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i once saw a play:
stones in his pockets at the West End...
two actors performing
a share of 20 odd roles between
them...
nothing unlike
milan kundera's essays
or...
    gilles deleuze and samuel
beckett's bicycle
"metaphor": mein gott:
obwohl ich bin sterbern(d)
zu lesen das bux...
i'm writing english
i'm teasing deutschezung(e)
i'm evidently trespassing...
conventionality and "something"
that stipends an completion
of "geometry" with a suffix
-oon and -oonz...
breathing ice...
breathing ice in his hands...
atmung eis im seine hände...
the stones that were his pockets, also..
were an encouraged drowing
mechanism...
deus ex machina
**** in machina...
one left the "other"
with one of those secular jokes...
a priest, a rabbi... walk into
a bar...
order a baritone
cosmopolitan...
the bartender is probably
transgender,
                 evo-******...
a castrato opera mongrel sign-up...
or a giuseppe belli
sonnet:                e io:
                   und ich, and i...
             i ja...
    it's like this gargantuan fullness
of a breath predisposed itself
to imagine itself awake and with
untold misery a tugging alongside
i as why...

once i wrote chicken scratching(s)
with a loot out of the scruffy tending
to... limits ease...
now this damning trickle of water
like the most probably inevitable:
sojourn panicky quest
across the north sea
to arrive at the norwegian fjords
attired in adam's feather
and shivering to ease
at touching either candle...
a puddle of ink... chicken blood
*** the Aztecan decapitation
ritual... cannibalising their own:
poor crooks of the dawn...
****'n'****-a-******-doo'ah...
entre... i.e. to begin with: "debate"...

if memory serves me justice:
i was a reader once...
i'd write what little conversation i could have
but otherwise: wouldn't have
for clarity's sake...

giggle... chandelier...
worship of st. peterburg...
           to make doll...
and a franchise of something
from Vienna... something:
Viennese...
like a Hamburger is not something
pork: readily available via
ham...
but... something lost to the association
with a Hamburg;
exemplum est.
her father died not too long ago...
she wept into my shoulder
with that thickening of the saliva
that drenched my t-shirt...

i wish i could have cried, also...
i wish i could have also cried: died...

today she threw a tantrum because
i think: hell knows no fury
like a woman - i'm missing the scorned
part because...
well she was the one to call
by a tyrant for reasons...
as i poured her a g & t and watched
nothing apart from a reading
of the Outsider stretch before me...

i guess the if and the when mingle
in a sort of ecstatic dangling
of the carrot...
she three a tantrum and she's
apparently suffering from arthritis
but when no one's looking
she can turn into a right'o'tornado
and pull out shelves with
d.i.y. equipment like it was:
shovelling butter...
or spreading it...

            this month there's an apparent
celebration of women...
well... my past girlfriends aside...
my father's mother:
whom i will never know
since she abandoned him
to be raised by my father's mother
and her 2nd husband...

or the impeding crescendo of
razor terror between my mother's mother...
not to mention...
well at least the supermarket cashiers:
who are mostly women...
allow themselves to be human:
an bearably asexual at that...
from time to time...
of course when the odd chance of:
oh you smell nice, fresh... leaves their
lips i'm best left stunned
at what's impersonal...
what's "cordial"...
what's formal in relation to
someone passing through
a supermarket till...

beside the girlfriends i could mention
the "***-workers"...
but then again:
i rather keep that to myself...
back to ol' mutter:
how she managed to sieve through
an entire shed looking
for a screwdriver...
didn't find one the hour or so i had
to clean up her *******-riddle
of a tantrum...
although i'm pretty sure
the Frodo & Bilbo who were installing
the new fridge were supposed
to come equipped...

    i stashed myself with a mahjong solitaire
and thought: pretty pretty "things"...
tendering to equate them with...
napoleon tulips rather than...
duke of wellington dandelions...
or circa...

          mother, dear...
        when he, your father, was alive...
i really, truly, did, enjoy a status
of grandson... so it happened that i am:
the only son... but that i was the only
grandson, also...
with your parting: the hierarchy
changed... a little bit...
i'm 3rd in line to...
a knee-deep inheritance of ****
in a universe that's centrally
agitated by: squid ink or hyena ****...

but the hierarchy changed
beyond recognition...
i'm behind the son-in-law... my father...
petty politics...
     the mother and the mother's mother
feud: i.e. how "grand"...
so she throws a tantrum i clean
up after her...
make her a g & t in the process...
some jacket potatoes for dinner...
etc., etc. etc.

         and there's that looming:
because it's always the readily available excuse...
she's looking for herself
something only adults lose
the child and i guess a tender
father-figure authority which
i can't nor will provide
but that's all too hypothetically
abstract even for me
the point being:

  whether it's really a western thing...
"fyng"...
whether it's that "gynocentrism" through
and through...
well it wouldn't have mattered then,
i.e. whether it was a geocentric model
to begin with... and a heliocentric model
to end "it" on...
the "parables of the folk" would
still retain the agony-aunt /
jewish matchmaker clauses
just like santa claus is and forever will
be... satan's clause -
in the argument for celebrating criss-cross...

point being...
we do not give or make the same concessions
to children as we do to adult
women...
it's a terrible truth...
it's so ******* unavoidable like
gravity is a false step above
the abyss on top of a tall building...
the concessions adult women are given
are not even given to children:
sparingly by fathers to their daughters
but not that far as to...

it's sa-sa-sa-sa-sa-saaaad
that this can and does take place...
after a while when
there's no reproductive dynamic / vector /
whatever noun is in focus
and everyone has exploited everyone's
"function"...
use...
  and there's only this creature
of a person left...

i can't celebrate women...
                 i might wish to go delve in an hour's
worth in a brothel...
peel some raw ****'s worth for an oyster
choke come the oral hiccups
of mostly vowels... caste consonants
as a yummy yum oh and ah shakes
the furniture...
but... sensibly all conversations are
off...

because: my grandfather, also, died...
every summer from circa 10 through to 18...
nay... further... 21...
riding bicycles...
sightseeing... etc.
but i'm... 3rd... 4th... perhaps even 5th
in the category of "mourning"...
it doesn't matter what he communicated
with me...
i'm not the son i'm not the daughter
i'm 50% other...
needless to say that other 50% other
of me-to-"him" is also a cul de sac
for what's immediately given...

it's hardly a tree of genealogy that one
could prize...
so no argument anglo-saxon
existential with Darwin and genes
in mind...
something "deconstructive" like a sticky
toffee pudding baked by a homosexual
or anything post-modern in poetry
(charles olson, primarily) then yes...
but nothing impeding "closure"
with a sense for continuation...
i.e. done elsewhere done by someone else
otherwise i will have to
re-categorise myself as "something"...
well not "less"... but "besides"...
being... human.

        if only: dumb enough and having
inherited all the deafening impetus churns...
for: a furthering of... past-participle...
less a "noun": a complete fraction of gene-me
or moi...

it's still lonesome and bothering...
we give more concessions
to adult women
than we ever give to children...
that phantom "we"...
whatever it is...
it's a tonight and a worthy end,
a goodnight.
to have to little to say in so few
a words...
i'd hope for some Gabbie Hanna(h)
inspiration-al
   sic quotes...
               i don't want to write
oeuvre: -esque -esque stilettos of pain
grand reveals...
sejong the great:
who invented the Hangul is
my all time top three favourite
dead person...
  from among the denizens of
circa: hier...
                jetzt...
       i'd like to borrow from all
the waves of people: dead dead dead...
my envy is spastic & fantastic
because i'd scribble-bee
every, single, linguist...
first... of most importance...
to behave around food doubly-butchered
i.e. when beef is cooked it's
best to redeem it on the altar
and have it medium rare:
not chalk-brick annoyingly
translated into a glutton-fixation
of calories count etc.
i drink cheap ***** *****
not because i have a palette for
matured single malts but because:
if there is still every part of me
that can spew words out
while invigorated by some glug
of the ol' kosher of fire-blood...
and amber...
conversational overtones rife because
i clearly haven't had
much time to read a face
and nuance it and
whatever is left to pingpong / squash
an hour's worth: away
for... conversational pleasures
lubricated by wheat-towing bubbly
suffice...
interacting with stalemate...
one might call soul another calls sigma...
i.e. the totality that' animating
what's currency in transitioning
from living to dead
from living: space...
to dead: time...
resurgence of a detail of time
that's memory that feels raw feels
like **** when staged
to a collectivistic / "objective"
scrutiny -
derive the purely subjective
derive the purest objective...
call "red" a "puppet's tail"...
                my worship for letters
comes aligned with...
  some Cyrillic...
     no... not Tironian...
   and it only works around...

      ż (зъ)
                     vs. ż (зь)

ź (зъ)
                      vs. ź (зь)....

   which is a "mis-phoneme"
of sorts... given that... ж (ż)...
            hardly: nothing orthodox about: a...

       nuances in all things
Russian...
clearly beginning with some
Greek would have aided
the... ahem... conversation...

but if you were to post-modern
"revise" you could come
across something akin to...

ж (ż) = зъ
                     vs. зь

   i.e. is the hovering dot: hard... or soft...
is the synonym of acute... hard... or soft?
******* playground of sorts...

also, i.e. je suis...
        je zeus...
                     but i'm no zeus nor jesus...
this is my revenge against being told
French is impossible to learn...
by any stretch of the imagination -
added by the "sieving"...
i was not supposed to acquire
a brimming proficiency of French...
maybe German...

what letters to give free reign for
a Mongolian khan...
what letters and what auxiliary:
my eroded imagination "to begin with"...

for every "с":
          a съ = ш
or for every cь (ś)
at some "point": a caron š
will have to be arrived at...

  CHaser...
          ч vs. ц... Time...
                atoms of sounds blistering me
ripe with oozes of scraps and
fried bacon nibble-peel-offs...

how a bilingual might write
a polyglot scribble...
best kept summary...
four zunge prodding & prone...

how purely phonetic english
with all those graffiti shortcomings
could be arrived at
without question...
alt hier und dies...
             as exemplar primo...
no questions asked...
                  these feeble crusade...
the ancient continent of blues:
this funnel for Asia Prior...

i won't die defeated...
i'll be drinking with the mediocre skim-reading
zenith of lot
for the most part of the "hives"
activity...
      et cetera etc.

he's half as best remembered...
as he should be...
who? Sejong the Great...
and i'm not even Korean
to have to...

but it's not like i have a name
for the man who "invented" beer...
discovered... neither did Plato...
i have Tironian notations
like i have Aesop's parables...
i'm looking for a "holy trinity"
of people of influence...
Sejong is up there among my
favourites...

i want to stress the posit of St. Cyril too...
ⰃⰓⰅ
        ⰏⰀ (gre ma)
  (it has game...
   pronoun, gender neutral fanatics
beware...
   it can be much
of a hermaphrodite when
least intended)

          but it is still not the feat
performed by Sejong the Great...
and none will ever
be so...
            st. Cyril is a pale
shade concerning
the economics of the endeavour...

i know only one is right...
i.e. is it лъ or is it ль
for that little of a tau
"drunk" of a ł... or an anglo-sas
"double-u":
my eyes do see... a veering into...
it's not explained as to how or why...
aesthetically: a little...
a liTTle is more anti-explanatory
than...

sushi like clear-cut... syllable count...
if all my vowels: i had a(n) en group(e)
name for these "fiends"...
ma-to(w)-s'eh...
invigorating: fuming at
the collar...

it's not a stutter: it's not making
an acute... it's levitating toward
an apostrophe:
man'na... etc.

the scent of spring:
having arrived at the Faroe Isles...
i come at a fore of this all
to be believed mythology
and a piercing now...
       grønjord...
      groon
gro-en                 jord und
diese LA-ND...

behave... these little beasts of mediocre...
i have enough i don't have
enough...
i heave i clutter myself
with 15+ languages
and some share...
"claustrophobic"
the same letters...
       some don't...
        some never will...
        
yes... noting how: easily the Soviet
empire imploded...
and how much foreign intervention
it took to finally dissolve
the Yugoslav republics...

             it took only a cat's whisker
to take-apart the Soviet empire...
it would take a cat's meow
to take apart Yugoslavia...
who's to blame the Ottomans?!
It should be the most desired sight of all
the person whom you hope to live and die
so, this fire feels like love against our skin
we ramble on, in stasis,
caught ablaze and smoke
fills our lungs. There are sirens too loud
and too few to do any rescuing.

Kiss me you, fool.

Before the sky envelops us,
there's a mammoth of an alien
peaking through the sky's cracks,
tentacles grabbing.

No mercy.

There are no words,
for stars littering the sky
at daylight, and there's no use
in semantics for what unravels
in front of us.

But mathematics and optics,
equations letting sight pierce
through time. We are gorgeous as
we gasp for air, our life forces divided,
and allotted to some place distant.

What would our ancestors say?
Too proud to hike up death's skirt
and steal a look. Isn't this what we are?

Hungry.

Would they be proud
or would we be considered fools
to think we are untouchable?
Why not let our lips spark like
the bolts igniting the sky,
why not resort ourselves to ghosts
and haunt each other's great relatives

Shouldn't we give in
and behave as if
we're the last of our kind?
where there's that eg'on'the'go
        alternatively selbst
with prefix automation...
    namely i...

            no to Freud yes to Faust
no to Stein no to Schtein
      frankly - all yes, yes: McBeth...
supra or super  
                 any
                     ing and oming
inter or intra egg: gauge: rot
   o' grub...      id est:         you &
  "me"...

               as for the last third
of the trinity:
       less a chair less a sq.
                              less and less
a herr n. n. denkglaub & altogether
it, its it: it's point that & this...
    but if any preferences
are to be minded:
     in 3rd a person: notably
           within a reality of a he.
my fitted floral yellow sheet
is still too much noise
to be on top

orange

it buzzes like a metropolis
on my little bed
which is supposed to be
my rock
suppose we catch a breath...
suppose we don't...
suppose suppose and...
suppose we pretend there's
all this "poetry":
this... exasperation tangling
with "amnesia" /
the sacrosanct...
suppose we're deafened
and in / by mute
a "somehow" of a "something"
and a "happy"...
if there ever were
any complications...
survive:
come, arrive... right about:
"now"...
hello wording
shrapnel... contra...
               scribble...
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