i only wrote what made
me believe:

    anything to further yourself,
my last, lost,
     furtherst "self",
   *** a concern / concept
                     of a you...

dearest "you",
                          you...
and my shadow being
allowed to tow
grieving
the posit
        of slack
                        labours....

for all the grief in
the market of conversation...
and the insensible cupid
of the court
of the marketing
                   congregation...

people make such
silly inhibitions,
and extrtact the expected
life from them,
i...
             almost...
                 begin to wonder:

how do these people
live on...
   with such numbing comforts
being attained?
  how do they...
their parody of grey...
   believe themselves
to live on?

         ? esp. when the same
question, posed,
you be met with a reply:
all what the grey matters...
        is to be worth
being ingested into colour...

ergo...
   my writing...
    i fathomed
the lonley town,
i've fathomed
the bubble,
of a global city of London,
i can fathom all
that i can be,
but what,
  i never will be,
i will treat...
   as an oven baked chicken
thigh...
being eaten, sly,
off the bone like a slurp...

cry?
  i'm a cucumber that's
about to speak crazy Shakespearean?
what?!
   open ***** country
contra circumcision?
   i thought that doing *****
was to replenish
circumcision antics?
             no?!

there's no posit
base either south or north
off of "'ere":
i.e. dasein...
no...
you, me... 'ere,
now...
        this ****,
this ******* stays
forever the same riddle...
i'm not about to figure out
a nostalgia for
the revival of the late 20th century...
or a futurism
not akin, to this, reality,
of the genesis
of the 21st...

   no... nein! nie! niet!    

the birds sing...
in the night...
   i'm guessing they're sparrow...
yet i linger,
unable to objectify myself
to their presence...
   having to forge
an amnesia
       to their subject-of (se)
and their subject-off (per se).