bashing a blank canvas...
   i can almost put my "faith"
in the disbelief of
having to live in a dream
of nebuchadnezzar -
the last bit...
skipping in puddles
for the relevant 2 pence
and 1 pence coins
                 of copper...
sure... a "revival of rome"...
but somehow the phonetic
encoding couldn't just... "die"...
from a people,
of a people, one-to-one...
to a people...
              "uniqueness"...
   "pride"...
             i'm finding to lodge
a justifiable word
to compensate...
          the synonym-tinged
close proximity of
   a hypocrisy
                  and a paradox...
****** life...
living a dream being
kept alive for so long...
    it's like...
   "they" didn't walk into
this farce, sleepwalking...
did they?
          i'm sorry... but the idea
that i'm living in a, "reality"
best described as wish-fulfillment...
apart from paint:
my original psychotic
detachment is as about
"psychotic" as my past ambition
of collecting swords...
yeah, long *******...
some more than half
a meter in length... hussar sabers...
curved... for a reason:
on horseback you'd require
a curved sword...
   you couldn't stab...
you'd swipe...
      because by stabbing
you'd lose your sword
with the inflicted stab wound...
              ooh the religious people...
so why the **** am i living
in a secular nightmare
of having to live out a prophesy
of the first psychoanalyst,
the prophet daniel,
    describing but one man's dream,
namely, nebuchadnezzar?
i'm guessing experiencing
l.s.d. would be bad at this point...
  nebuchadnezzar...
ingenious despotism...
carved out a legacy with the Yids
(not a slur, a prefix
derived from yiddish...
all the U-boat crew would know it)
who inscribed his dream
into sacred writing...
        and the ancient roman
spaghetti bonanza ensued...
yeah... the prophesy...
about the revival of rome...
         only when the northerners
arrived, from the east,
and... the island folk
found their worjk ethos outmatched
and...
        beyond competition...
so... "this" is... reality?
i don't think so...
   i'm basically lodged in
a dream of a man who has been
dead for... oh... 2600 years...
           it was one thing for
the ancients romans to form
their entymology / history genesis
in Troy via Virgil...
   quiet another for the
****-bongo-&-loco
   Belgians to come back from
Congo (like in that song
we didn't start the fire)
          and say: shirts off!
we're going skinny dipping in
the north sea, at midnight!
                  it's like...
did we really have to stick to
the "plan"?
    there was a "plan" to begin with?
hardly any celebration
of nihilm left,
  better get used to the fatalism...
by word, and subsequently
be deed...
           well... look at it this way...
i'm trying to extract colour
from this base counter-geometry...
and also reveal that:
i haven't read a stephen king
novel...
      nope, not one...
                 but having arrived
at the conclusion,
that i am living in - a circa 2600 year
old - despot's dream
(& interpretation by...
the person who managed
to predate Freud, i.e. Daniel)...
yeah... feels great!
      everything in this world
is about as bogus
as a ******* piñata stuffed
with banknotes...
         i know what is real...
pain...
        the rest: a ******* mirage....
and i'm done
with the frenchman,
the philosopher,
the gensis of suppositions,
the table and a ******* chair.
- but pain?
     better get used to it...
it's the only pinch
you'll ever experience
to satiate the basic
bogus nature of any other
experience...
           because at this point...
there's no point
    fiddling with cotton
to starve
    the nerves from being
given... something more than
an ****** of a *******
mollusk...
        a bit like playing
truant to the coddling apathy...
        so... why would i even bother
agitating myself
at a cheap-stab
   against someone on
(thank god i never used it)
       twitter?
           i just hate living in a reality
that derives itself from a dream
interpretation...
       and...
         in domine patris...
         wiped off any indigenous
constructs of the mind...
leaving me...
strapped like some *******
gimp... in a Greco-Judeo
           brothel of...
          whatever thinking comes
next...
   what's wolf in pollack?
   vilk...
                in finnish? susi
(**** me, that's mild)
           wolf in lithuanian?
     vilkas
     in estonian?
       hunt (but i'm guessing
it's 'hoo'nt')
               magyar?
                                           farkas...
did i miss any odd ones out
apart from the pollack?
      i know that the pollack
tongue is heavily borrowed...
   loan-words...
       some of the tongue
   is etymologically
original... "pure"...
but yeah... a great deal of it is
derived via the usage
of darlehenwörter:
                           loan-words.

   - well if i have to be honest...
- you're drinking sodium pentothal
or something?
- nope... *** & pepsi...

i can't be bothered staging
props, hiding in costumes...
     lying...
             i'll just state
the most painful truths
    and get on with it...
   yes, i know, the ******* standard
in english of either
a latin prefix
          or a greek suffix...
i just thought that my fellow
pollack "brethren"
  would not **** themselves
with so many
loan-words
for their everyday colloquial.