they listend to me when i said look.
they knew a meaningfull lesson i was about to shoot.
close your eyes and visualize your dreams for before you know it they ll become real.
expand your mind and free your soul and all your problems shall be solved.
never forget to stay positive. all the bad things are relative.
focus on your health and stay fit and watch your life take a lift.
sing this song and feel the beat for freedom is what we seek
trust your intuitions and praise the lord and all the answers will come to your door.
seek love in everything and you ll see the love in all the living
never forget what really matters health family friends and animals.
be yourself and seek your pleasures but if you abuse it  you 'll lose this treasure.
trust me when i say be patient life isnt all.about.gold and diamonds.
In the right time you will recieve just the information that you need.
thats if ofcourse you chose the right path,if you didnt your actions wont last.
find laughter in everything. fun is the only medicine.
life is hard so be carefull dont rush things and stay in focus. for what you miss wont be retrieved.
love the children and never lie to them for the truths lies in their heart to the end.
take your emotions seriously. behind them hides life's mistery.
seek romance but in balance stay independent and love again.
dont fight people for energy, others sources give it to you for free.
send energy to those who need for giving is the greatest act indeed.

words of Harfouchism

After "once upon a time" our story becomes a mistery;
weather you are Prince Charming or the ogre is mine to discover.
The not-so-typicall "boy meets girl"
where the princess has dragons living inside her
and the ghosts that haunt her com from her own past.
A tale where Mr. Perfect has a weakness for easy women and strong liquor
and a miracle has to happen to make him see the magic.

It is common, and yet is new
It happens to me and it happens to you
It is the mistery of our era,
It is the fear and the disapear,
It is what kills us, it is like air,
It is the link between this and that,
It is related to life and ***,
It is the word that defines us,
It is a mistery to most of us,
What does it mean, what does it have,
To give...or to take...
It is redemption and it is pain,
It is our beloved Eternity.
Inside lies Immortality,
It has the answers and it doesn't lie,
It is our Heaven and Hell at the same time,
We have nothing without and we have all,
And the memories will be so sweet.
Too bad that we will forget,
Who we were, who we are and who will we be,
It guards your soul,
The doors of this are now closing
It is private, but no guests are coming.

Long ago there lived a man , the son of a son who was the king of gods who was also very talented in playing a musical instrument .
                                                               ­           This son was gifted to play an instrument so magically that he could soothe and cast spells among savage beasts.
                                                                ­ This gifted son had a wife , whom he loved dearly , unfortunately oneday she died , but he traveled into a magical world where he could possibly get his wife to come back to life , his great uncle could possibly make this happen .

He begged his uncle to allow his wife to come back to earth as herself , his uncle agreed , but on one condition 'as she follows behind you , she is not allowed to look back until you and your wife are out of this magical world .' His uncle demanded . The son then agreed .

A few minutes later as him and his wife were walking she took a quick peek , just to see if everything was okay behind her and then lost he wife forever

fraud!
she knew it, smirks, so she applaud.
-
lame. that was a fallacy
herself is the mistery

Have you seen her in the clarity of dripping scarlet riverflows?

she's still the secrecy of midnight that no one ever knows

Even hallowing hazy fog of cold could made us blinded

in this knotted ropes of white lies, dead end

Lowfully dare to follow her illusionary footsteps in waters

fraud. she's the one whose following your shady runners
she is the vulture and the prey;
the moth and the flame;
the wicked and the good;
the water and the blood;

Peace in your mind, her sojourn.

she's the only one who smiled in the midst of mourn

Mellow greetings when she entered the juvenile dreams

when the night visits, it'll be silent screams

fraud?

Eccentric.

she is an oxymoron but more of a paradox.

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.

his words have the beauty of sirens
his eyes the depth of a flame
the dawn is unsustainable sometimes
his fingers are looking for the edge of darkness
fragile as a new born thought
his dreams are characters in a play with the invisible
hidden in the stones of the sky, in unwritten books
and unfollowed dialogues is the voice of his time
he struggles with the unseen rule of the world
like a priest without a church
the darkness inside kept in mutable particles

he will unlock one day, all of a sudden, the mistery
of light inside the deepest darkness cause
his feet carry the craft of wisdom