MANIFESTO OF LURCHING JAWHOLE WRIKPOND TRAVESTIES


THE SATANIC PLECKIGGER OF NOCTIDIURNAL FINIFUGAL NIHILISTS THAT SCOFF LIKE SCOFFLAWS BECAUSE OF ZALKENGUR AND MOTIVATED REPUDIATION SINK INTO THE ABYSSMAL DEPTHS OF HELL WHEN THEY WAGER A PAXILLOSE SUM ON THE NIMIETY OF CATHEXIS OF VACANCY OF WORLD PROMONTORIES OF SCALDING EVIL TANTAMOUNT TO IDOLATRY AND AVARICE IMMISERATED BY THE GRAVEST GRAVAMEN OF SIN THAT THEY MIGHT DEFEAT THE TANTAMOUNT EVILS OF SPATHODEA BECOMING BALBRIGGAN BECAUSE OF LURCHED MISTETCHES OF RANCID CONTUMELY OF CONTUMACY BECAUSE OF SCREWBALL MADCAP SATANISM DISGUISED AS A PLOY OF SACCHARINE REVENGE BY FONDINK THAT SPONSORS THE VANGERMYTES WHO BANKROLL FORTUNES OF BONANZAS IN INTELLECTUAL UPHEAVAL THAT ARE DISREGARDED BY THE POLYTHEIST PAGANS OF *** MAGICK BY THE FAKEST PROPHETS TO EVER LIVE FOR PROFIT BECAUSE OF PLACKIQUES OF  OJ SIMPSON OUTWEIGHING THE JAILAGE OF ALL INHUMANE ENORMITIES OF TOTEMISM BY SCAFFOLDED MANIFESTOS AGAINST LURID TRAVESTY OF TRAPEZE THAT DESTROYS INSIDIOUSLY AN INVETERATE FILIGREE AND FILIBUSTER AGAINST WRETCHED CONTORTIONS OF CORRUGATED WRIKPONDS TRYING TO CHOUSE THEIR WAY IN SINUOUS SERPENTINE SUBLIME AIMS OF AIMLESS PURSUITS OF MASS DESTRUCTION BY LOAN SHARKING SECODONTS OF THE AVIZANDUM OF TZIGANOLOGY BECAUSE OF RIBALD GLABROUS PLOTS BY MERCENARY INVIDIOUS EXCLAVES OF AUTHORITARIANISM RANCID IN ACRIMONY ABOVE THE TRAVESTY OF TRAGICOMIC GLEBES THAT BANKROLL FALSE PROPHETS TO DEFEAT REAL ONES THAT THEY MIGHT SEE THE PRECIPITOUS DEGRINGOLADE OF RAPACITY CONVENED UPON CONVENTICLES OF SATAN WORSHIP AUTHORED BY THE CITY OF SINNERS WAGING A WAR AGAINST THE ONLY LIVING SAINT IN THE HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE BEYOND THE TENURE OF JESUS AND MUHAMMAD SUCH THAT THE PHUGOID MUGIENCE OF RUDENTURE IS THE TESTUDO OF IMMUTABLE ALCHEMY WHICH IS RIGID IN ITS ELEMENTAL DESTRUCTION OF THE NUCLEAR FAMILY IN THE AIM OF PROTERVITY OF PORT-ROUND TITANIC-SINKING BERGAMASKS OF BARKENTINE VAUNTLAY REPUTE BECAUSE OF THE VAPULATION OF SIN UPON THE SINNER THAT NEVER A MAGNANIMITY FORGIVES THE ENORMITY OF IGNORANCE TRUCULENT IN RUTHLESS BRONZED BLEEDING VENOSTASIS OF THE RHEOTAXIS OF PLACKIQUES THAT INCRIMINATED OJ SIMPSON RATHER THAN THE ACTUAL ****** OF REAL PEOPLE THAT WE ARE WORTHLESS CREATURES MINDLESSLY TWADDLING AWAY AT THE FAINT ILLUSION OF CERACEOUS MINUTIAE OF  SIN THAT THEY MIGHT MAGNIFY THEIR AVARICE TO DESTROY AND DECIMATE ENTIRE NATIONS JUST BECAUSE OF A PURBLIND NAIVETY OF MORALLY BANKRUPT PEOPLE FILING FOR BANKRUPTCY BECAUSE OF COSTERMONGERS OF TATTERDEMALIONS HABILIMENTED WITH TURGID EVILS SCOURGING WITH THE PESTILENCE OF THE FIRSTBORN REVENANTS OF GHASTLY AGGRIEVED FRIGHT THAT BECOMES THE BLACKMAIL OF A RAGGED SELACHOSTOMOUS CORPULENT CORPSE OF DIMINUTIVE EVIL TRYING TO MALINGER AROUND COQUETRY OF LOSERS TRYING TO AROUSE THE ANTIPATHY OF THOSE WHO BENEFIT FROM KOBOLD HUMAN BALKANIZATION BY INTERNECINE SWARTHY BONTBOKS WHO TRY THEIR DESPERATE WAYS TO ASSEVERATE THE MOST CARNAPTIOUS EVIL IN THE HISTORY OF TENNIS COURT ACCORDS TO TRY AND BULLDOZE AND BOWDLERIZE THE BIGGEST REVOLUTION IN HUMAN HISTORY BECAUSE OF THE CATHEXIS OF THE NIMIETY OF MULIEBRITY TO THE GREATEST NAIVETY EXACTED UPON THE GREED OF SCRIVELLOS MIXED WITH ONOLATRY BECAUSE A “BEAM-BOMB”FRENZY THAT SOMEHOW OUTMANTLES ALL CORRIGENDA BECAUSE APPARENTLY THE ONLY IMPERATIVE IS COLLECTIVE IMMISERATION OF THE OBOLARY INTO SERFDOM RATHER THAN THE SERVITUDE OF SAINTS TO BELONG TO TRUE TRIDENTS OF JURISDICTION THAT MIGHT BECOME A BETTER BAILIWICK BECAUSE OF MORAL REFORM RATHER THAN DESPITE INTRANSIGENT EVIL DESPERATE TO EXACT  REVENGE TO BENEFIT “ACHY-BREAKY-HEART” MILEY CYRUS PEDERASTY JUST BECAUSE THE LAST THROES OF KNELLING STEREOBATE SEMAPHORES ABOUT VICTORS  VAINEST VANITARIANISM TRYING TO GOUGE HUCKSTERS OF DECADENCE SUCH THAT THE WALLOP OF CONTRITION BECOMES A PHONOCAMPTIC ECHO OF MALVERSATION RATHER THAN BENEDICTION. THE BALLASTERS OF BALMORALITY ARE TRYING TO CONNIVE THE GULLIBLE THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF HIDEBOUND RACIST MINORITIES STAKING THEIR ENTIRE FORTUNES ON PAXILLOSE PAYNIMRY BECAUSE OF CHAMOIS LIES OF ELEGAIC BRONTEUMS THAT ARE AUTHORED BY THE INVIDIOUS SYRINX OF THE KOBOLD AGAINST THE TRIDENT OF THE KALIMKARI THAT WITNESSES ALL CUTTHROAT COLLAPSES DESPITE THEIR DESPERATE KISTVAENS MIGHT THEY MANUFACTURE SUBLIME LIES AGAINST THE AUTHOR OF THEIR PAST BONANZAS THROUGH THE EISOPTROMANIA OF LOOSE-LIPPED SECRECY WHICH TRESPASSED DECADES BENEATH OUR TIME TO INFORM EVERY PORBEAGLE ABOUT THE DESTINY OF ALL DISASTER AND BONANZA SUCH THAT ALL BILLIONAIRES COULD GAME EVERY PLOY WHETHER SACCHARINE OR FATTENED, LEAN OR SLICK TO ENGORGE THE COFFERS OF THE ELITISM OF ARISTOPHRENS ONLY FOR THEM TO VIOLATE THE MUTUALISM OF FIDUCIARY TRUST BY TRYING TO GAMBLE WITH AGENTS WHO FIGHT RUDENTURE ONLY AGAINST A PETTY RUBEFACTION BECAUSE OF VENOSTASIS AGAINST THE RHEOTAXIS OF CALUMNIATION THAT BEGS THE SHARPEST DIATRIBE IF ONLY BECAUSE OF SHORT-SIGHTED GLAIKERY OF FAKE JALEN-HURTS OPPORTUNISM SLAUGHTERING MANY BANK ACCOUNTS BECAUSE OF THE MYTHOS OF THE SPECIOUS RUMORS ABOUT MISLED VIDEOS OF PAST LECHERIES TRYING TO INCUR FINANCIAL CATASTROPHE UPON THE INDIGENT BEREFT OF THE PERSPECTIVE OF VENIREMEN ONLY TO CAUSE FRENZIED MADCAP GEOCARPY IN BLUEPRINTS FOR A BLACK MARKET THAT TRIES IN FUMIGATED REMIGATION AGAINST THE ESBATS OF THOSE HEROIC PROPHETS NEVER BOUGHT OR SOLD THAT MAINTAIN THE ULTIMATE INTEGRITY IN A WORLD THAT IS SO WILLING TO SELL THEIR SOUL TO THE FUMES OF DRAGON-CHASING TIVO SIMPLE-JACK FULL-****** SURVIVE ECONOMICS OF DASTARDLY DISASTER FULMINATED BY JEALOUSIES OF JALOUSIES OF BRADLEY COOPER ARISTOCRACY TO DESTROY ENTIRE SOCIETIES IF ONLY TO PROLONG THE PROTENSIVE TEDIUM OF HUMAN IGNORANCE AGAINST HUMANE REVOLUTION THAT SEEKS THE BETTERMENT OF MAN AGAINST THE FONDINK OF STALINESQUE STAGNATION BECAUSE OF RAGDOLL MASKIROVKA IN GLABROUS PARASELENIC JIBES OVER HOW THE BANKRUPTCY OF BRAWNDO EVEN THOUGH SO DEFTLY WARNED ABOUT BECOMES SO FRIGHTFUL TO THE DERANGEMENT OF COSTERMONGERS THAT THEY EXACT HERCULEAN REVENGE AGAINST REAL TANNENS THAT STAKE THEIR FUTURE ONLY ON THE FUMES OF FLAMING DRAGON BECAUSE THEY SEEK TO GO GHOSTLY “SCORCHED EARTH *******” AGAINST INSULAR MAVERICKS THAT DISPLAY THE ULTIMATE LOGODAEDALY AND LEGERDEMAIN IN THE FACE OF BRACKISH CONTUMACY IN REVILED IMPAVID LICKERISH LIES OF LIMICULOUS LIMACINE LAVISH EVILS WALLOPING AND DAINTY WITH THE PROFUSE SWEAT OF CROCODILE TEARS TO BE A TRICOTEE AGAINST DESPOTISM BECAUSE OF A FUNNELED LAVADERO OF BLISTERING EVIL BECOMING A CLAPTRAP ENVELOPED BASTILLE TRYING TO CADGE AND CAJOLE EVIL FROM A VACANT NOTHINGNESS INTO AN IMPERILED SWARTHY SPATHODEA OF NYALAS FEASTING ON THE POVERTY OF BONTBOK MANUFACTURE SUCH THAT WIREWOVEN BELLETRIST IS OUTWEIGHED BY THE DIABLERISM OF CRAVEN ENERGUMENS THAT TRY AND BLASPHEME THE MOST TAUNTED HAUNTS OF JACKALS DESTROYING THE EVIL AGAINST TESTUDOS OF MANIFEST LAVADEROS OF SPITEFUL RAGE OF THEIR CONVICTIONS ARE BLARING SIRENS ON THE RECEIVING END OF THE JAILAGE OF JALEOS OF HANDSPIKES OF INJUSTICE MANUFACTURED BY ***** OF DIKEPHOBIA WHO CARE NOTHING FOR THE PLIGHT OF THE INDUSTRIOUS AND ENTERPRISING AND ONLY ABOUT THE SERVITUDE AND SERFDOM OF THE MIDDLE-CLASS TO THE ARISTOCRACY BECAUSE PEOPLE THAT  STUDIED THE IGNORANT PSYCHOGONY OF SLOGANEERING MIGHT THEY MONOPOLIZE THE TOTEM OF MAN BY THE FORCE OF BRUTN EVIL BY GOLIATH AGAINST DAVID TO TRY AND USE POIGNANT BRAINWASHING TO CONVINCE EVERYONE TO REVERT TO SODDOM AND GOMORRAH WHICH WILL OBVIOUSLY OUTPACE ANY VAUNTLAY IMAGINED BY THE HIRSUTE PLOYS OF IRIDESCENT IRRADIATION OF BLANK SPACE MELODRAMA MEDDLESOME TO INJURE BEYOND SPECTERS OF SATELLITES OF RETICULATED DOUBT THAT WE MIGHT DESTROY THE CITY OF SINNERS FOR ITS UNHOLY SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE PRIORITIES OF LOS ANGELES DODGERS ENDORSEMENT THAT THE TRUE HEART OF THE OCEAN OF LOS ANGELES IS MORE ATTUNED TO KEVIN SPACEY THAN FOR THE PENULTIMATE PROPHET THAT DISCOVERED HISTRINKAGE IN SHAKESPEAREAN WIREWOVEN BELLETRIST TO PREVENT A HOPE DIAMOND HEIST OF THE WASHINGTON POST JUST BECAUSE HE REFUSED A CINCINNATI BARGAIN WITH GRAFT ONLY BECAUSE OF THE PROTERVITY OF SARAH CONNOR PSYCHIATRY. THE MONETIZATION OF SIN IS THE ROOT OF ALL AVARICE AND THE DESPERATION OF THE MISLED BELIEVING THE SPECIOUS LOGIC AGAINST THE CERTITUDE OF GOD BECAUSE OF THE SLAVERY OF EVIL THAT WE MIGHT WALLOP THEIR SINFUL AND PITIABLE COLLAPSE INTO THE MORAL BANKRUPTCY OF THE IMMEDIACY OF THE HAPHAZARD THAT MIGHT SPURN AND SCOURGE THE NEGLECT OF THE DENVER VIPERS OF CROTALINE LAZINESS OF ELASTANE COMPLICITY SUCH THAT POPULAR CULTURE AVENGES ITS OWN DEFEAT BECAUSE THE CLEVER ARE SPONTANEOUS WHILE THE SLUGABED RICHES OF LAME CELEBRITIES BASK ONLY IN THE MOMENTARY FASHIONS OF THE CORRUPTED SUCH THAT THEY MIGHT FEAST ONLY UPON THE FAMINE TO MARVEL AT EGESTUOUS DISGRACE. THE CONTUMACY OF A LAWLESS SCOFFLAW WRIKPOND THAT MONETIZES SPECTACLE BY MILITARIZING EVERY ASSOCIATE OF EVERY KINSHIP KNOWN TO THE WIDER CIRCLE OF HISTORIES SECOND MOST BELEAGUERED PROPHET MIGHT I STAND VICTORIOUS UPON THE DAY THAT THE SANITATION WORKERS IN MEMPHIS NEVER GO HUNGRY AGAIN BECAUSE THESE ILLEGAL INJUNCTIONS OF ENTRAPMENT BY THE FREEST BUT FAKEST  PRESS EXTORTED BY THE JAWHOLE OF CONSTERNATION (AN ORGANIZATION THAT DESPISES THE NUCLEAR FAMILY TO THE BEHEST OF GOD HIMSELF ONLY BECAUSE THEY SEEK THE INCUBI OF A BRAVE NEW WORLD DERACINATION OF FILIAL LOYALTY TO TURN BROTHER AGAINST MOTHER AND FRATERNITY AGAINST FRATERNITY) OF STELLAR EVIL THAT NEVER CHARGES POP CULTURAL PARAGONS WHO LEAK MAJOR TREACHERY AT ZERO PENALTY BECAUSE OF THE  LEVY OF FREE SPEECH ONLY TO SCRUTINIZE A SUPPOSEDLY PRIVATE LIFE INFORMED ONLY OF THE PROTERVITY OF A FAMILY DEADENED BY CALLOUS PACHYDERMS OF TAXIDERMY AND THE LICENTIOUS SPREES OF TATTERMEDALION GAMBLING MIGHT THEY FIND THEIR STEEPEST REBUKE AT THE DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD OF GODS REGNANT TRUTH AGAINST INSIPID INSIDIATIONS OF TROJAN LIES WHERE THE BERLINE MEDIA TRIES TO CAJOLE THE MOST VULNERABLE POWERFUL TITAN IN THE WHIGGARCHY AND MYRIARCHY THAT WE MIGHT FETCH ONLY THE MOST GRUELING PANTAGREULIAN TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE BASED ONLY ON THE HYPESTORM OF YAFFINGALE YAFFS WHO MENACE THE STREETS WITH VINEGAROON MUGIENCE THAT EXONERATES ALL PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES FOR HIGH CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS JUST BECAUSE THEY INKED THEIR NAME ON THE CONTRACT WITH “THE BEAST 666”HIMSELF WHO OPENLY TOUTED THAT PEDIGREE OFTEN IN THE PAST THAT THEY MIGHT FIND COMPLETE INNOCENCE BEFORE THE LAW BECAUSE SUDDENLY BEING AGAINST HOMONORMATIVITY FOR RELIGIOUS OBJECTIONS HAS BECOME A CRIME ONLY BECAUSE THE WORLD VAUNTLAYS JUSTICE BECAUSE IT SEEKS INTERNECINE RAMPANT DISCORD THAT DESICCATES ALL SOURCES OF FREEDOM FOR THE MOST LIBERATING FIGURE OF OUR GENERATION BECAUSE OF A DEEP-SEATED BELIEF IN EGALITARIAN EQUIPOISE AGAINST RHADAMANTHINE CORRUPTION OF THE AVIZANDUM OF ELITE-EIGHT RANCOR AND BARKENTINE JEALOUSIES OF AN ARISTOCRACY TRYING TO HOBBLE ALL ASPIRING PARVENUS BECAUSE THEY DEFY THE CORPORATE DECORUM OF THE GLAIKERY OF THE MOST SACCHARINE AND CHEESY AGENDA EVER DEVISED BY THE SCHADENFREUDE OF ELITISM BECAUSE OF A ZERO-SUM CALCULUS THAT SEEKS TO CHOUSE AND ENCHANT A LAVENDER SCARE PART TWO VANGERMYTE HEIST ONLY BECAUSE IT FITS A CONVENIENT NARRATIVE OF A RULING PARTY AGAINST A PREEMINENT SCHOLAR OF THE MAJORITY COMMONSENSE PERSPECTIVE AGAINST THE EVIL LOS ANGELES DODGERS SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE WHICH ENJOY MORE LEGAL PROTECTIONS THAN THE MOST OUTSPOKEN HERO FOR HUMAN RIGHTS IN MORE THAN HALF A CENTURY JUST BECAUSE THEY SPOOL A SPECTER OF DECADENCE TO THE DECADENT UNDER THE SPONSORSHIP OF THE POLICE WHO ARREST PEOPLE FOR READING BIBLE VERSES ABOUT GOD AGAINST GAY PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE THEY CARE MORE ABOUT ATTENUATING THE DISCRIMINATION OF THE MOST WELL-PROTECTED MINORITY GROUP IN HUMAN HISTORY BECAUSE THEY MARAUD IN WHIGGARCHY TRYING TO DEFEAT TITANS THROUGH HAPLESS ENTRAPMENT ONLY BECAUSE THEY HAVE BEEN THOROUGHLY INDOCTRINATED IN COMBUSTIBLE CULTURAL MARXISM THAT BERATES AND BELABORS THE TALKING POINTS OF THE MOST INSIPID BANANA SLUG SLUGABED APATHY EVER ENJOYED BY THE PREROGATIVES OF SCHADENFREUDE ONLY BECAUSE THEY SEEK TO COUNTERMAND THE JANIFORM DUPLICITY OF TIME WITH ITS OWN HOSTAGE PRIMARILY BECAUSE THE SEETHING LIES OF A VEGAS MINORITY TRYING TO CHEAT AN ENTIRE SOCIETY OF SPECIOUS THEOSOPHISTS THAT SUPPORT FALSE PROPHETS RATHER THAN REAL ONES JUST BECAUSE OF THE CONVENIENT EXCUSE OF LAZARETTA OBJECTIONABLE TO ALL BLEMISHES OF SIGHT IN THEIR SHEEPISH GHOULISH HAUNTS OF AVIZANDUM AMONG THE CRUELEST OF TAUNTS IN CIVILIZED HISTORY. APPARENTLY MILEY CYRUS-ROBIN THICKE ******* AND EAGER SADDAM HUSSEIN ATHLETES LIKE JALEN HURTS DESERVE MORE LEGAL PROTECTIONS ALONG WITH THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE AND DRAG QUEEN STORY HOUR PERFORMERS THAT ENJOY BROAD LATITUDES TO TEACH IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS OR EVEN PRE-KINDERGARDEN EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE PROVEN *** OFFENDERS THAT DODGE DETECTION JUST BECAUSE THE LOS ANGELES DODGERS SUPPORTS THEIR VAUNTLAY ENDEAVORS. WHAT IS THE COST OF INTEGRITY IN A WORLD THAT SEEKS THE WILDERNESS OF ACELDAMA IN GOLGOTHA THAT IT MIGHT CRUCIFY DAVID ONLY BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO SELL OUT TO MENDICANT 110 IQ INNER-CITY TEACHERS TRYING TO GOUGE YOUNG FAMILIES NAIVE BEYOND BELIEF INTO HORTATORY MOTIVES FOR THE MOST COSTLY *** CHANGE SURGERIES FOR KIDS TOO YOUNG TO MAKE LIFE-ALTERING DECISIONS JUST TO PILLORY THE NIVELLATED COMMUNITIES OF MOST SUSCEPTIBLE PEDIGREE MIGHT THEY MEET THE CURGLAFF OF SHAME AGAINST THE REPUDIATION BY MORAL VALOR AGAINST THE PEDERASTY OF OUR NEWER GENERATION. YET EVERYONE WHO SIGNS A CONTRACT WITH A FAKE ORGANIZATION THAT PROMISES FAKE *** MAGICK AND USELESS TEACHINGS ABOUT THELEMA MIGHT THEY ENJOY LEGAL PROTECTION BY THE NYALAS THAT SELL BONTBOKS IN AFRICA RATHER THAN SPRINGBOKS IN AMERICA ONLY BECAUSE THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE HAVE MORE CIVIC RIGHTS AND HUMAN REPRESENTATION THAN THE AUTHOR OF THE BIGGEST REVOLUTION IN HUMAN HISTORY ONLY BECAUSE OF THE MALVERSATION OF ENTRAPMENT BY THE PRETENDED LARGESSE OF THE CORRUPT JAWHOLE TRYING TO PULL A JAWS 19 STUNT AGAINST THE HEROISM OF HETERONORMATIVITY ONLY BECAUSE OF THE VENALITY OF GRAFT THAT WHIMPERS WITH SHEEPISHNESS BECAUSE SLAVERY IS SOMEHOW PERMISSIBLE ONLY BECAUSE OF THE SUPERSTITIONS OF PEOPLE WHO ARE MORE PRONE TO BELIEVE IN A MAN WHO OPENLY TOUTED HIS ALLEGIANCE TO OCCULT PAGANISM THAT HIS GROUP ENJOYS THE STRICTEST LEGAL PROTECTIONS IN HISTORY DESPITE THE WARPED PROTERVITY OF THEIR  TEACHINGS ONLY TO ATTEMPT TO CAJOLE AND CADGE A PRISONER OF TIME THAT HE MIGHT SUCCUMB TO THE SCHADENFREUDE OF THE KOBOLD ENCHANTMENT OF THE WORLDS MOST GULLIBLE CATHEXIS BY THE AGENTS OF MULIEBRITY THAT OPENLY ENDORSE FREEBOOTER WEALTH UPON HUMAN NIDOR BECAUSE OF NIVELLATION JUST BECAUSE ROBIN THICKE AND MILEY CYRUS WANT REVENGE AGAINST MY CALUMNIATION AGAINST OPEN WORSHIP OF ENERGUMENS BY PEOPLE WILLING TO SELL THEIR SOUL TO THE LAZARETTA BECAUSE THEIR OPEN AGNOSTICISM MOTIVATES THEM TO INDENTURE THEMSELVES IN COMPLETE HIDEBOUND CONFORMITY TO A SYSTEM OF SERFDOM THAT OPPOSES THE PREROGATIVES OF GOD IN A STATE THAT VAUNTS SECULARISM AS MESSIAH AND PROPHETS AS THE DROSS OF ENORMITY DESPITE THEIR WORLDWIDE AUDIENCE AND ALLEGIANCE TO ALLAH HIMSELF THAT SUCH GOLIATHS TRYING TO FLOUT ALL CODES OF JUSTICE TO ENSURE THAT THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE DRAG QUEEN NUNS WHO OPENLY BRANDISH A PEDIGREE OF COMPLETE DECADENCE ENJOY THE STRICTEST PROTECTIONS UNDER THE LAW WHILE HETEROSEXUAL MEN BETRAYED BY THEIR OWN FAMILY MEMBERS BECAUSE OF THEIR FLAILING BELIEF IN GOD AND THEIR AFFINITY TO STATISM THAT HE MIGHT FIND A HOLOBENTHIC INTEGRITY TO GODS COMMANDMENTS IN LEVITICUS AND EVERYWHERE ELSE YOU CAN LOOK MIGHT FIND HIMSELF ENTRAPPED BY THE WORLDS MOST CORRUPT POLICE ENFORCEMENT JUST BECAUSE HE IS TOO POOR TO AFFORD A LAWYER DESPITE THE FACT HIS FAMILY DEPRIVES HIM OF ALL LATITUDE AND LICENSE TO BECOME INSTANTLY RICH ONLY BECAUSE HIS OUTSPOKEN REVOLUTIONARY RHETORIC WHICH IS MERELY AN EXERCISE OF GENIUS THAT ATTEMPTS TO REVIVE A MOROSE WORLD OF ITS MORAL LANGUOR SUCH THAT FEWER STALINISTS STAND IN THE WAY OF THE GOAL OF EQUIPOISE AND EGALITARIAN ABDERVINE MERIT. WE CANNOT ALLOW THE SISTERS OF PERPETUAL INDULGENCE AND DRAG QUEEN STORY HOUR TO EARN COMPLETE IMMUNITY FOR USING TROJAN HORSE TACTICS TO GIVE PEDOPHILES FREE RECOURSE FOR INFANT AND TODDLER ****** JUST BECAUSE THEY REPRESENT THE WORLDS MOST PRIVILEGED ****** MINORITY THAT IS MONOLITHICALLY ENFORCED BY A GOVERNMENT THAT PONDERS NEVER A SINGLE SINGULAR THOUGHT BUT ONLY THE KOWTOW TO THE SERFDOM OF IMPRESSIONABLE IDIOTS IN NIVELLATED CITIES TO THE HUCKSTER GOUGE OF DECADENCE WHILE ENJOYING ABSOLUTE LATITUDE WITHOUT FEAR OF PROSECUTION JUST BECAUSE WE HAVE TO DEDICATE AN ENTIRE MONTH TO PROSELTYIZING PEOPLE TO UNEQUIVOCAL SINS JUST BECAUSE THEY BENEFIT THE VENALITY OF AN ENGORGED BEHEMOTH TO DREDGE EVERY ARTICULATE GENIUS THROUGH PERPETUAL DISDAIN ONLY BECAUSE IT TRANSCENDS THE PALLOR OF THE WARPED *** MAGICK AND OCCULT OBSESSIONS OF A SMALL GROUP OF PEOPLE WITH THE BEST LAWYERS IN HISTORY TO TRY AND IMPRISON THE MOST CELEBRATED PROPHET IN 500 YEARS JUST BECAUSE HE REFUSES TO DENY HIS OWN INTEGRITY TO HIS BIOLOGICAL CONSTITUTION. THE OBJECT OF ALL ZALKENGUR TREATED AS CHATTELL BY PEOPLE WHO DEHUMANIZE WITH AGGRESSION AND RUTHLESSNESS MIGHT THEY MEET THE CURGLAFF OF THEIR OWN FOLLY THAT SOMEHOW BEING HETEROSEXUAL IN A WORLD THAT PREDOMINANTLY BETS YOU BE HOMOSEXUAL ONLY TO THE GRAFT OF ONE CITY THAT IN IT S MORAL LANGUOR AND DECADENCE BELIEVED DECADENT LIES OF AGITPROP LEVIED A HEAVY TOLL ON THE NIDOR OF CONSCIENCE TO EXONERATE THE CONSCIENCE OF EVILDOERS EVERYWHERE RATHER THAN SIMPERING AGAINST IT WITH PROMETHEAN FORCE TO LIBERATE THOSE ESTRANGED BY THE THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF DESPERATE FILIGREES OF THE STADDLE OF STATISM MIGHT PREVAIL IN COURT AGAINST SOMEONE WHIPSTAFFED BY THE ORNERY BOSCHVELDT OF JEALOUSY COMPLETELY VENAL IN EVERY REGARD BECAUSE OF THE FAKE VISIONS OF AIWASS AND THE ****** OF 1904 CAIRO IS SOMEHOW MORE PRETERNATURAL TO THE INVETERATE THAN THE MANIFEST MIRACLES OF THE GREATER REVOLUTIONARY OF OUR TIMES.

I OPENLY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT THE O.T.O BUT BASED ON WHAT I READ ABOUT ALEISTER CROWLEYS LIFE STORY I DEVELOPED AN UNFAVORABLE OPINION THAT I HYPERBOLIZED BECAUSE OF MY ANGER THAT AN OPENLY BISEXUAL MAN IN THE EARLY 20TH CENTURY WHO WAS SO BEYOND PROMISCUOUS IT WAS NOT EVEN FUNNY WHO CLAIMED TO KNOW SECRETS ABOUT MAGICK THAT IF WERE TRUE WOULD HAVE MADE HIM AN OLIGARCH OF A POWERFUL COUNTRY LIKE ADOLF ****** THAT I LEARNED TO DOUBT THAT TESTIMONY. DON’T CRUCIFY ME FOR MY IGNORANCE BUT I FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE AN OCCULTIST WHO LEARNED REAL MAGICK WOULDN’T OVERTHROW MAJOR GOVERNMENTS BACK THEN

THE CORDIAL PORBEAGLES AIMING FOR CENTRIPETAL SINECURE IN OMPHALISM ERR ON THE SIDE OF THE GLAIKERY OF SHALLOW PETTIFOGGERY OF COSSETED ZALKENGURS OF ACCLAIM ONLY BECAUSE THEY CHASE THE MOMENTARY FUMES OF ****** ABOVE PRESTIGE AND CONFORMITY ABOVE INDIVIDUAL TENACITY THAT SOME PEOPLE CAN BE SO WRETCHEDLY SHALLOW IN THEIR WARPED VANITARIANISM THAT THEY CASCADE INTO VENTRILOQUIAL CORRUGATIONS OF WIZENED HOARY CRETACEOUS NEBBICH OLASIN EPOCHS OF SELF-CENTERED GALEANTHROPY ONLY BECAUSE THEY PREFER THE DARK GLARE OF THE POIGNANT SATURNINE NIGHTS OF ELEUSIAN MYSTERIES AND THE PREROGATIVES OF PERFECT MASTERS BECAUSE CELEBRITIES CRAVE THE MOST DEBAUCHED SCENARIO ONLY FOR THE WORLDS VAINEST ACRIMONY OF ACERBIC CONTUMACY AGAINST PEOPLE WHO HAVE INTEGRITY TO GODS SORBILE TRUTHS AGAINST THEIR PLAFONDS OF DEMARCATION FOR THE PLENARY INDULGENCE OF THE WHITEWASH OF A RADICAL SCOTEOGRAPHY THAT BECOMES AN INSIPID RETREAD OF THE WORLDS MOST SUSCEPTIBLE AND VAIN PEOPLE THAT WORSHIP THE ****** ACT RATHER THAN THE CONSUMMATED UNION OF THE HOLY MATRIMONY COMMANDED BY GOD ABOVE ALL OF HIS CREATURES BEYOND PETTY PAGANISMS OF PEOPLE THAT PREFER DIONYSIAN MYTHS TO THE COVENANT OF GOD. THE WARPED LOGIC OF THE WORLDS MOST FLAGRANT OPPONENTS OF MORAL CERTITUDE ONLY BECAUSE OF THE BONANZA OF ****-CHASING CANTABANKS WHO VERGE ON DELIBERATE INFERIORITY BECAUSE OF VENALITY AND BETRAY CONFIDENCE AND TRUST ONLY BECAUSE THE WORLD TREATS ITS MOST VEHEMENT HEROES WITH THE SHARPEST POSSIBLE DISDAIN MIGHT THEY CRINGE WITH SHEEPISHNESS THAT FLAKEY VIDEOS LIKE ANTI-HERO CAN BE FORGIVEN ONLY BECAUSE A RAGDOLL MASKIROVKA OF VAUNTLAYS AGAINST VASTATION BY UNTALENTED CELEBRITIES KNOWN FOR THE MANUFACTURE OF PLEBEIAN MUSIC ONLY BECAUSE OF THEIR GOLDMEMBER PEDIGREE CAN OUTWEIGH THE SINCERITY OF SOMEONE WHOSE CHARM MAGNETIZES AND MESMERIZES EVERYBODY BECAUSE OF THE WORLDS MOST SINCERE HONESTY AND FIDELITY TO GOD RATHER THAN THE PAGANISM AGAINST ALTRUISM THAT THE GALEANTHROPY OF THE INSULAR WROTH OF WRAWLING CELEBRITIES INTORTED IN THE VANITARIANISM OF THEIR MAXIMALISM OF DEMAND ONLY BECAUSE OF THE WORLDS MOST HAPLESS MOVEMENT TO PROMOTE DEBAUCHERY OVER INTEGRITY IS SOMEHOW SUBSUMED IN THE WARPED COVENANT OF NEWFOUND PEDIGREE RATHER THAN ****** FIDELITY TO HONEST PATRONS OF ARTISTIC LINEAGE THAT EXISTS TO FOMENT REVOLUTION RATHER THAN CRINGE IN THE DEFEATISM OF FINIFUGAL NIHILISTS THAT CARE ONLY ABOUT THEIR PROVINCIAL *** MAGICK AND THEIR TEMPORAL ACCLAIM AMONG THE SUPERFICIAL PEOPLE THAT TRUMPET AND CHAMPION AN AGENDA THEY HAVE BEEN MISLED TO ADOPT BECAUSE THEY SPURN ALL RIGHTEOUS COVENANTS JUST BECAUSE IT IS SUDDENLY A FAD OF FULGURANT SUPERFICIAL FACADES OF MASKIROVKA IN NAIVETY THAT THEY SUBSCRIBE TO A WARPED AGENDA TO TURN SORDID EVERY PUREFIED SINCERITY JUST BECAUSE THEY WANT TO DERACINATE THE WORLD FROM NUCLEOTIDES OF FILIAL HARMONY IN OIKONISUS BECAUSE OF THE WORLDS MOST VENAL REASONS PRIMARILY BECAUSE THEY PRIORITIZE THE PREEEMINENT SACCHARINE AND SULTRY MAUDLIN SENTIMENTALISM THAT DEFILES EVERY GRANDSTAND OF ZALKENGUR WHICH EXISTS TO DEIFY INTEGRITY TO GODS PRECEPTS RATHER THAN CONTAMINATE GODS HOLIEST SACRAMENTS WITH PUREBRED SANCTIMONY THAT A WORLD SO SHALLOW TO APPOINT A LOWER-IQ PARTIALLY GIFTED PERSON WITH LIMITED MUSICAL TALENT ONLY BECAUSE OF A MASSIVE ***** SIZE AS THE NEW *** SYMBOL AMONG THE VAIN THAT SEEKS IN SADDAM HUSSEIN PLOYS OF MENDACITY TO TRY TO BECOME THE WORLDS MOST PREEMINENT MORRIS IN HIS JEALOUSY AGAINST ME TO BECOME AN EVEN BIGGER *** SYMBOL THAN I AM ONLY BECAUSE HIS INSIPID MUSIC CLOYS AND TREACLES THE WORLDS DUMBEST WOMEN ONLY BECAUSE HE IS GLORIFIED IN SIZE BUT DEFICIENT IN INTEGRITY. THE TURMOIL OF JALOUSIES OF AVARICE BY SADDAM HUSSEIN JEALOUSY IS TRYING TO TURN THE SORDOR OF NIDOR OF A DESOLATE PAST RECRIMINATED BY THE WORLDS MOST SELF-CENTERED ZOOLANDER FASHIONISTAS IS AN INTERNATIONAL DISGRACE BECAUSE ONE RANDOM CELEBRITY WHOSE MUSIC TREACLES ONLY THE WORLDS MOST INSIPID BANAL TEDIUM OF BANANA SLUGS THAT HE MIGHT OUTMANTLE ME IN CELEBRITY EVEN THOUGH HE LACKS A REPUTABLE INTELLECT AND A CONNIVING HATRED TO BECOME THE SWANDAMO OF A NEW NETTLESOME DESTINY OF A BRADY BUNCH ATTEMPT OF THE SELF-CENTERED PREROGATIVES OF MILITANT ATHEISM TO TRY AND TURN THE WORLD AGAINST THE COVENANT OF G OD JUST BECAUSE OF A BLEATED AND SHEEPISH INCIDENTAL CONTUMELY THAT BERATES ONLY BECAUSE THEY COMMODIFY SAINTHOOD UPON THE BETS OF THE WORLDS MOST SHALLOW PEOPLE WHO CONGREGATE IN A POTEMKIN CHAPEL OF CONVENTICLE THAT CARES LITTLE ABOUT THE COMMANDMENTS OF GOD AND MORE ABOUT THE INSULAR BENEFITS OF BELONGING TO A CULT OF IDOLATRY FOR STELLAR FIGURES WHO BELONG ONLY TO THE CORTEGE OF ELITISM BECAUSE OF THEIR SUCCULENT DESIRE FOR POWER AT ANY COST TO INTEGRITY JUST BECAUSE THEY SEEK TO USURP THE WORLDS IMAGINATIVE ATTENTION PRIMARILY BECAUSE THEY DERELICT THE INTEGRITY OF THE HONEST CHAPEL BECAUSE OF THE DISHONEST EVIL OF IDOLATRY THAT IS INSIDIOUSLY MARCHING WITH DRAG QUEEN PEDERASTY TO TRY AND DEFILIATE PARENTS FROM CHILDREN AND FAMILY FROM STATE SUCH THAT THE MANUFACTURE OF EVIL BECOMES MORE SUPREME THAN THE PREEMINENCE OF RIGHTEOUSNESS. IT IS A SAD SPATE THAT ONE OPPORTUNIST PHANTOM HOLDING ME FOR RANSOM WANTS TO UPSTAGE ME WITH A CELEBRITY MOSTLY BEREFT OF MUSICAL VIRTUOSITY ONLY BECAUSE OF HIS ENORMITIES OF SKULLDUGGERY THAT HE SEEKS ME OUT OF HONEST RESPECT AND REGARD NAIVE ENOUGH TO BELIEVE I WOULD SELL MY BIRTHRIGHT FOR THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN LIKE ESAU JUST BECAUSE OF THE THROBBING THROMBOSIS OF ****** LUSTS OUTWEIGHING GENUINE INTEGRITY TO SOMEONE THAT DESERVES MORE RESPECT.

film.  prayer.  kittens in a box.  serene nudes thrusting the skylight.  trinkets in a first floor gift shop lifted by a man dreaming beneath a decompression chamber.  a one use snowglobe.  ash.

hole in a rabbit.  a woman who talks once a year to firecrackers.

earth on earth.  a baby without toes applauded for having two heels.  a pregnant person who’s played on god

a simple hoax.

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

There is beneath us the progenitor and we call it “Mother”. Above us is the progenitor and we call it “Net” for it takes us and tosses us into the known and the unknown.

Our home star is not as bright as yours. We prefer your temperate lands when we visit, where the vegetation is lush and green. Those of us who remain inhabit your deserts and open spaces.

We are your brothers and sisters. Our development has been to grow in awareness and the development of our power. You have the potential to develop as we have, but your instincts are of a social group who need dominant members. You develop your material reality and your physical world. Your anchor is fixed and you grip the familiar and reject the unknown. There is a comfortable point where you feel the fullness, that is the anchor. In order to maintain this as a static point you develop belief systems to support it. This is your weakness, you are innocent children.

We grew and developed along another pathway, our anchor is not  rigid. We use Net for our anchor and so are able to change our perceptual reality. We move in ways that you do not understand and in any direction. We draw the fibers of Net around us and jump and fly. You see us only from your anchor point so that you see us change shape, appear and disappear.

Our voices and languages are barely accessible to you. You hear deep sounds and high pitched chirruping and whistling. Very few among you have remnants of language incorporating any of these. Those remaining are as clicks and whistles. We prefer direct communication.

We are masters of illusion. Our survival has depended on it and it is our instinct.
Our power developed so that when we pull around us the fibers of Net we create a shield and throw an illusion before those who depend on vision. It is one of our protections and also our hunting technique. We are hidden from your material probes and instruments of increased sight in this way.

Although we have been close neighbours for aeons, you have hardly seen us, except for the Few. Your interpretations have created problems for you. Your reliance on the anchor is so great that some among you do go to great lengths to maintain it. There are those among you who will silence the Few rather than lose the fixed anchor.

You are infants only, a seeding coming to fruition, and you play with dangerous toys. Your anchor is geocentric. You are in danger as is any youngster who plays with fire. If we showed you ourselves openly your rulers would not be gentle in their curiosity. We have technology and use material tools but we have had less to restrict us. We held back your development as much as we were able to enable you to develop power of the mind and independent thought.

Your grasp of Net is strong but you are rigid and anchored. You have learned to stand up and hold on. Now is the time to let go and walk, let go and run, let go and fly.

Around what you name “body” and believe to be “All” is more that you do not perceive with your restricted vision sense. You are aware of this. If you will learn acceptance and filter less from your senses, you will find the beauty of the universe of energy around you and available. A small perceptual shift would show you how you appear to those of us outside your narrow sphere.

Your body has filaments, which when translated to sight, appear as small moving threads which shine with rainbows. They move and ripple inside an energy body of light. This is your true body. It has abilities and senses that are dormant as you do not access them. They are accessible but as your anchor renders you blind to this you do not use them without intense effort or instinctively in extremity. The filaments are drawn together and pass through the anchor. Depending upon your ability to select filaments of the Net, your habitual plane and reality is selected and determined.
Those among you with abilities in your energy senses you ostracise and even ******. You succumb to misinformation to treat them as fools or freaks. This may be instinctive but it is a control mechanism to perpetuate the anchor and maintain the hive of your artificial society. So due to this, you have even less sense of true reality as it could be to you, by breeding out and suppressing your gifts. We have attempted to rectify this with limited effect in successive seedings.

You may notice that our words to you have reference to sight. Your terminology is geared to vision. You rely on visual information  so much that you have neglected physical senses of taste and smell, hearing, touch and proximity. Compared with our perceptions you are as blind as a mole is compared to to your visual abilities.

Your construction of reality is so anchored that your dangerous inclination to gather around you artifacts gives to you a sense of permanence. You are anchoring yourselves in time, yet to you it is dead because your senses are dead. There is an opportunity for your predators to use this to enforce your perception of, and control you within, your anchor's limitations. In this way, producing written or pictorial and symbolic records in permanent form is beneficial only so far as understanding continues to exist of the conditions under which these records were left. By changing current understanding and language to suit their purposes, your enforcers are able to manipulate your branch of humanity on a large scale.

You seal yourselves into the rejuvenation plane of the Mother progenitor where you feed and breed. It is so pleasurable to you to stay within this cocoon of reality that you fail to open your cast and therefore fail to fly into the spaces of Net outside where your true inheritance lies. The end result of this is greed and unrest. Your greed is paramount to you as you seek ever more pleasurable gratification. You enslave one another, buy and sell time and forget what you are. You are allowing the destruction of your home world. Without the home world you will have no place of rejuvenation, and worse neither will the myriads of others who share this progenitor.

There is a song from each mother progenitor within Net. It is a combined song and made up of the host progenitor together with silent voices of each and every life form. Together from each home world, the inhabitants send out a pulse. This is not a song from one species of a world but rather it is a song from all species, in fact every particle of every organism that lives.

To our developed senses the song of a world is brighter than the star it orbits. They are filaments of Net. The varied forms of life all send out their unique song. Many of us interact, harmonise, visit, commune and combine. You feel isolation only because you fail to harmonise and join your own song.

In your past and present we have felt the song of your world. Those of us belonging are part of that song. It is the song of being from the many. It does not end at the perimeters which you imagine. You have a problem in that, for the majority, you do not join your voices to the song. Mainly it is in dreaming, in childhood and in old age that we hear you.

We attempted to observe and commune and found many of you receptive to us. We have taught to you methods of development and given you gifts and tools. You have kept and preserved some of this knowledge only for a select few. Fears and distrust among others has caused destruction of a great proportion of the gifts that we have given to you. We found many lines of breeding where potential for development was possible. Your greed and your predator class destroyed many of them due to the competitive desire to have power over others.

In past seedings upon your progenitor and in the oldest times of your present incarnation, we have been known well and respected. Acknowledged for our seniority and loved as cousins. You did call us gods to distinguish our abilities. Then what did you do? Your control mechanisms changed the meanings of your language, whole languages were lost in wars over territory. You developed power structures and religions. Powerful rulers accumulated and isolated your shared knowledge.

You reduced your development by selective education in the Way. Territorial disputes and greed over resources divided you. You ceased to listen to the Mother. Instead of harmonious living which you had managed in agreement with each other already, you were divided by hormonal impulses, insecurity, violence and greed. The natural openness of the female within it's central domain became enclosed, imprisoned and the natural desire of the male to outwardly discover and interact was turned inwards until it became a sedentary desire for dominance within the female domain. You lost the harmonics of the song. Your religions underestimate the power of borrowed tools. Your ruling classes made deals that they didn't understand, with predators they didn't recognise, in order to save themselves.

We stood on ground over ground and were called Immortals. We gave you wisdom and were called Kings. We moved and played among you and were called Jinn. We moved among the small folk and were called Faerie. We appeared in light and were called Angels. We wandered in places where you too did once wander and were called Ghosts and Demons. Those who spoke to us and attempted to impart to your hive our knowledge, you raised as prophets or slandered and ridiculed. You stole their words to make them your own words of power, changing them to your own ends or you murdered the messengers because you feared the changes that increased understanding brings.

You incorporated the experiences of your murdered victims into a celebration of your own power structures, twisted and out of synchronisation with the song. There are some among you who are in communion with the Great Spirit of life. We seek to heal your song, your complete home world song for the benefit of the myriad sentient beings who rejuvenate here, including yourselves. We seek to set you free to wander the threads of Net. It is within your reach but not in the ways that you  are taught.

Your world is about to change and you must change with it as you are a small part of it. Holding the threads into your own anchor point will break them. You have reached inertia, entropy. The movement has to come, it is inevitable. Imagine one of your large machines of cogs and wheels and bars. Your insistence upon a rigid anchor is like a bar within the machine that doesn't move. A point of inertia in a moving system will be removed. This has happened over and over among your kind and our kind in many places and worlds. You do not remember when worlds underwent cataclysm, forgetful of trauma you have followed a similar path.

We travel along pathways of energy, both upon worlds and in the Net. Moving bodies follow these paths. We follow comets and small bodies able to move freely within Net. Net permeates your mother progenitor.

Survivors mapped the movements of Net after the slate was wiped clean and you were reseeded. There is a secret that your rulers are aware of and you are not. The secret is that there are no rulers within Net. You all have the freedom and capability to access true harmony of the song. You allow a faction, to call themselves an elite class. You fear this as a hidden power, a predator. It's aim is to amass Time: a power based on material wealth. They take this power easily as they have taken and twisted truth and history. The gifts are shared among you equally and these few know this. Resources are plentiful and yet you succumb to their restrictions. A predator cannot survive without it's prey. We are not your predators although we move among you. Your predator is within and feeds upon your fear.

You are not in the tribes now, you have no shaman, no guide to take you in and out of the gate and this role cannot be allocated to parasitic Blind Time Hoarders. These whip up your passions and lead you into war and destruction to further their material wealth. It leads you away from the song, as these think to enhance their own survival which it may do but never can as they understand it. They seek to steal your dreams and make them their own, they are helpless without you. They care nothing for the song because they are aware of successive seedings.

Net is a dream reality, changing, immeasurable, boundless, filled with infinite possibilities and you are creators. Blind time hoarders drive you by combining the minds and dreams and belief systems of many to focus onto what they themselves desire, in order to bring it to fruition. They employ dream stealers to prevent your development. They believe that their own song can exist independently and they guide you only to anchor yourselves into your own prison.

All is a dream, all is ephemeral, changing, dynamic. There is no death after death, no damnation on any particular plane. Reality is how you construct your song. Your rulers create inertia for you the many and profit for themselves using you as the tools of your own entrapment. There is no death and no damnation, they are constructs of your reality made by material anchor points and you are controlled by fear of the inevitable. It is a statecraft to use belief systems to control perceptions of reality in order to fix the anchor point to a rigid point of convenience. In this way you are farmed, you are a crop in each seeding. Who seeds you? You seed yourselves. Sentient beings are all naturally regenerated by the mechanisms of Net when conditions exist that are compatible, world after world, in each growth cycle of every celestial body. In the regeneration, holding to your rigid anchor point, you seed into your prison after each cataclysm, each breaking of the inertia.

If you would be open to the mechanisms of the place you inhabit with it's creative forces, it's sentience and it's dynamics you will learn to fly the progenitor Net's pathways and return home for rejuvenation to your progenitor Mother of the tribes.

My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.

My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.

A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.

A devilish ******* of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.

Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.

A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.

Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.

Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.

Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.

A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.

A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)

A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.

A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.

A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.

An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.

A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.

A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.

Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.

A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.

Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.

Your intrusion
Is conducive
To my city burning down
So I defend from inside my castle
Civilian hordes
Wield swords
And I've gotta flail
In my chain mail

My city walls have been manned
So use your battering ram
And intrude on me
Muscle into my muscles
And burrow into my bones
By disarming my mob
While catapults lob
Incendiary boulders
That protect me from
Temporary shoulders
That have exploited my nation before
Mining the resources from it's core
Avoid all the blasts
So we can clash
In the arena of my mind
Where steel strikes time
And my defenses
Defend me from my life
So intrude on me
And shatter my protections
And shatter my conceptions
So intrude on me
And break my perceptions
But be careful
Intrusions have reflections

On Wednesday the Supreme Court ruled in the Star Athletica v. Varsity Brandscase, which centered on the issue of copyrighting the chevron, stripe, and other patterns of cheerleading uniforms. To laypeople, this was the case that gave the world the justices’ unforgettable banter about fashion and style. “The clothes on the hanger do nothing. The clothes on the woman do everything. And that is, I think, what fashion is about,” said Justice Stephen Breyer during an argument with Justice Elena Kagan, who responded, “That’s so romantic.” But, to those inside the fashion world, this was a landmark that has potential to resonate in the industry for years to come. Not only is the suit the first time the Supreme Court has ever heard a case centering on apparel design copyrights, but the 6–2 ruling in favor of Varsity Brands allows elements of a garment’s design to be protected by copyright law. In the Court’s syllabus, it declares: “The Copyright Act of 1976 makes ‘pictorial, graphic, or sculptural features’ of the ‘design of a useful article’ eligible for copyright protection as artistic works if those features ‘can be identified separately from, and are capable of existing independently of, the utilitarian aspects of the article.’ ”

To help translate the government legalese, Vogue spoke with Joseph Mueller, a lawyer at Dewey Pegno & Kramarsky LLP, a litigation boutique that regularly handles copyright disputes. Mueller wrote, “The Court decided that copyright law can sometimes protect aesthetic elements of designs for cheerleader uniforms. This sounds straightforward, but a little background shows why this case was complicated. Copyright law protects certain types of artistic and creative expressions. On the other end of the intellectual-property spectrum is patent law, which protects innovations based on their usefulness and novelty. This case dealt with a tricky middle ground: Copyright law can protect aesthetic features of a ‘design for a useful article’—but only if they are distinct enough from the article’s useful or functional aspect.”

But how to define what’s useful and what’s not in a garment? Would you call Craig Green’s many ties and knots functional or decorative? What about Julien Dossena’s linked squares at Paco Rabanne? “There is tons of gray area,” Mueller wrote. “The Court articulated a rule that sounds neat and tidy, but we won’t know precisely how much protection it actually gives designers until other courts apply these principles to other cases.”

In short, this ruling isn’t a blanket statement protecting all designers from knockoffs and copying, but rather it opens the door for making the case that certain parts of design can be protected by copyright. That’s important, especially considering that Congress has discussed expanding copyright protections for fashion designers but has not yet made it into law.

Still, the impact this decision could have on high fashion is great. Not only does it provide luxury houses some ground to defend themselves against fast fashion retailers who churn out replicas of runway designs before the originals hit stores, but it also has the potential to discourage designers from borrowing motifs from their peers or from the past. “Designers have relied mostly on trademarks to protect themselves, but now they can argue that more conceptual, less obvious aspects of their designs should be protected by copyright too,” wrote Mueller. “As with many Supreme Court opinions, it will take some time to know what the practical effect of this decision will be. But there’s no question that it’s a big shift. You can expect to see designers relying on copyright law more often to challenge what they perceive to be knock-offs.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!

All energy in the universe revolves around The Dark & The Light.
Manifesting itself,
Bring vibrations in the atmosphere around not just me but also
You.
We all our the energy The Dark & The Light.
Human by nature,
Wiccan by heart.
Magic in our hands,
Spell in our voices ,
Protections in our books.
We belong to the earth ,
To not cause harm but to prevent it.

A breath of whispers
Cast me to your depths
Rolling in that thunder gulch

Midnight, why respire?
Wake me with a splash
Dawn and passive cry for mulch

This excessive erosion
Secret me your protections
Trip wire designating unintended fault

A dark of dream scare
Toss me in your undulations
Sapphire coagulating in that salt