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i once helped a bee die... how? the poor thing was lying
on the patio giving his last twitches...
so i overdosed him on honey...
yep... picked him up in my hand,
squeezed a bit of honey and watched him
stick out his: maxilla, labial part,
proboscis and glossa (what a complex inversion
of otherwise calling it a phallus and zunge)...
and **** up the honey...

i don't know whether he was an old bee or he didn't
see the glass and minotaured the empty space
with a concussion...
but i did see all life evaporate when he finally died
from a sugar-overdose... thanks to me...
a little universe in the palm of my hand...
how else to **** a bee that's already dying?
i couldn't just flatten it with my foot...
why? i remember being stung once... all i can remember
is the mud and the lake...

unlike killing mosquitos... which is just fun...
of all things in this world: mosquitos i **** for fun...
i once took a selfie with a fly on my forehead...
don't ask me how i walked from one room
to the other... turned the computer on...
and... the fly in tow... to compliment a perfect
hindu bindi!
sometimes i would catch a fly in a glass and walk
up to cotton candy of some spider's lair and wish
that i might just: feed her something...
that's like winning the lottery...
but mosquitos? i **** for fun... i just wait until i see
that needle of theirs get injected into my skin
when then anaesthetic is being pumped in...
and then the splatter of a hand-guillotine...
when i was younger i watched to boys playing
by a stream... they would catch a frog and cover
her with lipstick... two sadists in the making...
and then they'd light her up...
i once dated a girl who used to sprinkle salt
on snails... but i still eat chicken...
perhaps because i want to retain a "moral superiority"
by also appreciating eating the hearts,
the stomachs... esp. the poached necks...

if an animal is to be killed: might as well make most
of it... i heard that deep-fried pork ears smothered
in breadcrumbs are a rave in new york...
no one this is supposed to make sense for me
keeping up with rigid religious dogma...
there is none in this scenario... there's just this freak
event... of watching a bee die in my hand
from a honey-overdose...
perhaps honey is like an ****** for these little buggers?
beside the point...
i always feel **** when i write something and it amasses...
a spike in readership...
notably: the words come of their own accord;
the ***** are a bonus -
i must have written something to estranged from my usual
diatribe... i must have prostated myself
in defiance to... compliment Iblis or something...
hunchback with wings...
i've heard that myth a long time ago...
concerned with the Eden story in Islam of...
in defiance Iblis didn't bow...

so however many generations later...
some "genius" decided to bow and earned himself
the title: the hunchback angel... formerly a man...
perhaps at my lowest: when something should
not have been written: but anything to escape
and not give into a writer's bloc is more necessary...
at least it must be entertaining for the many...
stick to the script remember:
you're not writing for the money...
nor the chance to collect a memory harem
of one-night stands...
in reference to the use of english - which isn't a first:
nor is it my first daddy and mummy:
t'ah-t'ah and m'ah-m'ah...
last time i heard t'ah-t'ah was a shared primeval
syllable construct also found in south africa...
to denote: father... which is "odd" how
it moved to poland... abscission...
that's the closest i've come to reaching a competence
using this acquired tongue...
what a past have i left...
unlike Czeslaw Miłosz... then again...
he was always a Lithuanian at heart...
i once heard from a girl in a pub that i kissed
and kissed mad drunk with love to hear any sort
of *******... forehead, eyebrows eyelids nose
and teased at the lips: as most drunks do...
we ****** the Lithuanians over...

in what respect? who's fault was it... the three partitions?
and the pseudo-Israel "non-existence" on
the map... this fear of losing grips on a language
are not new... oddly enough i allow myself
to be an anglophile... it's unique in that...
it doesn't have... orthography debates... just bad spelling...
and plenty of metaphysical fish from...
that sort of death yawns and a ship sails
across an entire ocean...
therefore i can't just "integrate"...
it would be bad psycholgoy to think that:
one tongue is better than two...
it would be like an amputee's ghost limp...
or worse... since to cut out the tongue...
first, later second... because it's a minority tongue...
and: what if i don't have anyone to speak
it with? how about i think in it?
what two groups of people were ever able
to sack moscow... the mongols and the poles...
during the polish–muscovite war (1605–1618):
poland - the cindarella of europe...
and she really is... just recently celebrating 100 years
of independence?

while all these other cases have had:
uninterrupted histories?
we ****** over the Lithuanians... how?
we ****** ourselves over to begin with...
a democratic monarchy - the commonwealth -
because it somehow started with...
democratically electing a king by the aristocratic
class - a swede once governed over this...
myth of a land... the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
should be regarded as a myth...
ancient greece would be a myth if no writing
was used in modern blah-blah...

my own... my own... shame that i don't write
in the language... but instead write in english...
i've given it plenty of assurances that it will:
or rather that i will be its most respectful host...
but given i see no need to point at myself...
perhaps the english in me has its own mind?
i sometimes "feel" under strict obligation to just sit
back and let the language express itself...
for some reason there might just be enough...
"unaddressed" points to consider...
should this language not find a suitable host...
perhaps... a subversive host...
that would use the language for: ulterior motives...
i don't have the skin in the game to...
throw tantrums and do nothing about...
psst... the grooming gang scandals...
i've been trying to bed an english girl for...
a better half of two decades...
australian, russian, french...
romanian, bulgarian... thai...
                           idealist me... *** is always ugly...
nice photographs... but any conversation
before or after...
**** anything that moves is the general motto...
steal kisses from prostitutes...
because this is not the time for: the jack of all spades
to tame the hearts of: the "less pure"...
oh sure... i could go back: to whatever "back" is...
perhaps i'm invested in england somehow...
like the r.a.f. squadron no. 303...
who have something to take care of...
outside of the "homeland"... home... i don't even know
where that is...
this doesn't even suggest itself as a...
perilous exile... for there to be some longing...
i can't even boast... become overtly pronounced
in myself: with said origins...
can't exactly sell you pierogi dumblings like
a turk might sell you a kebab or an indian curry...
so... pride... at which point? the current:
march of the black umbrellas... the... dead twin speaking
to the current: party president -
from the wreckage of Smolensk wreckage...
having a russian girlfriend... wouldn't have helped...
i'm sure...
winged-hussars... something special about distant
folk songs... that aren't in german?
oh they have to be in german... only the germans really
know how to sing folk songs...

question: how long did it take to defeat france
in world war II?
six weeks from 10 May 1940,
german forces defeated lllied forces
by mobile operations and conquered france, belgium,
luxembourg and the netherlands (42 days)

question: how long did it take to defeat poland
in world war II
35 days... wow! now i can ******* gloat!
it took the germans and the soviets... 35 days to defeat
poland... ha ha... riding roses against tanks...
that famous / infamous: charge at krojanty...
but it did take both the germans... and the soviets...
35 days...
i guess the gentile folk of western europe...
just 7 days more... to conquer a plethora of
countries... some that didn't have their existence...
put on hiatus... the welcoming **** of france
it seems...

fair enough... i've found something to be proud of...
woop woop!
mein gott! i come from this past...
why am i not passing my genes? och! **** lord miser
that i am!
here's to: not ****** any english girls...
or perhaps: it's the love for the welsh: just being welsh...
and it's somehow imploring the scots:
get some gaelic in you! don't base it on
a glaswegian accent!

yes... i am the host - and english is a "parasite" in me...
personally i think it has a mind of its own...
ever think that a language can never be your own?
esp. if it is acquired?
all that: from an outsider's perspective...
but not from a "racial minority" perspective...
beside the whitey you would have to tell me to:
wear my "brown" on the inside...
any excuse to not but otherwise troll some german...
for the giggles and fuchs...
if only this was written by some Kensington rascal...
but it's not... and it's not by a northumberlandian
either... i tend to forget the bristol wankers
outright... sorry... local prejudices...
you can never somehow escape them!
i.e. essex this, essex that... all the blondes and oranges
and... thick as bunch of doorknobs...
that's why i'd call them the bristolian wankers...
some prejudices just come with the language...
and locality.....
prejudices or merely a tease mark-up...
the usual west vs. east, north vs. south...
and to think... i came here... aged 8...
with no knowledge of the language...
watching cartoon network doesn't count...
and look at me now... entrenched in it...
the host...
                            i quiet like the analogy...
thrown in the deep end and shouted at:
now learn to tread water, you beautiful little
motherucker! swim! swim!
if there's no self-deprecating humor...
then there's no humor at all;
oh look... there's even a latin phrase for it...
i think i'll call this my modus operandi -
my caterogical imperative...
my cogito ergo sum...
         so it's settled:           sui deprecandi;
the biggest joke of all is that...
i can't fit the sterotype of being an eastern european
plumber... which is a shame...
given that east europe is... somewhat near
the the Urals... and...
of course... the czechs have had it easier
having capitulated... and they did because...
bohemia was their old pocket in the holy
roman empire...
piffy details... pitiable attention to details...
who's who in the game of:
what's to be bettered by it being corrected...
i hate this game...
then again: the best i ever said in school
was... a punctuation "oops":
- ****! ****!
- ****, my ***... in that common colliqual of:
what's it called: not really?
unless i'm about to endanger the native speaker
residence of language...
or that i need to be corrected: i'm all ears when it comes
to a typo...
the pride of the monolinguals...
call it pride... call it stubbornness -
but if i didn't retain my own "nativism" i would
have to probably resolve to speaking to my grandparents
in a gesticulating braille hybrid -
with an index finger pointing at air...
spotting carbon dioxide particle..
         guilty as charged... always paranoid about
whether or not i have succumbed to a tautology.
before listening to all these podcasts...
where was i, having not listend to
some BBC4 radio?

have i had to become... this necessarily:
unscripted...
no mention of mily balakirev...
the moon starts to fade -
yet somehow retain its strict form...
as anything within the confines
of a vacuum...

where is the rust or anything akin
when you try to push opposing poles
of magnets... and later suppose:
oh, just the planets...
hindering a Holst composition...
barricaded by paper
anddoodles of a blunt pencil...

today i thought -
about time: i reread the only book
i would ever reread...
richard brautigan's troust fishing in
h'america...
the coalmine... and watermelon sugar...

whether or not invited:
life always happens beside me...
and: that's not a clerical error...

best choice of sedatives... come friday
night... i'm a... footnote presence...
to watch a movie in a cinema...
you'd probably require a bag of pop-corn...
poets and bureucrats...
the advent of cinema is...
me learning to use portions of:
the reconquista of braille in the realm
of stenography...

Tiro: how to encode sounds quicker
than by the current standard of
letters... stenography and...
what would never become a rigid rubric
of orthography...
or diacritical preference in
the "borrowed" tongue...

a mongol invasion sets you back... 200 years...
an ottoman invasion sets you back... 100 years...
russian influence sets you back...
300 years...
and your people's petty frivolity...
damaging for the ranks of romanians
and lithuanians... 400 years!

to be an island folk...
imagine... not being landlocked...
further exploring work...
while summoning avenues of:
the better part of friday...
and that culture... my... how it thrived...
like today...
i heard of a tobias in germany being
charged shooting strangers...
in 2 locations... then going back...
and executing himself and his mother...
some stabbing incident in a mosque
in regent's park...

me shopping for vegatables...
a niqab ninja... sorry... you can overstate
an "east european" accent if you want
with these words...
i have rubber ears...
"we" are to protect the people...
who are likely to cause us harm...
because no khaki is available...
or mustard brown...
how, can i, own, a memory...
of the 20th century... and the wars
in tow...

i can tilt a glass of cider and call it:
gods' ****! that i can do...
but i can't... somehow make myself
available... to this... frankenstein monster
of: well... wouldn't it be...
just oh so ******* nice... if we came to the feet
of the shadow of a tower of babel!

poland was always a problem among
the english:
we didn't ask you to start a war...
so why blame the ******* plumbers!

then again... what sort of "cuck"...
is invaded by both **** germany
and soviet russia? the sort of cuck that
learned to ha! "escape" with this mediocre
english... the stereotype follows...
all the polacks are plumbers...
just like all the englishmen are gays...
savvy?

because no cinnamon man would
allow the raj to wilt!
and we are... keeping the best of our
affronts!
because there's the north,
the west, the south... but the east
is a sentence of stressors..
that the east reminds everyone else:
"in europe" of the madmen...
as douglas murray said it best...
"microaggression" or no aggression...

i'm tired of the english gentleman...
as i'm tired of the ape...
the english ape...
perhaps i'm more inclined to think
in louis XIV terms of: heliocentric
sun casts no shadow...

move, elsewhere? oh i'm pretty sure
i have invested my time and effort
in a grievance that i want resolved...
but that i will not see it resolved...
all the better! i will not see no societal
betterment, either!
i like pickles... do you like pickles?
first i will go deaf before i will go blind...

i'm tired of being a past...
as i'm tired of never becoming a future...
and in the currency of presence:
the now... forever the fluctuation
gamble... with nothing of a waterfall
certainty...
i am... a cotton binding bundle...
among the scraps and irritation scoops
of rock...
baseline: a hark of a crow
when one expects an opera sung by...
******* mermaids!

in essex and i'm shopping next to...
a... perhaps i have not liberated myself from...
perhaps i'm still 8 years old and i'm leaving
snowman footprints on the concrete...
from the monolithic culture of...
the grand babel... that's being exercised in:
beta stages...

perhaps because everything is signatured:
made in china...
it really doesn't make a difference...
breed us... the sustainable mongrel!
i quiet expect myself to
hiding away in Kenya on a beach...
thinking about Ghanian timber being imported...

that this language is english...
i'm sorry... an englishman isn't using it...
doesn't that tow behind: usurping the natural
buoyancy of a boat?
called a duck... at least a duck doesn't sink...
then again:
perhaps i'm not supposed to peer into
these "surnames" of views...
what if integration was all wrong...
eh... madmen from the east...
as long as we get, but one,
egyptian artifact of a pharaoh!

please don't include me in this arithmetic...
no... don't...
oh yes... those... very sensible gays
we hear a lot about... "elsewhere"....
it's always a metaphorical ditto and elsewhere
and: foraging for sensible with the irish...
mother russian sent me...

why is it that...
bilingual is, but no longer is...
the newly frozen focus frame
of schizoid?
              don't mind me...
          after some time enough of the people's
sanity begs itself: the consort... approval...
and rating...
am i mollusk bound to a shell...
maybe whatever, probably not...
but... if i were to don the niqab...
i'd be all the more welcome! for the cocktail!
so why did...
england... pretend to care about Poland...
and state: war! against Germany...
why did you ******* even bothersome yourselves
to "care"?
wouldn't you like us to...
be... currently... spreschen deutsche?!
ich kennt ich würde!
i wouldn't mind... the ****** tongue disappearing...
i'd still be... using the remains of Latin...
given this phonetic encoding, is not...
phonecian... or... cuneiform...

i've come back to say... you really didn't require...
to save us...
perhaps having german as an envelope language...
we would have become
the second scandinavia... the south italy
of the baltic states... perhaps the baltic sea
was to become the new... mediterranean...
the new rome... outlier whittle bright scon...
and all those people and nations involved
in bringing the baltic sea ambitions into fruition...

oh believe me...
but i've invested over 20 years of my life
on these isles...
to have to return to: forevever not welcome...
with the history of less...
to stage war to defend a people...
that otherwise become: gutter-scouts...
while the niqab-ninja walks like a scared cow...
oh sure... if you're culturally confused...
don't run up to me asking for resolutions...
why would even defend poland when **** germany
and soviet russia invaded...
daydreaming your little: lawrence of arabia:
universal man... the god-riddled man valentines'!
have 'im!

i'm tired of the stereotypes...
the middle-men that we are...
not being the higher tier russian oligarch types..
you "not racist" peddlestool proximity...
but it's o.k. if it does have to include
the Polacks and the Irish...
*******... no go zone.
i love my cats to be... escque bookmarks...
sphinex worthwhile
to be willing to be dragged
into the grand yawn
of hell; we'd call death a leisure
activity: a golf whirlwind would
be: oops...
or that better performing:
punctuation marker;
******* break-in
woo a woke-bit-sigh trill R...
let's just forget it...
call it whatever lust is required...
that never ****-yard
and duck-quax... "limbo"...
this... aphrodite's ******* sterling...
which you towed as...
the name to buy...
Calibos née Thetis...
this name to borrow...
what is the meaning of life?
the "beatrice"...
to live a life that's also worth the meaning
behind one's name...
some would call it: baby...
some would rather...
claim... a ****** rifles' sniffing at an aim...
headshot and a brain hemorrhage
interlude: spine break...
the "guillotine" and the english hanging...
Calibos née Thetis!
leave me eating the teeth i would
otherwise use to chew!
i tend to forget that woman
is part of romance...
when... there's no longer
any ******* involved...
and only the rearing of children...
that there's a lady gaga...
because there's no billy joel...
and...
worship a snail for a wish
for a hard-on.
*******, western protein Bismarcks!
the tongue is one thing...
your children don't know who or what:
milks the cow...
nevermind: what's a giblet?
to affront a muslim...
the better part of a chicken...
is the heart, made into a broth...
the stomach...
piri piri nandos chicken: bowling alley
*******... via..
by oink **** to still be reading
the quran?
i'm talking fine cut proteins...
the inner circle of poultry...
give me the heart! i'll give you
sulfuric bath-water!
you ask for more chicken pluck
pluck proteins... i'll ask you...
have you tried the stomachs...
the hearts.... the pork liver...
and if i say my name what
it should be:
hannibal... will you believe i should
reside in Florence?
doesn't matter; does it... really?
i ******* i genocide of *****...
so much for the future of tadpoles...
when ***** leaves the male body
and is met with a female host...
oink rapes!
billy joel rulez!
horror music:
i call it the akin
  to scratching your elbow...
pretending to find a thumb /
dowry.... and a *******...
while at the same time...
attempting to forget...
ever owning a forehead...
to scratch an itch on!
better still...
attempt to find honey
with your tongue-titillating-
mole-blind-precursor-snippet-of-snout...
whil­e bending the knee!
yes... in the confines of a cap!
no feud ever came to fruition to
dispute the prime "ingredient"
of the coffin.
lest the dead not rest...
i'll be the first bach rolling
in m'ah grave!
i was working in greenwich once, never mind what
i was doing: the view was great -
the bursts of air and i had myself imagining being
strapped to a longboat all the way to harvest
knowledge of iceland and greenland...
and bring back a vision of a snowman...
   but at the greenwich waterstones i came across
a rare find...
i still don't know why i didn't buy the whole
trilogy... it was there for the taking...
why i didn't buy the whole lot i will never know...
unless there's some alternative universe for me
to visit after i tot this one...
j.-k. huysmans' Durtal trilogy...
then again... perhaps là-bas is not the en route,
the cathedral, the oblate...
what did i pick up?
something better than a hardback edition...
an aubrey beardsley's 'of neophyte and how
the black Black Art was revealed to him by the fiend
Asomuel' (from the Pall Mall magazine...
june 1893) - so much for... Urotsukidōji:
legend of the overfiend...
that... castrating ***** anime from
the depths of the bedroom tax from
                   soy-sauce-tokyo...
but a Durtal will never become a Julien Sorel...
the first love, that of Stendhal's the scarlet & the black
when it was only a movie...
with rachel weisz and ewan mcgreggor...
no... Durtal would never become a Sorel...
but i had the entire trilogy in my hands...
whether là-bas is called en route...
it's a dream... come to think of it... there's a...
thinning of a 10 year gap...
the day when memories start behaving like
dreams: on the current day...
so i didn't have the trilogy in my hands...
i can remember the covers just as well:
                               la cathédrale and l'oblat;
perhaps en route wasn't included...
on the shelf... i wouldn't dare mingle
jean des esseintes from À rebours into...
salt mine comparison of... what Durtal...
                      what Julien Sorel would never...
this quest for the hafiz...
perhaps i did see four books next to each
other... in the greenwich waterstones...
no... come to think of it...
there's no need to it as such...
whether there were four books or three...
À rebours wasn't on the list...
i've heard of comradery in the world war one
trenches near Ypres...
i hardly need to hear of it in a marriage...
****-wit hard-on of a would be "dictator":
just like me... with a personal library...
and some music stashed in 80s quicksilver
discoball disks...
and some liquorice vinyl: mostly jazz...
for the love of books:
roman polanski's: the ninth gate...
it's a book it's not a mirror: nor is it a puddle
or a lake... but most importantly...
it is the ever present cat...
how will i ever sleep in a bed...
that isn't... that isn't prior to me sleeping in it:
warmed by a *****?
oh that's bad... as i was in love was:
which was oh so terrible as...
god... to have to fall asleep on my worst side
of the body... till it was numb...
how it was necessary to siamese ourselves
to sleep... the slit neck and the breaking
of the cucifix under a... heavier burden
than after the passing... it started to rain...
that apparent: no **** sherlock moment...
of glass eating mirror... how...
but narcissus only saw a ghost being reflected
in the primitive mirror -
he would have to wait until night to see
a reflection in glass... or at least banish his shadow
from the confines of noon to peer at his face
within the ripe hours of his testament...
prior to the mirror prior to the mirror...
there was only the ***** and:
let's pretend i look my best...
just pretend... there was no "divination"
of the visage... i sometimes forget that i can look
at myself, in these vampiric insults of a reflection...
what i crave is for someone to objectify me...
will a cat ever caste an "evil eye" into your scrutiny...
extend the hand... show the cat all your fingers...
to express the bounty, the gift,
the emptiness in the chore of the mandible thumb...
and will it not look elsewhere?
darting squint to and fro...
as much as i could love women...
there was only one...  ms. amber that kept me...
toe-tied but at the same time dancing
to an exhausting effort to... clinging to:
the death shall resound with praise...
and this body of mine...
should my shadow accept it...
stand in the orchestrated hall of a kitchen...
candle-lit whereby a rose will tun from
red to purple when enough candle flame
is looted for the purpose...
as all... not all: but me... grit their teeth...
grit their teeth until a shrapnel bite is gritted of
with a sublime fashion to conclude
a wake...
*****: that pensive spirit added to
a lemonade... which is such a burden that...
i almost wish to have written a chapter of
a scandinavian harlequins novel...
what good is a mirror...
when the only good ever came from how
others perceived me...
this... acrid slab of bone and flesh...
this blood this flush of quasi-flesh and blood
in the confines of marrow...
to borrow but also to break
the rims and the canvas skeleton...
to lord over mr. sponge-brains...
and all these, other... details...
piquant palettes of taste...
a cat doesn't know that:
one doesn't eat where one take a ****?
perhaps from the same gob...
one doesn't ****... but sure as *****...
one eats with...
peculiar wormholes into what's best
advanced as: well a cat is not equivalent
to keeping a turnip lucky...
as a cat is not a dog...
i always welcome forgetting the leash...
and if it was an alsatian... i keep forgetting
the muzzle...
cats... solipsistic bonsai tigers...
no: but every other mercury rising...
it's hard to come across an immediate affection...
notably among animals...
once i tried it with a herd of horses...
pretending to be holding a sugar cube
in my hand... i was almost hoofed in the head
dead... the moon was singing...
while the horse retorted:
there's no sugar cube, or apple in your hand...
i'm merely nibbling on your fingertips!
hoof! just missed my 'ed...
perhaps i was lying...
but what isn't a lie when walking through
a forest at night?
the moon has to be a lie...
your shadow has to be a lie...
i might have dared to take a mirror with
me on my nocturnal promenades into the forest...
but then again...
that would be akin to...
taking a candle-lit into a market square come
noon... when no shadow is ever made
available...
for the love of books...
it's hard to want animals to like you...
let alone love you so that they are necessarily
inclined to sleep in the bed you're about
to sleep in, interrupt you while you're typing for
some tickles and giggles...
cat's life...

as i was most "pressured" to peer at...
taking a shower while pouring water on the back
of my cranium for a simulated
******... at the moment / point where
the neck ends and the skull begins...
the crux of the occipital bone: less protruding -
or so i'm told...
i tend to forget the genitals or *******
at this point of extracting pleasure...

who is to be loved,
who is unloved, who is better loved...
who's just a ******* fern, with a bias,
to begin with? isn't that the usual poetic
rat-fest of this and every other current
output / outpouring?
who's love is the madman's love?

i write: and then i recoil...
i wish that i might always recoil
into braille: ⠞⠕
                                          ⠎⠑⠑

oh but i am bothersome... if china explored...
every other one child state policy...
i would always be at odds
come the measured sentiments...
otherwise the cats...
without the leash or the muzzle...
left to their own device...
sleeping in the bed i will
sleep in twists and turns
of... snow white and the sulking dwarfs...
of which there was a count to mind:
notably a 7 fold...

when drinking is a "problem"
while you're too preoccupied with writing...
then there's no point
of making a Friday night an adventure
with a limping boast for:
how much anyone might,
at any time... ever... drink...

i call it a sharpened syringe intake
of both violins and harps...
when the time comes:
there's that... breaking of glass
crescendo... the shock & awe
biltzkrieg "innuendo"...
there's that high pitch...
hanging knot of the noose vowel
"sigh"... elongating itself into
a measure of: the length of a serpent...
  
i fall asleep listening to horror movie soundtracks...
that cats are exposed to seeing ghost
from behind, having to peer at walls...
perhaps cats do not see shadows:
they only see ghosts...
bonsai tigers and demigod sphinxes...
blind-dating Artemis with
the bunnyman...

               a lazy hook: no advice...
refining the "concept" or a rock...
even if equipped with a chisel...
come, frankly, a rock is still not a mountain...

"one" calls it an escape from both darwinism
and feminism...
in the same one defines a piano:
it's not a pineapple...
it's not an apple... it's not a pear
or an afghani altar of the dowry...
some feudal **** load and *******...
it's not quite a lobotomy...
it's a safe haven of tax + a niqab...
because riddled brian is the half-cheese
chess piece soup steward and...
the bus links need to be left open...

a potato ≠ a bottle of *****...
oh but it does... it does it does...
i forget the moment i drink...
when i start to drink...
solo does the soul best...
      so little or so much of the unnecessary "talk"
surrounding alcoholics anonymous...
i will grieve the bibliophile woo woo
clan...
they take a photograph...
but then they might just stand
before your body beside
a coffin...
and... "eureka"!...
                   john wayne wins an oscar
for: true grit...
he finally made it!
- way say loan'g gone Sally! way why with
tht spaghetti drool of y'ers!

i dare you: to daft punk me...
i watch a cloud with as many
instructions as must be assembled
for.... the cloud will **** rain...
and i... shaman primo...
will juggle knee-caps
and rubber-***** and... the better fold
of an elbow waiting for a riddle...
otherwise:
it's called a sour-cherry tree /
seasonal dieting... honey bear
poo'k ch'oop... luvvie bit by two bears
honey dew... ms. housewife 1950s...
selling compliments
as household burdens...

of which none are to be "had"...
the love of books...
otherwise known as the chopin nocturnes...
the better "half" of islam
was written by... khadijah **** khuwaylid...
first wife surahs...
the rest is... camle jockeys rummaging
in the hill-top confines of spain...
bruising french cargo ego...

i love cats, i love books...
god please me to endear a love for dogs
when not having to use both
leash and muzzle... to pet a dobberman...
is enough: most enough...
i will love a book more than a woman...
beside some "added on"...
some romanian folklore...
a mongol invasion will set you back
200 years...
who were the mamluks...
who were the janissaries...
the brain-washed few...
what's best: is what has to be borrowed...
enslaved...
otherwise i call "her": timid Timothy...

the best of my life is a tomb...
the books and the stale air of flicking through pages...
the interludes of a harpsichord...
being played... becauae i know the difference...
if it is a piano... but it isn't...
there's a demand for citing Venice...
and the manufacture of glass...
and...
            
a bottle of ***** is an unbaked potatoe...
while ms. amber is a squared mile of
timid autumnal green... in that it's something
extracted from concentrated wheat...
and barley and rye...
and... this... figment of my imagination...
the hungarian tokaj -
i could almost, most assured... cry...
after each and every other single word
i write...

the violin shrill coupled with the escaping
vocals beside having to stratum guise themselves
into an opera: opera least welcome!
let us entertain the circus primo!

for the love of books...
the lesser case scenario of:
what does it take to barrage oneself
with a to mistake a cushion for a goose...
most certainly not the post-mortem
of the 72 virgins as promised...

why wouldn't i call
muhammad the little solomon?
i'll reiterate...
muhammad is the quasi
small ibn solomon...

queasy: first comes first...
muhammad whittle solomon....
not so great...
not akin loitering... surrounding
average shlomo greeting his dues...
his davish'am... psalms are not
to be questioned by sonnets
or jazz improv.
            
                    the gargoyles: novem portis...
dead-blank stares of
stone on wilting welcome, via hubris...
borrowed from the confines
of swedish cinema...

begotten by berries...
the Bergman in all of us...
it's time to make ammends...
bid the readers goodnight..
than the all-encompassing compact...
a mother due,
a grandmother due...
and say...
i arrived... but i am most certain:
to leave without any darwinistic burdens...
because: as much as i loved women
as ******...
women would never adorn the stale
perfumery...
that's better "lisped" by,
by books;
a clarinet of suspense is...
always the bounty of an escaped presence
to mind.
in the old narrative:
to love a ***** is to able to love all
women...
look toward a book... toward a piano!
better you sift through dust
and shadows! lick a gravestone:
if you're lucky!
the "talent"... the "genius"... it comes as freely as
freely it goes... such words are not... rhetorical:
zoological keepers...
and then: ****! gone!
because... you and i and
we all can forgive rhyme into extending its...
welcome presence... because:
i'm thinking about... peeling tangerines...
i'm thinking about peeling
grapes... akin to a diana krall new york
episode... i'm thinking about...
eating spaghetti bologanise
while also eating canned peaches...
when feeding a nostalgia
oyster when watching *******
***** of hollywood
via lethal weapon II...
sharp objects - and led zeppelin's
in the evening...
what pristine sort of love
is my sort of love?
conversational love story that...
is forever anonymous?
this is supposed to be my sort
of love story...
the non-very-usual the-anonymous
new yorker fatigued with
urban literature of the quickened
i.q. scoop...
it's one of those billy joel
typo type o' moments of...
elsewhere beside a york,
an old york a new york:
most certainly outside a 7pm friday sloth
and all that cry-baby yogurt tomorrow
whipped up from...
if the concrete isn't lava...
then the forest isn't aloud with a flush
of wild fires!
some call it a Hudson,
some call it the Thames...
some call it...
the bog, the standard throne of thrones...
and some even dare call it...
Beckton central...
where all of high-flier *******
filled **** that kills the eels is
filtered along with the more:
basic quests of us... made complete...
easy as easy is loitering around
C# (c-sharp) when the whole world becomes
a zoo... of a people not diling telephone
numbers... calling it: the hashtag"blues"?
let's call it calling it...
the cul-de-sac and let's call it...
anything other than what it was
already...
the pine never dared to knock-knock-joke
into a forest of oaks...
as i would never ask for
furniture beside...
what became of the armchair in the eyes
of diogenese of sinope:
a cloud for the mind to care for the sky...
in that... the armchair was always to become
oyster shell...
and the armchair was
always going to become
a harem sofa... the dirt associated with
the priting press... and the distorted ink
that was always going to run dry
or inflated in pavlova berry miser-mix-up...

piano keys played over the worth of
slices of loaf / bread...
and that grand sleeper gang...
because... the swinging pawtee was...
slap-sticking themselves to give out
freebie clues...
and i was... my usual mundane self...
less travelled... because...
even if it was a viagara-fuelled trip
to Moscow St. Petersburg...
there was a Cracow... there was Edinburgh...
there was a Paris and a Venice...
solo yob... sighs from Mombasa...
and catching macaque
with bags of sugar for the ooh ooh applause
and shock-value antithesis selfies!
well...
               blonde-beast: that's also me...
not catching sand in a ****...
or a zephyr from... a surah of a quran...
that's also moi, whittle moi...

- and then give it a name:
a penny-for-the-wise...
for all that... would never would never
be spent...
loitering around sinatra's bank-account
madman use-by-date come
post-mortem and: those pennies
and those raindrops...
because it's always going to be:
******* forever h'americana...
and always the iraqi blues and...
the saudi: hush hush...

long live bad *** cowboy h'america...
and long live the antithesis...
wehrmacht hugo boss: to boot!
long live pure good...
love live pure evil...
long live the sächsisch sohn...
love live the preußisch vater...
long life... to any future...
naive... imbecile... and... coat of:
arms... the pressured combined:
loitering gestures of a sordid clown;
prischtine schpelling
quirks and notations of...
exemplifying exceptions!
or more or less...
the gravity of furniture...
for the love of furniture...
because whether it's a spoon,
a fork, a knife... or just the base
superstition hiding behind
chop-sticks / tooth-picks...
call it the fork or the spoon
or the knife...
when all you have left is...
your 10 digit bishops and the 32 cardinals
of ivory for that one tongue of pope...
or a bowl... tilting...
and no spoon... but a slurping sound...
which is: no spoon necessary...
so much for any worth surrounding
the status gentleman...
or barbarian... to grieve a would-be...
gimmick...
it's one of those kind of celebrations
that's reserved for the per se.
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