perhaps i drink because my life isn't:
what other people's lives are...
perhaps i just can't stand the deflating
monotony of being sober
when the night comes...
when the night comes i want to be:
either drinking... or *******...
i don't dream... i sleep... i get the odd
spell of a dream but it's all very much
jigsaw puzzle... shrapnel...
hardly the stuff of architectural proportions
associated with: inception...

interlude: that feeling you get
when... watching Bewitched... again...
for some strange reason:
life on Mars? Elizabeth Montgomery...
Stepford Wife?
beside the canned laughter...
that 1950s narrator in the first few episodes...
this is the 1960s... sitcom...
not soap opera...
while in the background...
the Beat Poets were running wild...
mind you... you can't get a better:
pluck-my-eyes-out beauty than
Beverly Adams... even pushing 80...
she's...
                          how impossible to...

maybe that's why watching the Office
is so impossible... no canned laughter...
a curious little number...
a bit like: "canned applause" on a classical music
record... oh... wait... that rendition
was recorded with a live audience...

so while Bewitched was being broadcast:
all hell broke loose...
it's nauseating... this mythological take
on classical gender roles:
the centre will not hold...
a sympathetic poodle of a woman
that brings about an overpowering of
the status of mother... what is she:
i don't think i want to recognise this creature:
i don't...

perhaps i drink because...
clouds are enough entertainment for me:
the last movie i watched was
the Fisher King... and i only watched it
in about... four sittings...

but i'm not writing about that...
take any product that was manufactured in
the UK... the label sometimes reads
several languages...
the usual suspects... Spanish... German...
Italian... Port-of-Geese...
  (i'm not thrilled about the proper spelling)...
French... most certainly...
Greek...

but take a product made in France...
e.g. the 1883 maison routin...
sirop / syrop saveur
pain d'épices
  (gingerbread)...

  port-to-*******-goose: portuguese:
not guise... port-of-*******-geese!

but what's scribbled on the back of the label?
what languages are important for the French...
the Anglo-Saxon west...
which promptly draws a barrier come
Germany... and their fetish for all things Italian:
but not Greek... certainly not Turkish:
even though the Turks nibbled
at all that's Balkan... i **** Turkish prostitutes...
i should know when i tell them
why i have a clipped wing of a scar
that makes up my right shoulder-blade...
no aesthetic armour of a tattoo to cover it...
she asked: i'm just happy to have all my limbs...
Chernobyl... child of 1986...
that great river of radioactivity did make its
way into Poland:
all the pregnant women were prescribed
drinking Iodine...
all the trees turned autumnal at the height
of spring...
in streaks...

the label of this gingerbread syrup?
French... English... SV... SV... that's Svenska...
no? Swedish?
      Pepparkaka-Smak Sirap...
              rörsocker... se flaska
   (flaszka... a slang term for a bottle of *****)...

then something in Dutch...
   siroop smaak gemberkoek...
        rietsuikier.... natuurlijk kruidnagelaroma...

eh? am i seeing this clearly?
PL - SYROP o SMAKU PIERNIKOWYM..
kurwa: niet?!
                cukier trzcinowy...
      naturalny aromat goździkowy...

clove-"ish": girofle, nejlika, kruidnagel, goździkowy
cinnamon: cannelle, kanelsmak, kaneel-aroma...

the Spanish zunge comes... the Spanish tongue...
after the ****** tongue...
on a ******* label of a gingerbread syrup...
well... MA-DE IN FRAN-CE
then Italian... then Danish... then German...
last: Greek...

i have Francophobia... not fear of the language
itself... but... a fear of speaking it without
a French accent...
i read the same list of ingredients
on the bottle...
i feel most comfortable reading
the list in... beside English / ******...
Italian... and Danish...
i clutter up my Deutsche and Svenska...
Greek is palpable: but it's in Greek...
it's not in Latin... so it might as well be in
Cyrillic...

i feel comfortable in Italian and in Danish...
i could speak those two tongues with:
persuasion...
i could integrate myself into the world
of these people...
however much i might try:
i'd overdo undertaking Deutsche and i'd be
boxing a ghost limb should the Fwench awwive...

speak some Italian: the Scots still trill their aR...
sing-along... less so mit: Svenska...
hardly any Panzermensch in me... although...
anywhere West of the Mongolian horde...
it's not like Bagdad library didn't suffer
like the library of Alexandria...

cheap holidays: cheaper *******:
piglet pink and tattooed...
like i might want the mother of my children
to be: greyish and scuttling...
irritated by the first signs of:
mortal folding... creases of the skin...
what once was read as a linear projection
becomes a wriggling work-out
of a hyped-up worm squiggle...

i was confronted by a girl who i lost my virginity
to... she was drunk i was drunk...
i had three heads on the wall...
of my sorry-***-worth-of-a-abode...
Napoleon... Plato... Marquis de Sade...
she only noticed Napoleon...
she was French... a 3rd year psychology major:
by now i would be a #metoo culprit...
Grenoble my fancy...

           but the resurrected Duchy of Warsaw...
all is bad with Napoleon...
perhaps i should have been
born a Croat...
i must be boring the best of my readership
by now... or... i'm not:
since not many would want to go blind
with these words...
oh i can imagine the latter circumstance:
i'm not cagey & rhyming a shaking-of-the-pear...

how is one to compete for an audience...
when one is competing with...
dead people...
i can imagine competition of
the mortal avarice... between footballers...
between gladiators...
but... when you're staged against...
someone who's dead: the readily: available:
tested audience...
language: immobilised by the scrutiny of...
generically: tested... Homer... Horace...
Dante... Shake-a-Pear..
it's not like the "competition" is unfair
because of ***... nor the rewards...
they're... *******... DEAD...

i best preface myself with: i'm dead too...
Bukowski... Jack Spicer...
                Tzara... Tuwim... Brautigan... Berrigan...
Blake... O'Hara... Belli... Pound...
dead... dead dead dead... dead...
Purdy... it's not a fair "competition":
it's also called: necromancy... loosely...
i'm reading the works of the dead:
reviving them: resurrecting them...
comforting myself with a suffocation
of laying my head on a pillow filled with ash...

it's beside: the argument: it's not fair...
he's a man and she's a woman...
name me one famous female football player!
come to think of it... i can't think of one...
tennis... though?
it's more fun... female tennis... equal pay
implies: they really should play
a 3-set victor...

by writing this little nibble of a scribble...
thank god i looked into Horace...
he just divulges into scribble...
into digression... somehow teasing a maxim...
Horace contra Cicero...
i will not be caged by rhyme!
to hell with rhyme...
look at me... Bukowski was lucky...
he ended up driving a BMW...
i just want enough to pass-by...
somewhat unnoticed...

Canidiae dentis, altum Saganae caliendrum
excidere atque herbas atque incantata lacertis
vincula *** magno risuque iocoque videres...

the thief Voranus...

will there be enough words... just how / as Sagan tortures
the shadows of the dead...
they wish not to speak:
   like witches... they occupy the earth
a wolf's beard with the teeth of a slithering
polka-dotted lizard...

ah!   ha!
arrogance with a tease of agony!
tow the dead: i'll punch myself in the head:
knock knock: toughened wood...
here, now... a most presented...
          could you ever believe it:
sequence of events?

so many people live their cushioned lives...
it makes sense to live so little of my own...
that i live mine:
in the noon highlight of horror...
such mundane exfoliating....
mundanity... Monday-Deity...
mun-dein-itty-ein-i-lost-"witty"...

   culprit: to hell with the whole load
of y'o'u!