:
'*****, please don't
make this difficult...'
  i wasn't slighted
like dostoyevsky (wow...
i can spell that surname
drunk, just imagine)...
when he wrote his:
notes from
          the underground...

i've just seen a star explode
into life,
then dim itself
to a star worthy of
a constellation,
and move, i mean move
across the sky...

          back on earth:
a black couple can understand
that what rules
obliges me to drive
a car on roads,
also applies...
for the common courtesy
of having to share a pavement...

giblet twin-*******
lesian-lovers from hell?
no... the "thing"
just passes them...
        i did shy my right
shoulder from making contact...
but... come on...
    
so i drank the third cider
while taking a ****
and reading a book...
   clearly...
  for some the bureaucratic figures...
highest authority emblems
as described with
such... benevolence as...
those, described by krasznahorkai...
i once made a shelf
become bound to the existece
of three clocks...
stacked...
one didn't work:
keeping the pernament hour,
while the two were out-of-sync.,

trouble is... once perched
on my windowsill...
listening to speak...
youtube videos...

       i have to though...
i have to listen to these:
bland day-robbers...
   work... yeah...
and if i was to be paid reading
some hungarian novel
from 1985...
rather than regurgitating
internet spew & news...
imagine!

        - but i have to...
perched on the windowsill...
finally the wintry air hits
me...
with a ***** of eager buds
waiting to sprout on trees...
magnolias...
             pear tree blossom on
the eastern avenue (A12)...
   the flower prior to the fruit...
many a cold winter night
i have walked...
clipping off the pear tree
blossom...
   one night white flowers...
another night plush
   cosmopolitan pink...

but i hate the pedantry of
that certain class of people
who can't understand
pedestrian traffic...
whatever their liberation
gave them,
they have to convene themselves
to gloat...
  how much of an obstruction
is a man drinking a cider,
at past 10pm
   walking in the opposite
direction?

               just petty instances
of the most trivial farce...

so i position myself on
my foot, one dangling,
on the windowsill...
drinking...
                 listening to these
youtube videos
thinking
   (at what will i speak?) -
comment?
    none...
         and then it hits me...
ah...
           harmony...
the unison...
something resembling
being synchronised...
   the void that is my thought
feeds from
the rigorous agitation
of... made music...

and then...
it comes...
              something as
basic, but thrice as fundamental...
akin to rotting christ's
זה נגמר

                    i close my eyes
and begin...
   the nodding mantra
of the 3rd tier of silence...
not the 1st tier
of not speaking...
not the 2nd tier of thinking...
but the third tier...
of...
                    being absent:
yet... im-zeit-und-raum-intakt...
or... simply...
not thinking...
             accompanied
by a reduced empirical awareness...
eyes shut,
   ears blocked by the pulverising
sound of music...
        tip-toeing
on a wish for frost...
             itching to feel
the burrowing night
   ease me tonight from
dreamlessness...
            reduced to saying...

of man, my former...
he could conjure a mythology
with the quiz-snap
flick of the finger...
        what ancient man was,
and gave, via the membrane
of mythology...
     modern, man, kin...
       is as easy to conjure
a polytheistic venture into
pathology, as the ancient man
did into the realm of mythology...

gradations of melancholy,
or the sense of humor,
with a wasp's take on
the biting tongue turned agitated
sting...

to have to break from
feeling,
yet unable to think of
all the Taj Mahal constructs
of thought, conclusively,
into & preserving action...

          to have felt,
honestly...
   and not have to hide behind...
these thought-out-constructs
of logic...
      to think via a quasi-plagiarism...
if i were to shackle
myself to the irrational heart,
and feel, me!
   i would do so...
and thrice learn to curb
my tongue from uttering itself
louder than
than medley of an oyster
towing a heart...
                
           i wouldn't want...
to be dictated not feeling...
   and being reducted to
regurgitating...
                   a plagiarism...
or some... auxiliary argument...

but it is february,
and the nights are cold...
but only in these nights
can you take a walk,
and see such sights...
of pear trees in blossom...
or of magnolias...
like church bears
and uvulas became fused
together...
          
            and the congregation...
forgot to whisper...
instead... astouded everyone
with choir practice...
   unless of course...
you have ever heard
the recitation of the creed
in a catholic church,
and thought it, being unlikely,
to have the comparison...
of a mumbling satanic
cult...

                   can i do away with
prayer...
and merely think of "him"?
  i'm not going to provide
answers for a pronoun juggle...
i've left school,
and in school...
none of us were taught grammar,
to leave school,
and be forced an education
in grammar?
        a bit... beside the point:
would you say?

           perhaps "he" is the infantile
leasure activity of morons...
but... you see...
    nothing is...  
      a gargantuan glutton...
         nothing doesn't exist
in nature...
  even the vacuum that allows
for the motion of the planets
is brimming with anti-matter
discoveries...
            there is: no-thing...
only nothing,
   in a conversational passing...
casually...
                    almost unintentional...

what sort of "god" is an impasse
if "he" only occupies my thinking?
no... no mumbling prayer,
credo,
    or a crescendo of orthodoxy,
litany...
              a whisper...
                      like:
thinking - with a surprise at the end
of whatever thinking ever
solved...
              
    how much is it a delusion...
to simply think of "him"?
   and not having to compensate
that idea with prayer?
        oh... but i can think of nothing:
i just stop thinking...
since i am being pulverised
by "things"...
  primarily nouns,
   then atoms...
      and then...
               a plethora of:
         at what point am i to attach
myself to these, "depths"
of utility, for the service of,
                                         tongue?

winter, though:
   in the nights...
magnolias
and pear tree blossoms.