Let us REJOICE in love of the Spirit
As we see others hearts being confronted by His grace from above

REJOICE with the angels
They have noted the repentance
Of the returning sinner
They expect his lifelong perserverence of their joy to be premature
As the convert is a beginner
He is and will be forever their fellow servant.
They look one day to bear him home to glory
Remind our brother
There may be times of weak spite
The evil angels make us groan
Give prayer then the joy of good
Angels will bring forth our desire
To sing in harmony with their delight

REJOICE with The Lord Jesus
For His joy is equivalent to the cost of their redemption
Jesus gives His love with unending
Boundary without petition

REJOICE, in turn we must
With others who convert too
Bringing us closer to being like
Jesus, The One, who saved
Both me and you
REJOICE WITH THE CONVERTS

Cinder flamed ashen skin covers my lips as the thirst grows in my ravaged brain. I lick them and the wind soaks up the moisture.
The heatwave of my body is made aware in my eyes.
I blink yet the sights don't seem to register.
I speak, yet the words don't escape my vocal chords.
I feel, yet the tangibility isn't confirmed in any aspect.
Emptiness is made a factor.
I found out sorrofully that I couldn't connect with the caged bird, I thought I understood why it cried, but my meaning was incorrect, my thoughts were that of a loveless loner ready to embrace the freedom of the cage in its heart.
I was thoroughly incorrect. Why does the caged bird sing?
It sings because it wants others to feel its pain, it has nothing to do with perserverence.
It sings because through song anything is possible, through song
It finds its escape...

on tragedym on deep conspiracies on the blackest electrocutions.
make whole the spaces of time the blank whitenesses
the severe calamities of a life in genius
a poem seeking mistress of desire and pain
one soul alone in  it
hard  to face the reality
condemned to make her best of it
and her death a mark of perserverence
shamedly
her lecturn a warning a tall colossus of
a statue of paper and fear
a surreal landscape  of looming death
her legacy was gone, and I loved her
do to this day

You are a bundle of baby blue balloons
tied to the rail of a gate; the entrance
of used car parking lot.

A man, who
goes by the name Joe is doing his
damnedest to pawn off an old mustang,
the year: unknown -- he has yet
to be familiar with specific car models;
he was the manager of
Costco for 20 years before
getting fired for ****** harassment.

His wife is at home.

He speaks two different languages.

You over hear him, and can't help
but giggle to yourself, each of You
swaying in midair like the fur
of a dandelion.

It must be nice to have two sets
of limbs, upper and lower body
movement; it looks as if
a clusterfuck of genius
has taken the form
of flesh.

Perplexed, You
let one of You
go. You never come
back down.

This is easy
You think.

Joe has failed again; this is 3rd time
today; unable to muster up the courage
to call his wife for support he turns
to a little coke he has in an old
Altoids case kept in his left pocket.

The restroom is where
all the *****, shameful
practices of humans take place;

You call it: "The Encasement of Perserverence"

Clever thought, You say to Yourself

drifting there, alone in Your
grave of gravity.

I see You and wave, but You
pretend to not notice me
and continue to float
like a cloud.

Joe comes back, sits on a red
chair outside the main entrance;
where the sliding glass doors
no longer slide. He hums
a sweet little tune; Simple Man
by Lynyrd Skynard.

You sing along, but through
your film so no one can
comment on Your bad pitch.

It's another day in Tuscon, Arizona.

The sun begins to set.

And we're sulking like undiscovered
mermaids under this umbrella
of 'what the **** do we do now?'

Night will come soon; hinder our progress
with it's unique way of settling the score.

There is no stillness, and You're
no longer a bundle of baby blue;

You are a bomb bound to burst
once the needle of morning
discovers where You live.

"Sic semper evello mortem tyrannis"
translation = thus always I
bring death to tyrants.”

Above the fray of twittering,
squabbling, and madding crowds,
an arrogantly belligerent creature deified,
yet vilified gauche, haughty lumpenproletariat
decreeing blind, deaf and dumb obeisance,
whereby upon forced Sacrificial Altar
erected golden Olympian fleeced perch,
(he acquired, effected, indoctrinated
vis-à-vis bloodless coup d'etat)
absolute dictatorship jump/
kick starting  veneration,
albeit forced subservience

buzzfeeding, fostering (long)
totalitarian reign crafting ship of state  
into figurative unwieldy beastly Leviathan
through present Century21
incorporating deterministic, fascistic,
masochistic, narcissistic, opportunistic,
and shamanistic trumpeting
holier than though malevolent fiery bombast
fulminating laws, exuding self worth
hortatory exclamations decreeing
(by fiat, that no commoner
lest they want an Escort into Crossover realm

he/she cannot afford to Dodge commands,
especially if and when Porsche
comes to shove Fiats promulgated)
absolute valued flat out sharp devotion
pledging (née requiring) pilgrimages,
where his birthplace sanctified
as cultural heritage site,
(a humble abode in backwater of Queens)
dammed, deemed, and donned
for populace to worship
and pay requisite penance de rigueur
in order to avoid premature death;

said consecration viz complex edifice
analogous to Taj Mahal
self declared god enshrined provenance,
where pathway paved with gold
courtesy self declared demigod;
(one blimey, flimsy, nasty
shortish and brutal Attila the *** wannabe),
who served daily dollop of dregs
in ***** deeds done dirt cheap demitasse
admiring, fawning, kowtowing,
primping, et cetera himself,
i.e. a Beatle browed, bobble headed

mop top orange hirsute Talking Head
(though likeness of his trademark
coiffed haired countenance
plastered across every square inch)
detested, and feared unto Caesar,
whose reflection shone thru
and across wall to wall hall
of mountain king mirrors;
meanwhile Blood, Sweat And Tears
for Fears Beastie Beach Boys
and Goo Goo Dolls with ******* aplenty
painstakingly enslaved away

raspily, tentatively verily warbling words,
(while simultaneously severely afflicted
with heebie-jeebies) sung,
(albeit barely audible) Stayin' Alive
amidst noise of torture chamber
smells of burning flesh  
as evidenced by branded, pierced,
snd tattooed rebellious insubordinates
invariably found culpable regarding lèse-majesté,
thus futilely skittering helter skelter
from his majesty paw sized hands
adorned with precious jewels monogrammed

with initials of  Frederick Christ Trump Sr
within whose grotto the heir
found solace, perserverence, and divine guidance
inspiring blistering, glorifying hymns
punishing, and withering edicts
totally tubular proclamations pronouncing
matter of fact, unquestioned imposed fealty
larger than life persona, endowed
crowned, and accorded self  supremacy,
where even divine
cosmic consciousness bows
and trembles acquiescing

toward ornery primate,
whose self crafted patriarchal
mandates imposed unquestioned vows,
where punishment meted out if questioning
of authority appeared to furrow brows
allowing, enabling and providing
totalitarian usurper re: free will ordains wows
be uttered and furor
squelched via militaristic might,
whenever fuhrer didst rouse
the public to pay homage

(even if coerced, forced, and induced)
toward faux courtly house
of seized role of Caesar Augustus
enforcing abrogation,
whence sun t'will
dance and rise to douse
the chill from the dawn
early morn, and mother earth
will be delegated to serve
world wide wagstaff slow caucus
as surrogate spouse, parent, big brother.

Dictatorial modus operandi foisted
upon ******* up public enemy re:
guarding Visigothic, oligopolistic,
hedonistic, and cannibalistic
adopted heir of vested gentry
meted staked, and yoked
fancyfeast sovereignty
intolerant per crowd-sourced
crowing diehard fulminations
denouncing trick air re:
qua hoodwinked treaty
against opprobrious, serious
reign of terror breed

ding steely dang LifeLock
self proclaimed deity
czarist gnome *****
to be (habeas corpus) writ
since this anonymous
cloaked drafted ensign gainsays nothing
as one among populous proletariat
bound and gagged if I don't claim
tyranny rigged by bourgeoisie
and get hung drawn and quartered
as a dire warning damning social compact
left to rot in hell
as a capital one threatening misfit.

Postscript:

I started with the premise
and idea of constituting
the cult of personality worship,
but found thoughts trotting off
in another direction,
and thus felt obliged
to saddle and pony up to thine
predominant sad dulled end
product te deum!

well Bukowski and the drudgery of work
and Mathias Eshlert
and the arbeit macht frei of
work about
to cook chicken wings
    and make a potato salad with spring
greens
and radishes
and i remember a line from a movie
form the 1950s
how radishes were the supposed cause
of going mad
or rather not marrying a girl
because a witch cast her eyes
on the to-be-wed
i mean:

          at the Leeds vs Southampton
match a manager with no high viz
then you know you're dealing
with someone senior
(not important, senior, there's a distinction
at work,
there is no hierarchy as such
only tenure,
there needs to be a philosophy of work
and there really isn't a philosophy
of work
there are no philosophical works
concerning the philosophy of work
but you can mention
Heidegger's analogy of the hammer
in that there are these supposed
laborers who are working
and while working they talk about
philosophy

well currently the hot topic in the workforce
and we are talking a predominantly
male working environment there is talk
about history and esp post-colonial history
of the English
a talk of the English before the union
with the Welsh and the Scots
it's as if these former colonial subjects
think it is easy to find an English identity
from all the quashed qualms with
the Scots
and to be honest

i've seen father bring back construction
schematics
and read them

i finished writing the poem Alz Heinz
and decided to go and buy a bicycle
waited like a **** / a stump
at the bus stop for eternity and realised
with the fresh air hitting me...

yesterday this manager approached me
and gave me a bundle of A3 pages
crowd control schematics
which is a dynamic schematic
of colored dots
on construction schematics
and we're talking dynamics
given i was only in charge
of 3 guys to cordon bag restriction measures
and we weren't even drawn onto the schematic
there were the soft ticket checkers and their
two supervisors, roughly 30 of them
and there were the two response teams
and their supervisors but
there was no... SSE? that's code for EES
we weren't on the schematic
but i was given the schematic drawings
it's a dynamic affair
exposing the left hemisphere to such drawings
so with my right hemisphere
i turned the drawing into a dynamic
could call it spurring on a hallucination
or rather
i just heard of this theory of the brain
and its asymmetry only today
getting the blues from a day off
lying in bed
no i will not listen to the audible book

in the end father picked me up
and we sped to the shop
to flash cash
but instead got turned down
because only used bicycle can be ridden out
of shop not display bicycles
i truly felt like a ******
or perhaps this time is precious
and i shouldn't feel embarrassed to have
family perhaps there's this familial stigma
burn in the air of modern society
that you sometimes experience
the CRAB BUCKET...

         KRABBEIMER
    MISTEIMER...

              i was handed down a holy grail
no, of no importance
my neighbor came round and they chit chat
with mother
no the day is still not spent
but just refreshing the memory:
kept the memory it jolted me in the fresh air
should have kept the schematic memorandum

in the end i was supervising  four supervisors
an ego-trip now
when written
but an ego-destruction in live time
yesterday
negotiating with Leeds fans
and i managed to persuade people to throw
away their rucksacks
unprecedented when on gate 3
working with the quadrant manager
Marc "zee Frenchie"
i.e. i was tested for quadrant stature
on the east stand with the two staircases
if i were to be given both staircases
and Altantik Way
but just saying the fact that i was given
the schematics
it almost felt like i advanced
away from construction
but construction made alive
by people using venues post-construction
and these are no houses
we're talking about
but the two arguments that make my life
easier when dealing with rowdy customers
(of experience)
is that: you don't walk with a drunken
hard-on to argue and fight in a supermarket
so please excuse our staff from
dampening your little euphoric excursion
to watch a concert or a football match
never mind
i always thought that supposedly appreciating
any sport while intoxicated
is the ultimate debauchery
of spirit and of heart and the **** of fog of mind
because when it comes to utilizing
alcohol and **** i need
music and the capacity of literacy
a literate agency
a stress of not being a surgeon
an architect a werewolf or pirate
in the sexed-up mixocology of feminine hormones
of studying attractiveness levels
ugh that 1 - 10 scaling
like it's so ******* vague but so vogue
so distraught am i
ugh...

         12h standing the commute sit-down
doesn't help
i need to kneel to relax the shins
i need to kneel and write
idle hand's ******* jesus
or satan
last time i heard the devil appreciated
more the idle pleasure of typing
typo itchy fingertips
or if no itchy fingertips then
people biting their fingernails
last time i heard
keratin does not taste of carrot
and there is not carrot taste to be found
in biting nails
or ******* hair
although i must agree that i love
a little bit of hair just above the ****
maybe i'm old fashioned
but that's my sexuality
and i have had Ilona aged 20
when she was all happily shaved
but then i think about:

puff pastry, candyfloss
and the burrowing of the nose
in both hair then oyster of the *****
and then i remind myself of, only recently,
scratching myself till i bled on
the stubble that appeared with chin
after a 10 year tenure of Robinson Crusoe
although i must say
with some Turkish tailoring in the barber
category of aesthetics
but i do like some fluff just above
the **** i'm about to eat
and if Jesus was a Woman
i would have given an oyster to eat
instead of bread

    and Eidie this is a religious experience
to counter your "chirst":
cosmopolitan joke
choke i swear to god the apycryp...

nassfotze!                nassfotze!

i'm done with spelling this one word got away
i will keep it live
and abrupt
seriously there is no need to oblige the editorial
process this is not getting printed
but then printing was cheap
back around 900ad in Baghadad
i don't understand the European fascination
with firsts
that printing press was hardly revolutionary
but made so by the second christians
of Alexandria i.e. the Mongols in Baghdad
set us back over 1000 years
what a trip
thank you: so many people in Pakistan
have the surname Khan
like that was the Mongolian ***** deposit
that precipitated with the surname
that was once a title

Genghis probably Great Magnitude of Charlie
Can do what the **** i can
not-transliterated as Khan with the surd H
to give an almost diacritical emphasis
given its inclusion but overall silence...
the eyes see what the tongue is ought not speak
the eyes see what the tongue ought not speak
                     the eyes see what the tongue is not to speak...
wow wow wow what a strange word
this ought...

             oh jeez and Louise and i'm getting
all tremor enamored
all tremor enamored
30 messages no reply
finally i replied after three days of 12h hour
shin breaking shin straining
like torture
before kneeling and writing into the night
high puff no ****! and somehow i'm gone
like there was no magic act

oh how i'd wish for this earth to swallow me
how i've grown
and maybe understand women
through that little tickle
and then downing myself with *******
today i managed to **** a *****
from a ****
honestly i just tweaked my fingers
on a semi limp ****
and i ******* lazily into my underwear
and the stuff of life soon clotted
and all fluid glue associations shrunk
and it felt like the botanical world
of talking trees didn't realise
anything about the existence of mushrooms
and that fungus is not exactly
a botanical leech
parasite i mean a turnip is not a fungus
is not a mistletoe
is what i missed when towing mist and le
and ole
and it just needs to feel like a conversation
of consolations
and it can't just be a babe screetching
on the other end of the telephone
and me trying to compliment and reward her
face because that's what she's primarily
concerned with: her face
as i was somewhat too
because of my double chin
or whatever
and me using a beard as a contortion feature
not a tool
since the face uses it and not the hands
it can't be called a tool
but a feature
since the face like hands does many things
and it's the work of hefty
crowd management techniques
that disparage me from the service provided
at retail shops
where things are sold
yet but this is premeditated
i'm going to have a good time mentality
of spending money in advance
this industry concerns itself with
CREDITORS
and not DEBTORS
we entertain creditors -
not by how they spent the money
but how they spent the money in advance
to be there:
dasein - which is so far removed from what
Heidegger might have implied
in the airs of the Black Forest in complete
dissociation from throngs
and the bellows of Behemoth
o the pangs of the hundebeiarbeiten -
the talk of police dogs you have to see it
the talk of police horses you have to see it
up close and personal
and you have to **** the ego and experience
of the body of id in all its glory
constipated, tired, hungry, wet, cold,
hot, angry, stupid, angry, stupid
you have to shut off all narrative
and so many people in this Wembley-Mecca
this trance like mantra of a h'um dl'um
ah'um dl'um -
indeed that apostrophe could be indeed judged
as the letter Y'od
             Yyod                  why-yod of the wide ought
and then hide the letters GH
and instead OH'T...
         like you write the letters but hide their sounds
in Gloucester
asked me this guy Andrews
who works with the Nigerian Sunday
(his name, Monday Monday,
literary scene had a Friday)
Andrews is Ghanaian
and he's fresh
i mean he's not what one could call
descended from slaves
honestly you get to pick up
the African original the african original
pride and love for life
not this stench of post-colonial dread
of: jeez still living with these former slave owners
and ooh come on why didn't
we go back to Africa
and why are the old Africans coming to Europe
to tease us or whatever
spiraling with stadium concerts calling for
Africa Unite blah blah semi Black ******
also comes with Black Jesus...
don't ask me how but honestly Black Jesus
comes with Black ******...

Abu Dribble i feel like escaping into naked
lunch rather not fascination with Arab historiology
from the 10th century
or a German thinker...
although i must know that if dog in german is hund
pies in ******
then horse in english a koń in polish
means horse in german is...herseh?
           no... the diacritical mark doesn't help
no room for transliteration like
in semitic languages
between 'rab and                                        Heb'

what is horse in german? d'uh!

pferdbeiarbeiten...

            not the sort of horses i swear are we the last
people to work as humans with animals
are we the last stronghold
we are not Bukowski genius to drink and read
sparingly the postman
i mean we are not farmers because farmers
no longer use animals
to work
instead
i mean: are we the last professions on this planet
to work with animals
i love working with animals
so much so that i'm petting one on the side
if i were to take a cat into the life cycle
of a dog or a horse
we breed these animals for a purpose

have you ever worked with horses
and dogs
in a crowd management environment
it's like double the high
of being high at a concert
when you come back from work and unwind
and have the side project to write
down everything bubbling to the boil in your
head your ego-death
and then the ego-resurrection
with a concentrated focus on narrative
that requires it to be written down
rather than aired / thought

and then release like a sling with no shot
just the snap of the sling
against the skin to wake up

KREISEL

  kreisel...

          spinning top is not even a word...
it's a worded ideogram...
without an actual ideogram
SPNNNGTP   looks better...
best to have that printed and framed
and advertised...

       Bączek...  well then... my neighbour
brought me one of those in a 50p
bag of goodies...
there was that and there was blowing
bubble machinery
i don't know does she think me *******
or happy or did i come to the fore
of children at large events and
i was authority and i was benevolence
and i'm still thinking of the jobs
that make humans interact with animals
and i know it's not in farming
as such especially when pig farming
i mean farming with plow and not plough
or maybe the two are not that far apart
because this is not the sort of euphoria
experienced at an event
this is a private euphoria
and not simply of just being there...
i.e. the opposite of Dasein
the opposite of Dasein is Seinda -
being there i.e. a place an event a polity
a necropolis is by far the best strain
flex and then thrown into this disarray
   of fates and omens and ills of people since now
even these people venture out
in the full abode of sky... wheelchairs and scissors
and schizoids...

i said i need to write this is not a novel
if anything this is also not Zukofsky's A
because by god that looks good
on paper but not in that voice
              since i'm thinking that's the last masquerade
but still the impetus to write
and why not record with Charlie but then
Charlie etc was also in the same circumstance
as me or then
sober does it: great parody of the formal
                    in whatever order of magnitude -
yes those wax eyes wore
off and then night came and i toked some more
and not to excess in drinking i obeyed
t.v. rules for half an hour
but then the show was so disastrous
that the only thing i was looking at was
laila rouass
   and thinking of my woman and yes he's 48
and she's 52
and i'm pretty sure Edie wants to make
it adamantly so
that there's that tease of *******
in that she's 55 and i'm 38 and she's still not sure
what
in what the hell would that mean
when the ages shrink
and then there's also the age disparity
between the other forbidden love of necrophilia
and that's not really as prominent
in society as *******
                                         well who knows
the statistics show...

                             but at least now: silence...
i have not given excuses but
pointers as to what i also do: alias no alias
persona non grata
                                should i fly above the aqua politik -
sieve through
this spectacular advent of man
this spectacular celebration
because honest to god and winter months apart
there is this air of celebration in man
with the obvious hags and anchors
and drags from the past but still the perserverence
is there to mindlessly go forward
without any static of but one universe
instead so many others to come
should this only be one experience
i doubt there might be more
with brain-deaths and heartaches
                          
                                      brain-labyrinths
and loud-libraries
                          or those pirates -
the pigeons at Baker Street...
some travel as far as Amersham
and Chesham on the Metropolitan Line
for their holidays from the city
you can see them on the trains anchored
coming into the carriages looking for
pecking orders...
and then as the train speeds on tracks
they fly about less
like bothersome flies
but as frightened animals: that they are...

                  and we are not?