could you ever, with your ears, express a piece of music, as: fluffy? dark soho's piece is fluffy; and by god i was the pretentious one at the beginning of the 20th century critical of the emerging music... but i'm the one merging at the beginning of the 21st century: and it's a T.S. Elliot scenario: the overload of rhythm: industrial core due to the industry being foetal sieg heil! and so many have fallen for the nostalgia trap... it's not coming back: against the thump thump gyroid reproductive muscular we emerge from... for whatever lack of drums in the orchestra: we're paying for it with an excess of techno techno Bob the goldfish cardboard box dance sequence... or as some would suggest: filling in the gap about the joke concerning a triangle being a part of the orchestra and the person educated in it, rather than the harp.

ah, the blank, and i have to work on it: let's imagine i was just
cooking a pork stew for my father and you don't
bother to ask why someone's surname is written
Raßer - and you don't know how
to pronounce it: and you end
up with razors - which you end up saying
racer - or how about sharpening
the s into a zed - how's that?
this is surgical activity while you you're
at at the butchers: necromancy aplemty:
when god speaks, the devil whispers -
American divergence of the pronoun
y'all / you all -
                           we the safeguard
and they the paranoia -
                                    take it slow,
imagine yourself living in Alaska:
you're exposed to the elements
and Prometheus isn't handy:
  all you have is west London drool
that later translates into easter in London,
Ld: isn't even an postal code:
given Greenwich, bellybutton on the world
they're bound to abuse / feel special
                 about, it's just a John Bishop
          Scouser type of beating.
                  ya - i say i aye, you frostbite of
culture, ya yarn ball of ****!
    oh 'ere we go: the red-coats are hunting
foxes: sort of scenario -
   the sooner they ******* a killing
the better for me: 'ave that one with a grizzly:
             some say the longer the yawn
the greater the applause -
      yo! Yogi! turntable of Las Vegas
says you better gamble on hibernating in the
effing Hermitage!
  - we say a lot of y'all when we imply the
plural, don't we? terrible, ****** thuggish
'n' all, to say it.
   i have five pages worth of notes,
and even though i'm drunk,
i came across a foundation, i'll never be ask happy
at i am right now,
   i signed a copy of my book (look! i don't
have a publicist, i don't have the ******* swagger,
i have the inferno that says:
  when the writing dries up, get a proper job;
if the writing doesn't dry up?
             you're less than necessary than a
supermarket shelf-stacker...
                 there are succumbing reasons that
explain the affair later) -
      no i'm about to sell my first copy -
  i say to her: when you working this circuit next?
Friday night? i'll tell you how much i'm selling
for, well: i'll never be this happy: ever -
it really doesn't matter how much for how little:
   i'm not exactly a family animal: farmed -
i'm political: through and through -
   by the time i finish this whiskey i'll be
demanding something new...
    i don't think your able limbs do idle chores:
i just think admire that they do them
and hardly complain: i blame it on the workers'
encouraged banter - and that's called solidarity.
still, right now, it's all about
dark soho's: dark moon in stonehenge -
       or why you never take l.s.d.
   question arises with Bach...
and polyphony - again, non-linear polymers:
   back when the Germans were at it
music sliced through the air
                   - or the modernity of lost
string (quartets) and woodwinds -
          only the thing plucked rather than in slicing
stroked kept from the strings:
    it was truly a devolution via brass -
   you can have the iron age,
but this is the brass age -
                   and subsequently the evolution
or filling the void of orchestral percussion,
which began with jazz: how orchestra was stripped
of woodwinds and strings and elevated
the humble triangle and enforced drums
and the rhythmic transcendence of limb and heart
and less ear and mind -
           oh the spontaneity thus involved:
forever the enigma of the composer's ability
to say much more than *A, when saying in A# -
oh hell: music used to be the Mongolian horde
of all things imaginable,
                  the screams, all the entrenching
embodiment of battle: soothed -
  but in our apathetic guises: music is a variant
of the once exfoliated, thus hushed:
music is expressing a war in waiting - or a war
that's not to be - once music music ascribed
wind and tornado toward its elemental composition -
these days there is less wind, and more earthquake:
we are exposed to a trembling -
           an overt percussion methodology:
that's not fire and the storyteller / poet by
the lonesome huddling of nomads by the fire
with oud and recitation of the to come Quran:
we are experiencing a complete reversal of wind:
here we have dark soho's tectonic cardiovascular:
over stating the percussion until the eventual
obliteration of breath, and subsequently
the flatline of the heart's rhythm: to reach the zenith
of a flatline: beehive musicology.
         it's all earth: and the quaking
rather than a waking into.
                  sure: to the alien ear outside the populace
of those that listen to that kind of "****":
but let me assure you:" you can intellectualise
anything beyond the guilty pleasure:
or else - care to disclose your opinions about doggy?
once we were slicing and ******* -
these days? we're hammering, Soviet committee
said: hammer hammer hammer...
            gravitational drilling against the Catholic
lessons of worldly-detachment akin to a Gagarin:
and all the world's problems morphed into
an image of moving away from earth...
    far far away...       well: we're grounded, like it
or not.
              i love that: y'all -
                          it's as if we all need to agree, ~.
and what better way to actually open a poem up
if not to say how prose is a miser and poetry
the mad spender, or compose: he had / another thought
he wished to take / but...
           originally
                    he had
                  another thought he wished to take
                 but...
saving an Amazonian tree, suggesting that: one by one.
i'll sell my first copy on Friday,
i just need to know how much money was put
into printing it -
   and it will be the happiest i'll ever be -
who cares that it's only 1... if i were selling
100,000 copies i'd be thinking of buying a Mercedes
to do away with the capital...
      oh right, the poem (six pages of notes):
the question, what does it all mean?
       i'm thankful that the all means very little,
or at least enough for physicists to take a bother
in answering:
               i'm just thankful to say that at least
bites / bytes / isolated units have more meaning
than the whole... i.e.?
do i care what the universe means, more so
than i known what the word darkened means?
                 pause for thought -
the well established organic search engine that memory
is: and never will be: an algorithm (engine) -
           still the organic variation of accessing it
reveals Rodin's statues -
                        post-Rodin (Rho-dan: ****** iota!
why so naked in the first place?!) -
            the point where it's not so much enigmatic that
you wish to replicate: but entomb, and mould
a statue worthy of the perpetuated cut-short
and mediating the idea that thought has also
the faculty of imagining and memorisation
that hardly translate into being via ergo...
       if that's the case: you're demented via the
ergo of memory... and deluded via the ergo of
imagining -
                      or Frankenstein / Disney respectively:
but never the extinguished cogito, somehow,
oddly enough:
                          and by the way - no one is going
to question my opinions because dialectics was
giving the hemlocks... my opinions
will only become passed around like Bulgarian
Versace copyright thefts, or because they
were never ideas: attachment .pdf
                   will never entertain someone else's thought,
or because they were originally always opinions
will be consecrated on the attachments of .jpeg:
ever wonder why the crucifix always
mobilises so much emotional foundation to
react and protect a torture-filled instrument
worthy of worship? me neither.
                but that's the whole beginning:
we ensured our memory is eroded by an easily
accessed algorithm - we prefer the goggles to
mensa -
                   and if i were a technophobe: e ah e ah oh...
McDonald would turn out to be McTrump:
'cos' i wouldn't be using it.
              then how to synchronise the senses:
you surely can't leave one the prime consumer of
all the things around you:
     i guess that as stated: you can't live out a life
whereby one is polarised, and the others recessively
make your thinking into potato -
   then again: not polarising one of your senses
will leave you thinking that old fantasy that
you live in a hologram "reality": which i mean by saying:
if one of your pentagram limbs isn't polarised
like a blind person, your thought will claim a sixth
sense status - and subsequently you'll experience
either a second chance of allowing one of your senses
to be stressed / polarised, or all your senses will become
overpowering your non-sense: that's thought into submitting
to a polarity / vector: kindred of
the manual worker feeling his trade take
perfect replication -
a composer polarised by "hearing" -
a painter polarised by "seeing" -
a poet polarised by "speaking" -
a chef polarised by "tasting" -
   a perfumer polarised by "scenting" -
and within the sixth sense extension:
a politician polarised by "thinking" -
  the first antonym suggestion comes within the latter's
parameter: mobilising or puppeteering:
would i care to find variations for the latter? no.

     interlude... opening of page 3 of notes on a windowsill...

and how often is soul ascribed a sensual dimension?
i guess as many a time thought isn't ascribed one:
necessarily made into nonsense.
soul? what do i mean by that? the part of you
that isn't indestructible, but, rather,
the part of you that feels that ease: the uninhibited
correlation (verbiage necessary, darling,
if you want the gist of it) -
when at ease you're not really ascribing to yourself
thinking, but a narrative -
  hence your notion of being indestructible,
or young.
      when thinking is easy we're not actually thinking,
we're narrating, hence the majority of us
are clogs in the machine, and once the machine works
we're upbeat about it, because we prefer to narrate
ourselves into life than think ourselves into it:
primarily because (even i included):
we lack a public addressal attache to make
vague concerns over our: inhibitions -
we are entrusted with inhibitory encrusting
for the sole purpose (we should be afraid of
suggesting): let's see who falls off the ferris wheel
first and we can entrust our congeniality toward
the joke: thank **** it wasn't me, later...
          but still:
if were were really intended to think
rather than narrate we'd be given global warming
solutions everyday...
   there's nothing in us that suggests an 'ought',
a moral choice to later say: thought
                      that could fish-hook us out of
kissing the narrative goodbye -
  narration is an undisturbed faking of thought -
as such the 'ought' is never thought of:
because there's a narrative going on
that's more important than anything requiring
even the most basest obligation.
       we are never obliged to be, because we are
never obliged to think: it's strange how the
two are anti-synonymous due to the ergo disparity:
as if one produces the other, or the former
the latter.
              thinking you're good never precipitates
into being good - and vice versa:
   for all i know i know fake rather than falsifiable
saintliness: the power of the scientific
  suggests that i should be Baron von Scorn
when it comes to the ignorance of testifying
         against people who abhor science
and reproduce, nonetheless, with failure to
transcend deformities: because deformities are
glorified and all forms of ability demonised:
so it looks quasi-Vatican-e.
                   preface to a Michelin star:
start with a ******: work your way down:
enjoy your meal, bygones-be-bygones:
you very happy people.
                  but i never understood why
the idea of thought has never the opinionated phrase:
me, exponentially, to no book's avail!
        p.s. as to be ever written!
    thought conscripts man to rubrics -
for example? examinational candélabre -
  some call it i.q., other's call it: for god's sake man,
****** shoot! shoot!
                        and the flying toes and digits:
thumbs away: booh booh Blitz.
                        first thought: that Jersey song:
fifth of November - that Fawkes ****
who almost.... n'ah.
                            in case you're narrative:
thought has its narrative: it's transcendental -
phenomenology comes into play with
narratives and Lady Gaga and how you're an
"individual": thought is acquired trying to transcend
atomic electron orbits that says: electron clouds -
or it's there, but it isn't there, but it's not there,
but it's there: huh?
                         narration conscripted to the rubric
of school exams at school: palpitations, sweat,
nerves... in this scenario thinking is actually
regurgitation -
                          actually we're still doing the Elvis
Costello hope: while narrating we pass from
these shackles of having to think lessons through
when in fact: we're gearing to having no need
in having to learn them primordially, period!

the paranoiac "they" are eroding our protective
membrane -
    they begin with memory -
         it's not that we care to remember certain things,
but by educating us in the Pythagorean theorem
they're not necessarily dressing us in bow ties either -
they need to implant an abstract educational
thought to replace our natural assimilation into
a narrative that we ourselves have created -
       they need to create erosion within our
memory to stop us coagulating our sense of memory
within a framework of us imagining backwards
rather than forwards:
      the cinema of the mind means memory utilises
imagination to do cartwheels backwards
rather than forwards: because forwards is always
a Disney pharmacology of the neon hyper colouring.

or how they made us escape the "Alcatraz"
of the couch of cognitive narration into an
iron maiden of thinking -
                    in this realm narrating is disparaging
from thinking: narrative is a comfort zone:
thinking is a discomfort zone -
                       but neither me nor you will
become a Newton in terms of narrating the ideas:
so why the hell would they want us to think?!
       concerning Heidegger:
the problem is not that we're not thinking -
the solution is that we're narrating and have
no urge to write books, and thank god for that!
               or man, as the pentagram of the senses,
reversed into thought as the sixth sense calamity
and reversed back as that sense missing
and the tetra exemplified...
         when learning what is the weakest point,
the audio or the optic-receptive stimulation?
                         i mean, the senses over accuse
thought's complexity as if it were a sense akin
to them, hence the suggestion nonsense;
well of course, thought is actually non-sensory -
     i just suggested that when thinking
i'm not polarising any of the penta -
         i'm suggesting that when thinking i'm
invoking the tetra - as if blind or deaf -
but that means i'm deviating from the superstition
that a sixth correlative mediatory balance exists
between the two dichotomies -
                            the senses will always treat
obscure thinking as if obscure narratives:
even though i know how much a price of bread
costs in the 21st century -
                              what i'm saying is that
the nonsense assertion is also true for the other:
not having had the chance to polarise one
of its senses to point toward the artefact use of
wh

i don't know why i found redemption in the tetragrammaton, sure, my mother cared for two elderly jewish ladies, one escaped the Holocaust (surname Roßhandler) and the other of established English rooting (surname Rockman... thanks to her, upon completing my g.c.s.e. exams i got a complete collection of Bernard Shaw's plays) - but i find it there, ping-pong salvation every time, translating it akin to arithmetic: 1 + 1 = 2 is very much akin to Y              H            W          H, which i started calling the perfect chirality - chiral meaning non-superimposable:
                                       A                      &                  E, i too ventured to call the double H dualism a déjà vu - but i know see them as vantage points, more electrons and quantum physics than protons and neutrons - well, it ****** well fits the schematic: sine (M) and cosine (W) - sure, crude, but i'm not looking at the geometry of the mouth... language on the base of pure optics... and no, not necessarily adjective noun compounds for emphasis to argue a point, just easily an easily accessed point of reference...     so quantum physics calls it the non-independent ontology of electrons: a. particles (Y, centre 0 on the x, y, z graphs - apart from the heliocentric and the geocentric models, here's another one of similar causality)... and b. waves (W, the formerly stated trigonometry suggestion) - and hence the two vantage points bound to H... apart from Adam and Eve lodged in between... which suggests that the geocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like waves... while the heliocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like particles: microcosm Copernicus blah blah; well, more like pseudo-Aristarchus of Samos.

20th century literature is, quiet literally
something akin to the cave paintings at
Lascaux - big brother isn't watching -
nor is the publishing old guard -
i just find it unreal that so much rests upon
the internet these days, the people have no
idea what power has been granted them,
they petty the use of the internet with
their earthly squabbles of a marketplace,
while, running parallel: the lost infatuation
with democracy as necessary organisation -
turns out it's unnecessary organisation:
because we ain't go anything better -
hence political disillusionment - rampant in
what western society deems the pinnacle
and the Libra of a fine balancing act -
religiously? that famous: "mystery of lawlessness"?
that's the internet - imagine a time when you
could bypass some publisher, some adherent
to a state doctrine, when you could turn poetry
into physics, not the waffle of metaphysical Keats
waiting for a kettle to turn into a volcano
or a whistling horse, but to turn the dial to
point at the reality of things:
quantum physics (derived from quanta,
a variation of datum: particularity of input
energy) gave poets breathing space,
metaphysics became shadowy, Hades like
learning, obscure and all the more necessary
to build-up its strength while puritan physicists
lost their sway of power with the fears of
the atom bomb and all things quantum -
so while the physicists became dazzled with
all things quantum, the metaphysics took off...
entombed in an apathetic (without pathos)
subjectivity: a calm heart, much more than an
embracing heart - yes, i am aware that i have my
wacko moments of feeling, but this ticker is
made of stone - and that usually means a chaotic
thinking process, spontaneity being the key
in involving yourself with real-life narratives
then never suppose a character study: what you see,
is what you get: my sanity plateau?
talk about music rather than make poetry musical,
it's a pale shade of red or blue when you
have guitars and orchestras and the poet,
a voice in the wilderness - nothing but pins dropping
to exemplify the talk... i don't understand
the need for poetry being a kindred of musicology,
i don't understand rhyme, i don't understand
being conscious of poetic prescriptions of technique
very much akin to language's artefact minded
grammar: noun
                                v. poetry's pun
grammar's verb
                                       poetry's metaphor... etc.
my deviation? being an adherent toward music,
and returning poetry back to its true purpose:
puritan narrations - not conscious of what's
expected, or what defines the art,
very much the beginning of cubism and later
innovations in art, i just can't stand rhyming poetry -
it's too conscious of itself by what it's defined by,
we have learned of a new subjectivity:
the unconscious - we might as well exploit it
while objectivity gets crushed into bewilderment
by quantum physics -
thus said: i feel like i'm a dervish spinning
counter-clockwise in a chaos of tornadoes spinning
clockwise while listening to two songs:
tool's *right in two - and muse's stockholm syndrome:
i can't be bothered translating the feelings
entombed in these two songs with a rhyme...
poetry should be less stuffy than it already is...
it should be a statement of the supreme effort: freedom.
all of this? spurred on by rereading passages from
Jung's gegenwart und zukunft (1957), alter:
          the undiscovered self (1958) -
it's seemingly odd (but not too odd) that books
written by psychiatrists are more popular than
philosophy books in the anglophile culture -
as already stated, i can't read philosophy in english -
maybe this is why psychiatric literature is so easily
accessible in this tongue, what with the self-help
movement, it the grandest prescription that no pill
(unless it's a sleeping pill) can be prescribed -
i'd say, if you want to read philosophy in english,
i'd start off by reading a book from psychiatry -
Jung is by far more adaptable than Freud
(Freud's for the rich people who have ***
written on their foreheads in permanent ink -
        and: daddy didn't care, mama was
                                     struggling feminist who
     forgot to breastfeed me) -
       but of course the 1960s Scottish superstar
(who drank, rightly so) from Glasgow: Laing.
well, sure, the Hungarian Szasz (shash, not sas,
or zaz... shish kebab... it ain't the difficult) -
impromptu deviation: what's funny about Heidegger?
he says: you need to study Aristotle for 15 years
to get him... and that's very much true for him also...
two years... TWO YEARS it took me to read his book.
that's what's interesting about this book,
a literary anorexic, in at 79 grams (pages) -
the interesting point? in physics, there are things
that are not independent of observation -
i like that conundrum, the mere idea of it is titillating -
running joke for the past two years: ***** ***** tat for tat
months later -
                          well... i'm not the one trying to
dress you up in a straitjacket with a label: this is poetry...
can't see **** for miles with how i write.
so there's a purpose, some things are depending on
being observed - which is a good thing, which means
that this world could not be independently sustainable -
its dependency on existing lies akin to our
desire to be independent of it - so all the religious
blah blah means something - even after 3 years
of rigorous studies in chemistry i come back into
humanism with a furore of agitating religious paraphernalia -
mind you, i do have a scientific approach toward
language - grammar and algebra combined -
meaning? certain words have become post-grammatical,
i.e. algebraic - not categorised as nouns or otherwise,
but as algebraic signatures: primarily because no one
really knows what to do with them, apart from
church yoga, standardised: e.g. x = god,
            i = y                  and the                  world = z,
predictably transcending the casual use of language
when shopping for cheese in a Parisian grocery store...
err... je ma'pel gorgon, avoir vous fromage?
nope, took to English too much - i was learning French
in primary school, but i had an existential crisis
aged 9 or 10... my brain refused to learn another language
after having just learned one from scratch -
                               the mute in class soon turned into
an avaricious reader... so parallel to my life, i now hear
stories about children being diagnosed with depression...
try being thrown into the deep-end of the pool
with your former development using a language
automatically, into having to learn the language without
no major influence of a teaching authority...
                                  no wonder the accent game
   sort of imploded and i started speaking sometimes tosh,
sometimes posh, and sometimes east London oh'rite?
                             ale casem tes jak rolnik -
                            owszem, czasem jak mieszczanin też.

and i thought the slavs had a bad taste in music,
what with new Greek alphabetic suggesting
that Russians were natural chemists...
but seeking Karaoke incorporated into western
culture as the accepted Pearl Harbour,
i'm having second thoughts on Latin being
the alphabet dissociated from names and associated
to pitches as the proponent of music, given
Gangman Style - man in the high castle
(philip k. ****'s novel, blade runner guy)
is a reality, 1984 is in the making while we ensure
everyone is docile; the day the Vatican abandoned
its practice of castrato singing as anti-****:
don't know which is worse, getting anally penetrated
or having my ******* snipped; i guess
of the two wearing a niqab is better:
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

in a house, where a bonsai tiger sleeps listening
to jack johnson's in between dreams
(realising his loathing for radio transmission
dynamics of advertisement and talk when
the album fills a full hour of ear drum concerns,
and in a house where upstairs frank zappa's
hot rats plays in unison to a man on a windowsill
musing: 'by god, zappa did a john coltrane
in a symbiosis with a love supreme; there's only
one vocal track on the album, the rest
is sheering saxes to grizzly.

poetry, esp. non rhyming poetry to detached it
from musicology, poetry is after all
the oldest musicology without instrument
as whether dicing tongues protruding
made sneezing a new wheezing or coughing
to beat-box rapping, i guess it's like that,
well, non-rhyming poetry that old rekindling
adolescence needs to be less "scientifically"
itemised with theories to identify a metaphor
for a metaphor: just take it in one gulp as the whole;
it needs a detachment to lose all inhibitions
of self-consciousness and carve a route into
exhibitions, pompous art of music, this poetry,
so if not rhythmic rhyming at least interested
in music: a strong rhythmic section makes music
interesting, esp. when the bass guitar
is as important as the drum-kit - and gets equal
expression, unlike all those air-guitar soloist
techniques within the framework of critique of
the famed phrase 'intellectual *******,
thinking, epitome of liverpool's jabbing and upper-cutting
because of a football score because of a referee decision,'
same thing in music: big hair, make-up, solos
of guitars with over-burdening vocals - i need the rhythm,
i need the rhythm to enter the labyrinth and scatter think
by way out, by the odd chance right choice.
so scientific theory died with the higg's boson,
god got a mention, no need for scientific theories,
with my x-ray vision i see everyone wearing laboratory
coats and pretending to not have rats' whiskers and tails,
it's over, we need all theories to move into
humanism's area, from science just practicality,
but as always, we have the merchants and middle-men
who will stall human endeavour for a higher price
being reached by politico dynamite exploding
in curbing the populace for a horse-blinders of
angry rubric divisions into economy theorised.
so if i told you otherwise, would you tell me
the winter be bleak? i find winter refreshing,
after all, only in winter can you see the celestial
marriage of moon and sun, seeing how the moon
appears in the daytime and in the night is missing.
with that famous debate about pinpointing god
(existence - out of every instance? that's hard),
i'm not going to guise myself in a theological disguise
of spider and spider's architecture to eat with
the spiderweb his digestive system inside-out:
like a poet to his unvocalised muse: this word
isn't complete, it's an abandoned poem,
and hence us, we come in with scissors and pliers,
hammers and nail, due to the incompleteness of
this world we have a momentary chance to fill
it with ourselves... that creationism fight v. darwinism
is too claustrophobic for me, so anyway:
if i said to you the romans were better poets than
the greeks because the greeks gave names to
their phonetic units: alpha to omega in between
iotas, then i'd tell you the romans didn't name
their letters to be befitting for scientific constants,
on the basis of do re mi fa so la,
and hence i'd tell you romans were better poets
and the greeks were better fathers of shakespeare,
and i'd tell you homer was a greek and fathered
the tree major sons in rome: ovid, virgil, horace.
then i'd tell you our age has to have a lightbulb moment,
after the 1st prometheus stole or simply gave fire
unto man in order to be gnawed by a hawk
gnawing on his liver (metaphorically, might have
been a heavy drinker, drinker's hawkish vision),
a 2nd prometheus must come:
i'm guessing with some sort of magnetism to capture
zeus' wrath of a lightning storm...
2nd prometheus is rather dull, let's use etymology
to drive out a name for this man:
lightning bringer (αστραπαραδευς) - derived
from lightning and the word *deliver, the deliverer
of a godly essence - of course other ambiguities
can be crafted, but putting two nouns together
to create a compound, like -1 + -1 = -2,
so two nouns put together don't really create a
new noun, but couple a noun with a verb
and it's like -1 - -2 = 1... hence i didn't use
the greek word deliverer (ελεθερωτις /
eletherotis).

To be privy to the language of
the trees , akin to the honey laced
backcountry , awash in the curative
morning dew
Knowledge of every young drop of rain ,
every newborn seedling ..
Master of the woodland trigonometry ,
songbird musicology
Raptor shadow figures circling 'neath
nimbus billowing blankets , technicolor
grasses , earthen molasses

the beauty of english nakedness, look at it for long enough
and you get to retract or at least crab-walk east
into the pincer plateaus of the frozen tundras and see
again, proustain afresh in the cork-lined room:
what bothered me was the acute stress on the faroese a -
english really is a blank canvas: or a complex canvas with
many unique distinctions of individual words - perhaps
the dementia crisis in english-speaking societies -
also why the accent diversity between all those who come
to learn it, and those who live in the zeitreich
of the absteigen sonne - but theories are theories.
so back to the blank canvas,  which allows so see
the dynamics, although as i said, the acute faroese a
(acute, because derived from the latin verb of needlework /
puncture) - ~etymology (approx. because not
related to words but phonetic units, i.e. letters)
thus reveals that the latin accents died, truth tooth
of the phrase latin is a dead tongue - but not as dead
as when you see remnants of the transformation,
in that certain latin activities (verbs) spawned the stressing
revisions on letters to appropriate the nordic and germanic
slavic, *** and celt into its *****: acute to puncture -
like the polish acute o (ó), meaning to puncture the o
and make a U sound, although when otherwise acute is
needed, but the geometry is less obvious it means not to stress,
but sharpen, cut-short, exfoliate into a range of onomatopoeic
comparisons: sneeze - wheezing - high pitch flute -
play the clarinet - pincer the tongue - pliers -
god knows what instrument i'm really playing: ć, ń, ś, ź -
cut the letters from cen nan sap zed into the uniqueness
of the actual first letter, go into roman do re mi fa so la
(****** musicology) rather than greek omega omicron
alpha beta. so this acute faroese a, what bothered me
was the suffix -áp... the p you see, if the accent dynamic
was to end with a german umlaut -äp or with a
māori macron -āp... i would have said the p...
rather than ending with a b.

*"heimlich" tongue-numbing d.

it's just a word among many others,
as ridiculous in over-usage as the word ego,
it's not exactly referring to a being
that could give you a skateboard or an aeroplane
gratis, i treat the word: less allahu akbar...
and more: red in conjunction with yellow
gives us orange: no church, no deity,
only a way of perfected communication
to a inclusive rather than a exclusive - or god
forbid a chiral - interpretation
(much of what i write that i cannot understand
by my self alone, is due to slack punctuation,
for punctuation in both speaking as in
all relevant musicology is misunderstood
via anomalies in punctuation, the higher
tier of syllables, in ref. to).*

the pre-secular world defined itself
with the word god,
the secular world defines itself
with the word ego:
amusing... considering you use
a blender, a kettle, a smartphone
and you can't associate yourself
with the thing fully:
we're hardly the ones who meddled
in designing it, manufacturing it,
or distributing it, alias:
when Descartes met Freud...
the it and the i bit... the substance bit
is fluid and ineffectual in terms
of argumentative trouble, but the extension
bit is necessary:
on the great Libra...
when Descartes met Freud the dispute ended with
like a poker game:
- o.k. Freud, i'll give you the extension
   if you'll concede that the extension is defined
   by dreams, and thinking remains a substance.
- Descartes, i think that thought is an extension
   and that dreams are the substance.
- you're sleepwalking then!
- you're not thinking then!
- o.k., but we're agreed the prime suspect is the ego?
- no, the prime suspect is the id.
- so you're telling me i can only identify myself
   when boiling water in a kettle and not
   nonchalantly perched on a windowsill smoking
   a cigarette?
- i didn't say that.
- so what are you insinuating, changing id from that
   to it, i've checked the scrambled dictionary,
   it's an omelette to say the least.
- the ego extends within the substance differently
   and outside the substance differently than the id.
- thank god you didn't mention your zygote superego
   monstrosity that would give me trans-role theatre
   where as a son i'm the father, and as a father i have no
   son... or is that too new testament for you?
- it's perfectly adequate.
- so to settle the matter, we have a unit,
  we have the end result and we have the multiplier,
  the unit is respectively split as:
  a. i - the noun collector / the noun user / the identifier,
      abstracted toward talk of identity is meaningless
      if you remember things based on their communicated
      bias of their inability to spontaneously explode
      into nothingness, memory erasure to boot... and
  b. i think - the non denoting activity, thinking while
      walking, sitting, eating... the inability to think
      while asleep produces dreams... it's non denoting
      easily the most complex expression of its ontology
      as in writing / not speaking / not really expressing
      the need to / optical entertainment on the page /
      a black & white movie encoded with letters...
      there is very little grammatical association with the
      action, almost all categorical associations are deviant
      when cognitively vectored, in cognitive terms
      vectors become tangents, the grand crushing wheel
      of thought only also a butterfly kiss of comprehension
      to necessitate rubrics of sloth slouch and hunchback
      years spent over an open book...
- Descartes! you're trailing off, i don't know where you're
  going with this!
- this, my dear fellow, is called abstracting consciousness,
  it's not really a representation of heraclitean consciousness
  or that irish jive of joyce far from dublin,
  i know i missed a point when i became over excited
  on the two themes of the unit, the spare unit
  and the engaging unit: one unit the vocabulary
  and the other unit the sedimentary composition
  of wrinkles and experience and replicas...
- but where are we? i feel i'm the dante and you the virgil!
- one's own depths are the chasms within the chasm that's hell.
- but in all honesty, i could have spent hours talking
   to jung, and with you i want the conversation to be
   as brief as possible.
- ideally i already mentioned everything i needed to mention,
  you basically do not identify your prime unit
  (the id) as a possessor of any activity, i already told
  you that the reason we dream is because we can't
  think asleep, dreaming is the by-product of the
  cognitive inhibitors we have in place asleep,
  we can walk and sit and eat and think,
  we can't sleep and think, hence we dream,
  that's the mediating extension of things,
  your substance is the unconscious
  my substance is being conscious (consciousness,
  as if that added any quality to being),
  your unit is the id (which is like a cursed scalpel
  cutting into nothingness), my unit is
  the dissociation from nouns and the association
  with action, primarily thinking, whereby
  thought doubles up as categorisation of substance:
  consciousness the glass, thought the water in it;
  etc. etc. etc.

i'm sitting on the windowsill like a crow
perched on the rooftop,
eating watermelon and downing
a mixer of whiskey and coca cola

while i ponder the *style sections of
last weekend's style magazine
a magpie in me draws open the curtain
open of the silence, and i make the
neighbour's dog bark with laughter -
the section in question that prompts
me is a piece about silent speed dating
(i only ever did that obscene
event once at university,
we left with L tattoos on our foreheads),
**** just didn't work, too much
systematisation with the cards -
i'd prefer a chess tournament to be honest;
in the speed dating scenario you
get zombies and Oreo biscuits,
cracking fun - mingling fruit with alcohol,
it's really a Saturday night in my head,
picturesque: i.e. picture it - photosensitive
epileptics on the dance floor shaking all
the possible muscle including the buttocks -
times up...
england is really abhorring toward poets,
only Shakespeare made it count -
as a playwright -
or as they say in Yorkshire - Germany
and the 1930 - 40s, not Beethoven prior,
the youth wouldn't read a book,
but would continue to shoot the Nazis in
computer games comfortably into the 21st century -
in england if it's not Shakespeare it's filth,
degenerate art, that's the reasoning -
from the saturday review not, one, review,
of, a, book, of poetry, not one -
if this is a healthy literate stance then
call me Mona Theresa and put a strap-on
***** on me -
it's easier to find bargains in the Amazon online
store than a good poem - worth of mouth
had an ammonia soaked handkerchief stuffed
in its mouth, and hey presto! cow manure
never met the chance of nostrils engaging...
in england what's prized above
poetry is journalism, hence by respect for
those who disengage from from coupling poetry
to music by making music laughable
with poetry's rhyming -
twang twang - #a, repeat... twang twang a doodle
do f, through to c, or something worth
a silent cipher on the page -
indeed journalism above poetry, ars umbras:
the art of shadows, the art of obscurity,
the perfect stance of diplomacy,
take the bureaucratic route -
'short of an umbrella?!' the cabbie questioned,
'short of ice cubes on ye'r 'ed?!' the innovator retorted?
and with that the audience became bemused
when the magician pulled out a cabbage head
from the top hat rather than a rabbit -
indeed poetry, had i been Voltaire writing
about england has almost disappeared from
english - mind my ignorant pessimism -
but mind that journalism took over,
and instead of poetic musicology what's required
is poetic journalism - i can't have stone age emblems
of care to coerce me into geological rudiments -
if indeed i am but one man
among the collective i am obviously wrong,
but should that matter, i should seize to care
whether i actually read a Stephen King novel,
since i haven't, as they say, appreciated the living art,
and chose instead literary necrophilia,
then i am sourced as a voice in the graveyard -
or as one homeless man said: a gem -
all it took was politeness and a free cigarette -
indeed this literary necrophilia -
it's quite becoming - and to then realise -
well, with each day a new mode of conduct
in the median of populace of the highest average -
harsh to consider in conclusion any if all
pronoun usage to be akin to conjunction and
preposition use as a care for a vain approach
in the use of language and self-buffoonery -
simply how the language works,
with that stated and the phonetic approximations
found on too many occasions to be realised -
e.g. can you please pút pooh bear into
       his enve-low-p', and seal
       it shút with ha-née / ha-knee rather than red wax?

you seem pretty ordinary to me, which is why i wrote this
poem, a poem not in a classical sense of musicology
given there techno and big beat and black man's Mozart in the
jazzy quarter... you just seem pretty  ordinary to me, as one
supermarket attendee said while
getting the thief-lock on a bottle of Jim Beans's whiskey:
sometimes you have to be cruel
to be kind... i watched him wrestle
that thieving plug like suffocating a
salmon... Bobby McFerrin inventing
beat-box, you know how the story goes...
entertaining the many, forgetting
the little shrouded figure in the
shadows, ready to pull all the strings
on a suicide vest... and then.. BOOM...
Sinjid's your uncle, as my mathematics
teacher said... no one ever mentioned
the rise of the Turbanator, but it might have
been added for the sheer blow-over tactic
as to why it was a keratin fetish in the Arab
department...  Hollywood in the 1990s looked
so cool, i mean that in all the best phrases...
after the 1990s it just went tsunami-style into
a nose-dive of ricochet of ****...
then again.. why not avenue q? or cluster k?
ah, the aesthetic parley, the black dot tattoo
with some verse from the book of genesis,
better call them the biblical-phobias,
any citation needed in this joke? probably none.
the 1990s felt so lazy, so Utopian almost,
after the drugs of hallucinogenic properties
and the sedatives where translated into
alphabets, we all wished to experience them...
but once the experiences were encoded,
the Beat generation poets started when high
we sorta said: **** it... nay bother...
they wrote about a compass as s a fidgety Byzantium
cranium with a Bahamas postcard...
down the Turkish shop i'm allocated the word: bro...
he did have his goods suffocating the public
eye of a bench... turned into a lawyer for a bit,
told him about the bench, told him to expose it...
now i'm a bro; this sort of **** will have
Isis soldiers lament the passing of Robin Williams...
like i said, in the 1990s we almost made it...
after that we hit a down-turn of success...
i don't know what happened, bowling for Columbine
certainly did, populism is so far removed right
now that i'm starting to think of the population
of Fiji... and how people would gather around an idol
of pop music being sold to us...
people naturally wait for the cut-off points...
friendships, grandparents, pop artists...
we leave them as the additional grains of sand or droplets
of water in the conundrum arithmetic of passing by...
but when i watch that video of don't worry, be happy,
i think of Fitzgerald's the great Gatsby's everyday life,
without the glitz parties to attract the sycophants...
that's my first translation... every other
translation doesn't really care to bother me...
that video is for me the way Gatsby ought to have lived...
King Lear in Pyjamas running the chequers charade
of impromptu: deaf con black, arctic privy white...
and three knocks of a chisel on the dental of mummies
to check the carbon dating as "no hoax";
i don't know why Bobby McFerrin's song (plus video)
makes me think of Fitzgerald's the great Gatsby,
but it does... it's Robin Williams in the pyjamas...
i figure... the ultimate trick is to play the
rich lunatic, wearing pyjamas on the beach...
ending the tryst with the words:
"sunset already?" sure, full-glare-of-the-sun
simmering of oven baked chicken tights
with added smoked paprika and a secret marinade
recipe. that ought to do it.

it was the musicology of the roman notation
that gave us such beautiful music, until now,
how                  A       wasn't noted as alpha (α)
or                      B        wasn't noted as beta (β)
but bee                        or hive or beehive or begin,
such musical authority worth a crucifixion
just so the alphabet might survive... and indeed
worth keeping, until jazz dismembered the
classical orchestra with impromptu,
and that became carried through to a **** music
of lost woodwind brass and scratching tightened
horse main (mane,
a tongue's musicology is equal to be coupled
with dyslexia) hairs against strings of violins
with the once recognisable lack of percussion
in orchestra... to a now apparent sole percussion
orchestration without a hoped for whistle of
recognition and tap-dancing a singing-in-the-rain song
of carefree life with a battery life concern missing...
that brief moment of jazz, a white man's equivalent
of classical music... and oh how sweetly it degenerated
so that the former atlas dares not rise to the ecclesiastical
heights of composers being sponsored by bishops
and cardinals... where once soul breathed freely
as music, now the heart aches thumping, thumping,
thumping a sort of unconscious rhythm of
what music has become: a b b beat to hone out car horns
and diesel engines where once the horse's gallop
hoof on cobble stone and hot nostril snarl was.

it's hard to imagine gin gin gin a pseudo-ariθmeτic behind every coupled word utilising the Logos, a -logy, because what is the motivational word behind it, truly? it could be any word, mind me saying. logistically speaking each compound aligning itself to some -logy (logistics) will know the parameters, in question π, the infinity basis, the irrational ever-after, 3 point whatever, we can scrutinise with millimetre, and the infinitely regressive divide of the circle, hell, heading toward the nanometre, but still the compact, intact π... but there has to be some ariθmetic involved! the easiest to understand logic of mathematics is buried in arithmetic... but words are too large to suit patterns in consistently changing: try fitting a word like apple through a keyhole denoting five one three (513 / five hundred and thirteen, arithmetic conjunctions, spelling)... in the end all you need is A... that's what happens when you riddle the stupidity, you can't make-up 26 units with the craze of ∞, not so much 1 0 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 1 1 0 0 0  1, no algorithm bouncy castle: no hip hip hooray! i mean, what logic is there behind these philosophical words, what arithmetic? what words are required to say 1 + 1 = 2 ontologically? i have an etymological example, but prior to the example i was told to state: certain phonetic encodings are for aesthetic purposes, the C and the K, musicology, cat, clever, clover, kettle, keenly etc. - existence of aesthetic purposes, and dyslexia - we write in complex encoding for the encoding to look the ***** - otherwise we'd be writing like salvaged Latin of Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli (famous for his sonnets, e.g.): the city (acronym c, i know, unitary acronym, the wonder) - both S & K whenever the lady minds to change her posture of SIX P's, popes, priests, princes, prostitutes, parasites and the poor - in poem, the lost aesthetic, excess spelling, no diacritical reprimand: starting with the word cappuccino - perfectó! (ó, not like a Polish u morph, but like a shove, a throw, like an olé! tremor prior to the gesture... a Mexican wave at a football match, the build up... oooooooooo lé! that included no W - see, the tetragrammaton coupled with a systematic vocabulary does wonders, hence the necessary shortening... OH LÉ! catch a breath, catch a breath... take two. the two hatches of the tetragrammaton are more than a deja vu, they're more like jugglers of vowels, the first extends, the second curbs - i might not love the Jews but i love the geometry of YHWH... love it to the extreme, never have i come across people who desire nationhood but are so reluctant to settle there, the intelligent ones preferring exile (the exodus) than hope for a genesis (Zionism). i swear i was supposed to write an etymological poem, sidetracked mentioning Giuseppe and cappuccinos... chinos or khaki? never mind...
vio sentite una madre. ammalappena la cratura c'ha
ffatta ha cquarche ggiorno, ggià è la prima cratura der contorno,
e ssi jje dite che nun è, vve mena -
he salvaged the ******* Titanic of all Titanics and left it aesthetically ugly - look at the alphabet, ugly as **** in the practice of composition, what did he do? look at it! gee gee, if two letters joined necessary, clones, there exists no law to coerce them into a grapheme, like in cappuccino - or Gucci, or Coco Chanel - can't make a tongue-tie within cappuccino if you don't know the basics: like Chino, Chai Tea Latte... siberian grizzly... rrrrraaa... mimic schizophrenia,  the best advice is to mimic a Roman Forum, democracy, make writing democratic, this is democracy, we will not have authoritarian rule of a rigid narrator! burn 'em! burn 'em! no peeping toms here, no omni-voyeurism. but you'd be lucky to pick out the slobbering with accents to a piquant stress worthy of distinguished notation, say it's all Cockney and you'll throw pears down a few ladders; oh yeah, ****'s stable: Coco Shanel but written Chanel - and we're selling chastity while burrowing in chimneys on the shly.

seriously... an etymological poem, using one word:
skleroza* (yes, colon and italics after, a heresy, i know,
but a necessary double emphasis).

paranoia and pronoun usage: the notorious they and he.

so, skleroza, etymological root-prefix: sklera-
or, simply sclera, i.e. adjectives opaque,
fibrous, protective - Westminster Abbey bells at
a wedding - ding ****, ding **** -
so relating to the eye, pertaining if you must -
now what to do with the suffix -roza?
well... there's Barbarossa - pinkish, i say,
although stressed to a geographic region a rose
is actually róża - yes, rose - couple them
together and you get: a rosy blankness -
simulation of momentary dementia -
****! where did i leave the keys?! skleroza
is a short-lived memory gap, a momentary
loss of memory, a funny sort, means you're
abstracting, abstracting a pain akin to
the arithmetic of, e.g. 1 + √43 + 23 - 100 x 2 ÷ 50 + 1000...
a weird sort of pain trying to work that one out...
so, to the limit of the what's behind skleroza,
utilising the arithmetic of etymology:
a rosy blankness - the automated form of forgetting,
that's protective, in terms of a permanent association
of forgetfulness - the easiest burden:
so there you have it, etymology, the logic infuriated with
linear associations and modulations using +, -, x and ÷.

and he comes over in the afternoon, his wife is pregnant,
   she also had an abortion with the love
of her life... and he says i am diseased...
as i once said to a pensioner
in a park: cut words open and feel
less than a sucker's punch,
dis- (negation) of -ease... yes,
i'm bound to being denied a cradling of ease,
your quick syllable punctures are no wit to be
celebrated...
         i thought i gave back enough that was
necessary... but this madman of a neighbour complains
that i sometimes laugh in the night:
   because i am bound to tomorrow with aeons
toward the future, and aeons toward
  Darwinistic falsification of history...
          because where is the octopus ontology ****
up to the wall of intestines like a tapeworm,
as what point, exactly?
                  i sorta forgive that grievance,
even though i'm sitting in the living room,
and he picks up a package that's been left in my house...
           because the high-street has suddenly
evaporated... the rich are making the middletons
claustrophobic too... i could never buy the music
or the books i read these days when skimming the annals
of what's worthy of being bought, with the money i earn.
   it submerged, not even an anarchist bookshop
takes my fancy... but this **** of a neighbour comes
by and suggests i could ****** my mother,
              the same neighbour who ushers in politics of
gardens... a branch fell onto his side of the fence,
                   he throws it over to my side and crushes
the daffodils without much thought...
there are homeless people out there,
    and he complains that i syringed too much life into
my one chance to be here, to have the audacity to
laugh like a fox, to sometimes hum, and to sometimes
sing aloud...
      and he complains that it cost him too much money
from moving from the rear bedroom and into the front
bedroom... oh kiddly pauper, how poor you must be,
to have never had the capacity to laugh on your own.
   i listen to these Balkan guys angry at Sweden,
  i know the language like a Belgian and still that's not
enough... if national pride really bound to
a religiosity of fish & chips on a Friday, and skinhead
chanting at a football match at a London derby?
       should i say: sign me up!?
           all he had to do is move room...
he didn't have to sleep rough...
                what a swarm of ants in the *** that must be...
          because one man managed to laugh...
as it always does: concentrates on women...
           i must come from Mongolia to be honest,
how i find English women unappealing in terms of
companionship... the ridicule comes when a people
are unearthed and side with Israel...
                as the landowning class for a region bound
to Prussia and the Austro-Hungarian chattering maiden:
  Jan Sobieski (now a pop *****) and the siege of
Vienna...
                  we have so much prejudiced history tattooed
into our psyche, lukewarm 100 year old stuff...
   and out-of-the-blue, we're expected to bleach all of it,
somehow accept a dialogue that's merchant talk
     and a community clarification...
    the same neighbour has the same audacity to claim
i have a medical problem, and that his labouring wife
is the most-endearing hope for company...
  i just sat there on the sofa while he blah-blahed
his way into receiving the package...
             i could have emerged from my slumber and
faced slander to knuckle with piercing eyes...
   but i preferred sleeping for 2 hours on the sofa
while words turned into daggers...
it's just that part of me that suggests...
   for my knowledge of the English language,
  i have no need to debase myself with crude Englishness,
to invest in post-colonial ambition to right-away-the-elder-wrongs...
you know the first time you wear a cotton jumper
and you just itch? it's like that...
               i own language, language has no right to own me,
i tell language what to do, language doesn't tell me who
to identify with or as such identifiable with the thus said...
     plus... if someone agitated me over an intellectual
problem i might have emerged hearing slander against me,
but as they say: **** stinks, don't touch it.
    i once made brother of en Egyptian childhood friend,
every day since he chose olive skin solidarity
i've been heard citing a very pointless mea culpa,
              for i too could have been wiser
in not forming childhood friendships - and being a hermit
for 9 years and counting: i don't ever think
to engage in intimacy, other than with Puerto Rican
prostitutes in Amsterdam, or Bulgarian madames in
London... i don't know why they said they were
Romanians... the one word gave them away:
the cyrillic: pizdets! пиздетс!
                    if he even remotely insinuated a topic
concerning van gogh (v. gou) -
                such is the traffic of life passing through my
days...                    this the fascination
              how greeks gave names to their encoded
sounds... and how it took a plastician to recode
       what came as
         п (p'eh)- -и (ī)- -з (z'eh)- -д (d'eh)- -е (eh)- -т (t'eh)- -с (esse)...
  how fascinating that you cut off so much stabilisation
of the alphabet and no wooing vocabulary
  before you do away with stabilising letters that are
associated with clear indicative formulation from
alphabet into word...
                       which goes beyond Heraclitus' лoгoс
and certainly beyond my фoнoс...
                as suggested: back into the aлbion ζ
      beginning if not simple begging norman sicily's α...
                              alphabet - zetayod...
and mirrors - of those worth a seven year signature
to yet be mended... and those pristine,
      with focus on the doubly mortal, within
a tsunami of time's paraphrased democracy, wherein
autocratic: from Helen of Troy to Kimberley of the Liban...
     how then rise from such belittling circumstances,
and enforce the law of abstract?
                    to come toward the лoгoс
   as with due to spot the фoнoс, and as such
auto-instructive diacritical marking of iota should
Lιban be a Ly-ban....           enter the dragon, Bruce?
                     yep... we have established the лoгoс,
and chained by synonymous banking affairs for
peacocking tongue waggling, i insist upon a return
      into how the Greeks left no musicology to
how they named the symbol ι with iota, or ω with
omega... but the Romans left a musicology
that yahweh embraced, and said of a: ah... and said of
m: em, and said of t: tee... and said of p: ***...
because they didn't come up with names for letters,
which is why scientific constants are written
                                                   in γρεχκι (grechkι).
if knowing the native tongue is not enough...
        i cannot contemplate the natives teaching my
their ****** practices any more than my eagerness to
engage in them... their presumptuous agitation of
trying to "educate" almost everyone...
     it's true a Mongolian arrow pierced the throat
of the trumpeter in the tower of the Mariacki Church,
           it's just they treat their women
            as i wish i could have... the Dutch know love
by spitting on eastern European women...
(because they just had a conversation about their
interests in a pub with another man two seats down)...
   and in our age of propaganda: i have not a single
opinion that isn't bound to be but ash scattered in the wind...
            i just find it strange to be in "need" of being educated...
given most of these "men" have never had the guts
to visit prostitutes because the girls are playing puritan poker
at home: and Jezebel at an **** in Malaga...
         i can't deal with this en masse schizoid conditioning:
as if lying or having a Dorian Gray fantasy could
ever get me off with a hard-on when a girl says:
can you imagine what my daddy would say if he knew
i swallowed you jizzom? well, now that i know what
you're imagining i'm starting to think i need a shrink...
                  for ****'s sake! why do prostitutes seem
the most sane women out there? saviours!
               i could have done better things with my hands...
like moulded a statue, or something,
               dating culture killed it for me...
  and the whole: women are there to be chased like
cheetahs crying their eyes out at speeds of 100 kilometres
per hour...                  it was in my best interests
to learn a knowledge of the language...
  that was my utmost necessary courtesy of being
   part of this society... local customs though?
                  you know what a smarkatka is?
    you really didn't expect for me to blend up to the point
of supporting Millwall and knowing football songs
religiously, did you?   it's when you use the language
and still get ridiculed...           the locals have been
given it on a platter...                i get a "poem"
they get the ease of buying vegetables in a supermarket...
          brownnosing yourself in Kentucky
                                     will not help either...
Calcium Steeps       of Dover could be equated to that
Hawaiian Pearl in terms of what hand will wash the hand
that puts a thumb in the **** and the index and middle
into the ******.