i never mind the aristocratic brow-beating...
sir laurence olivier interviewed
on the **** cavett show...
and how one can exfoliate within an armchair
of language...
with such ease... and this admiration
is never a shallow: to be bound to a shallow hue...
of what is *real" colour...
you almost agree to what's being said
with hush-hush overtones...
because that's... the old aristrocratic...
and i am of the lot of:
the never to be bound to such gentleness...
one can admire both the iron...
and the silk... and one and the two as
synonymous!
a hammer wrapped in a silk cloth...
which implies:
what one attempts when one has
transcended the otherwise:
bothersome bog dynamics of...
being the oil and **** that floats
like jesus... to walk...
on the water... which is not a literal event...
it's hardly a metaphor...
perhaps the people became well read..
literate... but then...
there came the metaphor and its translation...
the artistocrat...
better known as...
someone peacocking with anecdotes!
not in this murmur of perchance...
the character: silent / sober as a grave...
i can drag you onto the plateau
of how, otherwise this will require it being
appeased...
- and because why would younger
readers flock to: catcher in the rye
and not to charles dicknes?
it's a real shame that so few flock to charles
dicknes... esp. having read
the first chapter of the pickwick papers...
perhaps the problem being:
to be easily overlooked... to be allowed
to shut-up...
if i had read any of the Dickens i wouldn't
have made myself worthwhile
with a hidden ambition...
to write with finding the sort of simultaneous
ease to compare and compensate
with breathing...
for no better juxtaposition of when...
language becomes alive...
and it forgives itself the cue of a waiting
demand... prior to the king...
and this ghostly pyramid of class...
tier 1: impromptu...
tier 2: prompt and souffler en anglais...
tier 3, 4, 5, 6... and the better part
of having read some samuel beckett...

laurence olivier or what's called...
speaking with a fondness to have to sigh...
the measured breath...
i can't imagine having such an audacity
of freedom...
to speak at one's own leisure...
likened to walking...
to speak at one's own leisure...
without having to justify it like some pleb:
in a foreign country, akin to england...
reciting the h'american declarence of independence...
showing the 1st amendement into everyone's
porky-pie...

imagine... defending my freedom of speech...
one can really talk about anything...
but... one isn't allowed
to have the same freedom when:
one can, think of anything...
and extend this freedom into writing...
which is an extension of a freedom
of thought... and not... an invitation
to speak!

"freedom of speech"...
worse the freedom when...
people can be given the crab-bucket intellectualism
of... inclining themselves to treat
writing as speech!
that writing is not an extension
of thought... and it's not, speech!
this is not ditto-head news-reel material
readied for dough-dough-talk-talk-head!

leave this writing alone...
for your eyes only...
but no!
will it have to be become: "spoken"?!
a figment of anyone's dementia riddled
imagination...
funny how dementia doesn't attack
imagination but disgruntles memory...
yet... memory...
and pedagogy's memory is left intact...
that grammar lessons overshadow
personal memories...
how memory is never a leftover tract
of a self-intact...

but i do not own the position
to such freely spoken...
whatever language i might acquire...
whatever vocabulary...
however crude or perfected...
it doesn't matter...
it was never supposed to matter...

the irish do not, will not,
eat raw herrings in a cream, apple and gherkin
sauce... but to have that sort
of an irish ambition...
to have to be... left without one's own
tongue? i can also seek the haven
of: mój natywny język (my native tongue)...

but... that's hardly a consolation...
it would have been better,
perhaps... to have to succumb to
the "locals" of the "elsewhere"...
20+ years apart...
and... i'm a nowhere to be "found";
in that i am bound:
to a trench of teasing east...
but also teasing west...
at least closest to the north...
i could only find an antonym extreme
in some bogus new zealand version
of a south.

such profanity in the republic's eye...
my own, least quoted:
better judged...
and for no better of anything,
this, just might be...
for me to entertain the "pleb among the pleb"...
someone call a man named: jack!
and perhaps there's no...
other little place we were born into...
and... we all could have hoped
to have never left...
because... the fascination comes...
when one is almost allowed
to walk with a leash:
but one is never allowed
to hang on...
suicide dangling on a borrowed
noose from someone's
intestine's worth of rope...

the death of a monster... the critique
of a human being...
and all those better parts of what's
to be made into...
what's: the better part of this better
"part" to not be included
in anything that could be...
sentenced to: roughage...
grit and pebble and sand...

in order to have children...
and also to have a son...
is for the son to gimmick you...
and the daughter
and the daughter...
and no daughter...
and... the better prison that could
never become off of
citizen kane by orson welles.