precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.

O Ganga!
You flow
Across the mighty
Mountains
O your youthful
Playful force
Making its way
Through the
Ancient boulders
Stream after stream
Joins you
To find its destiny
Happily
In your depths
To make you
O the vast Ganga we know
The Aryans found their
Abode on your banks
You saw the rise of Jainism
And Buddhism
O civilization
Not only flourished
But flowered
On your banks!
You've seen it all!
You travel down the Tehri dam
Across Rishikesh
And Haridwar
From the cow's mouth
O the Gomukh
Where your mother
Glacier Gangotri rests!
You enter the plains
Having crisscrossed
Roads many
And lives
Of many a being
Who consider you
As mother
Worship you
You bear their brunt also
Carrying heaps of
Garbage
You flow Kanpur
You see tanneries
And many more
You nourish them
Keep them running
But they end up
Slowing your run
You reach Allahabad
What's in a name
A tryst of cultures
O you have the
Gangs Jamuni doab
And Gangs jamuni tehzeeb!
Your sisters join you
And here at Prayag
You have Yamuna with you
O a mythical sister
Saraswati does find here way to you
They say
Life goes on on your ghats
As usual
People washing clothes
Themselves
And people offering
Flowers and performing
Rituals on your banks
O all but consider you
As an earthly mother
A heavenly gift
Just like Saraswati
You have your place in the scriptures as well!
You also
Flow out of mythology
Into our minds
O the mighty Shiva
Took you
In his mighty curls
Of hair
To allay your spirit
As you descended
Onto the Earth
To purge peoples
Lives
The Bhagiratha's
Penance you saw then
He got back his wish
Thousand brothers
They say
O you but still see
The Kumbh Mela(fair)

So many souls
You see the serenity
Of Varanasi
The beautiful spirituality
Of its
Ghats
O young wrestlers
Massaging before
The day's fight
Alongside
Seers in
Deep meditation
On your banks
O you have settled
This city
You flow across
Patna
The ancient
Pataliputra
Seen many imperial
Rise and falls
History echoes in you
You enter Bengal
The fertile
Gangetic plains
Bear testimony
To your gifts
With their lush green
And swaying fields
The Farakka barrage
Sees you in one of your
Giant avatars
You irrigate
And touch people!
You flow as the Padma in
Bangladesh
O you know
Two lands separated
By political shadows
You flow
As Bhagirathi
Hooghly
In Bengal
The rice bowl!
O your Ilish(Hilda)
People do relish
You flow graciously
Through
Flat extensive plains
Past Kolkata
The city of joy
And into the sea
At Gangasagar
Taking with you
So many memories
And promising
The continuity
Of your divine
Grace
O dear river,
You are Ganga!

I: Introduction—A History Lesson
The word ******* was derived from the Sanskrit
svastika,
meaning good fortune,
or well being.
The shape is a monogram,
the interlacing of two Brahmi words,
a hooked cross which, over 5,000 years ago,
represented the rays of the sun,
the four directions of our natural compass,
and the four elements of our world.
Earth, wind, fire and water,
the symbol was balanced,
sitting firmly on its base
like a poised animal
on its haunches.
In other interpretations,
the symbol was a sacred text
explaining, “here is how the sun moves across the sky.”
A map of the heavens,
a lesson in astronomy.
The *******, when standing on its base,
is still sacred today
in many religions.
It is
the Buddha’s footsteps,
the seventh saint in Jainism,
and the four possible places of rebirth
in animal and plant world,
hell, earth and the spirit world.
In the 1870s the ******* was changed forever.
An archaeologist engrossed in discoveries
from ancient Troy and Mycenae,
Heinrich Schliemann,
found the symbol likeable
and claimed it,
because as a man he had the power to define.
He designated it
the symbol of his people—the Aryans—
and soon this is what it became.
By 1907 the ******* was turned at an angle
physically
becoming a hooked cross precariously balancing
on its side.
Its meaning, however, was turned upside down.
The cult of Aryan supremacy
claimed it,
and finally ****** adopted the
bedraggled image
as the symbol of the **** party
marking the beginning of its legacy
as an image of hate,
a harbinger of genocide,
and unthinkable atrocity.
In the course of twenty five years,
under the direction of ****** and Himmler
and Heydrich and Daluege
and Jeckeln and Prutzmann
and Eichmann and Mengele
and countless other men with vacant expressions
and the ability to spell death with pointed fingers
the ******* came to mean loss
of integrity, of citizenship, of basic rights,
of personal safety, of property,
of an untarnished image of humanity
of hope.
Under the *******
unraveled a calm, coordinated,
and systematic extermination
of 6 million Jews
200,000 gypsies
70,000 handicaps
and unknown numbers
of people of color,
political prisoners,
homosexuals
and deportees.
Under the *******,
there were gas chambers
and the burning of children’s bodies.
There were prison-like ghettos,
and there was no humanity.
Part II: A lesson in Linguistics
First, language is meaningful only
because of shared understanding.
Words mean nothing,
symbols are vacuous
unless we share recognition
of the things that they signify.
All language is arbitrary
if we cannot agree on what object,
or emotion or event in history
are called forth by the words that we say.
Second, to be able to change meaning, you must have power
and you must have time.
Trust me,
if I could rewrite the meaning of every blood-soaked word
I would.
I would scrub them clean of their histories.
I’d redefine them,
make them useful,
maybe even kind.
But I can’t, and neither can you.
At least not alone
and not on command.
Because I’m sorry to say
that that’s not how language works.
I’m sorry to say
that a symbol made synonymous with hate
cannot be used innocently,
cannot only mean what it meant before ******
and Himmler
and Heydrich and Daluege
and Jeckeln and Prutzmann
and Eichmann and Mengele.
Even if you claim to redefine it,
even if you claim to only use it for what it once was
even if once it was beautiful,
like the stalwart path of the sun,
the ******* has innocent blood on its hooks
and it eyes us sideways like a crooked lamppost
burdened with memories we cannot dismiss.
We remember.
As a society, we remember,
because pain is a finicky creature
that will not be reasoned with,
or re-defined out of existence.
We cannot use the ******* without remembering the pain
how it was ironed onto the starched coats
and painted on the national flags
of those who murdered
6 Millions Jewish men, women and children,
200,000 gypsies
70,000 handicaps
and unknown numbers
of people of color,
political prisoners,
homosexuals
and deportees.
Even if you say so.
Even if you claim to only use it for good.
We remember,
we remember.
Part Three: A Story
In elementary school my Hebrew teacher was Mrs. Wygodski.
When I was ten she seemed ancient.
I remember her shaky hands, but the steadiness of her voice.
Most of all I remember the numbers on her forearm
from when the Nazis decided she was no longer a girl,
but a numerical value.
I remember her telling us about the concentration camps
when they shaved her tiny girlish head
and gave her *****, ill-fitting clothes,
when they took her arm and erased her
like a message in the sand,
and she became a number.
In elementary school someone wanted to play a joke
so they scrawled a *******
on its side
in large black ink on the white board of class.
The symbol was the first thing you saw
when you entered the room.
I remember
when she came in she was smiling
as usual
her grey hair down, her kind, open face,
a miracle of a woman,
to withstand the darkest night and still smile.
I remember that Mrs. Wygodski said it is important to forgive
but I could never understand how she forgave the Nazis.
She would look at us and say
“hate is the darkest tunnel,
and harder to climb out of
than forgiveness is to bestow.”
The day she walked into the room with the *******
looming large on the white board
I will never forget the look on her face.
As the symbol spoke to her directly
it unearthed everything she spent years flattening down,
memories she sifted through for decades with trembling fingers,
images she shelved in the recesses of her mind
to make room for the possibility of tomorrow, and the warmth of smiling children.
For a moment
that symbol broke her,
and in that moment, the ******* once again stole her humanity,
and turned Mrs. Wygodski into the number
they once told her she was.
Part Four: Land of the Free
Today thousands of hate groups continue to use the *******
teetering sideways
the way that ****** intended it.
Once a symbol of good fortune,
it is now the most widely recognized symbol of hate
the world has ever known.
Used in the United States
the ******* has opened its claws
and staked claim to the beating hearts,
and hopeful sovereignty
and promised dreams
of countless African Americans,
who became the targets of the same bottomless hate
that engulfed millions in the holocaust.
Under our star spangled banner
the ******* has overseen
thousands of racially driven lynchings,
ongoing police brutality
the imprisonment of one out of three black men
and the bombing of black children in their Sunday school dresses.
In Oregon,
the ******* celebrates the sealing of borders,
is embraced by the very groups
who once outlawed black existence
in our very own state constitution,
the same groups
who once dictated the state’s refusal
to ratify the 14th amendment
of equal protection,
and the 15th amendment
giving African Americans the right to speak
at the ballot box
and be heard
by their government.
In the land of the free, the *******
is still tattooed on chests
and ironed to coats
and scrawled on the walls of my classroom.
In our communities
there are
the European Kindred,
the Northwest Hammerskins,
Volksfront,
the National Socialist Party,
and the Ku Klux ****.
And they wear the *******
because they recognize its meaning,
the meaning we all know
the meaning imbedded deep
by the pointed guns of the Einsatzgruppen
Today,
here,
they wear the ******* because they want to swallow the world.
Part 5: In Conclusion
To whoever drew the *******
last week,
last year,
in every year before that
in the bathroom, in the hallway, on my classroom wall and desks.
I forgive you.
Not because I want to
but because Mrs Wygodski would.
I will give you the benefit of the doubt.
I will believe you didn’t mean it.
I will believe you didn’t know.
I will still have hope in your humanity
because what choice do I have?
This is my refusal to become what the Nazis wanted,
what hate groups still want.
That is how I resist.
I refuse to hate you,
I refuse
to hate.
However, now that I’m addressing you directly,
I want to take this moment to make clear
that when I see the *******
this is what I see:
I see Mrs Wygodski,
with her kindness that was like a spring
flowing from somewhere dark and unseeable
and I see her face when she walked into a room with that symbol
and I see the colors of her world bleed out.
I see my missing family members,
who I never actually had the chance to really see.
So I imagine them,
my grandfather’s aunts, uncles and cousins
from a shtetle somewhere in Poland,
erased completely from history, from record, from existence
by ******* wearing men
who forgot how to be human.
Finally, I see my students.
The rest of them,
with their still young impressionability
and their beautiful array of skin colors, backgrounds, ethnicities, cultures
and their intact understanding of love.
They are the hope that our grandparents thought was lost,
and this ******* is their antithesis.
It is the undoing of their sanctity,
it is you spitting in the face of everyone who is not you.
And if you do that intentionally,
if you do that knowingly
and with purpose,
well, that
is unforgivable

You know they have these,
           those groups for
people who are,
          were,
        are going through addictions.

Well I was going to one such place...
I'm not addicted not like these people.
My failings are
              light compared to those others.

I was hooked on the deity addiction,
              I was raised to believe in certain
                          noncorporal
unsubstantiated constructed fear factors.

I was for many a immature years fearful of
           what I was doing till I was 7 years old.

Questions were my maturity, I'd read that
            these man made constructs, well the
top of today were all
                      with an area of minimal distance..

                                               It was like,
the central point for god creationism,
                   who had the most followers,

who had the snakes tongue, the intellect
              to make other listen to there lies..

But so it happened, there were the old gods
   fading into obscurity..
they were real for a time,
           but the thing about time, everything dies.

But the words huddled the masses,
      you see there was a religion,
religions already around that stood the
   testament of time.

These new ones approaching gaining ground,
they were either an off shoot of
                      there disagreements,
of the word of there god not others
                                                   as they weren't real...


No there's was real, but the gods before were wrong??
                                            ok...…..

But moving on and we have the oldest religions still
around. Some have the masses where some have but a
only a few followers not as many as way back when.
Here's a quick lesson in gods and spirituality,
counting down we have:

1. Hinduism (Circa 7,000 BCE)
2. Judaism (Circa 2,000 BCE)
3.Zoroastrianism (Circa 1,500 BCE)
4. Shinto (Circa 700 BCE)
5.Buddhism (Circa 600 BCE)
Jainism (Circa 600 BCE)
Confucianism (Circa 600 BCE)
Taoism (Circa 500 BCE)

So you see that there are some old that still remain..


But the thing that people forget is that in the old times
wars were fought on the premise of there gods words
were the truth and the others were distortions not the
right word of god, gods.. look down, I know...

1.Second War of Kappel
2. Lebanese Civil War
3.The Crusades
4. Second Sudanese Civil war
5. First Sudanese Civil War
6. German Peasants’ War
7. Nigerian Civil War
8. French Wars Of Religion
9. Thirty Years’ War
10. Eighty Years’ War

I know what your thinking what the fudge has this
got to do with now, quite a lot it would seem.
We have new religions popping up, some are just
plain ***... and people follow these.

But the good thing is time is awaking the masses to
the ridicule of what these old books stood for.

Hate, Love ******, ****, intimidation to believe or
                                 pay a levy or pay with your life.

But the world is awake, more than ever.
         So I sit here in this room, listening to the
stories of what made them rescind the notion
of belief in a deity, that controlled them now
                                          they have cut the strings.  

I just hope one day that we all can look behind us
and wonder why we were so immature to think
that  these things helped us find our keys,
                         but let a child die of starvation..

if you don't see the contradiction your still blind I see...

my father never let me win at miniature golf...
tantrum prone youth of yesteryear
didn't see the plot twist...
perched: again... crow like 6ft2
246pounds of me... fat toss: bulge...
and some - semi-decaying octopus magic fingers...
yeah... father never let me win at miniature
golf...
              but whereas he leaves
some of the sudoku: hyper-geometries open
to discussion...
       i leave mine completed...
no competition...
              not when a sober mind does
that a drunk would double: for a fee...
the currency of face-masks and looking into
jainism... or... contra ****** recognition
in place: contra the niqab...
i have all the excuses to...
     ninja-doodle my way through...
central london's pedestrian traffic...
    then again... being a smoker...
the old habit of harking up some phlegm
and spitting it onto the pave...
      with a face-mask? none of that...
but... i'll keep one spare pocket for these
facemasks... i'll have... grounds for...
religiosity and... heightened secular:
scientific sensibilities...
and the media folk vill be 'appy...
                             yes... it's already a **** show...
yes it was already a **** show:
i'm not going to: told you so: sow:
genius me... what rules did i comply to...
that would... otherwise... estrange me my
daily, routine - focus?
              pretty much... none of it...
        what has happened... and... extend that
into a time-lapse of years...
               oh sure... even my neighbours...
such... budding social lives...
friends... when friends were available
when at school...
work friends... so... those people you
****** around with for: doll... payment of good
grades... replaced with people who...
A-grade their presence for...
a baguette they will... most certainly...
not share with you?
yoyo-effect slimming...
                     i did that once...
lost virginia in the attic... and came out...
scarred for not being...
   one of the two part ensemble...
given: killing two birds with one stones...
unless... strap-on-a-***** to my forehead...
wait a moment...
no... clearly muhammad didn't foresee
the harem as... being filled with strap-on:
***** wielding lesbians...
after all: i only have 2... she has 3...
                        holes...
             - since von krafft-ebing times...
before freud...
             ******* was considered as
taboo as... performing *******...
     these days... that's the gold standard of
consent and: "ritual"...
you foreplay each other...
   big deal over jerking off: genocide flushed...
a measure of blood-pressure...
otherwise i'd surface with:
she has my **** stitched in all the right places...
everything is being automated...
here's to: going with the flow...
                      checking blood-pressure
or... blood sugar levels...
the old norm the new norm...
      no toy story: of that... i am sure...
and... well... for what could... could have been
a ***** bank...
if english existentialism is anything
to go by... it's certainly not a talk over
coffee or a beer...
it's a ***** bank donation...
all orc seriousness: my d.n.a. primo!
you! dodo! project!
                    and... would you like a kippah
with that? or an u.f.o.?
- then... "all of a sudden"...
darwinism pops up again:
survival of the fittest... and...
the men and their needle-in-a-haystack:
spines of mollusks...
perhaps "there"...
                "where"... and a heart could
be summoned... alternatives though...
the self-implosive critical mind of...
regurgitated facts and figures...
geared up... for "knowledge" / trivia...
at a pub quiz... storage space that...
will become... derelict... a housing project
for ghosts and having reached
a zenith of an amnesia-paradox...
chances are: you probably will remember
a "self"...
                      nonetheless!
vacated time and space...
                        so much for the trivia...
and... so much for the encyclopedia brain-drain...
back to basics: i like tomato soup...
i like pasta al dente...
    i think that to heighten appetite...
al fresco works miracles...
as does... drinking a 7.2% thatcher's vintage
cider... than any amount of wine...

- i'll hate myself for writing this...
but...
       let's get into the porridge...
87% of white women would want
to **** a black man...
meme tag... i guess: most probably
a zulu... since... all the rest:
didn't run fast enough to escape
the netting... or were... sold by their chieftans
for a bribe of cheetos...
the usual ****** treatment:
kan kan: and dunk b'ruh...

        but i guess... in reverse...
about 6% of white men would want
to **** a black girl...
lucky for me i'm 6.1%...
in that i did... "somehow"...
then again... she was well portioned...
i had my coccyx inside-out...
and i was missing my 12" *******
toy freed from the blue-pills-of-V...
and she lost her inflateables:
buttocks and sprinting the marathon
bones...

and it was that old school feral sort
of ****...
i ended up looking for a plum
in between the ***** hair region:
a second chin.. not the fold...
but she was... sculpted like...
nothing that might require a 12" ******
to begin with...
the kama sutra says it plain:
rabbit **** don't **** an elephant ****
for the elephant ****'s satisfaction...

give on... give off...
i want to laugh but then...
unlike these white girls...
sorry... i don't find black women attractive...
unless in kenya...
and she's looking like an oily grain
of coffee...
you can see the skin... melt in sunlight...
excavations in limbo land:
l.s.d. is missing and we only have
latex gimp-suits to fire-up the imagination...

perhaps the statistics is true...
white women want... what white women want...
but i'm a white man: pork...
catch me in august and i'm
a spaniard / half removed cousin of
a spaniard... perhaps damascus was
once my home...
             but i must be: blitzing the krieg
with fiddling some spaghetti...
when: i'd be in clear want of...
******* liquid chocolate...
or... kenyan liquorice quicksilver...

me throw pennies at crows
or me throw bags of sugar at the rascal
macaques...
same ****: different cover...

     presiding over the coming of
a "reincarnated" Elijah:
the heart of the son will return to the father...
the heart of the daughter will return to the mother...
no one is to feed themselves the narrative
of the nag hammadi: "being" freed...
when one transitions: with expert advice
from the medical profession: from male to female
and... vice versus...

sorry... what's fit for the dickens?!
just because white girls like...
doesn't imply white boys like too!
if white girls like:
   and white boys are looking for
the harem of mr. lemon... squinting:
because the sun's too much in beijing...
and all that's clearly worth...
doing much ado about... nothing...
japanese porcelain skins...

       i imagine a reverse insurgence of
the mongolian horde of pseudo-orc...
                and a pseudo-islam:
spikes in the frequency of terrorism
as "they" come to defend the ummah...
and take root in Xinjiang...
  such pride... concerning...
           what's a memory of Jaffa...
and... the prospect of Sarajevo...
          i'm bored ****-less with this:
notion of "invasion" without
bullet, bite of grit or tank...

                - standards in "males":
primo standard... not ******* enough...
coming across a hit dough & nut that knows
how to... "been there... ****** enough":
the linear projection of my youth now
exhausted: i need a low-to-high libido:
strap-on ****-of-a-man...
to wed me for the joys of crosswords
puzzles and...

the hyper-gemotry of sudoku...
157869324
983452176
246731598
821976453
394125687
67534­8912
568213749
719684235
432597861   (less a square...
think of a cube! a cabana cigar) -

                  i think of a hard-on
like i think about spring...
and... strawberries...
and small... asian hands working
their magic around the detail
of solding electronic parts together...
unicorns and mermaids...
and alien invasions that begin
with blockjobs rather than **** probing;
i guess i'm just being old-fashioned...

the good old days of drinking a pint
oif bourbon and paying little richard
a visit to the bulgarian...
                        lasso of a dead cow...
and the church of journalism...
the tabloid oopses and poops...
*******: further und mutter...
there was no glorious:
pwetty son  - brass shoulders of
an atlas pose...
a university degree in chemistry is
probably a step-back from being
an apprentice plumber...
and this mundane talk of wasted:
years doing social-science bluffs...

i am in the most fired-up dire need
of *** like...
no... i'm more prone to be asking:
dreamless sleep...
the *** can happens beside me...
with pickled brains...
insects and everything else hyperventilating...
tripping on a fusion
of m.d.m.a. and ****** -
      drunk and *** was **** gang for
her... deprived from: audience at the proper
"the end" of sabbath...
standards of men: what?!
the ones caged not having enough
practice shooting placebos and blanks?
while she: hail she! ave she!
she gets a thirst for threesomes
and the lost... blank...  jerker...
because... her: missing part...
fifth wheel handy is missing to
excavate the **** the floral pattern:
the kissing the children good: night?

i say sooth: i say dilute: i say:
here comes the beer...
this is not the 1960s and the rolling stones
and the sort of women to settle down with:
freebie bandies: banshees
and all that's missing are the:
she's still much afraid of the foxes cackling
in close conduct with the magpies...
before and after: she's afraid of the dark
like richard the lionheart...

going to visit the three tiers of P was never
easier... first the priest: eviently self-discredited...
then the psychiatrist / psychologist...
verbiage for the latter...
big pharma for the former...
and then... bulgarian prostitutes...
c.b.t. ******* with no touch...
but i'm a slave to the octopus when
it comes to being loved up...

87% of white women would **** a black
man... 13% of me says:
i'd for 90% of black women... when there
was a 99% chance of making the exception,...
and i will never bring my 12" g.i. joe
for the buttocks of semi-inflateable:
necessity to sink sort of buttocks:
but run as a cheetah it will...
no aquaman 'ere:
                      there's no "there": period...

brazil.. perhaps... a post-ethnic project...
argentina: too many t'zees: khaki burns...
puked mustard shirts... dijon ala: no dijon...
burnt mahoghanny flirt...
brazil the post-racial project...
no 12" **** envy... no... freed *** inflatables
and: sprints 100m under 10 seconds...
take about a lifetime to swim 50m...
and... bothers citing the "question"
of the anchor...
loses weight... takes to the marathon
as an ethiopian pseudo-***...
jumps the high... jumps the long...
but doesn't... jump the pole...

    aquaman contra king kong...
the crab the piglet and...
       unless she's the queen of sheba...
or nefertiti... and there isn't...
a lament of solomon...
              
      - and in general: this ****-sodden-pile
of maggot *****: smart talking cockneys
and smooth itching libido:
first come, first served:
new buddha wave sort of:
   "res vanus" hustling boyscouts of:
never-to-never: first come...
you... no g'lot... every other fwyday...

- all in all: a smart-eyed-up piece
of cockers... or cockney...
baron leverage - the rhyme... or the shlang...

ooh... me loves a whittle bits of
"misunderstandings":
cordiality... let me get m'ah dictionary out...
violence of words...

blood is thicker than water...
except for the custard...
and all that ******* pie..
because... what's paying 10quid for the turk
and the "madamme" for entry...
110 quid for the hour of blatant
butchering...
affectionate my ******* ***...
and then... a top up of a tenner tip
to mince a ******* oysters' worth
of **** for a "tip"!
what's that?

  look at my tongue... tattooed
with a bunch of that sorry **** of detials
for: excalibur... that one...
and only... sorry... tax dough
cough up!

           easier than ******* a mannequin...
pretend doll: pre-tend...
            five nigerian with machetes
walk into a bar...
one albanian counters...
the machetes are like...
               christmas tree deocrations
when the albanian hears the threat...
he's married... he was two duaghters...
so much for zulu warrior: nigeria
2.0 orc...

            when the albanian goes
full on schizoid... steps out of his body...
entertains the soul...
and... there's talk of...
the grace of the guillotine...
among the: newly become...
scuttling nigerian rats...

                  having entertained ***...
makes me... a rather... deviant creature...
i quiet enjoy the violence
served up by peace...
all this... troy of verbiage of comfort
and... pedantry... and that quote:
of a gang...
     ******* vulvas is for *******...
annals of ****: toe-dipping
two-'ere-one!

- as we are: at our best...
the most civil of: ****... entertain-ers...

take up a civil case with the pun...
much later: or no later...
what did a rhyme ever... do to you?

at those special moments -
when one will be finally able to stand
above the gravestone that denotes:
the first portion of the 20th century...

once "they" die off: the second world war
veterans... the holocaust primo levis...
when all pomp and ceremony
dies off...

see... i don't mind wearing these ******
masks no more...
forgetting that i'm still wearing
one...
   face mask... niqab... face mask...
niqab...
i don't mind because i always tell myself:

the moment i see the next akin
idiot to me... then the fog of bother lifts...
i was stocking up...
2 litres of ms. amber donning
a corset and i was:
like a russian "neugeld" oligrarch...
has the money:
but can't contemplate the mere idea
of "altgeld"...

    wenn unter der krähen
          (definite that! - not...
   indefinite that of die)
                 zu beste ist zu... krächzen...
   wie sie!

             oh no no no... english is only...
halb-die-gleichung:
the rest is: alt-vater englisch...
            mongrel saxon:
                              mischlingsächsisch...

what's a... i don't know...
let's ask...
        welche ist eine sächsisch
  (i guess the same rule applies...
a forgotten loss...
        aN able striptease!
    hence the ein and eine "debate")...
  
       let's ask a spitz... or a ruthenen...
about... anglo-mischling: "sächsisch"...
the great postcard baron...
the great immigrant...
wasser-eves...

             english is too constrained
to the children being allowed freedoms...
that... well: we need to feed the hyenas first...
might as well have... walking giggles in storage...
ethics comes with: 2nd thoughts...
a: "what if" scenarios...
but some people can't escape...
the bulldozer's first plough...

      like: this was expected:
without any high-brow intentions...
no... diese ist es!

well it's not like feminism was going to
come elbow-to-elbow: arm-in-arm:
cosmopolitan solidarity ******* any time soon...
the women of the world: ahem... ah ha ha: "unite"!
yeah... white knights...
and intellectual feminists...
because... a bulgarian woman is getting ******
silly...

or not... depends who's being the doubtful thomas...
secterian...
i went... she was about to play me some
cheap ******* muzak...
i kind of forgot about *******...
i grabbed her phone and put on:

perplex - toys (felguk remix)...
that didn't sink in...
            so i switched gears... hellraiser II:
hellbound - something to think about...
and yes stepheno rey can have all the books
he likes... but... unlike...
his protege... prodigy... barrel of laughs of:
waiting for output!
clive barker: the cult of music...
   no stephano rey film has...
anything near... a competing soundtrack...

who minds pinhead being a woman
on a page and a man in 3D... not me...
             so we listened to that...
and... i cucked myself into a cuddle but...
let's face it... i wasn't into it...
drinking got the better of me...
and she wasn't into it:
because the english: valkyrie of feminism
weren't coming: and she was bulgarian:
so sloppy seconds worth of:
ottoman nostalgia... etc...

        trevor something - into your heart...
and it just... i was once told that tree-hugging
a birch tree was harmonious with
the universe...
         well... starve yourself from
a body... of the yin... and you're the yang...
******* is the last of your problems...
putting on socks or underwear never feels
the same... as when... what can occupy an hour's
worth... kissing eyelids... teasing the nose...
the collar bones...

no cheap **** music...
it's enough that i wake up with a numb hand
because: that's my third tier of pillow...
but... yes... face-masks...

keeping the "hoard" at bay...
  hood... facemask... a complete niqab-ninja replica...
and then a list of excuses...
when... staging... a fictional bank-robbery...
******* hell! by the end of this "quarantine":
i'll be converted to jainism!
and i'll use a face-mask as a religious
excuse like a turban and a sikh might
when working on a construction site
when the debate crosses path with:
a safety helmet "*******"...

a spike in... jainist bank robbers:
'coz' corona & ****...
       hell... i'll find all the right excuses
to wear these men-yoroi:
after the quarantine is "over"...
      hell... out of an argument:
from "amnesia"...
        and jainism... and whatever *******
rainbow i'll be willing to pull out
of my ***: bonus - toothpick for driftwood!

when was the last time i visited a brothel?
citing these words...
my cis-genitals are tingling and...
apex... spawning-man: less the spider...
cis-trans-cis-trans: lessons in chemistry...
do i really need all that sort
of intimate 1hour flings of imitation
"planned parenthood" ploughing?
                there's that... ***** dunk into
a tissue / rubber that's also...
by the logic of the conservatives:
a genocide...
                  why yes! once it leaves
the male... and enters the female...
      there's no "transition" period:
there's no "being pregnant" - rather:
the immediacy of giving birth!
and calling it: a he and a son of sam...
and...
             well... **** it!
let's just skip to the ******* down
the drain and: genocide / abortion cocktail
the next few words...

            i guess i'll have to...
go enough times so that...
i will remember a ******* more fondly
than i could ever remember a past girlfriend...
because: at least the memories can be
concise: potent... detached from...
having invested: cheared a piece of me
(metaphysically)... while she...
gets another tattoo cipher of me having
****** her... blah blah blah....

the lore of: a monopoly on purity -
well... chance are...
a ******* will probably disclose to you
the... mystery of the incarnation
with, words, like:
i get s.t.d. checks on a regular basis...
whereas...
                        the pride and broom aspect
of the:
  if you're looking for a dangerous man...
look for... a sexualised man...
       will probably be something akin to...
the gonorrhea cess-pool of teenage angst /
the ******* ferris-wheel of...
love poems: idealistic love poems...
rhyming couplets...

          went to a brothel to touch some
elgin marbles... walked out... surprised that
some still had a breath in them...
     crustacean zenith...
                 simping and cam girl and milk
and no honey... and "connections" and...
more thrills from frying a ******* - wet -
in a live socket: spastic ******: blunt... yeah...
em... puritanical *******:
like old school views of *******:
same ****: different cover...
             with the aid of a shadow: passable...

otherwise: perhaps... the mere focus on...
water... still... water...
the clarifying soberness of an immaculate
transation...
this whole: boyfriend / hubbie...
girlfriend / wife murk of the self splintered...
the mutual tug-o'-war...
and the running joke passed on by
one glaswegian: to no other:

how was copper-wire invented...
two picts arguing over a penny on the pave'...
funny ha ha and at the same time
emotionally *******...
and competitive h'american...
hard-on blues...

aus die schwarzwald...
        
                limbozunge...
PFefferzufälligdalmatinerbombardierung:
alias?­ the blitz over london:
since... st. paul's will stand... will stand...

no... english is not enough... sometimes...
even: among the natives...
or... not so native... but there are the V'elsh...
the vild: veirder zoops...
again: alias: wolk... ****'s sake:
Dickens' 'em bride! neine gut?
more like: nei gut...

             ******* hing'leash...
some "proper": yorkshire brew and scones...
and... cringe nostalgia...
and... nostalgia of cringe...
          pwopp'eh: Ęglish... big'O' on the
boing-boing "dapper"...
'stupid and inefficient person' clothing
line... by the name of: DUFFER...

           a dandy warhol is is...
tautology... although: with no hindsight over
than: the death of warhol...
the dandy warhols: the band?
a tautological play on words: since...
no warhol: beside the significance of the surname...
the surname suggests:
gravity of worth akin / equivalent to:
da vinci...
                  unlike: warchild...
a mrs. bucket contra: mrs. bouquet...
bou-kay...
                 and there's a tau involved... in all of...
that?!

now is the right time to finish the last
tier of slug... and bow...
and bow out.

ι.

you might call them terrorists, or islamic fundamentalists... me? i just call them sand-*******, or camel-jockeys.

ιι.

imagine the movies from the 60s... esp. cleopatra... see that long roman armshake? they don't actually shake hands, they pause in the middle of holding each others' arms, just below the elbow. this practice was translated, but in a verse of insult, not the shakespearean (romeo & juliet): flicking one's thumb against someone... i.e., lodging your incisor into your thumb on the inner side of the nail and then flicking the thumb from the grip of the incisors lodged in the nail gap... anway... this is the elevation of showing the ******* at someone - *tu sie zgina dziób pingwina (here's where a penguin's beak bends) -
                     and all you do is fold your arm and point
with your protruding elbow... to basically say *******...
         i call it the last roman revelation,
         the long handshake being one,
                and the protruding elbow of the folded arm
as the higher form of expressing the *******.

ιιι.

this is the state english "existentialism" is in, in an article written by a ms. day... she uses the reference of a vowel with diacritical "tattoo" (marking / stressor) as an ambiguity, i.e. she calls ā (an A, with a macron "tattoo") as a long "a"... that could **** anyone off... long "a"? that's canadian short for asking for approval? the ****'s matter with you? ah... no diacritical marks in general, in the anglo-spreschen... i can't even be bewildered by this expression, given the facts of a lack of prolonging a vowel / breath, akin to speaking africaan (africān) when stating: **** i'm ******... let's go to the turk for a kébāb.

ιv.

western fascination with buddhism, the peddle-stool that westerners treat buddhism for a prop to hide their nihilism? what's a westerner's answer? in a cartesian format, counter res cogitans, i.e. res vanus;
and that's it... no mention of the spirituality of not thinking for a moment, very much akin to wishing to have written a fictional narrative as a form of escapism; so why buddhism, and not jainism, to be influenced by?

v.

ooh, **** me... hardly a strange comparison, but a *** and ms. pepsi sharpshooter... ****, white *** slithers down your mouth like a serpent without shedding its skin, that dark *** promotes; i think i'm going to swtich.

vι.

so regarding ms. day's saturday supplement article, the observation by huysmans (against nature) was correct... the aristocrats' greatest privilege isn't wealth to be exact: it's the capacity for being the greatest weirdos, unfathomable fetishists of materialism, and that's the transcended form of their ****** dubiousness, regarding the act of a swan's (actually noble) matrimony; ever heard that story? swan pair up for life... if one partner dies... the other swan remain in a perpetuated "limbo" of widowhood... for some reason, time expands, everything slows down for them; "aristocrats"? demented dogs, ******* your leg; ******* are weird as... well... ****!